minutes one of Aaron’s tosses ran afoul of an unexpected breeze, and in moments the model had soared to a height they had thought impossible.
“Whoa, you’re gonna lose it,” Charlie called, marveling.
“Your turn! You’re supposed to get it,” cried Aaron, who was no more a slouch than Charlie at dodging blame. Both boys set off together, the glider a tantalizing wisp that flew at a sprinter’s pace. As the model began to settle far beyond them, it crossed the street and bounced merrily at the curb, vulnerable to anything on wheels.
Charlie and Aaron might have waited for traffic to clear but Aaron, thinking more about tactics than about Charlie’s safety, remembered a phrase that was only an inch from magic. “It’s up to you, Charlie,” he said, and saw the fire of the fanatic kindle in Charlie’s eyes.
Charlie darted across one lane ahead of a sedan, adjusted his path to avoid being collected by a coupe in the second lane, then realized a car in the third lane was moving in the opposing direction. Charlie stopped dead on the center stripe but the driver of the approaching car, suddenly alerted, swerved into the adjoining lane as he skidded to a halt. Since that lane was occupied by another car, a brief symphony of squalling rubber, car horns and Word-laden yells serenaded Charlie as he sped to the far curb and snatched his balsa prize up, then continued on at top speed to the lawn of the state capitol grounds.
Nor did he stop then, seeing two drivers exit cars that stood crosswise and immobile while other traffic began to clog the street behind them. The capitol grounds provided Charlie with several screens of shrubbery, and he used them to abandon the scene, finally taking refuge behind a young couple, both sightseeing in uniform, who took no notice of the boy.
By the time Charlie took advantage of bushes to squat and look for pursuers, the street traffic was moving again though Aaron was nowhere to be seen. Charlie moved to the broad central walkway leading to the capitol building, a massive pile of rosy granite that dominated the skyline. He waited for strollers to clear the area near him, then gave Aaron’s balsa bird an easy toss knowing that it would be a beacon for Aaron the way a pigeon draws a hawk. A few more modest flights proved that he was right, when Aaron appeared from distant bushes and raced to compete with Charlie in chasing down his toy.
Charlie won. Mindful of the outcome of Aaron’s last flight, he prepared to resume the game with a modest toss until Aaron, ready to be the retriever, teased, “Remember if it goes in the street, I’m not as big an idiot as you are.”
Charlie paused, his expression darkening. Was it fair for a guy to endanger his own property, urge a buddy to risk his neck for a heroic recovery, and then call the hero an idiot? The perfect accuracy of Aaron’s wisecrack only made it worse. “Not in the street,” he said, “but this one’s up to you , smart guy.” And with this, he sprinted across the lawn toward the nearby lily pond.
Aaron guessed his friend’s intention and gave chase two paces behind, panting, “No, nuh-uh, it’s a dime, a dime, a dime,” to no effect. He knew that if the glider became water-soaked it would be too heavy to fly again until it dried out. Charlie hurled the zoom plane straight across the broad, tree-shaded pond, narrowly avoided splashing into it over the low curb, and stopped to watch the result. The toy looped, seemed destined to settle on cement, but suddenly plopped down on one of the platter-sized lily pads that decorated the scummy pond like green doilies on a greener tablecloth. Weighing only an ounce, it might still be flown again and lay temptingly near, no more than ten feet from dry cement. “Your turn,” said Charlie, hiding his relief.
A whiskery old idler on a nearby bench laughed. “Look out for sharks, sprat.”
Aaron hugged himself, toes touching the curb, and sent a gloomy look toward his
“Whoa, you’re gonna lose it,” Charlie called, marveling.
“Your turn! You’re supposed to get it,” cried Aaron, who was no more a slouch than Charlie at dodging blame. Both boys set off together, the glider a tantalizing wisp that flew at a sprinter’s pace. As the model began to settle far beyond them, it crossed the street and bounced merrily at the curb, vulnerable to anything on wheels.
Charlie and Aaron might have waited for traffic to clear but Aaron, thinking more about tactics than about Charlie’s safety, remembered a phrase that was only an inch from magic. “It’s up to you, Charlie,” he said, and saw the fire of the fanatic kindle in Charlie’s eyes.
Charlie darted across one lane ahead of a sedan, adjusted his path to avoid being collected by a coupe in the second lane, then realized a car in the third lane was moving in the opposing direction. Charlie stopped dead on the center stripe but the driver of the approaching car, suddenly alerted, swerved into the adjoining lane as he skidded to a halt. Since that lane was occupied by another car, a brief symphony of squalling rubber, car horns and Word-laden yells serenaded Charlie as he sped to the far curb and snatched his balsa prize up, then continued on at top speed to the lawn of the state capitol grounds.
Nor did he stop then, seeing two drivers exit cars that stood crosswise and immobile while other traffic began to clog the street behind them. The capitol grounds provided Charlie with several screens of shrubbery, and he used them to abandon the scene, finally taking refuge behind a young couple, both sightseeing in uniform, who took no notice of the boy.
By the time Charlie took advantage of bushes to squat and look for pursuers, the street traffic was moving again though Aaron was nowhere to be seen. Charlie moved to the broad central walkway leading to the capitol building, a massive pile of rosy granite that dominated the skyline. He waited for strollers to clear the area near him, then gave Aaron’s balsa bird an easy toss knowing that it would be a beacon for Aaron the way a pigeon draws a hawk. A few more modest flights proved that he was right, when Aaron appeared from distant bushes and raced to compete with Charlie in chasing down his toy.
Charlie won. Mindful of the outcome of Aaron’s last flight, he prepared to resume the game with a modest toss until Aaron, ready to be the retriever, teased, “Remember if it goes in the street, I’m not as big an idiot as you are.”
Charlie paused, his expression darkening. Was it fair for a guy to endanger his own property, urge a buddy to risk his neck for a heroic recovery, and then call the hero an idiot? The perfect accuracy of Aaron’s wisecrack only made it worse. “Not in the street,” he said, “but this one’s up to you , smart guy.” And with this, he sprinted across the lawn toward the nearby lily pond.
Aaron guessed his friend’s intention and gave chase two paces behind, panting, “No, nuh-uh, it’s a dime, a dime, a dime,” to no effect. He knew that if the glider became water-soaked it would be too heavy to fly again until it dried out. Charlie hurled the zoom plane straight across the broad, tree-shaded pond, narrowly avoided splashing into it over the low curb, and stopped to watch the result. The toy looped, seemed destined to settle on cement, but suddenly plopped down on one of the platter-sized lily pads that decorated the scummy pond like green doilies on a greener tablecloth. Weighing only an ounce, it might still be flown again and lay temptingly near, no more than ten feet from dry cement. “Your turn,” said Charlie, hiding his relief.
A whiskery old idler on a nearby bench laughed. “Look out for sharks, sprat.”
Aaron hugged himself, toes touching the curb, and sent a gloomy look toward his
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