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the people in charge here have ever actually met Mr. McGillies?

      The Mentor entry is a little more reassuring:

      #7: What is a Mentor?

      A Mentor is steadfast, honourable, courageous. S/he is there to teach, guide, and help the young Night Flyer in every facet of his or her learning. The Mentor is not, in most cases, a family member, but is instead a member of the young Flyer’s community. The Mentor/First Flyer relationship is usually one of great respect which often lasts into adulthood and beyond. The Mentor must take an oath to teach and guide faithfully. It is a sacred trust.

      I think of all the times Mrs. Emmeline Beatrice Forest has smiled at me in The Float Boat over the years. Where her smile found me in a pile of squealing kids and made me feel like she knew I was there, regardless of whether we spoke to each other or not. I think about her finding me on the roof last night.

      I somehow know she won’t fail me.

      I turn the brochure over, and there on the back is Appendix D (what happened to A, B, and C, I wonder?).

      Here is what it says:

      Your Life as a Night Flyer Starts Today:

      Appendix D

      5 Full Privileges of a Night Flyer:

      1 You may now fly unrestricted, day* or night, at your discretion. (*Daytime flight is generally not recommended in populated areas)

      2 You have received your golden feather. You will receive only one. Keep it safe.

      3 You now have a Watcher and Mentor who have each taken an oath on your behalf.

      4 You may attend all Night Flying ceremonies as a Member with Full Privileges (see Question #8, reverse).

      5 You must choose.

      Numbers one through four are reasonably clear, or I figure I can piece them together with the ten questions and help from Mrs. Forest. But number five throws me.

      You must choose.

      Choose what? I feel fairly certain that this is going to come up again, soon.

      I put the brochure back into the handbook for later and pick up the golden feather. It’s a really special thing, light to the touch, but you can tell it’s strong, too, strong as metal. It’s tough and beautiful. I’m looking at it up close when I hear someone come up behind me. I spin around.

      It’s Martin Evells. I stow the golden feather, slam the handbook shut, and stuff it into my backpack.

      “Hi, Gwen,” he says and smiles at me. It’s a great smile. It’s always been a favourite of mine. “What are you reading?” he asks politely.

      “Hi, Martin. Um, just an old book about night … flying … creatures,” I manage to spit out. I’m clearly not too quick on the uptake.

      I stand up and sling my backpack over my shoulder. My body literally leaps up and gets all trembly. My arms and legs start prickling like they are on fire. Uh-oh.

      “Um, we’re having an end-of-year party tonight at my house,” he says. He says it really quickly, all running together, so I can hardly make out what he’s saying.

      “My mom is setting up a food table and we’re playing music. I hope you can come.” He says this like it would be really nice if I showed up.

      My finger starts to float, just a little. I snap my hand shut. My foot starts to lift off the floor, just a tiny bit. I slam it down, hard. I remember what Mrs. Forest said to me last night, “Just tell your body what to do, Gwen. It’ll listen, it has to.”

      I tell my body, Just quit it. No one wants to see you flying around the library ceiling like a bat or a World War II fighting airplane. Just get a grip.

      I say to Martin, “That sounds really nice, Martin. Can I bring a friend?”

      He says sure, please do. He tells me where he lives (like I don’t remember from all those play dates we had when we were little), and says he’ll see me later.

      I nod. I tell him I’ll see him later, too.

      Apparently I’m going to a party at Martin Evells’ house tonight. And I’m a Night Flyer. And Mrs. Emmeline Beatrice Forest, my Mentor, is out of town. Mr. McGovern Everett McGillies the Third, my Watcher, is probably around somewhere, but he’s not exactly the most reliable person in the world.

      Still, I should probably be grateful for whatever help I can get.

      I’m not entirely sure how this is going to work out. I seem to have more control of myself in the daytime, which is a huge relief and I’m not complaining about that.

      But what about at night? Last night wasn’t exactly a great start to this whole Night Flying thing.

      I know two things for sure, though.

      One: I am not going to miss out on Martin’s party.

      Two: I really am not sure what’s going to happen tonight, or if I am ready to fly solo, if it comes to that.

      TWENTY-TWO

      I walk home in the golden late afternoon. I’m just skimming along, although my feet are very firmly planted on the ground with every step. I have this floaty feeling, but it has nothing to do with my body.

      No, this time the floaty feeling is all inside my stomach, which feels like it might actually be inhabited by about a million little butterflies.

      I’m not sure how to tell my mom I’m invited to a party. It just isn’t something that happens a lot in my town, not to kids my age. It’s the first time I’ve been invited to a party that didn’t come with a little paper invitation with balloons or puppies on it. Knowing my mom, she’ll want to know the time and place and who’s going, and she’ll call Martin’s mom and maybe be mortifying and drop me off at the front door. That wouldn’t be good.

      What if she calls it a “play date”?

      I gulp. A certain kind of panic starts to take hold of me.

      I open the front door, and it’s cool and quiet inside. I tiptoe into the kitchen and just about jump out of my skin when my mom is sitting quietly at the kitchen table reading a magazine. I actually clutch my chest.

      “Mom, jeesh, you almost gave me a heart attack! You’re so quiet! Where’s C2?” I ask. I grab an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter, shine it up, and take a bite. Usually my mom would say something about the C2 remark, something gentle but firm like, “You know their names, Gwendolyn, please use them,” but this time she doesn’t.

      Instead she says, “They’re at a friend’s house for a few hours. I thought I’d take a minute to myself. Do you want a cup of tea?” My mom smiles at me. She’s pretty. I like the way she looks. I have green eyes and long dark hair, just like her.

      I chew big chomps of my apple but realize that I must look and sound exactly like a horse, so I stop. I’m going to have to start working on being a little more ladylike.

      “Mom, I got invited to a party, at Martin Evells’ place. Tonight.” I say this as casually as I can. Please don’t let her look all excited and proud like she does when I get a phone call from someone other than Jez. Please don’t let her jump up and grab the phone and call Martin’s mom for details like when me and Martin were little.

      But she doesn’t do anything. She just closes her magazine and put her hands on her knees, really still. She smiles.

      “That’s nice. You were really good friends with Martin once. Best friends, when you were little. Are you going to go?”

      I think my mouth might be open a little, so I close it. I swallow some apple remnants. She’s asking me. I’m being given a choice here.

      I pause and shrug. “I want to go … he’s always been nice to me … we were really good friends once ….” I start to say, then I get all loopy

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