Free Flygirl by Sherri L. Smith Page A

Cakewalk.”
    â€œIda Mae Jones.” I shake her hand. This time, I can’t help but bob my head, like a seated curtsy. She doesn’t seem to notice.
    â€œPleased to meet you, Jonesy.” I start to correct her and decide against it. The less I am Ida Mae, the better off I’ll be. Patsy’s hand is cool in mine. We give each other a tentative smile.
    The other women are whispering excitedly and looking out the window at the flat, unending plains. I want to be home in Slidell. I want to sit at the edge of the berry fields and spread my toes in the grass and never hear another word about the war again.
    Then the bus driver lets out a shout. All of the girls on the bus stand up at once. Airplanes are flying overhead.
    â€œThat sounds like an AT-6,” one of the girls says. I don’t recognize the name from the spotter cards Thomas sent me and Abel: like a playing deck but with pictures of both U.S. and enemy planes so we could identify them in case of an air raid. “That’s an Advanced Trainer,” another girl says, which explains why I don’t know it. I’ve got every plane on that card deck memorized, but they’re the real deal, not teaching planes. Some of these girls must have family in the air force to know what a military trainer plane looks like.
    Like a bunch of tourists, the other girls scramble to see the AT-6, racing to the left side of the bus. Me, I sit real still and let the sound of the buzzing engines wash over me. My stomach settles right down, like a perfect three-point landing. I’m here, I tell myself. Daddy would be proud.
    Outside the window, the sky is peppered with airplanes, taking off, landing, circling the field.
    â€œThere it is,” Patsy Kake says, grinning. “Avenger Field.”
    I tear my eyes away from the sky long enough to look at my new home. At first, I don’t see much. Just an old split-rail fence, followed by more pancake-flat dirt, going on for miles. But then in front of us is a gate, an archway, really, like the ones in front of cowboy ranches in the movies. The wooden sign looks exactly the way I’ve seen it in the newspapers. A long dark rectangle with white letters that read AVIATION ENTERPRISES, LTD. In the center, above the words, a globe of the earth sits, wrapped with a small banner that says AVENGER FIELD. And flying above that globe, like she’s coming in for a landing, is the mascot of the WASP, Fifinella. I smile up at the girl gremlin. She’s a sight to see, with little horns and curling eyelashes. Her outfit is like nothing I’ve ever laid eyes on—blue flight goggles, an orange bomber jacket, glamorous elbow-length gloves, and yellow jodhpurs with a matching helmet. Her blue wings are spread out behind her, like she’s coming in fast.
    â€œThat’s a Walt Disney original,” Patsy tells me.
    I smile. “What a looker.” Gremlins are supposed to be nasty little devils. The flyboys in the Pacific say that the Japanese send these little troublemakers to tear up their airplanes and make flying harder. Fifinella is the exact opposite. She’s one of the good guys, here to help us women fly.
    The guard at the little gatehouse waves us through. My butterflies return, but now they’re from excitement instead of nausea. After months of newspaper clippings and daydreams, I am finally going to fly in this man’s army.
    I take a deep breath and step off the cattle truck onto the dry, powdered soil at Avenger Field. The noise of the planes overhead has my heart thumping. My fingers are itching to pull me inside a cockpit, but first things first.
    We are greeted by an Army Air Forces officer with a stiff khaki uniform and an even stiffer frown.
    â€œWelcome to Avenger Field,” he says. The way he says it reminds me that this man’s army has been “men only” for a very long time. Not everyone is so happy to see us here.
    They march us past the