Twenty-Two Seconds

Lucy built the plane on the kitchen table over three weekends. It wasn't a real plane, of course. It was a model, about as long as her arm, with a white body and small red wheels.

The first time she took it outdoors, it flew for two seconds and landed in the long grass. The second time, it flew for six seconds and landed in the same long grass. Lucy wrote both times in her notebook. Two seconds. Six seconds. That was progress, she decided.

On the fifth Saturday, the wind came from the east and the field behind the school was empty. The plane went up, turned, and kept going. Eleven seconds. Twelve. Lucy ran after it with her mouth open.

“Twenty-two seconds,” she said, at the far end of the field, to nobody at all.

That night she wrote the number in her notebook. Then she wrote one more line, and this line wasn't about the model: Ask about real flying lessons. In the morning she left the notebook open on the kitchen table. Her mother read it and asked how much a real lesson costs.