Flygirl by Sherri L. Smith Read Free Book Online

yards away. She’s colored, the same shade of mahogany as my mother. I smile at her. She smiles back, shyly, and looks away. I have never seen another colored female pilot before, but I know that is what I’m looking at the minute I see her. There’s something straight in the way she stands that says she’s seen what the world looks like from the clouds. I open my mouth to say something, anything, to her, when I remember my new place. Jolene was right. White women don’t ask colored women if they can fly.
    It’s my turn to drop my eyes shyly. My stomach turns over and my skin prickles as a blush of shame spreads over me. I don’t feel white, but I do feel less like Ida Mae. I wait in the hall in the hard wooden chair and wonder if I’ve made a mistake. After all, if she’s here, maybe they would take me as I am, too. And then I could talk to this woman. My palms start to sweat. This is going to be harder than I thought.
    A minute later, the office door opens and a girl with a milkmaid complexion and light brown hair comes out of her interview smiling in her Sunday best. She turns her broad smile on me. “Good luck!” she says, and she hurries toward the elevator.
    â€œJanet Weakes,” the secretary calls. Janet Weakes is the colored woman. She nods and goes into the office, shutting the door behind her.
    Her interview does not take long. Three minutes later she emerges, her head held high, but her face holds the opposite of the smile the milkmaid wore. She does not look at me or at the secretary, just shakes her head and waits for the elevator to arrive.
    I watch her back, her shoulders, the chestnut brown legs beneath her charcoal gray dress suit. And I know that she’s been turned away because of that deep brown skin. I take a tissue from my purse and fiddle with it, trying to dry my palms and stop the feeling that ants are marching up and down my spine. I wish Jolene was here. But she’s not. I guess that’s what it means to pass for white—suddenly, you’re all alone.
    â€œIda Mae Jones,” the secretary calls out.
    My knees go weak, but I stand. I clutch my purse, my makeshift pilot’s license a good luck charm in my hands. You do want to fly, don’t you? The voice is Jolene’s, or maybe it’s my father. I can’t tell. All I know is the answer is yes.
    Â 
    The interviewer has a real serious look on her face, like Mama when I’d bring home a not-so-good grade. I hesitate inside the doorway, drop a small curtsy, then bring it up short, realizing I’ll look like the help that way instead of a white lady pilot.
    The woman sitting behind the desk is fair-skinned, with dark hair cut into an efficient if unfashionable bob and a sprinkling of freckles. She looks more like a flapper than a military officer. In fact, she’s not wearing a uniform, just a skirt suit of navy blue wool.
    â€œYou know,” she says abruptly, “I’ve met more than a few good women pilots out there . . . but good flying isn’t the only qualification. It’s a shame.” She looks past me into the hallway. I follow her gaze and let the door shut behind me. The colored woman has come and gone, but it looks like she’s on both of our minds.
    â€œMa’am,” I say, and tug my gloves off my hands.
    She looks up at me. “Say, nice hat.” I feel myself blush and mutter a thank-you. So much for my newfound confidence.
    â€œElisabeth Murphy,” the interviewer introduces herself, standing up behind the desk. I come forward to take her outstretched hand and curse myself for taking off my gloves. What if her skin is fairer against mine? I smile and shake her hand, hoping to distract her.
    â€œIda Mae Jones.” I don’t know if it’s my smile or the fact that I’m a hundred shades lighter than the lady who just left, but Elisabeth Murphy doesn’t seem to realize she’s shaking hands with a