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eyebrows. “Yes?”
    This is a man who appreciates directness, so I get to the point. “I care about this place as much as you do. What can I do to convince you I’m ready for the big-way?”
    Dad stands up from behind his desk. I hold my breath as he walks toward me, then holds my arms. “Exhibit patience, for starters. I know you love this place and want it to do well. You don’t have to prove anything.”
    I step out of his circle of power. “Another way to say you don’t believe I can.”
    His tone flips like a switch. “Don’t come in here and try to browbeat me, kiddo. It ain’t gonna happen.”
    I fix him with what I think is a disarming smile but I’m sure comes off more like I’m constipated. “I wasn’t raised to back down,” I answer with a lift of my chin. I know I sound like a tired war movie, but it’s his language, so I speak it. Dad dismisses me by pointing at the door.
    Dom’s kneeling by my chute, straightening the parachute lines, when I stomp over.
    â€œWhoa!” he says, grabbing my hand. “Spill.”
    â€œCommander Crotchety in there”​—​I thumb toward the office​—​“refuses to let me be part of the big-way we’re doing to lure the X Games here.” Dom’s eyes go wide. I’ve lit up his entire brain with visions of glory. “He says I need to be perfect,
precise
. I can land my pinky toe on a penny in the middle of the DZ. I’ve done tons of formation jumps with you guys. What else do I have to do to show him?”
    He holds my jumpsuit out for me to step into. “You know that famous thing where Babe Ruth points to the outfield and calls it?”
    â€œNot really, but what’s your point?” I ask, punching my arms into the suit.
    â€œCall it.” When I show no sign of understanding, he zips me up and adds, “Call your opening altitude and call where you’ll touch down. Be precise about it. Hotdog your descent and stick the landing. Make it pretty. I’ll film it so you can show him how good you are. He’s too busy to watch you, so he doesn’t see that you’re a badass skydiver.”
    â€œHe doesn’t see me, period.”
    I look away from Dom’s sympathetic eyes. Already a radical plan is formulating. The most radical I’ve ever had. Maybe you don’t have to die to earn Dad’s respect. Maybe you just have to show him you’re not afraid to. “Pack it to open fast,” I tell Dom.
    â€œBoldly go.” He smirks.
    â€œYou bet your ass. Where no
man
has gone before.”
    He gets back to folding my chute. Then he looks up at me. “And babe, I’m putting a penny in the dirt.”
    I rip a page from the back of someone’s jump log and write on it, then march it into Dad’s office. He doesn’t even look at me or the paper as I toss it on his desk and about-face, slinging my helmet over my shoulder.
    Â 
    The pilot goes full throttle for takeoff, engines thunder, and the plane vibrates with power. Cold air sneaks in under the jump door next to me as I mentally run through what I’m about to do. We rumble down the runway, and I try to ignore the eyes of the other jumpers on me; recalling the eyes in the mirror causes unfamiliar nerves to fire off in my belly. I don’t know if it’s the memory of ghostly eyes in the motor home or what I’m about to do, but I’ve never been this on edge before a jump. My stomach is a taut, jelly-filled drum.
    Once every other skydiver has exited the plane, I hold the metal edges of the doorway and lean forward into the wide open. Deep breath in, blow it out, and dive. Cool air hits my skin and presses like a giant hand against my torso. I go immediately into track position, hurtling through the pink-and-blue sky like a dart until I’m directly over the clean circle in the desert where I’m to execute a