Barnstorm Read Online Free Page A

that he had peeled Ms. Smith once in Kansas City. Deb backed off as the trio fought each other over getting their fair share. Deb motioned to Trip to make his move. Trip escaped to the hangar and the safety of his bunkroom.
    ☁ ☁ ☁
    Trip opened the door to his bunkroom in the rear of the hangar. He flicked on the light, waking Socrates in the process. It’s hard to tell when a duck flashes an expression of surprise.
    If Socrates had a brow, he would have furled it as he gave Trip the once-over. He flapped his wings, quacked, and bobbed his head. White feathers, orange bill, webbed feet. Classic duck. Socrates could quack on command. Socrates flapped his wings and hopped onto the table.
    As Trip slowly weaved his head from side-to-side, he snake-charmed Socrates. Socrates got woozy. “How ya doin’ Socrates? Who needs friends when I’ve got you? You understand me.”
    Trip continued swaying his head back and forth, moving his lips, not making a sound. Socrates was about to lose his balance. Trip stared at Socrates; the duck stumbled and sat. Trip picked it up, placed it gently in its corner nest. “I should try this on one of those old Liar Flyers. That would teach ‘em.”
    Socrates now comfortable in his bed, Trip dusted some last remnants of flour from his clothes. His bunkroom looked like a grade-school kid’s bedroom. Airplanes were everywhere. A Navy Blue Angel poster on the wall. Model planes suspended from the ceiling. Lonely, but neat. A twin bed grounded in the corner covered with a blanket that chronicled aviation history from the Wright brothers to F-18s. One chest of drawers, a nightstand under the lone window to the outside world. Even crammed with all of Trip’s worldly possessions, the small room had room for more.
    Trip stripped down to his airplane boxers and laid on his back. He thumbed through the latest edition of Plane and Pilot magazine. It had been a tough day. And it was only midday. He would be forgiven a break to recover from his ordeal as the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
    Trip’s break was short-lived. His tumble in the storeroom was a recent reminder that his fear of heights still haunted him.
    Putting the magazine down, he swung his legs over the edge of his bed. His Blue Angel poster beckoned his attention. How would he ever become a pilot? Ridiculous. Afraid of heights. He understood the jungle gym genesis of that fear. But why his low self-esteem? Where did that come from?
    Running his fingers over his Blue Angel poster, it all came back to him. The torn corner of the poster. The missing piece. Picking up a model airplane off his dresser top, he returned to his bed. Seated on the edge, a loose wing fell to the floor. He remembered.
    It seemed like only yesterday. Clear as a bell. He was nine years old, maybe ten. His grade-school bedroom looked exactly like his adult, airstrip bunkroom. He had just pinned a new Blue Angel poster on his wall. Model planes dangled from his ceiling. It was dark, almost bedtime. He sat on the edge of his bed, airplane boxer shorts, airplane blanket, airplane sheets. He held a model airplane aloft, swooshing it up, down, around as though he were a Navy pilot.
    “ Zoom, whish, zoom,” the young Trip whispered.
    He remembered. His father entered. Trip jerked; hid his model plane behind his back.
    “ Chores done?” his father asked.
    “ Y-Y-Yes, sir,” the shaken child stammered.
    “ Been daydreamin’ again,” came the accusation.
    “ N-N-No, sir,” Trip responded feebly.
    His father grabbed the model plane from behind Trip’s back and tore a corner off the Blue Angel poster on the wall. “Liar. Loser. Never ‘mount to a hill-a beans. Stupid dreamer.”
    His father never hit him. The verbal abuse and destruction of Trip’s childhood dreams left scars no less hurtful. Trip lowered his eyes to the floor and slumped his shoulders. He felt cold, defeated.
    As his father left the room, he threw the model plane at the young boy’s feet. The wing broke