• I folded the paper precisely, accurately. The angles needed to be perfect, or else it wouldn’t fly right. You have to make sure everything, every fold and detail is perfect. Once one was finished, I would take one outside and throw it, watch it fly away. It glided smoothly and fast. If it was a good plane, you’d never see it again. That was the beauty of making paper planes. You could make it, this elaborate thing, out of a piece of printer paper. Then, when it was good and ready, you could let it go, to be free and be where it wanted to be. Occasionally there was the odd plane that would crash land into your shrubs, but I always aimed for perfection in my planes.
    Sometimes I would write wishes on the inside of them. Just little things that I wanted. Good weather, getting permission to go out with my friends, to not have meatloaf for dinner. Once or twice I had written a truly deep wish. Once, I had wished that my Nana would overcome cancer. A year after I had set that plane free, she was fine. My wishes almost always came true. My father told me that my planes were magic. I didn’t believe in magic back then, but I smiled and shrugged as I folded the paper.
    “Honey, your father and I are getting a divorce.”
    Those nine words left a scar like no other. My parents had always gotten along; they never fought to my knowledge. I remember being angry at the time. I ran upstairs to my room before they could finish talking; I didn’t want to hear it. I locked the door and sat in the corner, I remember. Then, in a fit of rage, I punched my wall. I had never been strong, but my fist went right through it, as if it was a piece of paper. My fist had started bleeding, but I didn’t care. I was angry. I wiped the blood on my pristine white carpet. The white carpets were my mother’s pride and joy. She valued cleaned carpets. She always felt like she was being stared at, like she was under a microscope. In defense, she cleaned everything. And, at the time, I enjoyed staining the carpet with my blood. I was so excited by it that I took out my marker set and scribbled all over that blindingly white carpet and those sterile white walls that my mother never let me paint. I swore that if my mother came in here I would not say a word. I would stare her in the eye, cool and calm, while she yelled at me. It didn’t matter anymore. I felt like that for about two hours. By the time my mother came up, I was a sobbing mess on the floor. I could hear her swallow and tighten her lips. I could feel it. But she did not yell. She turned around and walked out of my room. I sobbed louder as she left, yelling the most horrible things at her. I tried to calm myself down, breathing in and out, trying to soothe myself. It seemed impossible. I was riled up and ready to destroy something. Instead, I paced my room, trying to reason out the situation. As I was doing this, something caught my eye: white copy paper. I sat down at the little desk I had near my window. I ran my hand over the paper. It was smooth and cool. I loved the way paper felt. It was my security blanket.
    I picked the bottom piece. I never liked picking things that were on top. Before I folded it, I took a pencil from the desk drawer. I chewed the eraser, a nasty habit I always had, and thought about what I should write. Would I wish my parents back together? Would I wish for them to die? It was tempting, but I knew I would regret both of those wishes. In the end, I decided upon this: I wish I could leave this place forever. Who would care if I was gone? My mother couldn’t even comfort me when I was sobbing on the floor. My father hadn’t even had enough courage to look at me when they announced that they were splitting up.
    Pleased with my wish, I began constructing the plane. Fold this end over here, fold this corner to that corner, and don’t forget to make good creases. This way, that way, whatever way works. I stepped back to examine my work. It wasn’t the best plane I had made, but it was okay. I stepped over to the window, ready to let it go. I paused, looking outside at the happy suburb. I watched my neighbors having fun. Didn’t they know what was going on? Why are they so happy? Why? I hated it. I yelled. I screamed, rather. I fell on the floor, paper plane still in hand, and sobbed a little more. I wiped the tears from my eyes and tried my best to stand up. When I had finally composed myself, I got ready to fly my plane. One, two, three, go! I watched it glide away, carried by the wind and my throw. I slide back down to the floor and curled up. I didn’t bother to finish watching my plane. I laid there for, well, it seemed like hours. I remember waking up and seeing my mother sitting on my bed. She looked at me, tearful and red-eyed. She wiped her eyes and smiled at me. She apologized for not saying anything earlier. I asked what made her come up here now. She smiled and held up a crinkled piece of paper. I found this, she said. I took it from her.
    I wish I could leave this place forever.
    I looked up at her. I mean it, I said. I hate this place. She wiped her eyes again. I know. But things will get better. She came over to hug me. I cringed, but returned it. Then, something happened inside me. I broke down, sobbing apologies and vowing to clean my room. She laughed and told me that she didn’t think it would work. Maybe we’d move, maybe we’d get new carpet.
    We sat and talked for a few hours, and then my mom left to go to bed. Before she went, she kissed my forehead and told me everything would be okay. I smiled.
    As I lay in bed that night, I thought about my life. Times were hard now, and I was sad. A little part of my life was leaving me in three days. The man that had told me my planes were magic was leaving. I would see him every two weeks, if that. I still wasn’t sure how or why this happened, but it did, and I would have to get over it. I dabbed the tears from my eyes and looked out the window. The stars looked like millions of little paper planes in the sky. I sighed as I felt my eyelids get heavier and heavier. Everything would be okay.