X in Flight

by Karen Rivers

  Great, I say to myself. I’m a big fucking baby.

  Pack it up, Tiger, Bob says. Sneaking up behind me. A cigarette dangling wetly of his lower lip, smoke curling up into his nose like hair. We’re closing up for the night. No one’s going to play in this weather. Looks like we’re going to get some serious snow.

  Yeah, I say.

  How’s your arm? he says.

  Broken, I say.

  Yeah, he says.

  Sometimes it freaks me out to think that I’ve known Bob since I was nine. Come to think of it, he’s the closest thing to a father figure that I’ve ever had. I slowly walk up the row of stalls, picking up the few tipped over buckets that are being blown around by the wind. I’m shivering in the icy blast of winter, and when I shiver, my arm tenses up and hurts like anything. An unreachable itch is starting deep under the cast.

  Suddenly, there is nothing that I want to do more than to go home to Deer and Mutt. I want to crawl into the warmth of the trailer. Have some tomato soup from a can, and maybe some toast and a hot shower. Crawl onto the couch, under a quilt. Watch the Golf channel. I stretch, careful not to move my broken arm. I keep thinking that I smell Cat’s beery sweat on me, which isn’t possible, but I still get wafts. It makes me gag as I bend over to straighten the last of the mats.

  I’m headin’ out, calls Bob, raising his hand to wave.

  Later, I call.

  Don’t forget to lock up, he says.

  I never forget, I yell.

  Yeah, he says. Bye.

  I wait until he’s gone and then I go into the office. Straighten up the papers that are slipping off the desk. Dump Bob’s coffee cup into the sink. Flip the lights off. I reach for the phone to call Cat and then I change my mind. I dial her number but hang up before the last digit. I don’t know what I’m going to say. Maybe I’m going to break up with her. Make it official.

  I don’t know. I sit there for a bit in the dark, listening to the wind making shapes in the trees outside.

  I put the broken head of my Big Bertha in my pocket. Maybe one of the guys in the shop can fix it for me tomorrow. And then I run – okay, I fly, but real low so it looks like I’m running -- home across the cows’ field. It’s getting easier to do this. It’s getting to be more natural, feel more right. My feet skimming the tops of wet shrubs, the wind pushing me faster.

  Even the cows aren’t stupid enough to be out on a night like tonight. I don’t go directly home. It’s dark, no one is out. My wings unfold like something I’m remembering from a dream I had a long time ago. It’s so strange. I’ll never get used to it. I fly up into the night, higher than I’ve dared to go before. I feel like I should do this while I can. I’ve suddenly got the idea that this isn’t going to last. That whatever it is is as temporary as love and all that other fleeting garbage that we think is true. Hell, even life is temporary. Everything is. I go up and up and up and float back down again. Getting braver. I go so far up that the street lights are just tiny dots beneath me, I could fold my wings up and impale myself on them as mysteriously as anything.

  What would people think when they found me?

  I go so high that my head gets light and I think about what would happen if this gift or whatever it is just went away just then and I fell to the earth. I’m afraid of heights, so that’s the worst thing I can imagine: falling. But I still do it. It’s like the fear is all wrapped up in it and I can’t separate them and I’m starting to like it more and more which scares me sick. It does. I wonder how far into the earth I’d go if I fell. Who would find me. What would they think I’d fallen from?

  I read something once that when angels fall, they get to be human. That’s fucking stupid, I know. Who believes in that crap? I don’t.

  I don’t know what I believe anymore.

  I am flying by the building where you live. Red brick on the outside, lots of glass so shiny it’s a mirror. Can you see me? I want to…

  I don’t know.

  I want to fly right into your window and talk to you. I feel like you would understand, but maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d just be afraid. I don’t know. I think that I think I know you and really I don’t have a clue. I have a crush. That’s all. I think you’re special because I have a stupid crush on you and maybe you’re not. Maybe you’re just ordinary. I don’t know.

  I don’t know much of anything. I wonder how high I could go, if I could just keep going, if I’d eventually burn up in the atmosphere like a meteor. I guess it would get really cold up there. The wind is making me feel like I couldn’t possibly fall. It’s underneath me, like a floor that no one else can see. I fly fast. It feels wrong to do this, to spy on you or spy near you or any of that. To see you when you can’t see me.

  I turn around. I spin. I swoop. I go right past your window, so close I can see you. I can see you.

  Crazy.

  My arm pulses with pain. I turn for home.

  At least my wings aren’t broken, I guess. At least that’s one good thing.

  Cat

  Chapter 11

  Cat wishes she had died. It’s all a blur anyway. She can hardly remember what happened building up to the fall. When she tries to think specifically about it, her knees weaken, sweat springs onto her palms. She’s so stupid, she doesn’t deserve to live.

  Besides, if she’d died, then she wouldn’t feel like she feels right now. Even after a whole day of throwing up, she still feels like shit. Like her body wants to turn inside out. To make matters worse, she must be premenstrual. Her breasts hurt and she feels like crying. She told her mum she had the flu. Her mum said, Doesn’t smell like the flu.

  So she’s caught. Drinking on a school night. Drinking and driving. Her ugly car taken away forever probably. She rolls over onto her back and scowls hard at the ceiling, willing it to burst into flame like in a Stephen King novel or crack open or liquefy. Willing it to collapse.

  Something big.

  Something dramatic.

  She’d kill for a cigarette, but she doesn’t have any and can hardly get up and take the bus to the only store where they’ll sell her some. Taking the bus to school in time for afternoon classes was bad enough. Horrible. All those vinyl seats and stinky people. She gagged at least three times. And when she finally got to school, she caught a whiff of someone’s tuna-fish sandwich in the hallway, she threw up in a potted plant. Embarrassing. Humiliating. Even though it was more dry-heaving than actual puke.

  She flings an arm over her head. Wonders why X hasn’t called. Maybe he didn’t go to school either. Maybe he’s hungover, too. Probably. He’d better be.

  Was he drunk?

  She certainly fucking hopes so. So he doesn’t remember too much. So he doesn’t remember how she threw up in her shoe. How she swerved home. She hopes…

  Well, who cares what she hopes.

  She thinks about calling him but can’t be bothered to get up and find her cell phone if it even still works. She hasn’t used it for days, loses it all the time. Cell phones are a pain.

  She can hear Mira in the next room, busy fingers clattering away on the keyboard like rats’ feet in the attic. Mira is writing a book, unbelievable as that sounds. Some goody-goody suck-up book for children about saving the planet or the whales or the wildebeests or some such shit. Mira calls it a “story”, but it’s already about a thousand pages long, Cat’s seen the neat, scary-big pile of paper building up in the box next to Mira’s desk. Knowing Mira, it’ll probably be a 20th Century Fox movie by next year starring some kid who has divorced his parents or the drunk partying starlet of the moment. That’s the kind of luck Mira has.

  Cat gets off the bed and goes and gets her sketchpad and starts redrawing her design for the X tattoo. She’s going to have to get it done professionally because she asked Mira and Mira laughed. No way, she’d said. Not on your life.

  Her hand pushes too hard on the pen, tears through the paper like it’s used Kleenex. She chews on the pen lid, flips the page and starts the design again on a new smooth sheet.
This time using a charcoal pencil stub she finds on the floor. It’s smoother and doesn’t bug her the way pen-on-paper scritching bugs her. Makes all her hair stand on end. She puts her headphones on and tries to listen to music, but she can still hear the sound of Mira typing, making it impossible for her to concentrate. It’s like claws clattering in her brain.

  She breathes in furiously, pretending to smoke. Fuck, she says and gets up. Dumps her purse out looking for cigarettes or something to take her mind off this nausea and this headache. She pounds on the wall.

  Keep the fucking noise down, she yells.

  A minute later, Mira is in the doorway. What noise? She says.

  You were typing too loud, Cat growls.

  Mira laughs. That’s crazy.

  Whatever, says Cat.

  Hey, says Mira. Hesitating. Then coming in and sitting down gingerly on the edge of Cat’s bed. As though Cat’s bed is covered with aggressive germs that might get her if she comes closer and turn her into a loser like her sister.

  It’s not catching, says Cat. It’s a hangover.

  I’ve never had one, says Mira speculatively. Looks painful.

  Of course not, says Cat scathingly. It is fucking painful.

  She bites her nails and glares at her sister. Anything else I can help you with, or did you just come in here to stare and gloat?

  Mira shrugs. Wanted to know…

  What? says Cat. Wanted to check up on me?

  She knows she’s being mean, she just can’t help it.

  No, says Mira. It’s not that. But if you’re going to be a bitch, I’ll go. I wanted to know if you were okay.

  Don’t go, says Cat. Forget it.

  She doesn’t want to be alone. She wants to tell Mira about how she fell and X caught her, but she doesn’t.

  How’s old what’s-his-pickle? she says.

  You mean, Nathan? says Mira. He’s fine. I mean, he’s good. He’s fine, really. I’m sure . I mean, I haven’t talked to him today.

  Huh, says Cat.

  You don’t like him, do you? says Mira.

  I don’t know him, says Cat. And let’s face it, we don’t really have the same crowd of friends. My friends are stupid drunks and yours are … well, like Nathan.

  Yeah, says Mira. I guess. He’s good looking, isn’t he?

  I guess, says Cat. If you go in for that sort of thing.

  I guess I do, says Mira. It’s just that sometimes, honestly? I want to mess him up. You know? I want to make him less… well-pressed.

  Huh, says Cat. Don’t blame you. He looks like he irons his head.

  Mira laughs. Cat joins in. Really laughing. Belly laughing.

  He probably gets his mum to iron it for him, sputters Mira.

  Or the butler, says Cat.

  But… says Mira.

  But what? says Cat.

  I don’t know, says Mira. He seems like a decent guy.

  Yeah, says Cat, not laughing anymore. I’m sure he’s fucking lovely. He’s going to be what, a doctor? A lawyer? I’m sure you’ll be really happy together.

  Cat, says Mira. I’m not marrying him. I don’t even know if… well, if we’re like dating, or what.

  Dating, says Cat. She rolls her eyes. Lovely. What year is it in your world? 1950?

  Don’t be a bitch, says Mira. You really… You have to… I think…

  She stands up, straightens her shirt. Forget it, she says. I should get some more work done.

  Whatever, says Cat.

  Mira is standing in the doorway. She hesitates. Turns back. You know, she says.

  What? says Cat.

  Mira clears her throat. Touches her face, like she’s nervous. You know, she starts again. It gets boring.

  What does? says Cat.

  You, says Mira. Your whole shtick. Your whole… mean “thing”. It’s starting to be …

  What the fuck are you talking about? growls Cat. Her head is spinning a bit. She lies back down and closes her eyes.

  Mira’s voice gets louder. The whole “bitch” thing, Cat. The whole way you treat people, the way it’s all “whatever” and no one matters. The way you hurt everyone and everything and act like everyone owes you something because you’re pissed off.

  She stops for a breath.

  Fuck you, mumbles Cat.

  You’re a selfish, egocentric, self-centered bitch, Cat, finishes Mira. And I’m almost done with it.

  She slams the door. The air vibrates. The room is still slightly spinning. Cat’s dehydrated, she knows it. She should drink some water. Lots of water. Endless water. She pictures a waterfall of water pouring onto her face, choking on it. Drowning.

  She could drink a gallon of water and still feel like shit. Mira’s right. She’s a bitch. She’s unredeemable. Her own sister, who she figured would always be there, no matter what, apparently hates her.

  Great.

  Just fucking great.

  She starts to cry, but crying hurts too much. Fuck it. She should quit drinking, it makes her feel terrible. It makes her an idiot, makes her cringe to see herself in the mirror. More so than when she’s not drunk, anyway. Makes her whole self feel just generally worse.

  Makes what Mira said, what she ranted, seem true.

  She throws the pencil down and chucks the notebook on the floor. It’s futile. She’ll never get this tattoo. What she should do is that she should split up with X. Let him go. Maybe she should have an affair with Mr. Beardsley. Yeah. That would shake things up a bit, wouldn’t it? Yesterday, she brushed by him in the doorway and she could feel his attention on her. If she’d beckoned, he would have followed. She owns him. Cat laughs. It would be so easy, she thinks. And he’s not bad looking. He’s dull as anything, but that doesn’t mean much. Maybe outside of the classroom, he’s a fireball.

  Maybe.

  Cat drags herself off her bed and fishes around on the floor until she finds a messy pile of college applications. She flips through the glossy magazines half-heartedly. Just looking at the pictures of the campuses makes her want to laugh. Or cry. She would never fit in there. Never, never, never. What a joke. She starts filling out the first application but gets stuck on the part where you have to fill in the address of your high school. She could look it up, but she can’t be bothered. It just feels like too much. Even the application has a smell that alarms her. A clean, ink smell that gets into her nose and makes her feel… inadequate. And nauseated.

  Her skin feels all wrong. Uncomfortable. She gets up, looks outside —wintry, frigid, unforgiving. Presses her face against the glass to feel the slap of cold. Flops back down onto her bed, tangled sweaty sheets that smell musty and old. She tries to empty out her mind. Tries to forget how she felt, for that split second, like falling was the right thing to do. Like she was… relieved.

  She falls asleep that way, her arm flung up over her head like she’s about to take hold of some kind of trapeze, about to swing herself out into the ether.

  Ruby

  Chapter 12

  You have had six conversations with Joey in the last two days. It’s intensifying your feelings for him a thousand-fold. It’s his eyes. Not just that they are so overly blue but that when he smiles, they scrunch up and his whole face smiles. His whole body. You can tell he’s smiling even if you can only see the back of his head. His whole being smiles. It’s that smile – in spite of all the stoned stupidness he often spouts forth – that makes your heart beat faster, literally. He gives you a racing heart.

  This morning he touched your arm while he whispered an insult about the vice-principal in your ear. You think he said, “Hey, it’s hairy balls.” (The VPs name is Harry Baker, so the joke itself was dumb, but it didn’t matter.) Just that Joey was talking to you in school, in front of everyone, made you feel okay. Made you feel like you fit in, you belonged, you were in the club. You laughed and he repeated his joke out loud, to uproarious laughter from Robbo, who nearly bowled you over with his fake guffaw complete with bending at the waist and flailing his arms. Robbo really doesn�
�t have many redeeming qualities, you think to yourself. He doesn’t have the smile. He doesn’t have the eyes. He doesn’t have the quick wit, either. No matter how vicious Joey is, he’s still funny, even when it’s lame.

  Tic, he yelled. You’re such a scream. You’re a RIOT! You are the FUNNIEST JACKASS IN SCHOOL!

  And then they took off, laughing and punching each other, down the hall, like Siamese hyena twins.

  It was enough though to make your morning okay. To make your morning good. It makes a difference: whether you see him or not. Like yesterday when Joey cornered you in the elevator and got you to come up to the roof with him. Got you to listen while he talked about how he was freaking out about graduation. Freaking out about next year. He talked – well, mostly rambled – for the better part of an hour and you basked in it.

  Maybe, just maybe, he likes you.

  Maybe it’s real, after all.

  You wander down the hall, dazed, towards your locker where you know you have an apple or something. Something you can eat even though you forgot your lunch. You were distracted. Like now, too distracted to notice Courtney and Joanne descending on you. They’re buzzing. You find a day-old yogurt – how gross is that? – in your backpack. Probably it’s cold enough that it’s pretty refrigerated. You allow them to sweep you up. Not for the first time, you wonder why they picked you to be friends with. What do they get from you? Nothing. You don’t share anything, you don’t invite them places, what do they want? Some droplet of fame? Well, you don’t have any of that to hand out. It’s not yours to give. Or to have. You don’t want it, why would they?

  They drag you over to their table in the cafeteria where they chatter at you while you spoon the off-tasting yogurt mechanically into your mouth. It takes you a while to catch on to what they’re talking about and then you realize that there is some kind of dance coming up. A Christmas Ball. Inwardly, you roll your eyes. High school dances. It hurts you to even think about them. The horror of lining up in the gym in over-the-top dresses, staring at each other. High heels on the lacquered floor.