Kirsten Vangsness

she asked as they stamped their feet and huddled together out of the wind behind her aunt's shed.

"'Well, what are you talking about, Allie?

I've always known how to fly, you know.

Boys.

I'm a boy.'

All boys can fly?

Allie wanted to know.

Mac glanced over his shoulder to ensure they were out of earshot.

He hunkered down on his heels, the collar of his blue jean jacket standing straight up against his neck.

The tips of his ears were still red.

Allie, he said.

He was five years older than she.

She thought he might be poking fun at her, but his expression was more one of concern.

When Mac scratched out the word, yes.

With the end of a pointed stick and the dirt at their feet, she realized he was trusting her to keep a secret.

Allie had no brothers, just a younger sister.

Mac knew how to do everything.

Before flying, Mac had showed her how to leap from a log onto the stream that ran below the slope of this family's property.

On another visit, Mac had taught her to drive a tractor, even though her feet couldn't reach the accelerator.

She had steered through a field of mustard, with Mac crouched below her, shifting and manipulating the pedals until she rammed the front up against an old elm tree.