Page 2 of The Sun and the Moon

Sydney

Birdie.

A nickname from my dad. A pilot’s call sign.

For me it’s become something more like armor.

Along with my name badge bearing those sharp stenciled letters, Sinclair , and my pilot’s wings of deep gold, I wear a delicate cobalt bird pin on my lapel at all times.

As much a part of the uniform as my pilot’s cap and oxfords.

Call it what you want. Good luck, superstition, ritual.

Maybe it’s my own version of a rabbit’s foot or a four-leaf clover, maybe it’s paranoia and my desire to feel grounded even in the air, but regardless, whenever I catch sight of the bird, I’m reminded that hard things are nothing new.

I can do hard things. I can thrive under pressure, push through on fumes if I have to.

Birdie reminds me I already have.

My exhausted eyes meet their reflection in the first-class bathroom mirror and then drift down to my lapel.

I adjust the bird pin with fingers still damp from washing my hands.

We’re about to start our descent toward LAX.

This is my last flight on a ten-day schedule, the longest run I’ve had in a while, and just barely under the FAA guidelines for pilots’ hours on duty and in the sky.

I meet my eyes again in the mirror. Sky blue .

That’s what my dad always says, anyway. Which I think is kind of silly.

As a pilot—or former pilot now—he knows better than anyone that the sky isn’t actually blue at all.

It’s not painted on the dome of Earth by a benevolent, creative God.

We simply perceive it as blue because the light from the sun is white, which contains every color of the rainbow.

As that light penetrates Earth’s atmosphere it’s scattered, and the smaller, shorter blue waves dominate our vision.

The sky is more than blue. Still, my eyes sure do match it.

Except, right now, my eyes are bloodshot and underscored with dark circles.

Dry patches dot my skin. My blond hair is braided tight, low, and slicked back to hide the fact that I haven’t washed it in a couple of days and really need to.

I’m not one of those women who can go a week without washing and not look like a sewer rat.

Last night’s outing in the Village might not have been my worst idea ever on a layover, but my decision to booty-call my ex who lives in a walk-up in Williamsburg sure was.

My choice to take that booty call to the next level is why I don’t need to be in charge of my own love life.

I just fuck it up.

I keep telling myself that he won’t be hurt when he wakes up—my eyes move to my watch to confirm that it’s late afternoon in New York— woke up to find me missing. We were never that serious, even if he was the first guy I slept with in college. And the only guy I ever gave a blow job to.

Cunnilingus is just way more appetizing to me—

I pinch my eyes closed and tap my cheeks with the tips of my fingers.

I can do hard things. I did Gabe last night.

I snort. Even exhausted, I find myself funny.

My eyes drift back open, landing on my reflection.

I issue myself a get your shit together glare as I twist the handle to emerge into the walkway, almost straight into a young mom and her son.

Giant brown eyes full of worry stare up at me from behind the fluffy head of a stuffed toy parrot.

I scrunch my nose and offer him a tiny salute. His eyes crinkle. Nerves.

My left hand instinctively goes to my pocket, where I keep a few silver-and-gold pilot’s wings at all times for moments like these.

“He’s scared of the landing,” the mom says. I look to her. Same dark eyes, same worry. “He thinks we won’t be able to stop.” My skin prickles at her words.

She shrugs, brushing her son’s hair off his forehead.

Her worry is clear, and almost admirable, but talking about crashing while on an airplane is bad luck.

Especially this close to the cockpit. It’s a universally accepted superstition among pilots—like taking a photo of the plane right before a flight or pointing to the sky.

Bad luck, bad weather, all to be avoided.

I squat down so that I’m on eye level with the little boy.

“Hi there.” I scrunch my face, crinkling my eyes and nose. I know this to be a universally disarming expression. “I’m the pilot of this plane. My name’s Sydney.”

“I’m Henry.” His voice is a squeak, small and meek like a mouse.

“Have you flown before?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“Well, I have, a lot . And my dad has, too—he used to be a pilot before he retired.” Retired early, way too early.

And all because of me. I swallow the thought, forcing myself to stay focused.

“I used to be scared, just like you. When he flew his planes, I worried, and whenever I went on one with him, I worried. I wished I had wings so I could do it on my own.”

“Like birds do,” he says. His eyes spark, and he hugs the parrot stuffie tighter to his chest. His chin presses to the top.

“Exactly,” I say. I reach up to the lapel of my jacket, twisting it into the overhead light. “But I’m not a bird. That’s why I wear this.” And then I point to my pilot’s wings. “And these.”

“I have Rio,” he says, lifting the bird up in my face. I chuckle.

“Perfect.” I pull out a set of plastic pilot’s wings from my pocket. “And, just in case you want a little extra birdy support.” I hold the wings out in the palm of my hand. Henry’s eyes widen, the fear leaving them as they take in the sight of the wings.

“For me?” There’s wonder in his voice. I unhook the clasp and lift the pin toward him.

“May I?” He nods, the last of his trepidation melting away. I pin the wings on the collar of his t-shirt and stand. “There you go.” I grin down, he grins up. “Now you’ve got wings.”

“Thank you so much,” the mom blurts, a relieved grin spreading her lips.

“Your safety is in my hands,” I say, giving her a quick smile. “Please hurry back to your seats. We’re about to begin our descent.” I don’t wait for her to reply before I push through the cockpit door, pressing it shut behind me.

I can do hard things. Landing this airplane isn’t hard.

I’m the youngest female pilot in my company.

One of seven in regular rotation. My copilots are almost always male, and older, and grouchy to the point of being passive-aggressively sexist about my role.

I sped through college and flight school, worked hard to the point of exhaustion to get to where I am, but the challenge was never in landing the plane.

It was never the mechanics of the work—always the politics, the pressure to keep the pace up so I didn’t fall behind.

To show Dad that his love of flying didn’t have to die.

I take my seat, placing my headset back over my ears.

My finger lights the intercom. “We’re beginning our descent into sunny Los Angeles, where the Santa Ana winds have blown in to welcome us with a speedy approach.

I’m going to go ahead and turn on those seat belt signs, so if you’re up and about in the cabin, please make your way back to your seats as quickly and safely as possible. ”

I take my finger off the intercom, as Stan, my copilot, says to me, “Turbulence over San Bernardino.”

I caress the birdie pin on my lapel.

Nothing we can’t handle.