by Lori Adams
“Okay, that’s enough talk of killing.” Michael stands and tosses his brother a reprimanding look. He is trying to protect me from the gory details, but I really want to know how it all works. I want to ask more but Michael pulls out my chair with me still in it, and then everybody begins clearing the table.
We troop into the kitchen and fill the sink. Uriel is going on about dessert, so Katarina sets out pie plates and ice cream. We all sidle up to the island for apple pie à la mode but Michael nudges me.
“We’ll have our dessert outside. Say good night, Sophia.”
“Good night, Sophia,” I parrot and wave to the family as he maneuvers me out of the kitchen.
*
We are standing on the front porch waiting for something, but nothing is happening so I say, “What? No apple pie?”
Michael continues to watch the rain without answering. When it finally stops, he guides us onto the wet grass.
“So, I was just wondering,” he murmurs, grinning bashfully. “Do you wanna get high with me?”
“Uh.”
He laughs and then steps back, making room. “Now, no matter what, Sophia, don’t touch them, okay?” I don’t know what is happening but Michael is lifting his arms to his sides, and I hear a soft flicking sound. And then trim white feathers pop up along the outside of his forearms. It looks like fetching on the end of an arrow. “You know there are fish fins that can cut you, right? Well, these cut far worse. You might not even know it until you’ve lost too much blood. Now, please—” I am gawking at Michael’s wings, and he stops and takes a step toward me. “Sophia? You okay?”
My eyes dance back and forth from his face to the sharp fetching on his arms. It’s beautiful and delicate, and I am tempted to touch it. Michael reaches out, and I flinch. “Maybe this is too soon,” he says, stepping back.
“No! No, it’s cool. I’m fine, really.” I make myself calm down and smile. “I just wasn’t expecting … I mean … don’t you have to be in spirit form to do that?”
Michael judges my emotions for a moment and then moves closer. “No, I don’t have to be in spirit form. But sometimes it’s necessary, like at the accident where we first met. Or when I’m escorting a soul home. Of course, I wouldn’t be doing this in a crowd either …”
He grins and then carefully places my hands on his waist and squeezes. “Don’t let go,” he warns, and I nod with my mouth hanging open. Then he raises his arms overhead and I feel my nerves rustle deep inside my arms. We gently lift off the ground with no more effort than a thought.
We rise above the treetops and then the house, and I feel like I am slipping out of myself and leaving the other me on the ground, the one with all the common sense. Michael pries one of my hands loose, holds it in his, and swings out next to me. I give a whimper, and he says, “It’s okay, just hang on.” Joined by only one hand, we stretch at arm’s length as the cool wind lifts our bodies until we’re parallel to the ground.
Holy crap! I am flying! Flying!
The air is crisp and light, dancing across my face and through my hair. It tickles my ears, slipping in and out of my shirt, between my breasts. It brings up the rich, woodsy aroma of damp earth and fragrant flowers. And then the sweetness dissipates like perfume in a fan, and I smell nothing as we ascend higher. We soar across the country, over blocks of green fields and patches of black forest. I see Haven Hurst on our left, the town square illuminated with old-fashioned streetlamps. Cars and people are micro toys. The air current shifts, and we wobble. Sensing my fear, Michael swoops beneath me and takes my free hand. We are facing each other, prone, only the night air and our clothes ruffling between us.
“Hi there,” he says, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Hi there.”
“You look beautiful!”
I squeeze his hands and laugh. “So do you!” We glide along effortlessly, and I am overwhelmed with a lightness of being. The reality of what’s happening shivers through me.
“You’re scared,” Michael says, and I bite my lip and pretend I’m not. “Here, maybe this is better.” He releases my hands and grabs my hips before I fall. Remaining horizontal, he sits me onto his waist where I straddle him tightly, grabbing handfuls of his shirt. Arms stretched overhead, Michael pulls the air in long, lazy backstrokes. We drift and smile, and I feel much safer.
“This is amazing!” I gush out, looking around. “I had no idea you could do this.”
“Comes in handy.” He is nonchalant, but I’m a bundle of nerves barely resisting the urge to attack him with kisses.
“Will they really cut me?” I look at the fetching as his arms, gently slice back and forth through the air.
“Yes, this pair is multipurpose, to fly and fight.”
“This pair? You have another pair?”
“Of course. My traveling pair comes from the back. They’re larger and propel me at greater speed. They’re for longer distances. These here are really my defensive pair, short distances and battles, you know?” He grins because he knows I don’t know.
“Show-off,” I say, and he laughs.
Michael laces his fingers behind his head, and we float on a soft current. He clears his throat authoritatively. “Welcome aboard, this is your captain speaking. We are now cruising at ten thousand feet and approximately five knots, the recommended speed for our lovely first-class passenger, Sophia St. James.” I incline my head respectfully. “On your left you’ll see Maltby Lake.” I look at the dark, blue chunk of water surrounded by mounds of broccoli-like forests. “Soon we’ll be passing Phipps Lake, heading to New Haven.” I peer at the bustling activity below—a computer chip humming and whirling. Headlights zip up and down roads like neon blood in veins. In the distance is a dark expanse of water that Michael identifies as Long Island Sound.
“Can we go to New York?”
“Mmm, maybe on our next date, when I have a car and you have a way home if I’m compelled to leave unexpectedly.”
“Ah, good plan.”
We turn in a wide arch, Michael swimming through the air on his back, and me, well, hanging on for dear life. The ceiling is a bank of low-hanging clouds as far as the eye can see. We head to a particularly dark swath. “Hold steady,” Michael instructs. We idle as he sits up and reaches inside the cloud, pulling out tuffs of fluff, about five servings’ worth of cotton candy. He swirls them into a funnel, holds it over my head, and squeezes. “Open up for your dessert.”
The sweetest water I have ever tasted drops onto my tongue, and I lap it up like a baby bird. Heaven tastes like honey. Michael purposely dribbles it all over my face until he’s laughing so hard we nearly capsize. I snatch the funnel and return the favor. It’s cold and soft, and I squeeze it like a frosting funnel, hitting him right in the smile. He begs for mercy so I give him some. Okay, one more shot in the forehead, and then I toss the funnel cloud overboard.
As I watch it float aimlessly, I am struck by the quality of silence of the atmosphere. I’ve never heard so much quiet. The air is tranquil yet I feel it lingering on my skin, toying with the ends of my hair. This is where Peace hangs out.
A flash of light and an instantaneous clap of thunder startle me, and I clamp my ears. “Ow!” Okay, point taken, nothing lasts forever.
Michael strokes the air, and we sail up into gossamer clouds that whisper wetness across our skin, dampening our clothes. We break through the cloud bank, plunging into a blue velvet sky. I am mesmerized. Stars pop alive like a billion penlights, and the silver moon is a Mylar party balloon. We drift, weightless and free above the storm. The billowing clouds are fat and full, a cotton floor I imagine leaping across, bounding this way and that. Climbing mountains of dense, white dollops and sliding into tepid pools of rainwater. The playground of angels.
There is a rush through my veins as though a dam has broken. My head is a beehive, and I’m overcome with a delicious sensation. I lift my arms, half expecting to see liquid swishing through them like glowing green algae. I giggle and ask Michael
if the rainwater is spiked. He says it’s not rainwater yet, we drank it in mid-process so it’s extremely potent. I feel euphoric and light and hungry to accomplish anything, believing I can do anything. Emotions swirl around me like a swarm of fireflies, and then inside me, through me. Thoughts reverberate in my mouth. Hope skyrockets my dreams, and then poof! They float down like the rain.
I remember what I know, that I am the least worthy of this place, my life no more significant than dust on an empty shelf. Arrogance makes me look at Michael and suspect that I, too, might have a purpose in all this. Am I more than someone’s afterthought? What is the reason for me?
I exhale unanswered questions and look up. Stars wink and wait, and I wish I had their patience. I am desperate to be useful like Michael.
“What are you looking for?” His voice is deep and tranquil.
“Mom used to say they were the angels’ campfires,” I say wistfully with a slight smile.
We’re quiet again, drifting, and I wonder, Where is the confection in the air if not here? Mom, what am I missing?
“What are you listening for?” Michael asks, and I look at him. Does he know? He can’t possibly. I’ve never shared Mom’s bizarre ideas with anyone. I’ve been too afraid to face reality, the possible truth that Mom was going insane and taking me with her.
I stare long and hard at Michael. I know there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him. I want things I never imagined. I’m filled with a restlessness I can’t name. It exhilarates me. It scares me.
“Michael?”
“Yes, Sophia?”
“You are changing me.”
“Yes, Sophia.”
We hold a steady, meaningful gaze until clouds envelope us, and I can’t see him anymore. They alter their form to accommodate our shape, and then move on as though we were never there. A flock of ducks breezes by, flapping soundlessly in a V formation. They spare us a passing glance and nothing more, making me feel utterly insignificant.
Just as my mood mellows and Self-pity tries to join the party, we take off again.
Michael pulls hard, vigorous strokes and we dip sharply to the left and come up under the cloud bank. I’m surprised to find it’s pouring rain and then realize you hear rain only when it hits something. Like falling dreams.
Michael shouts, “Hang on!” so I squeeze my legs tighter around his waist. We pick up speed and dip and rise like a roller coaster. I raise my hands, screaming at the top of my lungs.
By the time we finally descend, we’re breathless and laughing. We pass over Haven Hurst which is lit up like a Christmas yard ornament. The gazebo lights have been left on again and beads of rain sparkle in their glow.
I look at my house and feel a pinch in my stomach. It’s dark but for a solitary light in the living room. I think about Dad with a sense of impending fear.
He should not be left alone! Mom’s voice is sharp and reprimanding, as though she has told me this a thousand times. I fill with panic.
“Michael! Take me home!” He has already sensed my concern and is slowing down. “What is that?” I point to a line of black smoke rising over the back dormer. It snakes across the roof and under the eaves of the front porch. It seems to vanish beneath the door.
“What? There’s nothing there.” Michael frowns at me like maybe the change in altitude is messing with my head. We ease down across the street into a scattering of elms next to Hadley’s Market. “You gotta stick the landing or you’ll feel it tomorrow.” We gently touch down, and my knees give way but he catches me.
Michael’s wings retract, and he grips my shoulders to ensure my balance. I’m staring at my house, dark and spooky beneath the rain. Did I imagine the black smudge? It seemed real but if Michael didn’t see it …
“You okay?” he asks. We are drenched, and Michael shakes his head, spraying a halo of water over me.
“Thank you.” I throw my arms around his neck.
“For what?” He laughs, holding me tightly.
“For the best night of my life!” I hang on to make my point, but also to fight the nagging feeling about the black smudge. I am afraid it was not meant for Michael to see, but for me.
Chapter 35
Thank You, Sir, May I Have Another
Today is Friday, exactly two weeks, five days, and seven hours since my Neverland High Flying Adventure with Michael, and Mom’s strange warning about Dad. I’ve kept a close eye on Dad but nothing has changed, and now I’m wondering if I imagined Mom’s voice or the black smoke that crept into the house. Flying with Michael and drinking an intoxicating rain cloud could have messed with my head, right?
So I am sitting in astronomy class watching Mr. Cummings putter around in search of the dry erase markers that everyone can see. Duffy has hidden them behind the astral projector but no one is pointing them out. We all want to be left alone and not lectured at. Michael and his brothers are absent, again. Willa, the office secretary, labels their frequent absences as “Emergency calls from home” and hasn’t a shred of suspicion. I’m guessing they work some kind of compulsion on everyone so no one is overly suspicious; that thing Michael tried on me at the mud pit. I’m rather proud that it didn’t work.
So with my newfound knowledge, I no longer speculate about where or why the Patronus brothers go missing. I have a general understanding of what they are doing. I am the girl whose secret boyfriend disappears at random intervals.
Bailey and Rachel keep me grounded with the earthly and mundane; Rachel has fallen in love and roams the school with Holden in her eyes. I think it’s nice not to have to hide your feelings like Michael and I do. Bailey has neglected to mention our hypnotic mosh pit episode in the library, and I am guessing that Milvi compelled her to forget the details. I’m glad it wasn’t up to me; the fewer lies I have to tell, the better. It’s hard not telling her about Michael and me, but I’m soldiering on. It hasn’t been easy.
Dante hasn’t been easy.
Although Michael and I have been careful not to show any public affection, Dante isn’t buying our “just friends” routine. I know he knows; I can see it in his eyes. I haven’t spoken to him since the dance, and his words have been replaced by strategically aimed, penetrating stares that unnerve me. Even now I can feel the heat of his glare piercing the back of my head. I take my restitution with due shame and guilt. We were friends and I dumped him without a word. I feel horrible.
Mr. Cummings finally abandons his search for the erasers just as the bell rings. He announces that his overly generous time extension on the astronomy packets has expired. We are to hand them in now. So I plop an obscenely large project folder onto his desk, and he raises a sardonic eyebrow.
“Michael and I finished together,” I say smugly. Michael’s knowledge of any and all things celestial was astounding. With an angel as my personal tutor, it took us only three days. I’ve never learned so much so fast.
“Yes, well …” Mr. Cummings flips through the packet with a slippery smile. “Let’s see if I’m able to give you any credit. Hmm?”
Because it’s Friday and I have better things to do than sit in detention, I bite down the colorful modifier I want to unleash.
Bailey mumbles, “What a douche,” and follows me out. We dump our backpacks into the jeep and she asks if I’m going to tonight’s pep rally bonfire. Tomorrow is an afternoon football game and then tomorrow night is Halloween. I’ve been particularly dreading Halloween this year. Everyone assumes I’ll go to Dante’s party, but no one realizes I haven’t spoken to him in weeks. Besides, I’m sure he has changed his mind about requiring my sparkling personality.
Despite the cool autumn day, the sun is smacked against the sky like a nicotine patch pumping out UV adrenaline; it’s making me edgy and I can’t shake the foreboding feeling that has been plaguing me for days. Something significant is going to happen. Good or bad, I can’t decide.
I eventually tell Bailey that I’m tired and staying home tonight. This is a lie. My worry about Dad has escalated and I don’
t want to leave him alone at night. But since I have to work at the Gazette for a while, I give Bailey a ride to the square.
The town is awash with a fresh wave of tourists who stroll and shop and lick ice cream or sip steaming cups of cider. A flock of cyclists in racing gear darts in and around like a colorful school of fish.
Miss Minnie and LeRoy are bent over the computer when I enter the office. They are engaged in their typical verbal trench warfare. Miss Minnie is being particularly feisty, so LeRoy whacks the side of the computer. She lays into her younger brother, explaining for the umpteenth time that he can’t go around smacking the computer like it’s an old television set on the blink. It seems LeRoy has lost the last several pages of tomorrow’s edition. Miss Minnie asks if I’ll take a look. I’m eager to be useful so I dig in.
Three hours later, I am cross-eyed but triumphant. I swivel around and announce, “Okay, lost pages have been retrieved, a safety backup file has been created, and all articles and photos have been secured.” Miss Minnie smiles as though she knew I would come through. We’ve become pretty close since I started working here. Sometimes I wish she were more than my boss. Grandma maybe? Great-grandma even? It sucks never to have met my relatives.
LeRoy doles out paper cups containing his homemade brew. We offer a toast to the electronic gods and then clink and drink. Hot apple cider goes well with accomplishment.
I try to feel proud about doing something important, but I can’t. Maybe I’m being too picky. Maybe I’m fooling myself, but I can’t help wondering if I’m meant for something more. Something … well, I don’t know what, but it’s like an itch under my skin that I can’t scratch.
LeRoy wants to know if Dad is coming to the bonfire, but I shrug him off. It’s not passive curiosity but downright concern. Not that I blame LeRoy; Dad has lost weight and patience. He’s become a stubborn mule, and it would be a miracle if I could coax him out of the house.
“Anything else I can do?” I ask Miss Minnie. Please give me something to occupy my mind so I don’t have to go home and watch Dad deteriorate before my eyes. Or wait in vain for Michael to come around.