I sat on the flight line wishing for a real uniform and not a big, baggy zoot suit—something smart and stylish in a pretty color and not something that made me look like a mechanic or a service-station attendant. I was sick and tired of looking like a boy. Today I wore my hair down instead of in my turban, and Evelyn Beatty walked by and gave me two demerits. As she walked away, Mudge said, “She’s just sore because she’s an old maid who’s never had a boyfriend or a marriage proposal.” Loma said, “You don’t know that.” Paula said, “Her whole life is flying.” I said, “Our whole life is flying.” Mudge waved her hand. “We’re young. We’ve got other things to do. Movies. Golf. Kids. Husbands.” Mudge didn’t mention singing because none of them knew I sang. Ever since leaving Nashville, I hadn’t sung a note except to join in the marching songs—we marched everywhere and we sang while we marched—and I certainly wasn’t writing any words or music.
