ADVISORY:
"Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot."
~ Mark Twain, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
A Thursday night...
Baloo snapped out of a doze, blinking at a starlit horizon from six thousand feet over a dark ocean. Regardless, the Sea Duck had stayed its course steady, homeward bound after a long haul. "Heh-hey, yer lettin' me nod off over here, Lil' Britches. Why don'tcha ― oh."
He realized he was talking to himself, an empty chair to his right. It was a school night and Kit was at home. It was the wee hours of the morning, and the Duck was not likely to reach Cape Suzette until dawn.
"Huh. No wonder yer so quiet over there."
And it was quiet. It was reminiscent of years previous, when aside from the odd adventure with Louie or Wildcat tagging along, it was just him and his special lady, her purring engines strumming an endless serenade.
It got him thinking about the good ol' days, smiling tiredly as he slouched low against the back of his seat, crossed a foot over its opposite leg, and steadied the yoke with his toes. Yessir, the good ol' days, when he had the whole plane to himself, when he worked only when he had to, when he did whatever he wanted, when he was a free bear, when life was ― that chair sure seemed to look different when it was empty, it occurred to him. It looked out of place somehow, something was just wrong. He never gave it a second thought in the good ol' days, but now...
The cockpit seemed too quiet. Too empty. Kind of lonely.
Ah, the things you get used to, he thought. He chuckled at himself and inched the throttle up a notch. He was looking forward to the morning.
A Friday afternoon...
Mrs. Morrissey of Cape Suzette Elementary, sixth grade, pulled opened a window in the back of her classroom to let in a breeze. Spring was melding into a hot, early summer, and the temperature that afternoon was beginning to show it. A gust of fresh air overthrew a strong smell of paste in the air.
Her students were engaged on their arts and crafts assignment, a welcome change of pace late in the school day. For her, it was a bit of downtime, an opportunity to rest her feet, rest her voice, and maybe pretend to grade spelling quizzes while sneaking in a few chapters from one of those little romantic novellas she picked up from the dime store. This week, it was Spicy Meatballs, and she was just at this one part where the new waitress Agnes had walked in on Chef Maurice bending over at the oven to tend to his hot, buttery buns...
And after reading that, she felt the need to open another window.
There was light chatter in the room. The students were about their assignment as she perused over their desks. All of them busy, except one, curiously.
"Kit? Why, you haven't even started."
It was true, the only thing Kit had done so far was grind the point of his pencil into the table. He was slouched, sullen and huffing mad. He did not answer her.
Hands on her hips, Mrs. Morrissey gave the entire group of students near Kit a reproachful stare. "All right, enough. What happened?"
But all of them, even Ernie, known Jungle Ace accomplice and partner in shenanigans, looked up from their art projects shrugged sincerely.
"Why aren't you doing your assignment?" she asked.
Kit did not look up at her, instead glaring forward at nothing. He did not answer. When she waited for one, he said, "Can I go get some water? I don't feel so good."
"You were just fine, not a little while ago." In all her decades of teaching, having had dealt with droves of mischievous boys and their endless excuses and pranks, she had developed quite a hearty intuition about what constituted the truths of 'not feeling well.' Nothing she saw in Kit blinked on her radar as genuinely ill. Her eyes narrowed behind her glasses, squeezing deeper creases in her already wrinkled brow. "What are you up to?"
Kit's pencil snapped in his hands. "My neck, in stupid art projects," he muttered. Suddenly he had an audience, the entire classroom.
"Well!" gasped his teacher. "What am I supposed to do with an attitude like that?"
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the Defense would now like to enter as evidence this last spoken interrogative sentence into the record as Exhibit A, and kindly mind you all that his teacher did ask. We therefore find it dubious that she should have taken such offense when the Defendant, in the spirit of candor and honesty, merely answered her question.
Because, boy... did he have a suggestion.
A Thousand Words
"I just don't get it," griped Baloo.
"Oh, there's a surprise," said Rebecca. "Watch the corners!"
Up and down Higher for Hire's dock, Baloo and Wildcat loaded several oblong crates into the Sea Duck, while Rebecca was torn between following them and thus making sure they didn't embarrass her in front of the client, and schmoozing said client, who watched from the top of the dock. Each crate contained, according to Rebecca, a modern masterpiece.
Gingerly ― and not without a lot of fuss from the boss about how they did it ― they set the last crate on the floor and began to tie it down with the others. Rebecca had followed them into the plane.
"Do these paintings really cost more than the Sea Duck?" wondered Wildcat.
"According to Miz Uptown Cape Suzette right here, they do," said Baloo, gesturing his thumb toward Miz Uptown herself beside him. "Now be real about these artsy-schmartsy people, Becky. Who in their right mind would dish out so much wampum for some paint on a piece of paper?"
"It's a canvass," said Rebecca, "and I wouldn't even bother trying to explain it to someone who thinks high art is building a french fry fort at at ten-thousand feet."
"Everyone's a critic," sighed Baloo. "But hey, at least ya can eat the fries, an' not just hafta look at 'em."
"But you do have pictures on your wall, Baloo," said Wildcat. He was referring to the taped up photos in the plane's cabin, those of the seductively alluring likes of Sherri Beary, gals with pouty lips and sultry silk gowns that daintily draped over more curves than the hiking trail up Mount Neverest.
Baloo nodded, unabashed. "An' buddy, that's somethin' worth lookin' at."
On top one of the crates was a Thembrian passport ― valid for only until that particular day, Friday ― and clipboard with their cargo manifest. When Baloo glanced at it, he could hardly help but to shake his head.
"What I really don't get is why we're takin' these to Thembria. I've been to Thembria lots, and never once seen anyone hang a picture on the wall. And it's not just Thembria, ya got me goin' way, way up there Thembria."
"Maybe if you read any part of the newspaper that wasn't the funny pages," drawled Rebecca. "All that really matters is that they're paying, so we're flying."
What the newspapers had been reporting, usually somewhere around the lower margins of page three or four, between soup recipes and ads like the one for the discreet services of Helga the Masseuse, was that there was something of a cultural exchange initiative in certain circles of art society, whereby selections from some of Usland's contemporary artists were sent to Thembria, and, likewise, Cape Suzette was slated to receive selected paintings from their Thembrian counterparts. Actually, it was their Thembrian counterpart, just the one. If you wanted concrete mixing engineers, gourmet halibut curing professionals, or snowplow drivers, Thembria had those guys in droves. If you were looking for art, there was, apparently, Major Boarus. He was the only one, and that was one more Thembrian painter that the world had been privy to prior to the last few weeks.
Baloo looked out the side window, peering out to the foot of Higher for Hire, at the patron who was sending them on this venture. He didn't have the pleasure of speaking to her, and that was just fine as far as he was concerned. Just by her looks, he regarded her as stuffier than a Thanksgiving turkey, an aging lioness in a fancy blue dress, velvet stole, feathered hat, upturned nose, and had those fancy spectacles that you held by the little handle on the side, so one didn't have to impinge upon one's fancy face by wearing stems around one's ears. A sharply dressed chauffeur was standing by behind her, and behind him was a long, sparkling blue limousine.
Baloo did grin at one thing, though. "Looks like yer customer made a friend," he said.
"Molly," croaked Rebecca. Sure enough, when she looked out, there was Mrs. Hayworth, in all her air of propriety and importance, getting chatted up by a kindergartner. She darted out of the plane, but not before checking her watch.
"Oh no, you have to go, Baloo," she said. "Now."
"But Kit's not home yet."
"He's late. You won't be."
"But Beckers! It's a two-man job."
"Don't but Beckers me! That passport expires at midnight, Thembrian time, and I'm not taking a chance. Take Wildcat instead."
"I'm waitin', like I told'm I would," insisted Baloo, crossing his arms. "He said he was comin' right over after school. He'll be here any minute."
Annoyed, Rebecca stretched out her arm and showed him ― nay, presented to him, in the air of bestowing to a caveman the wonder, the marvel, the glory of modern technology ― a glimpse of her wristwatch. "School's been out for almost an hour," said she. "He's had lots of any minutes to get here." There was an inverted game of tug-of-war happening between them, as they both pushed on the Sea Duck's side door, him trying to keep it open and her pushing it closed. "The customer's watching, and we have a schedule to keep. If you're late for this one, so help me...!"
"All right, all right," huffed Baloo. "Just so long's he's sore at you an' not me."
The door shut and Rebecca went to untie the mooring rope from the plane's nose. Baloo's head peered out from the cockpit window.
"He's gonna be all lonesome, ya know," he said.
Rebecca pulled the rope free and rolled her eyes. She didn't have time to feel guilty. "Just leave that to me," she said. "You go." She hurried off the dock, but not quite timely enough to halt the perils of a six-year-old chatterbox.
"… but the doctor told Mommy all she needed to do was eat more fiber," Molly was saying to her new friend.
"Molly... dear... you shouldn't bother our customers," said Rebecca, with a nervous chuckle.
"Not a bother at all," smiled an amused Mrs. Hayworth. "Your daughter is a delightful conversationalist."
The Sea Duck's engines sputtered and roared to power, and murky blue seawater scattered under the spin of the propellers.
"We're off, then, are we?" said Mrs. Hayworth, lifting her spectacles over her nose to peer at the departing plane. "Good! I'm sure you're aware that your pilot has quite the reputation."
"What have you found out about ― I mean, I assure you, whatever you may have heard about my pilot, your paintings are in perfectly good hands and will be delivered on time."
"What I've heard is that he can handle his own." It wasn't so much the response that Rebecca found surprising, but the way Mrs. Hayworth smirked so slyly, as if knowingly, as she said it. "Deftly outmaneuvering air pirates, outsmarting Thembrian officers, and helped saved our good city a few times, hasn't he?"
That caught Rebecca off guard, but for once pleasantly so. She smiled, and stood a little taller. "You'll never find a better pilot," she said. "Anywhere."
Behind those uppity spectacles, the lioness seemed to be studying the Sea Duck, the wings, flaps and propellers, as one who might know a thing or two about aviation would size up a plane's speed and maneuverability. She smirked contently. "Not that we should necessarily expect him to befall any unusual circumstances on this trip," she said.
"Of course not," agreed Rebecca.
The chauffeur opened the limousine's door, and Mrs. Hayworth took her sat.
"Yes, well. If there's nothing else," she said. "Per our arrangement, please expect that I shall have people waiting here tonight to receive the Thembrian paintings."
"They'll be here in better time and condition than any other courier could ever hope for," assured Rebecca. She spoke her thanks for the lioness' patronage and the limousine rolled forward.
"Here comes Kit!" announced Molly.
And indeed, Kit was running down the street, a full sprint encumbered by a stack of school books in his hands. "Hey Baloo!" he cried. "Wait up!"
Not even the fancy blue limousine driving in his way gave him pause, though he gave the driver plenty, and plenty more to honk about. Ignoring the beeping protests, Kit jumped on the moving vehicle's hood, ran and bounced from its top and slid down the back trunk, and the instant his feet touched the pavement, they moved like there were rockets on his heels. "Baloo! Wait!"
Rebecca winced in horror at the dusty footprints now accenting the limo's sparkling blue finish, and more so, the sight of Mrs. Hayworth's mortified expression from the back window, as she looked after little hellion in the green sweater. There was never a crack in the ground big enough to hide in when you needed one.
"Kit...!" She was about to tell him to stop, but Kit blew past her and Molly in blurry speed, only at last slowing to a disappointed stop as the Sea Duck separated from the dock and accelerated into the bay.
"Ba... Baloo!" His cry was dry and raspy, and his breath gone. "Darn it!" he panted. In a sudden fit of anger, his school books were on the verge of being hurled into the seawater, though that much he thought twice of, in mid-swing, and stayed them in his hands.
"Honestly, young man," chided Rebecca, her fists against her hips, "which were you trying to do? Get yourself hurt, cause an accident, or both?"
"You should always look both ways before crossing the street," said Molly, dutifully.
The rest of Rebecca's lecture was drowned out to Kit's ears ― something about him giving her a scare, it was a customer's car, Molly was watching him, et cetera ― while he watched the Sea Duck rise and disappear between the Cape Suzette cliffs, free to soar in that big beautiful sky. Lucky it.
"Are you even listening to me?" Rebecca wanted to know.
Kit groaned miserably in response, having little energy for much else after a sprint like that. He wiped his brow on his sleeve. "He said he was gonna wait 'til I got home," he muttered.
Well. At least Rebecca had the answer to her question. "Baloo waited for as long as he could," she said. "You said you'd come home as soon as you got out of school."
"But I did," said Kit. "I ran the whole way."
"You're almost an hour late," Rebecca told him, tipping at him the watch on her wrist.
"Yeah, that's because I hadda ― aw, never mind," scoffed Kit. He stomped away into Higher for Hire, and threw the front door open with a big pull. Usually, when he opened a door ahead of Rebecca, he waited and held it open for her. Not this time. Puzzled, she followed him in and watched him stomp up the stairs.
"Kit? Did something happen?"
"No," was the curt reply. He rounded the corner into his and Baloo's shared bedroom, and the timber panels of the office shook with the crashing sound of his school books being dropped, if not thrown, on the floor.
"I bet," Rebecca muttered.
"What's wrong with him?" Molly asked.
Rebecca shrugged. "I don't know, sweetie. Maybe he had a bad day."
"Oh." Molly nodded sadly, but her frown was instantly flipped into a mischievous grin. "We should find out what happened!"
Molly darted up the stairs, but was snagged by the strap of her jumper by Mom before she got more than a few steps.
"Oh no you don't. He won't like that."
"How come?"
"It's just how boys are," said Rebecca. "You just let him have his space."
Molly looked up the stairs inquisitively, a little wrinkle on her nose. "Boys are weird," she decided, and took to the companionship of her much less weird Lucy doll while Rebecca saw to the day's filing. After a while, every now and then, the boss-lady looked up from her desk, toward upstairs, where it was entirely quiet. Now, it usually was quiet around the place sans Baloo, but somehow she found it distracting now, knowing Kit was up there sulking.
It was the way Kit insisted nothing was wrong, and she thought if Baloo had asked the same question, he probably would have been more apt to get it off his chest. There was nothing wrong with that, she supposed, it was just the nature of things between her, Baloo, and Kit, notwithstanding some careful boundaries that she was cognizant of between being Miz Cunningham and asserting herself as... well, anything beyond that. And if Kit wanted to be left alone to sort things out his own way, well, that was certainly no skin off her nose.
Of course, if Kit ever did need advice or an ear to bend, especially after all they'd been through, he could always count on her, and he knew that... didn't he? Minutes passed, and once more she looked up and over her shoulder, in the direction of the bedroom door upstairs. Still not a peep. Her head was fully turned when,
"You're gonna go ask him, huh?" said Molly, with a certain mug little ah-ha in her tone.
"Oh, I am not." Rebecca closed a folder and packed it in a desk drawer, closed that too, and changed the subject. "You hungry?"
"I'm not," replied Molly. "But Lucy's starving."
"Then we better get Lucy something to eat," Rebecca grinned.
In the kitchen, she made Lucy a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and put it on the table, and, just in case Lucy couldn't eat all the sandwich by herself, Molly sat with her to polish off any leftovers. Rebecca made two more, and those she took on a plate upstairs.
The door to the bedroom was open. Kit was on his bed, back propped against a pillow, absently running his fingers over the edge of his cloudsurfing board. His hat was pulled toward his nose to cover his eyes, and his thoughts were obviously lost in the clouds.
Rebecca rapped twice on the open door. "Kit? May I come in?"
"Sure," came the morose reply.
"I thought you might like a snack," she said. She stepped lightly into the room and placed the dish on the crate turned makeshift nightstand between their beds, keeping to Baloo's side of the room as she did so.
Kit sat up, and put aside his hat and airfoil. "Thanks, Miz Cunningham."
"Listen, it was important that Baloo not be late tonight, so I made him go. He wanted to wait."
"It's fine."
Kit reached for and placed the plate beside him on the bed, and mostly just stared down at it; Rebecca couldn't discern if he was hungry and just too bashful to start eating or if he was only making a polite gesture in accepting a snack he didn't want. What with his nearly monosyllabic responses and eye aversion, she felt quite awkward standing there, but with the kid's obvious glumness she was compelled to linger just a beat and make sure she couldn't be of any help. She caught herself about to sit down on Baloo's bed and stiffened her knees. "Would you like to talk about anything that might have happened today?"
"No ma'am," said Kit.
Rebecca smiled for his courtesy. "Fair enough. But if you change your mind, I won't be far."
"Sure."
The model airplanes dangling over Kit's bed caught Rebecca's eye, as did the drawings pinned to the wall, ones that he had sketched and colored of various aircraft. She rarely had a reason to make a trip into Baloo and Kit's bedroom, it was "their space" and frankly that was okay by her, to not know what kind of condition it was kept in; Baloo was a slob and ignorance was bliss. It wasn't so bad, though; Baloo's bed was stripped save for a blanket balled up in the middle, a basket of grapes, bananas, and empty peels close at hand. In Kit's corner, the dreams he hatched when he slept were evident in what he hung over his pillow.
"Did you draw those?" she asked. "They're very good!"
Kit shrugged, sheepishly. "They're not that good."
"No, really," said Rebecca. She stepped forward to take a closer look. "I was tempted earlier to make Baloo see this point, but I don't think he'd ever understand. You can't just look at art, you have to think about it. Reflect on it. Interpret it."
"But they're just some drawings," said Kit. "See, that's an Aronka P-31 Thunder-Buster. It's supposed to be, anyway. I know I messed up on it. It's one of my favorite planes, though."
"Ah, but I can see more than just airplanes," said Rebecca. "They say a picture is worth a thousand words. They can say a lot, maybe more than we can say, in just a glance. Just like I see a love there for airplanes and flying. It's an expression." She winked at him. "Of course, it helps that I know a thing or two about the artist."
"Aw, Miz Cunningham," groaned Kit, a whisper barely audible. He acted like he was scratching his brow, she could see him hiding a cringe. "I'm no good with things like expressions and art. Trust me."
It was an enigmatic response, and Rebecca didn't know what to make of it. She seemed to have struck a nerve, somehow. Kit looked away from her, suddenly interested in the scenery of a blank sky out the window; Rebecca understood that he was politely, if not awkwardly, waiting for her to leave without him asking.
"Well, think about it sometime," she said. "You'll understand."
She was on her way out when she remembered: "Ah. Real quick, so you know, there's going to be people here waiting for Baloo to come back."
Kit's ears pricked. "What... kind of people?" It was a fair question. After all, you never knew with Baloo. People waiting for him could mean anything from people with badges, people with brass knuckles, or people with those white coats and big nets.
"Art people," said Rebecca. "They're going to be taking the Thembrian paintings as soon as they arrive. I've told them they can wait on the dock, but they can't come inside. Okay?"
"They don't even wanna wait 'til morning?"
Rebecca shrugged. "They're... an eccentric crowd, Kit. But they pay well."
She crossed the threshold out, but there was just one more thing. "And, come to think of it, since Baloo and Wildcat are going to be away so late, how would you like to come over and have dinner with Molly and me? I'm making hamburgers. And if you want, we have plenty of room in the guest bedroom."
"No thanks," said Kit. "I'll find something in the ice box."
"But you'll be by yourself all night."
Kit reclined on his pillow, grinning. "You kiddin'? The whole place to myself? I'm gonna throw a big party."
"Okay, you," laughed Rebecca. "Don't wear yourself out. I'm sure you and Baloo have plenty of fun planned for the weekend."
He shifted a glance toward her, suddenly remembering their weekend plans, and also that he was not at liberty to speak about with present company. He smiled at her. "Nah, not yet."
It was during the wee hours of the morning when Kit was awoken by the clamor of a garbage can outside being knocked over. He had fallen asleep in Baloo's armchair, under a blanket of comic books, and the station on the radio had signed off hours ago for the night, where now only static hissed from the speaker.
He yawned and blinked, and saw the shadow of a person pass by the window. Beads of rain drizzled against the glass pane.
"Art people," he yawned. It was all at once too early and too late to be standing by for a delivery, he thought. Staggering sleepily, he padded to the front door and opened it, startling the the guy who just stumbled over the trash can.
"Hi," greeted Kit. "You here about the paintings?"
The bulldog with the surprised look on his jowls was wearing a black sweater and knit cap. "Er... ja," he said, with a thick Houn accent. "H-how dit you know?"
"Miz Cunningham told me you were comin'," said Kit. He peeked his head out the door and looked at the sprinkling dark overcast, a charcoal-colored ceiling glowing faintly amber from the city lights. "Don't you have an umbrella? She said you couldn't come in, but I guess you can. I don't mind. She always says a happy customer is a loyal customer."
"Who is zis Meez Cunningham?" asked the bulldog, slowly stepping across the threshold. He scanned the office like he was expecting some sort of trap to spring.
"The boss," said Kit. "You know, the person you're paying. Is it just you, or you got pals outside?"
"P-pals?" stammered the bulldog. Then he just thought of something and snapped his fingers. "Oh! You have copy of zee cargo manifest here? I lost mine."
"Baloo has that," said Kit. "But Miz Cunningham's got it on her notes. Here you go." Kit handed the him a piece of paper from Rebecca's desk, and the eagerness in which the bulldog received was not unlike he had just taken a bar of solid gold instead.
"How fery fery helpful, mien junge," he exclaimed. "Ta!" With that, he hurried out the door.
"Where you goin'? Don't you wanna keep out of the rain?"
"I just remember't, I left my schtof on!" The door slammed behind him and he was gone. What was that word Rebecca used? Eccentric? Pilots had another word for it: loopy.
Kit went upstairs to bed. His head had just touched the pillow when he heard the chugging engine and squeaky brakes of truck pulling up outside. More art people, he thought, turning over in his blanket. They can sit in the truck.
Then he heard a buzzing, the Sea Duck's familiar and unmistakable engines echoing from the bay. On nights like these where he had to sit out on the job, that was at least one type of noise he didn't dislike getting woken up by. It meant Baloo was back safe and sound. He was also feeling a little bit bad because he sensed Baloo probably got yelled at for trying to wait up for him that afternoon. He decided to greet on the dock, slid out of bed and didn't bother looking out the window before he ran downstairs.
Outside, two gents in blue jumpsuits were unloading dollies from the truck as the Sea Duck slowed to a stop, propellers winding down. The quiet of the night washed through the air when the decibels of the plane's engines were cut. The dock was wet and slick, particularly the planks that made up ramps to the far end. Kit slid down those like he was wearing rollerskates.
In the pale moonlight, the Sea Duck looked like Swiss cheese from the front. The nose was riddled with bullet holes, the windshield had a crack on it, and the fuselage was beaten with dents and scrapes.
The cockpit door swung open, and Baloo spilled out of the plane like the last domino in line to fall. Kit had to jump out of his way or get flattened. "Slee-eep," muttered Baloo, his chin flat against the dock. "Sleep now. Sleep good." When he raised his head, he was startled when his nose met Kit's, and his smile was both groggy and pleasantly surprised. "Hiya kid. Didn't hafta wait up."
"Of course I did," grinned Kit. He took Baloo by the arm and helped him to his feet. "You okay? It looks like someone used the Sea Duck for a piñata. Where's Wildcat?"
"Didn't make it," sighed Baloo, shaking his head.
"Oh no! What happened?"
Baloo pointed his thumb to the cockpit, specifically to the navigator's chair, where Wildcat was sprawled about and snoring, and merrily dreaming.
"Oh," said Kit. "What the heck happened?"
"Aw, what didn't happen," said Baloo tiredly. He exchanged nods with the guys in jumpsuits and opened the Sea Duck's side door for them. While they took their cargo, he summarized the night's events for Kit: "First, somebody forgot to tell some grand poobah in the Thembrian customs that we were comin'. They thought we were scammin' 'em with our Friday passport. 'Bout froze my hide waitin' for some grander poobah to let us swap the cargo and git." He gestured to the bullet holes on the plane's nose. "Then we got swarmed by Karny and his yahoos on the way back home."
"I shoulda been there," said Kit. "How'd you get away? Inverted Immelman into a pelican dive?"
"Never got the chance," explained Baloo. "All the sudden, all these flyboys came outta nowhere. Navy boys, from one of them carrier boats. They jumped right in."
"Really?"
"H'oh, boy! Bullets were flyin' everywhere. The pirates were shootin', they were shootin', and we look up, and there's Karny's ship. Had the big guns pointed right at us! But then, boom! It looked like fireworks comin' outta the ocean. It was too foggy to see the water, but there must've been big gunship down there, and man, did it give that pirate ship a lickin'."
"Wow," breathed Kit.
"Heh, ya never seen them goons fly away with their tails tucked so far between their legs."
"I always miss everything," griped Kit.
They left Wildcat at peace inside the plane, and the guys there for the art had their oblong packages of Thembrian paintings loaded in their truck promptly. Baloo and Kit went inside. Following him up the stairs, Kit had to watch out for the big tired bruin teetering backwards.
"The plane's still gonna be good to go for tomorrow, right?" asked Kit.
"Ol' gal's been through worse. Nothin' Wildcat can't patch up in the mornin'."
"I was hopin' we could head out for some cloudsurfing. Think so?"
"Don't see why not," yawned Baloo. "We gotta stop by Louie's anyway to pick up you-know-what for Becky."
"Yeah, and sorry I was late today," Kit said. "I really wanted to go, just to get out for awhile."
"Don't sweat it. Stuff happens."
Kit stopped at the top of the the stairs and considered that, and that Baloo had no idea how remarkable such insight had been for him that day. "It sure does," he said quietly.
In the bedroom, Baloo plopped down on his bed and rolled himself up in his blanket like a Baloo burrito. With one big, loud, and relaxed sigh, he was out. Kit crawled on the other bed, but sat there a moment, thinking, and, rather hesitantly, tip-toed to Baloo's side and spoke softly. "Hey, Baloo? I was thinkin'. You know what would be great?"
"Hm?"
"If school didn't keep me grounded all week, and we could team up every day, for every job. That'd be great... right?"
"Mm-hm," mumbled Baloo. His next breath was a snore.
Saturday was a warm and beautiful day, and though the scenery didn't change much from Cape Suzette to Louie's, the rolling sunshine sparkling over a sapphire blue sea wasn't hard on the eyes. Best, for Baloo, was that bright, wide-open sky, unfathomably immense and conquering the horizon and everything under it. If left alone long enough to start getting contemplative, he could lose himself in the thought of the whole world before him, and anyplace he would really want to be, with just a nudge of the steering yoke, he was on is way, with no one to make him do otherwise. Just for the hell of it, he could steer hard and pull the plane into a spiraling roll, or dance with the clouds in lofty loop-the-loops.
That was, of course, when he wasn't contemplative on the thought of tacos and extra guacamole. Presently, he was thinking about none of those things. His thoughts, as he pondered them in the blue beyond, were about how if you sat too long in the bathtub, your fingertips got all wrinkly.
He wondered if anything similar applied to surfing the sky for too long.
When you knew someone, you knew when they needed to let off some steam. Kit needed to, Baloo realized, though he didn't know why. Little Britches seemed distracted and fidgety all morning, and when he finally got his chance to hit the mist, you'd think he'd been starving for it. It was no casual, leisurely surf; Kit was all over the place, slicing his board hard into the fluffy white clouds and parting the tops of great rolling cumuli, leaving long misty scars in his wake.
He'd been out there for an hour, at least, and still surfed like he was in a one-bear competition, even though the clouds had long given way to clear skies and and Baloo had stopped twisting and turning the Sea Duck, the way he often did to give the kid a roller coaster-like ride. Now Kit was making his own roller coaster, twisting and rolling and doing all sorts of tricks that made Baloo not want to look.
Now Louie's was in sight, and Baloo needed to slow the plane and drop altitude. "C'mon, kid, time to go," he muttered, then hollered out the window, "Reel her in, Lil' Britches! We're almost there!"
Kit kicked up his board in an aerial skid as he whisked to the left of the plane, and cupped a hand to his ear.
"Louie's!" Baloo pointed out the window to the island below. "Louie's!"
"Race ya there!" shouted Kit.
Baloo wasn't sure if heard what he thought he just heard. "You'll what?"
Just like that, Kit let go of the rope. He stomped the back of his board down, and the front edge flipped upward, and so did he, into a near vertical climb.
"Hey!" cried Baloo. "What happened?"
The kid must have slipped. Baloo cut the throttle and spun the Sea Duck around in a dizzying about-face, and he hollered Kit's name, looking out the window in all directions, but couldn't find him. He pulled the Sea Duck's nose into a steep climb and at last there was Kit, spinning upward on his board and coming to a slow mid-air stop as lift and gravity tugged his airfoil to a draw. The sun sparkled on the airfoil's chrome edges.
"Gimme yer hand, kid!" yelled Baloo, reaching his arm out the window as far as he could. He got as close as to see the whites of Kit's eyes. The kid was looking right at him... and grinning. Kit put one knee down, grabbed the front edge of his board with one hand hand and held his hat in place with the other, and in a blink, he whisked below the Sea Duck's nose. Baloo yelped and jinked the plane hard to port to avoid turning him into into a hood ornament.
"Whoa!" yelped Baloo, a hand clenched over his heart. His face contorted as he realized he'd been had. "Ooh, I oughtta wring his neck," he grumbled through grinding teeth. He would have needed mighty long arms to do it then, because when he looked out, Kit was far away, far below, soaring toward Louie's.
The wind blasted against Kit's face and stung his eyes, roared in his ears and ripped against his fur and sweater. Coming out of a sheer dive of thousands of feet, he was going faster, faster, and faster. The overlapping plates of his airfoil rang out in a metallic clamor, cutting through the air and vibrating like an airplane engine unto its own. He squinted, zeroing in at Louie's docks, and not even the blasting wind against his mouth would hold back an unfettered cry: "Yaaah-hoooo!"
The ocean below him was a shimmering blue blur, and skimming inches above the crests he darted alongside a pod of jumping dolphins, their squeaks, to his ears, cheering him on. Not the same could be said for the simian employees attending to the planes on Louie's dock; they were caught by surprise of the sudden swoosh grazing their heads, seeing little but a bullet-like chrome flash that made them duck for cover.
Like a bird knew how to use its wings, the kid knew how to use his board. With instinctive motion, he kicked the board upward, arching over the remaining length of the dock, and bled off speed. Behind him, when he looked over his shoulder, was a little yellow glimmer in the sky that was the Sea Duck. It made him laugh. But in front of him was Louie's thatched roof. That made him not laugh.
"Yikes!"
His board may have been his wings, but a bird would have had enough sense to scout its landing better. Kit was going way too fast, and Louie's Place was not inclined to get out of his way. He punched through the roof, and tumbled through the ceiling in a rain of dry straw, landing his seat square on a bar stool.
"Well, thanks for droppin' in, shortstop," scowled Louie. "And for the new sky-light."
"Sorry, Louie," croaked Kit, through a strained groan. The sheer sting on his backside made him roll off the stool, and he hunched his head over the counter, holding tight onto the edge lest his legs give out on him, going cross-eyed. He snapped out of it when the glimmer of his airfoil fluttered through the hole in the roof, and he caught it with both hands. In its reflection was his beaming smile.
"Wow! That must've been ten-thousand feet! That was the best cloudsurfing dive ever. Man, Louie, you shoulda seen the look on Baloo's face!" He laughed about it, but then he really thought about that look on Baloo's face. He was going to see it again real soon.
"He's gonna kill me," Kit muttered. He folded and put his board in his sweater ― more like hid it in his sweater ― before an attempt was made to take it away. "You got any specials on the menu for a last meal?"
Louie chortled, despite himself. "Huh! If it's another one of those things between you two, I ain't gettin' involved. Better think of some last words instead."
"Last words?" Up through the hole in the roof he had just made, he gazed at the blue sky, shining bright as silver. He sighed, dreamily, and, despite the earful he was about to get, was mighty pleased with himself. "No regrets."
Baloo stormed through the front door, dark and noisy as a thundercloud, and Kit went from doing his best cloudsurfing dive to his best over-the-counter dive. Maybe he had just a tiny bit of regret after all. He picked up an ice cream scoop and a soda fountain glass, and greeted Baloo with toothy, nervous grin. "Hiya Papa Bear! One mango shake comin' up?"
Louie did his part to help by scrambling behind the bar for a white soda jerk hat, and plopped it haphazardly atop Kit's ballcap... it just rolled off and fell, and Louie then shrank back out of the way, for his ol' pal was not amused.
"Kit, of all the darn fool, bone-headed stunts you ever pulled!" The whole bar counter shook when Baloo's palms came crashing down on it. "I almost ran ya over!" A glance up and he saw the hole in the ceiling; and though he wasn't there himself to see how that hole got there, the bits of straw stuck to the kid's sweater and the look Louie was giving him (the kind that said, 'Yep, that's goin' on yer tab, too, cuz!') was enough to solve the equation. He grabbed Kit by the shoulders, hoisted him over the bar and sat him down on a stool, and not entirely gently.
"I know and I'm sorry," Kit was quick to say. "I was being show-offity."
Baloo was momentarily stunned by the response, the lack of 'I know what I was doing' therein. The kid gave in awfully quick this time. "What the blue blazes were ya thinkin'?"
Kit was at a loss for words. It wasn't what he was thinking, it's what he wasn't thinking. In the clouds, he wasn't thinking about last Friday, or this coming Monday. For instance, he wasn't thinking about cramming his airfoil down Principal Pomeroy's, and, metaphorically, the entire sixth grade's throat. Now he was, and it was showing in the darkness of a sudden grimace.
"You gonna tell me what's wrong, or what?" Baloo asked.
"Nothing's wrong," said Kit. He turned away from Baloo and folded his arms over the bar.
"Now don't go tellin' fibs. Ya been bothered 'bout somethin' all day."
"I have not," Kit insisted. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's great." He did a poor job of disguising the sourness in his tone, realized it, and grimaced. Before Baloo could ask another question, he changed the subject.
"Hey, Louie! Did you get the thing for Miz Cunningham?"
"Surely did," said Louie. From a shelf under the bar, he took out a pen and a small blank card and set it on the counter. "You boys wanna do the honors?"
"Yeah!" said Kit. "But what should we write, Baloo?"
"Got me." Baloo took the pen, but could only tapped it against the card as he thought of something to jot down. "Huh, don't this feel weird."
"Yeah, but it's for Molly," said Kit. "Rebecca's a good mom. She deserves it."
Baloo chin was in his palm. "Can't argue with that."
That said, it didn't make what to write any easier.
The next day had a special morning in store at Rebecca's apartment. Molly had been in cahoots with Baloo about it all week. She raced out of her bedroom as soon as the doorbell rang, handily beating Rebecca to the punch.
"Remember, ask who it is before you open it," her mother told her.
"Who is it," sang Molly, as if she didn't know.
"Special delivery," said Baloo from the other side.
Of all the people Rebecca didn't expect to come calling on his day off...
"Oh!" Molly said suddenly, as if she forgot something, and she ran back into her bedroom.
Rebecca, in rosy robe and pink pajamas, opened the door, and, with shouts of surprise, Baloo burst (not literally) into the room, a big yellow banana bouquet in his arms from Louie's, followed in by Kit with two gallons of Frosty Pep, and Wildcat with a big, colorful bundle of helium balloons.
Rebecca staggered backwards. "What's all this?"
"Happy Mother's Day!" squealed Molly, running back into the room and into Rebecca's arms. This time, she had a big piece of decorated pink construction paper in her hands. Rebecca picked her up and nuzzled her cheek.
"You planned this? What am going to do with you."
"Maybe grab us some spoons before this ice cream melts," suggested Baloo. He set the yellow bouquet on the coffee table, and Rebecca saw the little card attached and read it out loud:
"Happy Boss-Lady Day. Oh, you guys."
"Here, read this one," said Molly. Drawn on the pink construction paper was a heart made of glued-on glitter, and likewise glittered words inside of it, in round, misshapen kindergartner letters: Love You Mommy
"I made it in school," Molly said proudly.
"It's beautiful," said Rebecca, choked by the sentiment. She smooched her cub on the nose. "And I love you, too."
Baloo and Wildcat were two big melting puddles of aww, watching the warm cuddle between mother and cub, but beside them Wildcat also noticed something... off. He could do that sometimes better than others, noticing things that were off. Call it a talent of those so inclined to be.
He saw Kit staring blank and trance-like, not at Rebecca, not at Molly, but at that pink, glittery love note, then, as if becoming self-aware that he might appear at all conspicuous, suddenly looked away, and became intensely interested in the scenery beyond the apartment's balcony. His feet were shifty, and he left for the kitchen. "I'll, uh, get some spoons and bowls, be right back," he said.
"You boys might as well make yourselves at home," said Rebecca.
No one had to tell Baloo twice. He plopped on the sofa, resting his feet on the coffee table, but his heels didn't touch table. They touched book. A big, heavy one was there with a hard cover and fancy lettering on the spine, resembling something of a high-end academic text. He took his feet down when Rebecca took a swat at them, and she sat next to him with Molly in her lap. Baloo squinted to read the title of the book: The Painted Classics.
"Well lookit you," he said to Rebecca. "Gettin' all artsy-fied."
"Is that your word for educated?"
"It's got lots of pictures, Baloo," said Molly. Eagerly, she hopped to the book and flipped open its pages to show him. "Look, some of 'em have naked people!"
"Oh, give me that." Rebecca promptly took it away. "It doesn't hurt to find some common ground with prospective long term customers, especially ones who are, should we say, culturally enlightened."
"Huh. Ya mean loaded."
"Well, yes," Rebecca admitted. "You'll be happy to know that Mrs. Hayworth was thrilled with our last job. Major Boarus from Thembria is apparently a hot ticket in the arts. She said we're helping paint bridges between two worlds."
"Paintin' bridges," Baloo repeated dryly. "My my. Ain't she clever."
"She's paying nicely, is what she is," said Rebecca. "Best of all, she said they expect more from Thembria soon, and we'll be getting the contract for it."
Baloo smiled smugly and stretched his arms. "Yep, no need to thank me, Becks. Yer welcome."
The reply was caught somewhere like a piece of spinach stuck between Rebecca's teeth, where she had to dig out laboriously with the tip of her tongue. "Thanks," she said, and was quick to add, "For being on time, for once. Now you see what I mean!"
To Baloo's dismay, Rebecca took the opportunity to spell out the values of punctuality and good business practices. Listening to them, Wildcat was lost in the talk of paintings and business, but one thing he was cognizant of was that Kit was not right back. So, he padded into the kitchen to find him.
Kit was slouched on his elbows over the kitchen counter, having gotten as far as a few spoons in his hand. He was absently staring at the sheen of the polished white countertop as a seer might peer into a vision from a crystal ball.
"Kit?"
Kit gasped and turned like he had been caught committing a crime. "Wh-what?"
"You okay?"
"Of course!" said Kit. He went to open the cupboard where Rebecca dishes. "Sheesh, why does everyone keep askin' me that?"
"You don't look okay," said Wildcat, so plainly that it gave Kit pause.
"I'm fine," he said. It was hard for him to discern why, but he was somehow inclined to ask, "Ever feel like you're kinda... losin' your mind?"
"Wow, you feel that, too?"
That was why. Kindred spirits of the mind-losing variety.
Kit took four bowls out of the cupboard and stacked them on the counter. "You never get mad, do you?"
"Mad? Like, what about?"
"Stupid stuff that doesn't even matter," Kit said, under his breath. "What do you do when people just really push your buttons?"
"Ahh!" said Wildcat, raising his finger in a manner of a professor about to enlighten a student on the very matter of his vast academic expertise. "I never let that happen, bud." He gestured to the zipper on his one-piece jumpsuit; he winked at Kit slyly, and whispered his secret: "I don't wear buttons!"
Well, thought Kit, that advice was about right for Wildcat. And, for Wildcat, it probably worked out like that, too. He didn't bother bringing up that he didn't have any buttons on his sweater. He just nodded, set the spoons in the top bowl, and grabbed the stack to carry out to the living room. "This weekend's already been way too short," he said.
Hardly anyone likes Mondays. Saturday comes and goes in a beat, Sunday is doomed with the overbearing haunt that your weekend off is imminently kaput. Then, the pencil-pushers have to go back to pencil pushing. Golf clubs and fishing poles get traded for neckties and adding machines. The hot dog line at the afternoon ballgame malignantly transforms into to the assembly line at the factory. Kids have to go back to school. The vast majority of them actually stay there until end of class. But not all of them. Not one in particular today, anyway.
There had been a little bit of a ruckus at Cape Suzette Elementary. Well... it might have been a little bit more than a little bit, as far as your normal ruckus at school might go. The result, come Monday afternoon, Kit was inside the Jungle Ace's headquarters throwing a rubber ball against the timber wall and catching it on the bounce back. By now, he figured, his classmates would have had finished gym class and were opening their history books. Then he thought about Baloo, who was probably out on a delivery ― off to another adventure ― and how he would have much rather had been flying with him right now instead of holing up in some treehouse.
But that was his want on a lot of days, too. How many times had Mrs. Morrissey scolded him for staring out the window and daydreaming instead of keeping up with the algebra lesson? He liked picking up a soccer game with his buddies during recess, and running track ― that was just about it, and unfortunately those were the most fleeting times of the school day. Everything else was boring, boring, boring. He wanted to be flying in the Sea Duck, or go cloudsurfing, or go explore the junkyard to see what was new, or go hang out at the airfield, or go catch a big fish, or glue together a model airplane, or really do anything more exciting than being cooped up in a classroom. He had made plenty of wishes in his life ― for friends, for planes, for wealth, but one thing he never wished for was an uneventful day. But he wanted to be good, too, to be the person Baloo trusted him to be, and understood that there were certain norms in place. He thought he had overall done a heck of a job adjusting to all of these little inconveniences, even when they got really irritating, and now in that treehouse, he could hardly wrap his mind around how it got to this point in just a few days time.
With each crack of the ball against the wall, he thought of another way of explaining things to Baloo, and each excuse that came to mind was worse than the last. Of course he could always resort to just telling the truth ― but he could hardly see any reason to go that far. To anyone. He'd rather be buried up to his chin in slushy Thembrian snow.
When he woke up that morning, he had considered pretending to be sick and buying himself an extra day at home. Now he wished he had. Instead, he thought he had cleared his head enough over the weekend, and was determined to get through the week without drawing any unwanted attention. So much for that idea. He had wanted to just serve his one-week detention sentence, not gladly or with a shred of repentance, but just to get it done and over with, and forget last Friday ever happened. But, when he arrived that morning at school, he only got as far as his locker when Mr. Pomeroy passed by.
"Cloudkicker," the principal had said to him, "I trust you took time over the weekend to adjust that surly attitude."
If Kit had an instant-furious switch, it had just been flipped to the ON position, just like it had been the Friday before. It wasn't just that the principle had to say something, but that he had to say it like that, and how he stood behind him and waited for an answer. Out of spite, Kit didn't give him one, and didn't bother to turn around to acknowledge him either. That was getting even, because Pomeroy seethed at being ignored.
Historically, wars between nations have erupted for slights less dire. All it took for all hell to break loose was the right amount of stubbornness, and these two had it in spades. Pomeroy was born to be a principle, serious and assertive, a cultivator of discipline, order, and respect, and persistent corrector of errant youth. His methods worked most times, but most times his methods didn't suddenly evoke in a student an untamed spirit held in the likes of vagabonds and pirates that answered to no one.
"I asked you a question," said Mr. Pomeroy, who would be damned to not get his point across. "But I already see what the answer is. I told you last time, you're on thin ice around here. Keep this up and you'll see what..."
The principle paused when the books Kit was swapping in and out of his locker tumbled to the floor, dropped with contempt. Mr. Pomeroy tugged at his already hot collar. "Turn around and look at me," he ordered. To that end, he got what he wanted, though not how he liked it. Without a word, Kit slammed his locker shut, not unlike he wished Pomeroy's fingers were in the way. The other children in the hall stopped their squeaky chatter at once, turning their attention to what looked like two gunslingers about to square off.
"I don't know what's gotten into you, but it stops this instant," Pomeroy said, and pointed down the hall, toward his office. "Now pick up your books and march."
Kit's feet remained firmly planted, the only thing moving about him were his fingers curling up into angry fists. He didn't budge, but he took some gratification at Pomeroy grinding his teeth at being so openly defied.
"Kit... what's wrong?" said a small, squeaky voice. It was Oscar Vandersnoot, who looked awfully worried behind his big round glasses. His Jungle Ace friends were there, too, and their puzzled stares silently echoed Oscar's question. Except for Ernie. He was rather excited, rooting for Kit to take a swing, or maybe a swift kick in the shin.
And all around, a sea of students stood watching, wondering. Kit felt every single set of eyes like hot lights, and prickly warmth flushed his face. He bowed his head, ashamed, and felt the fight in him crumble, realizing in that uncomfortable moment that he was digging himself into a pit that was dangerously deeper than he could climb out of.
Pomeroy's extended arm stiffened straight as he pointed down the hall again. "I said, pick up your books. Now!"
Kit winced at his tone, but still didn't move upon his command. He could hear some of the other kids whispering to each other. Last Friday, an instant had come where it was painfully obvious to him that in some ways he was different from his classmates. He had let it get him down. The same had just occurred to him again, but this time, it gave him a smirk. He was different, but inasmuch in the particular way that he was different, he might as well use it to its advantage. It had its perks. He had his freedom.
Kit picked up his books with an air of perfect calmness, neatly stacking them neatly atop one another... then shoved them in Mr. Pomeroy's arms.
"Where do you think you're going?" huffed Mr. Pomeroy. "Get back here, Cloudkicker! I'm talking to you!" But the more times Pomeroy ordered him, the faster Kit walked, down the hall, out the front door, and down the street. Eventually, not quite ready to show up at home unexpectedly, he went to the tree house where no one would bother him.
He saw an apparition of Mr. Pomeroy's ornery face on the club dartboard, squinting behind his glasses and nosing in on things that were none of his business. Kit wound his arm back and threw the ball with his meanest fastball, knocking the dartboard off the wall, but the rebound came swiftly and clocked him square on the nose. He yelped and cupped his muzzle, then grumbled uncouth utterances. His nose wasn't bleeding, but it smarted enough to make him feel a little dizzy, as if the tree were shaking. But then he realized, the tree was shaking.
The tree house door opened, and there was Baloo, peering inside. "Kit?"
"B-Baloo? Wh-what're you doin' here?"
"What am I doin' here? Yer school called askin' where ya went ― whoop!" Not quite the agile tree climber as were Kit and his friends, Baloo took a misstep and disappeared from the stoop, spilling upon the grass with a heavy thud.
Kit rushed to the door. "Baloo! Are you okay?"
Baloo was up on is feet quick enough, and scowling up at the boy. "Dog-gone it, I didn't know where ya were and I was worried. Now get down here and tell me what's goin' on."
Well, here goes nothing. Kit was hesitant in his response, if not a bit ashamed. "I walked out on school today," he said, while climbing down.
"But why?"
Kit looked down, flustered, watching his toes sheepishly swivel into the grass. It was annoying, frustrating, what a big, fat loaded question a tiny little word like why was. At first he just shrugged, as if rolling the dice that Baloo was just going to reply, Oh, okay, and they'd forget about it. His dice had rotten luck, and Baloo was laying on thick with the stern look.
"It was a stupid little thing, and I lost my temper," said Kit at last. "I didn't think they were gonna call, and I didn't mean make ya worried, but... I guess I just didn't know how to tell you."
Kit absently padded around the tree, with Baloo following, his stern countenance beginning to soften. "What is it?"
"I don't wanna go back to school unless they get off my ailerons," said Kit. "Now since I walked, they're probably gonna kick me out now, anyway. I figure, they don't even hafta bother. I'm not goin' back."
"Whaddaya mean yer not? Ya gotta!"
"Why?"
"Wh-why?" Baloo was flustered for an answer. Now it was his turn to deal with that little, three-lettered nuisance. "Well, uh..." He snapped his fingers when the answer finally came to him. "Because! That's why."
"Oh, great reason," Kit drawled. He stomped tracks on a dirt path away from the tree house.
"What'd ya want me to say? It's just the way thing are for kids."
"Says who?"
"Says... whatcha call it... so-sigh-itty!"
"Who's so-sigh-itty, then?"
Baloo scratched his head under his cap. "Well... them that don't know what else to do with ya all day."
"Yeah, well maybe it's good for some kids, but I don't need anyone tellin' me what to do with myself all day."
"But it's what's best for ya, and I'm pretty sure there's some sorta law that says kids gotta be in school."
"Really? I'm pretty sure there's some sort of law about obeying speed limits and paying parking tickets, too."
"That's not the same thing!"
"What, you're some law professor now? I never went to school before I lived here, and nobody cared."
"But now yer here and I care," said Baloo. "Will ya stand still and tell me what'n the world started all this?" Now on the sidewalk, Baloo burst (again, not literally) into a short sprint and cut Kit off, blocking the way. "Yer only one month from graduatin' the sixth grade."
"Three weeks," muttered Kit.
"Three weeks! Three measly weeks and yer as far as I never made it in my whole life. An' yer great at it! Just look it how ya helped me get through. Now what is goin' on all the sudden?"
"Who needs to graduate anything?" Kit insisted. "They're not gonna teach me how to be a great pilot. Look at you! You're the best pilot in the world, and you didn't need school."
"But I went back and graduated."
Kit scoffed at that. "For a party."
"Because it was important!"
"Okay, for an important party."
"Ki-it..."
Kit sighed, staring at and swiping his foot over a crack in the cement. "Really, Baloo. I'm proud of you. You tried so hard to get a passing grade... that's why I didn't want to tell ya right away. But think how great it'll be! I could fly with you any time, every day all week."
"Aw, kid, ya know that's not gonna happen."
"Why not? I thought we were a team. Partners!"
"We are!"
Kit shrugged at him, waiting. "Then...?"
"Hold on, now, just back this up!" said Baloo, dizzily and futility rubbing his forehead, trying to massage an ache that seemed to be coming from between his ears. "Are you... are you gettin' bullied?"
Kit rolled his eyes. "Be real. No one pushes me around." He brushed past Baloo, notably taking the direction opposite of Cape Suzette Elementary, and uttered one other final thought on that matter: "Including Pomeroy."
Baloo was following at his heels. "What'd yer principal do?"
"He's got a fat head and a big mouth, that's what he did." A discarded aluminum can suffered the sudden bitter wrath of Kit's kicking foot. It clanked and rolled noisily across the street and into the gutter. "He gave me detention, for this whole week," he said. "That's why I was late the other day. I'm not goin' back for more. I don't hafta listen to him. And if I don't do it, he'll pile on the demerits until I get kicked out. I bet I'm expelled anyway after today, anyway, so why bother."
"You wanna quit 'cause they made ya stay after class a lil' bit?"
"No! It's the point."
"What point? Wait a minute, what'd ya do to get in trouble?"
"Doesn't matter," growled Kit. His pace kicked up a notch.
"Yeah, it does," said Baloo. The conversation was going in faster circles than the Sea Duck's propellers, and the kid wasn't the only one getting steamed.
"No, it doesn't."
"I'll decide if it does or not."
"You don't get to decide everything!"
"Kit, stop." At last Baloo snagged Kit by the shoulder and arm, and turned him around and pushed him along, to where down the street the grade school campus awaited. "If yer not gonna tell me what's the matter, that's one thing. But bottom line is, yer goin' to school, and yer goin' back right now. That's final."
Kit was quiet for a moment, head drooped like a prisoner in shackles being escorted to the dungeon. It didn't last long. Suddenly he whisked away from Baloo, and went the other way, toward Higher For Hire. "It's not final."
"I'm surprised at you, Kit," said Rebecca. "Baloo is absolutely right." That was also surprising to her, but she held back that remark.
It was inevitable, Kit knew, that they were both going to gang up on him the instant he was back at Higher for Hire. This was the bout he had been dreading. But now, the contenders were in the ring, the bell had rung, and the first round was underway. In one corner, weighing in at leave me alone, was Kit Cloudkicker. In the other corner, at a combined weight of we know what's best for you, were Baloo and Rebecca.
"We all decided you'd start school," said Rebecca, "and you're almost done for the year."
"So, I started," said Kit, with a forced air of nonchalance. He was sitting in Baloo's armchair with his cheek firmly nestled against his fist. "It didn't work out. So what?"
"I don't understand," she said. "You're a good student. What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Then what changed?"
"Nothing."
Inwardly, Baloo wished Rebecca all the luck in the world in getting more of an answer than he did out of the kid.
"But what was the detention for?" asked Rebecca. "Did you get into a fight?"
The answer didn't come quickly. "No."
"But you did something you weren't supposed to."
The offense Kit took to that remark shown in a flash of anger, one that took Rebecca aback. She was suddenly at a loss for words, but then the phone rang and she answered it, the convenient exit it was right then.
"Everyone gets in trouble sometimes," Baloo said to Kit. "Boy, I oughtta know. What yer not sayin' is why you wanna quit all the sudden."
"It's not quitting," shrugged Kit. "It's just a change. Maybe school's not right for a kid like me."
"That's horse pucky! What's that supposed to mean, a kid like you?"
Momentarily, Kit seemed surprised, perhaps at his own phrasing. His face darkened as he considered where he had heard that phrase, or more pointedly, who had said it. "You tell me," he scoffed quietly. "You know. Only Thembrians would be crazy enough to let a kid like me fly."
He might as well have splashed a cold pail of water over Baloo face, for the big bear's flinching reaction. Baloo stammered his defense, "Hey! N-now I didn't mean anything like that. Why I was talkin' 'bout Thembria, not you. I didn't mean ― I mean, I wouldn'ta... I..."
"Aw, come on," said Kit. "It's not like it's some secret. I'm not like the other kids."
Baloo's brow furrowed, his bottom lip stiffened. "Ya don't hafta be," he said. It got the kid's attention; Kit looked at him questioningly. Finally, Baloo saw an opening to get through. He spoke gently. "Lil' Britches, I don't gotta tell ya why ya oughta be in school. Yer smarter than that. What yer talkin' about is quittin', and since when did ya become Kit Cloud-quitter? Come on, kiddo. If ya didn't think this was wrong, then how come you were hidin' this mornin'?"
He saw then that Kit had a moment of contemplation over that. Baloo was starting to feel relieved, even a bit proud of himself. Actually, a lot proud. He had got the kid to change his mind, this would all be over in a minute. And to think that he was starting to feel intimidated, that he wasn't smart or wise enough to guide his young friend along through this one, but he did it! He connected, he ― wait. Kit just narrowed his eyes at him in a look that said nice try.
"Horse pucky," insisted Kit.
Well, the heck with that, thought Baloo miserably. "Dangit, Kit. I'm doin' my best here!"
"So drop it, then! Look, what's the big deal? How come there's a big fight every time there's something I wanna do?"
Baloo rubbed his forehead, wearily. Somehow he knew what Humpty Dumpty felt like. "One argument at a time, huh? I'm gettin' tired of askin', what happened at school?"
Kit slouched limply into the corner of the chair, his arms crossed and lips tight. Baloo didn't budge from in front of him. What ensued was a silent contest between them, a contest of staring and waiting. A breeze washed in from the open window, and from outside could be heard metallic percussion from Wildcat's mallet on the Sea Duck's wing, and Molly singing to her doll, oblivious to the palpable tension inside.
"Baloo," Kit sighed, annoyed, and with more than a little hint of back off in his tone. It didn't have any effect. Baloo waited... and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, Kit lowered his eyes. "It was just a stupid little thing," he said. "That's all I'm gonna say. I just wanted to be left alone about it and they kept pushin' me. The teacher said I was being rude and sent me to the principal's office. Then Pomeroy said I was rude and gave me a week's detention. He said if I didn't straighten up, I'd be on my way out, and he said he was letting me off easy. Well I'm not doin' his stupid detention, and I'm not lettin' him boss me around about it. Forget them."
"Whoa now," said Baloo, "what'd ya say to yer teacher?"
Kit shrugged, shuffled in the chair uncomfortably, though there might have been the slightest hint of satisfaction gleaming in a subtle smirk. "I might have told her to 'go kick rocks.'" He 'might have' told her something worse, too.
Baloo blinked. "Yep, I'd say that makes the list under bein' rude."
Kit suddenly jumped to his feet on the chair cushion, not unlike an indignant lawyer about to shout an objection to the judge. "She can go kick rocks if she thinks I'm gonna ―" He tightened his mouth shut and fell back in the seat, bouncing into a curdled, arms-crossed position. "I was stickin' up for myself and I'm not sorry."
"Have you lost yer mind? What did she do that got ya so steamed?"
"She kept asking me questions," he answered, pointedly.
"Yeah, and I got a few of my own," said Baloo. "I'm gonna get to the bottom of this one way or the other. If yer not gonna talk to me, then I'm gonna go find Pomeroy and ask him."
"Baloo, don't," groaned Kit. "Please stop askin' about it."
"But why?"
"'Cause you're not me! I'll deal with it."
"Deal with what?"
"It's nothing!"
"Stop tellin' me that!"
"I don't wanna talk about it anymore!"
Baloo's shadow cast over Kit, him leaning over the chair with his hands squeezing the padded arms, and his grimace curdling in frustration. His tone was low and grave. "Lil' Britches, I'm losin' my patience. I need ya to talk to me."
Kit stood up on the chair cushion, slowly and intently, and met Baloo nose-to-nose, his eyes glossy and blinking. "No. Stop actin' like you're ―" He choked on his words, looking away from Baloo. "It's just none of your business, okay? So drop it." With that, he leapt from the chair and stomped up the stairs. Baloo took a step after him, but stopped... he wanted to go after him, but at the same time, no... he definitely did not. Instead he fell into the armchair, shot dead by the imaginary gunshot sound that was Kit slamming the bedroom door. His pilot's cap rolled off his head and bounced off his belly, onto the floor.
"Hey," said a small voice by the chair. The elevated voices could hardly keep from Molly's ears for long. They had not seen her curiously padding inside. "How come you guys are fighting?"
"Fi... fighting? Us guys? Nah, cupcake, ya got it all wrong." Baloo sat up, forced a big, soft smile, and set Molly up on is lap. "Ya see, sometimes when yer used to bein' around a plane with big ol' propellers... well, like the Sea Duck out there, it makes yer ears a lil' tough... and uh, well, pilots and navigators sometimes get used to talkin' loud. Ya see?"
"You were fighting," insisted Molly.
Baloo's smile crumbled. "An' I don't know what about," he muttered. He turned his head to Rebecca. "I... I dunno what to do."
"I know one thing you have to do," said Rebecca.
"What?"
"That was Kit's principal on the phone. One angry principal. You have to go to school tomorrow."
"Me? No way, nuh-uh! I done wrapped that up. He gave me a passin' grade!"
"Not for you, for him." She was pointing upstairs.
"Oh." Baloo slid Molly off his lap and fell back in his chair, clenching his stomach like he was about to be sick. "That's even worse."
"Listen, this is important," said Rebecca. "I'll push some deliveries back tomorrow. If you want, I'll go with you."
"Ya will? Really?"
"He might not appreciate it, but..." She looked at Molly, at once thankful for what she had in a child and for the provisions she was able to afford her. "He's come a long way since we've all known each other, hasn't he? I guess I feel proud of him for that. I don't know what could make him think it would be okay to stop going to school."
"Kit's not going to school anymore?" The possibilities flashed before Molly's eyes in an instant. "Can I stay home, too?"
"Don't be silly, Kit's going to school," Rebecca said. "And you like your class. Why would you want to stay home?"
"I'd like sleeping in," shrugged Molly.
"Sorry, pumpkin, those are the breaks." She gently ushered Molly toward the door. "Why don't you go help Wildcat for a little while? Baloo and I are going to have a word with Kit."
"We... are?"
"We are," said Rebecca, her tone leaving no room for debate.
"Listen, Becky. Somethin's kicked in that boy, an' this... this ain't the time."
"Listen to me, Baloo. This is the only time."
Baloo was still and not inclined to move from his chair. If Rebecca could read his distant and sullen expression, his feelings were hurt. "How come he won't talk to me about it?"
"I don't know, but you can't give up now," said Rebecca. "Even if he won't tell you about it, what matters is that he's back in school tomorrow. After that dazzling spectacle he pulled this morning, his principle said he won't have another shot at this."
She grabbed Baloo by the arm and tugged until he was out of the chair, then led him up the stairs. "Come on, you need to get up there. You have to be firm. Stick to your guns!"
"Yeah, firm guns," mumbled Baloo, numbly walking one slow step at a time.
"He has to understand that there are consequences to his choices. I know just the thing."
Baloo opened the bedroom door with as much eagerness as he would have if the next step he took was into the middle of an ice-cold lake. Kit was leaning on the sill of the open window, tugging his collar to take in some of the breeze. He took one glance back at Baloo and Rebecca stepping inside, and promptly ignored them.
Baloo took a breath. "Look, Lil' Britches, I―" He didn't even get a chance to fluster his words before Rebecca cut in.
"Kit, if you don't go to school, the Sea Duck is off limits," she said.
"What?" Kit spun away from the window like it had given him an electric shock. It wasn't electrical, but a shock, yes, and a severe one that left his fur stand on end just the same.
"What?" repeated Baloo.
She cleared her throat at the pilot. "Right, Baloo?"
"Whoa! Wait a minute, Becky, I didn't say I'd―"
"Right, Baloo?"
"Oh..." As he took in Rebecca's meaning, Baloo's fingers were fidgety and crossed in knots. "Well, I guess." He nodded at Kit. "Right."
Kit let out a sharp breath, like the wind had just been knocked out of him. "That's not fair!"
"Neither is walking out on school," explained Rebecca. "You're not being fair to yourself, and you're not being fair to the people that want to see you do great things when you grow up. I won't just stand back and let you throw away your education because of a little detention. The Kit I know isn't afraid to work out his problems. You're running away from them right now."
She had a way of putting things, thought Baloo. "Becky said it, kiddo. Don't ya think she's right?"
Kit turned his back to them and stepped to the window again. Outside, he saw Wildcat making Molly giggle by putting on an impromptu puppet show with a hammer and pliers. Kit's hands squeezed around the sill; had he the strength, the wood would crumble in his palms. "What I think is that Wildcat ends up watchin' Molly an awful lot around here."
Rebecca staggered a step back like the floor had moved from under her. She was obviously not expecting that blow.
"Now, Kit, that wasn't nice," said Baloo, stepping forward. "Becky's just tryin'... we're just tryin' to help ya along, to do what's best."
Baloo's words couldn't have made Kit feel worse than he did. Even if that little zinger felt vindictively good for that split-second, if Kit could have somehow turned around and snatched his words out of mid-air before they reached Rebecca, he would have raced to grab them. His head spun at how dramatically sour things had gone so quickly.
Coolly, Rebecca spelled it out for him: "No school, no flying. Your choice." She turned to leave, but Kit jotted after her.
"Miz Cunningham, wait! I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything. I'll go back tomorrow. I'll do their stupid detention, and just get it over with."
"But ya shouldn'ta talked to yer teacher that way," said Baloo. "An' ya shouldn'ta done what ya did this mornin'."
"Yeah, I know you're all against me, Baloo. Don't gotta rub it in." Kit went to his bed and flopped backwards on it, spawled and scowling at the ceiling, and there bewildered Baloo was too flustered for a response for the umpteenth time that afternoon.
"None of us are against you, Kit," said Rebecca. "You said you were sticking up for yourself, and I believe you. But there are ways we can handle that. If they did something wrong to you, then let's talk to them."
Kit's back stiffened quickly as he sat up, his face stricken with horror. "Who talk to them?"
She stood at Baloo's shoulder. "You! And Baloo. Maybe me. All of us."
The way Kit physically recoiled at that idea was one way to say he was repulsed ― she might as well have suggested that they all shave their fur and parade down Main Street in newspaper hats. "You guys don't get it," Kit said. He brushed past them to leave the room. "They didn't do anything wrong, okay? And I don't want any help. I don't wanna talk to anyone about anything. Just forget it."