The Secrets of Flight by Maggie Leffler Page A

man ruined his tires for you.”
    I come downstairs to find not Tzadok in the doorway, but instead a pimply-faced teenager in uniform handing my mother an envelope. She thanks him and ushers him out before turning to me with a question on her face.
    â€œIt’s a telegram,” Mama says, handing me the envelope.
    After tearing it open, I read with Mama peering over my shoulder. It’s an invitation, I realize, to come to Texas for the Women Airforce Service, dated March 4, 1944. Signed by Jackie Cochran herself . I yelp for joy and then clamp a hand over my mouth.
    â€œIs this real?” Mama asks, snatching it out of my hand. “Jackie Cochran sent you a telegram? But how did she get your name? Hyman!” she shouts, before I can answer. “Jackie Cochran sent Miri a telegram!”
    â€œWho’s Jackie Cochran?” Uncle Hyman asks, coming into the front hall.
    The answer tumbles out of me: “One of the greatest aviators ever—she won the Transcontinental Air Race—set the transcontinental flying record—”
    â€œ That Jackie Cochran?” Uncle Hyman asks, frowning, and I nod.
    â€œHow did she get your name?” Mama asks again, and I tell her that I applied—with recommendations—for the position last year.
    â€œBut why on earth does she think you can fly a plane?” Mama asks, and I hesitate and glance at my sister, Queen of Secrets, as she makes her way down the stairs. I think of when she told them she was in love with an actor. I wonder now, Is it worse to know how to fly? Sarah nods at me now. Go on , her eyes say.
    â€œI learned through the flying program at the University of Pittsburgh—it was in the paper, you saw it . . . . The president thinks we need more pilots to win the war, so . . .”
    â€œI heard they banned women,” Uncle Hyman says, and from his voice, I can tell he thinks that was a good idea.
    â€œThat was before. Now that we’re at war—”
    â€œThey’re sending women into battle?” Mama asks, her voice rising.
    â€œNot in America,” I say, thinking of the Russian “Night Witches” flying bombing missions overseas, “but we need more trained pilots to help here.”
    Uncle Hyman grabs the telegram and shoves his glasses up on his head to get a better look. “Texas! You can’t go to Texas! How will you get there?” When I say the train, of course, he barks, “On whose nickel?”
    â€œWhat about school?” Mama says, her voice eerily quiet.
    I tell her I’ll take a leave of absence, which sounds much better than dropping out.
    Uncle Hyman keeps rereading the telegram. “It doesn’t look like Jackie Cochran is offering any compensation for travel—to or from Texas if you don’t make it through the program.”
    â€œCan you try out for the Women Airforce Service after you graduate from college? It’s just one more year,” she adds.
    â€œMama, I have to go now. They just lowered the flying age,” I say, and then watch as her face collapses into worry lines.
    â€œHow many girls applied for this position?” Sarah asks, her arms folded across her chest.
    â€œI don’t know. Twenty-five thousand?” I shrug.
    â€œTwenty-five thousand ?” Mama repeats. “ And she picked . . . ?”
    â€œMe. Yes, Mama. Me! Can you imagine?”
    She is imagining it. I can see it in her eyes, which are growing more wistful than worried. Maybe she’s thinking of what my father’s reaction would be if he were here right now, or maybe she’s thinking, like Sarah, that one of us should be able to leave the house on Beacon Street.
    â€œLet me understand this correctly—you lied to us?” Uncle Hyman asks, his face tomato red. “You haven’t taken a single course that I paid for?”
    â€œI did. I took some—”
    â€œFlying lessons!” he finishes. “At the university! And