She is reading The Odyssey. She is acutely aware of the fact that this is far beyond the reading level of your average ten-year-old.

She hopes that you are aware of it, too. Keeps shifting slightly, attempting to be subtle as she tries to ensure that the cover with its bold title -- glossy red letters -- is easily visible from where you are slumped in the uncomfortable embrace of your blue-patterned American Airlines seat.

There is no parent accompanying her. You do not know if she’s travelling alone or if they’re just on a different part of the plane. (If you asked, she would inform you that she is travelling alone. She’s quite proud of it. Also frightened -- but she would never mention the fear. Not to you. Not to anyone.)

She keeps trying to peer out of the window, then catching herself and staring at her book again. She hopes you didn’t notice. She tells herself she’s nearly an adult. Staring out the window is for little kids.

Her gaze skitters over the other passengers, pausing on another child -- her age -- who is clutching a tattered stuffed rabbit and gazing out the window, transfixed.

Something like yearning passes through her eyes. It is replaced by calm disdain.

She tries to mimic the expression of the business traveller across the row, the one with the perpetual unimpressed glare. Succeeds. Spares a moment for pride. A surreptitious glance around the cabin to see if anyone noticed her remarkable impassivity. Returns to her book. Flips a page.

She will exit the plane with her back straight and her head held high, her book tucked away in a minimalistic black briefcase. One of the other passengers -- a father -- will hiss at his two squabbling children: Look at that little girl! So responsible! So grown-up! It’s incredible. She’ll be so successful someday. Why can’t you be more like her?

She knows he is very impressed.
She hopes you are impressed.
She believes you are impressed.

Are you?