He Taught Me to Fly

My mother tore up my Orion blueprints and threw the pieces in my face.

For seventeen years, I was the perfect straight‑A daughter, hoping an Ivy offer would set me free.

But when she locked me in, I realized compliance only tightens the cage.

Then a lighter hit my window—the school's notorious motorcycle delinquent pried it open and reached out his hand.

Screw Yale. Tonight, I'm jumping.

The tip of my pen dug heavily into the paper and snapped.

Twelve-thirty in the morning. The ticking of my bedroom wall clock sounded muffled against the walls. A thick stack of rough drafts for my Yale undergraduate application—business track—lay spread out before me. Every section was left with gaping expanses of blank space, like a row of open trenches waiting for me to jump in.

Outside the window, the thick branches of the old oak tree swayed in the wind.

A soft clink landed on my windowsill. I pushed the window open. A silver lighter sat on the ledge.

Down below, Zane sat astride his motorcycle. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips, and his black leather jacket hung carelessly open. "Hey, good girl," he called, tilting his head up. "Wanna come down for a spin?" The exhaust pipe kept up a low, steady growl. For a split second, my toes pivoted toward the bedroom door. "No, my mom won't let me waste time!"

I snatched the lighter and chucked it hard back down at him. He caught it effortlessly with one hand, letting out a faint scoff, and didn't push it. I pulled the window shut.

The bedroom door swung open. My mother, Eleanor, strode in carrying a cup of coffee. Even in her sleepwear in the dead of night, her hair remained immaculately styled. Her gaze swept over my face like a radar. "Stay away from that grease-stained garbage next door." She slammed the coffee mug onto the desk. "Bottom-feeders like him have only one destination in this life, and that's rotting in a prison cell. Aria, don't let the mud of the streets soil your hands, and absolutely do not taint your Ivy League track record."

I lowered my head, pressing my lips into a tight line. As long as I didn’t talk back—as long as I just played along—she would deliver her lecture and leave. It was the survival mechanism I had perfected over seventeen years.

But tonight, she didn't avert her gaze. She swept a look over my cluttered desk, and the hidden sheet of paper beneath the pile was exposed. It was a massive piece of sketching paper displaying the Orion star map I had spent countless late nights meticulously drafting. The coordinates of the main stars, the careful shading of the nebula, the dense clusters of annotations. I had verified the position of every single star.

My mother pinched the edge of the paper, suspending it in mid-air. "Astronomy?"

"Mom, that doesn't affect my—" I shot to my feet, reaching out to snatch it back.

Smack! She backhanded me hard across the knuckles. With a sickening rip, the drawing was torn cleanly in two between her fingers.

"No! Please, don't tear it!" I lunged forward, grabbing wildly at her wrists as hot tears surged to my eyes. "I spent three months drawing that!"

"It is trash!" she snarled, forcefully shoving me away. The torn fragments rained down hard against my face. "I pay a thousand dollars a day for prep consultants, and I house you in the most expensive school district in the state, not for you to stare at stupid rocks in the sky like a half-wit! Your one and only way out in this life is Yale Business School. Put away these cheap little daydreams."

She spun on her heel and marched out. The door slammed shut. The deadbolt clicked twice as it turned.

I slowly sank to my knees, reaching out to piece the fragments back together, but they wouldn't fit. Orion was missing a corner. I couldn't make a single sound. I just clamped my palm tightly over my mouth, letting my tears smash against the floorboards.

It was completely useless.

Clink.

The window was struck again. I lifted my head.

The thick branches of the old oak scraped violently against the exterior wall. Zane sat entirely astride the heavy bough. He gripped the window frame with one hand while the fingers of his other hand slipped into the gap of the windowpane. He wedged the corner of the silver lighter into the space of the latch, giving his wrist a sharp twist. The lock popped open. The windows were shoved roughly apart.

He vaulted inside, his heavy work boots landing squarely on the pile of shredded paper. He glanced at the scattered fragments of the star map on the floor, then at the angry red mark on my knuckles. Finally, his dark eyes locked dead onto my face.

"Looks like you blew your good girl act."

"You shouldn't be in here." I wiped blindly at my face, my voice still hoarse. "The door is locked, my mom could—"

"Then don't use the door." He reached his hand out toward me. His prominent knuckles and palm were stained with charcoal-gray motor oil. "Yale can't teach you how to fly," he said, a reckless smirk tugging at his mouth. "So jump. I'll catch you."

I stared at that hand. Heavy footsteps seemed to echo from the hallway outside, followed immediately by the metallic scrape of a key sliding into the bedroom lock. Outside the window, the thick branches of the old oak were sturdy enough to stand on; a couple of yards down, there was a fork perfectly positioned to help break a fall. His motorcycle sat idling at the end of the driveway.

Seventeen years. It was the first time someone stood at the bars of my cage and said: The exit is right here.

I placed my hand in his palm. His grip tightened. He slipped out first, planting his boots firmly on the branch before tipping his chin up toward me. I hoisted myself over the windowsill, my toes reaching cautiously for that fork in the wood. His arm clamped securely around my waist, hauling me the rest of the way down. It took less than ten seconds to hit the ground.

The motorcycle's roar shattered the quiet of the wealthy suburban driveway. I sat straddled on the backseat, my hands wrapped like a vise around Zane's waist. A massive wave of weightlessness hit me, tangling with the rushing wind as it yanked me furiously into the deep night. I glanced back over my shoulder. My second-story bedroom was right there. The harsh overhead lights suddenly flicked on. The window was still wide open.

A split second later, a furious roar breached the night.