Free Waiting For Sarah by James Heneghan Page A

read some of the aircraft technical specs for a while, but soon didn’t know what he was reading. He couldn’t concentrate. The words began to make no sense. He stared up at the ceiling, at the Spitfire escaping the surly bonds of earth and soaring above the clouds into blinding sunlight. He thought of his mom with birds fluttering about her head, then...
    He fell asleep.

19 ... funny kid
    He found himself thinking of Sarah occasionally. Funny kid, he thought. Most girls would hate working in the musty, dusty archives, but she seemed eager to help him. It wasn’t as if he was doing anything really interesting — reading old books and newspapers and examining old photographs and making notes on a yellow pad — most thirteen-year-olds would have been screaming to be let out of the cage a long time ago.
    The first Saturday in December was fine. Robbie dropped over for brunch. Norma made pancakes with butter and blueberry syrup while the kitchen radio, now on a lower shelf where Mike could reach it, traded in tragedies:
“ ... hundreds drowned in Vietnam ... death toll for the latest earthquake in Turkey risen to over five hundred ... serial killer in Pakistan claims he killed a hundred children ... ”
    Disasters of the Day. Norma’s bad stuff; her ears and brain soaked it all up so she could discuss it with her friends in the co-op. GDG — Global Disaster Gossip, Mike called it. Calamities and catastrophes; tragedyevery hour of the day, every day of the week.
    Sunday was dry with a smear of sun. Norma packed a picnic for three and, with Mike and Robbie in her Volkswagon, drove out to the Fraser Valley to watch the ultralight flyers taking off and landing. Robbie, though not so crazy about flying, usually went along. He called the flimsy looking aircraft “lawn chairs with wings.”
    Though he had never been up in an airplane, Mike wanted to be a pilot more than anything. Meanwhile, he enjoyed watching the takeoffs and landings of the ultralights and talking to some of the flyers, a few of whom had become his friends. Some day he would fly; he knew it.

20 ... a glowing red heart
    Monday morning. She was late.
    â€œHi, Michael.”
    He had just lifted down a batch of
Clarions
from one of the lower shelves. His strength was steadily improving. “You’re late. I’ve already got half a day’s work done,” he growled.
    â€œWhat a liar! Show me what you’ve done.”
    He looked at her. Something different? It was her hair again, but this time piled up on her head, making her look older. There was also a new smell. Phew! The stuff these kids sprayed on themselves! Pretty putrid.
    â€œI don’t know what kind of perfume you’re using,” he grumbled, “but you smell like a bubble gum factory.”
    â€œYuck!” She shivered in mock horror. “And I don’t know what kind of deodorant you’re using, but you smell like ...” She thought hard, rolling her eyes to the ceiling for inspiration. “Pepperoni pizza!” She laughed, delighted with her clever invention. “Come on, Michael, show me this half-day’s work you claimto have done already.”
    He gave up; she hardly ever got mad, no matter how much he insulted her. He pointed. “This school history is starting to get to me; it’s so repetitious. Every year there was a big drama or musical production, like
Our Town or Oklahoma
. There were dances called sock hops in the fifties, and field trips up Howe Sound or the Fraser Valley. There were special events days, like kids coming to school in their pajamas or in Halloween costumes. Fifty years ago kids used to dress up as Ed Norton or Sadie Hawkins — I had to ask Robbie who these guys were. Then there are sports. Carleton must have had a team for every known sport in existence. They even had a cricket squad when some exchange teacher showed up one year. I know I took on this project initially to get