That’s what I mean about that lunchtime that day, the hour I spent in the cafeteria with my tray and notebook, and the accumulated weight of the morning: not reacting didn’t mean not feeling. My mother taught me that they were different things. She taught me that control isn’t the same as absence, that what you choose not to show is still something you carry with you, and that carrying it is a task in itself.
I accepted.
I thought about calling her. She had a cell phone, but it was almost always off; the nature of her work made communication irregular and unpredictable, and I had learned not to expect her to answer. I remembered the photograph in my notebook, the one where she was on the tarmac in her flight suit, one hand near the cockpit ladder, wearing her sunglasses, and that expression that seemed expressionless to others, but that I knew was the one she wore when she was completely relaxed. She never liked posing for photos because posing required acting, and my mother didn’t act.
I thought about the assembly.
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Heroes Week at Northwood always culminated in an assembly: the entire school gathered in the auditorium, along with honored guests from the community. It was primarily an administrative event, but occasionally, when the guest list was just right, it became something more.
I had seen the program. I hadn’t paid much attention to it.
I went back to my tray.
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Admiral William Carter. Even at a school where most students divided the world into what directly affected them and what didn’t, Admiral Carter’s name held a powerful pull. He appeared in the news, not in the constant, frenetic way of celebrities, but as someone whose actions had far-reaching consequences, who made decisions in instances where those decisions mattered, and whose name appeared in sentences that also contained words like command, operations, and distinction.
He was tall, like some people, not only physically, but also because of the imposing presence one senses even before they speak. He had gray hair. He had the bearing of someone who had worn a uniform for decades, whose body had so completely embodied its demands that this posture remained even in civilian clothes. He sat on the stage during Director Harris’s welcoming address with the quiet attention of someone who always listens.
“Captain Rachel Miller,” Admiral Carter said, “has been flying F-22 Raptor fighters for nine years. She is honored to be one of the most decorated active-duty fighter pilots in the United States Air Force. She has flown operational missions in three different theaters of operation. Two years ago, she received the Distinguished Flying Cross for actions I cannot fully describe, but I can say they required a level of judgment, precision, and courage that very few people in any profession achieve.”
He looked towards the auditorium.
