Waiting for Unicorns by Beth Hautala Page A

suddenly, I wanted to reassemble her pieces and send her back into the sky where she belonged.
    As Simon and I climbed up one of the wings, making our way toward the empty cockpit, my excitement faded and a sort of uneasy weight settled in my chest. Hunching my shoulders, I ducked my chin into my coat collar, shielding myself against the cold. Mom always said I had an overactive imagination. And I don’t think she thought it was a good thing. At the time it made me mad, because really, what’s so bad about an overactive imagination? But she was probably right, because I had a tendency to scare myself.
    As the wind blew up over the rise, I was certain I heard the frantic voices of Miss Piggy’s crew echoing in the hollowed-out belly of the plane. The grinding gears of a failing engine screeched in my ears, and in my mind, I saw the plane plummet toward the ground. I shivered and rubbed my arms.
    The inside of the plane was completely empty, its naked spars and ribs curving up over my head. I felt like Jonah inside the belly of a whale.
    People had been here with paint cans and sprayed graffiti across the floor and along the walls. But I couldn’t read any of it because it was in a different language. Inuktitut probably. What was so important that someone needed to say it here, in paint, in the hollowed-out belly of a plane wreck?
    Simon jumped into the cockpit and hunched over the empty face of the control panel. Buttons and dials, the instruments, everything was gone—gutted and hollowed out by time and the curiosity of tourists. Even the pilot’s and copilot’s seats were gone. I stood where the copilot’s seat had once been bolted to the floor, and stared out the glassless windshield over the rock-strewn tundra.
    Grabbing an imaginary wheel, Simon pulled an imaginary radio from the ceiling.
    â€œMayday. Mayday. Mayday,” he said, his voice urgent. “This is pilot Simon Wendell, C-46 Commando with Lamb Air. We’ve lost pressure in our left engine. Requesting immediate assistance.”
    I blinked, feeling the weight of what he was saying. All around me, I could hear the piercing screams of frightened passengers. I glanced at Simon and took a deep breath, trying to erase the images my mind had created. It didn’t work.
    Simon shot me a frantic are-you-ready-to-land-this-thing? look, and then abruptly dropped the charade. My face must have given me away again.
    â€œ
Jeez,
Talia, I’m just messing around!” Jumping up, he stood there, awkward and apologetic. The imaginary airplane faded around him, turning back into the empty wreck. But it had been too real. I felt sick, like I needed to throw up. I took a few deep breaths, frustrated with myself.
    â€œSorry—I just, I don’t know. It’s just sad and terrible. Or something.”
    Sitting down on the edge of the plane’s open cockpit, I let my feet dangle and breathed in the cold arctic air. Since Mom’s funeral, I couldn’t bear to think about death. Pretending it was a game was even worse. If you’ve never seen the face of someone you love, all cold and quiet, and
gone,
then it’s a little hard to explain.
    â€œNo one died, you know—in the crash,” the Guitar Boy said as he sat down beside me. “There were only three crew members, the pilot and two others. Two of the men were hurt, but they recovered just fine.”
    I just nodded and looked out over the landscape. Rolling tundra scattered with glacial rock and scrub pine stretched into the distance before sinking toward the white frozen surface of Hudson Bay.
    â€œSorry—” I began, but he cut me off.
    â€œNah, it’s all right.” The Guitar Boy grinned, and then because he seemed more comfortable using other people’s words to say what he meant, he pulled his guitar around and broke into song.
    Up till now, Simon had only sung one song I knew. I’d only just met him and I’d already