“What are you reading?” I ask. She passes me the book without taking her eyes off the sky.
It’s a young reader’s collection of fairy tales and fables.
“This was mine,” I say, paging through it. “I loved these stories.”
“They’re really good,” Junie says, turning to face me. Now I’ve got her attention. “I can’t believe it’s just been sitting on your shelf all wonderful and unread for years.”
She makes me laugh.
“Sorry, Juniper. It’s all yours now.”
“Really? Thanks.”
She opens up the front flap of the hardcover, where a faded scene of trees, flowers, and woodland creatures is printed.
“Can I borrow a pen?” she asks.
“Um, sure.”
She grabs my pen and puts a line under my name, which I must have scrawled into the book a decade ago, and then adds her name underneath it. “There, now it’s official.”
“Well done.”
“Can I have a piece of paper, too?” she asks.
I tear her a sheet out of my notebook.
I catch sight of the first two words she writes at the top of the page: Dear Joe.
“Writing to Joe?” I ask.
“Yeah, well, the animals in these stories are really smart, and I think Joe is smart, too, so I’ve been writing him letters.”
“Are you expecting a response?” I ask. If I could catch her leaving the letters, I could write responses for her. It would be a little lie—like the tooth fairy, but with crows.
“That’s stupid, Leighton. Birds can’t write.”
Oh, well, never mind the letter plan.
“But he might leave more gifts.”
“What?” I turn on my side to face her, curious.
“I left Joe a letter last week, and when I checked it was gone, and he left me a present.”
“What kind of present?” Juniper has a good imagination, and I don’t usually call out her stories, but this doesn’t sound like one of her games.
Juniper reaches into the pocket of her jeans, and then opens her fist to reveal a shiny blue marble.
“Joe left you this?” I take the marble and roll it between my fingers.
“I didn’t see. But I think it was a crow. I left the note and some crackers. You won’t tell I fed them, right?” I shake my head and hold up the raisins as evidence of my own guilt. She continues. “I came back and they were gone, but there was a marble and a feather.”
It feels like a stretch to me, but I reach for my notebook and write another note to ask an expert about crow behaviors. They’re really smart. Maybe it isn’t a coincidence. Maybe Juniper is getting presents from the crows.
“He’s not leaving presents, Juniper. He’s dropping garbage,” Campbell says from behind us.
“Well, aren’t you a little ray of darkness,” I say. “Don’t listen to her, June Bug. I think it’s possible Joe is leaving gifts, and I’ll even find a bird expert so I can ask them.”
“Thanks, Leighton.” She stands up with her letter, but Campbell reaches out, snatching it from Juniper’s grasp and holding it above her head.
“‘Dear Joe,’” Campbell reads. “‘My teacher says it’s bad for the town that you are here now because you are loud and messy, but I’m loud and messy, too.’” Campbell pauses and rolls her eyes. “You’ve got that right.”
“Stop that! Give it back!” Juniper jumps, trying to get her letter back.
“‘Tell your friends they should stay. When I see you I feel safe’—”
On the last word, Campbell stops short, her arm lowering enough that Junie can grab her note back.
“Cammy,” I say, but the look on her face tells me that she feels bad already.
“Here, Leighton, you believe me, so you’re allowed to read it,” Juniper says.
I read the end of the letter silently.
Your fethers are pretty. I found six so far and I’m starting a collecshon. One is gray so I think it is yours. Love, Juniper Barnes, Age 9
“It’s a lovely note,” I tell her as I return it. “Joe is gonna love it.” Her frown softens at my words, and she’s off, folded note in hand, running toward the tree at the far end of our property. She kneels under the branches and looks up. Her mouth moves, but I can’t hear what she’s saying to the birds.
“You’ve gotta be nicer to her,” I tell Campbell.
Campbell starts to walk away. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her when you go to college.”
There’s so much resentment in her voice. I struggle to think of the right thing to say to her this time.
“Campbell, I won’t—”
The sound of a truck roaring onto our road distracts us.
“Oh no,” Cammy says, running. She races around to the front of the house, but she’s barely rounded the corner when I hear a horrible screeching sound.
I leap to my feet and follow her. He’s back, his truck thrown into park but still on, and he’s in front of it, tugging on something.
Campbell is frozen in the yard.
“What is it?” I ask, but then he wins his battle.
Campbell’s crushed bicycle is pulled out from under the front of the truck.
Shit.
“What the fuck was this doing where I park?” he yells, throwing the mangled bicycle into our lawn. “The front bumper is fucking scratched to hell. Dammit, Campbell!” He screams the last at her as he passes, storming into the house and slamming the door as he calls for Mom. But Cam doesn’t flinch, or even act as though she’s registered his existence. She’s just standing in the yard, looking at her bike where it lies bent in half. She stands there, and I see it: how hard she is thinking. She’s probably thinking of how to fix it—impossible. Thinking of how she can save money for a new bike—unlikely. Thinking about how her best friends ride their bikes, and if she doesn’t have a bike—
Campbell thinks. She thinks so hard. And I realize that’s all she’ll be able to do now that her bike is gone.
Chapter Sixteen
I HAVE CREEPY-BASEMENT-INDUCED INSOMNIA.
Sometimes I lie awake at night and think about the crawl space in our basement. It isn’t anything special—a little creepy, but it’s nothing more than a hole in one of the stone walls. It’s maybe six feet off the ground and opens into a space as wide and long as the foyer it lies beneath. There are some pipes visible inside, and a floor made of insulation and years of dust.
I don’t know why I fixate on that crawl space, but I do. Maybe because it is dark and moist and feels like it’s hiding things. Maybe because it is behind the staircase, so that most people would miss it entirely. Especially if something were covering the opening.
Maybe it is just because I am in a shitty situation and was blessed with an active imagination.
So I lie awake, waiting to see if anything is going to happen. And even when the house stays quiet and calm, I can’t sleep. Even when his mood is good and money is okay and he laughs with her and brings her flowers, I can’t sleep. Because I know that maybe tomorrow night it won’t be darkness and the deep breathing sounds of a peaceful house. Tomorrow night might be all of the lights in the house turned on. The trash bin hurled across the kitchen, leaving a trail of eggshells and crumpled bills and cigarette butts. His incessant, angry voice, repeating the same words over and over as he moves around the house looking for more things that will piss him off even harder, because once he gets going, I swear to God, he loves it and tries to feed that flame.
I’m not scared of the dark. I’m scared I won’t make it to morning. So I lie awake at night and I think about that crawl space. I think about how it might be where he hides our bodies one day.
Chapter Seventeen
MY VISION BLURS AND I READ the same sentence for the fourth time.
It was a weekend of unbroken tension in our home. The voices arguing Friday night, the lost construction bid, Campbell’s bike. More problems to solve. Less time to do it.
Tension
like that works its way into every nook of the house, until it feels small and tight and so full you can barely breathe with all of that worry packed inside the walls.
I’m balancing a huge stack of loose papers, still warm from the library printer. I’ve been running back and forth because the newspaper room printer is down. The pages in front of me contain crow myths and folklore, from almost every historical period and major geographic region in human history. Medieval. Babylonian. Celtic. Crows have been used as symbols for as long as we’ve told stories.
I’m not looking where I’m walking.
“Whoa there!” shouts a voice from the floor, too late.
I walk into Liam where he was crouched at his locker.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as my pages fly everywhere.
“It’s a little late for a prayer on this one, don’t you think?” Liam scoops up my scattered pages and climbs to his feet. We talk every day when we exchange books, and we debate each other in lit class all the time, and I like how familiar he is to me now. How I’m starting to think of him as a friend. His eyebrows shift into concern.
“You all right?” he asks.
“I’m really sorry. Sleep deprived.”
“Studying too much?” He shakes the papers in his hands.
“Kind of. Newspaper article.”
“That’s a lot of work for an extracurricular,” he says.
“Says the football player with the perfect grades,” I say, cocking my head to the side. “How much do you practice? Three hours a night? And then you study?”
“That’s different. It’s all for those college applications.”
“Not so different. Me too.”
“You want to do this in school?” Liam shuffles the pages, straightening them. We start walking together, my notes tucked safely under his arm.
“More like in life. But yeah, school to start.”
“That’s cool. I’ve read your articles. They’re really good.”
“Thanks, Liam. But flattery doesn’t really—”
“It isn’t flattery.”
I squint my eyes at him. Isn’t it?
“Okay, it’s flattery, but it’s true. And you can’t say the same, because you don’t come to football games.”
“How on earth could you know that?”
“Because Sofia knows that, and she told me. Sofia is wise. Sofia knows all. Sofia thinks I’m nice.”
“Very smooth use of the best friend card, Liam.”
Dammit. I really do like him. And for a moment, I let myself have the daydream. The one where he asks me out again, and this time I say yes. The one where we go see a movie, and I lean my head on his shoulder.
It’s a perfect night.
It’s an impossible night.
We’ve reached the newsroom.
“Sorry I ran into you, Liam.”
“It’s cool. Pretty girl tripping over me is kind of the opposite of a problem for a seventeen-year-old guy.”
I reach for the classroom door.
“Hang on,” he says. “I do want to ask you something.” He looks into the room, like he’s checking whether anyone can overhear us, before he speaks. “I’m not gonna keep asking you out, Leighton. I don’t want to bug you. But if you ever wanna just . . . talk? I’m a good listener.”
Goose bumps prickle my arms, and tears threaten my eyes. It’s hard to keep it under control when I’m tired. It’s even harder when Liam McNamara is looking at me like he already knows my secrets.
I swallow hard.
“Thanks, Liam. That’s really nice. But I’m fine.”
I start to walk into the classroom but turn back, feeling some weird, strong urge to be honest with him. To stop using school as the dumb excuse that it is.
“I do like you, Liam. If things were different, I’d love to go out with you. But my life is a little more complicated than it might appear here at school. I have sisters, and they, ah, they really need me. Next year they won’t have me, and this year I need to be with them.”
I don’t know what else to say. I can’t be specific. It’s too much.
It hurts too much.
“I have a little sister, too, Barnes. I . . .” He hesitates, leans up against the wall. “Listen, I get it.” He holds out my notes for me, and I want to take my rejections back. I want to say yes. But I don’t.
Because the truth is that I don’t need Liam, but Campbell and Juniper still need me.
Chapter Eighteen
WE RECEIVE OUR PROGRESS REPORTS IN final period on Friday. I’m picturing city lights and studying with real journalists and—I frown.
AP English: 100.
Honors Calculus: 97.
Chemistry: 96.
Art I: 79.
I have a C. In art class. I buzz through the crowded hallways, hell-bent on getting out of school as fast as possible. I’m a drone bee, and the honey that calls me is a book and Lorde’s new album and pulling the curtains closed and lying on the shaggy carpet in my room. Art class. That was supposed to be my easy class. My break in the day so I could put more time into Newspaper and college applications. Dammit.
I shove my books around in my locker, trying to remember homework assignments for the weekend in the haze of frustration. I finally give up and start putting all of my books into my bag. Better to have them and not need them. I can always work ahead. Except for art. I can’t work ahead in art.
I slam my locker shut with all the force I can use without being called out by a hall monitor for “exhibiting aggression” and sent to the school counselor.
“Hey, Peyton Manning,” says a voice behind me.
“Cute,” I say, sarcasm ringing like a bell. I don’t even turn my head. I’m eager for my weekend. It isn’t official until I step through the doors.
“What’s up with you?” Liam asks, reaching out to take my backpack. With the weight gone, I buoy upright, unaware until that moment that I’d been walking at a tilt.
“Thanks,” I say, rubbing my shoulder and dropping the sarcasm this time.
“Sorry, Leighton, I didn’t mean anything—”
“It wasn’t you.” I fall into step beside him. His height advantage makes our paces hard to match. My shorter legs have to take several little steps to keep stride with his long ones.
“Progress report troubles?” he asks, and I grimace.
“Wait, really?” He laughs, then catches himself. “Sorry. I’m not making fun of you. I’m just surprised.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, glancing around. Someone could hear him.
He extends his hand, palm up. I hesitate for a moment, and then decide to humor him. I hand over the report.
“Tsk-tsk,” he says, shaking his head as he reads. “Looks like you might even need—” Liam stops walking and looks around, his eyes darting to the classmates filing past us. “A tutor!”
He whispers the words, but it’s an obnoxiously loud whisper.
“Okay, okay, enough,” I say, tugging on his arm to make him start walking again. “I don’t need a tutor.”
“I’m just teasing you, Leighton. You have time to get your grade up. It’s gonna be fine. It’s just art.”
“I’m terrible at art,” I say. “It was meant to be fun.”
“Maybe I could be your tutor,” he says.
We’ve reached my bus outside.
“You can’t be my tutor, Liam.”
“Sure I can,” he argues. “I can draw.”
“No, you can’t.” Liam McNamara acts like he’s good at everything. But I’m starting to smile. Why do I like this about him?
“Seriously, Leighton. I like art. I’m good at it. Like really good.”
“You aren’t even taking art,” I accuse, pivoting on my foot at the edge of the sidewalk, facing him head-on while my bus idles next to us.
“I’m taking Art IV,” he counters.
Oh. Maybe he is good at everything. How annoying.
“I can help, really.”
“Um, okay,” I s
ay. I don’t know why I’ve said yes. Or maybe I do know why: because I wanted to. I want to see Liam outside of school. I’ve wanted to for a while. Art feels a lot safer than a date.
“Great.”
“Um . . . tonight?”
“Tonight’s the football game. Versus Eagleville. Our sworn rivals. And I don’t know if you heard, but we are undefeated.”
“Oh, right.” Since they’ve been winning, I’ve had to make the conscious choice to not follow the team news.
I’m feeling a little rejected, which is stupid. It isn’t even a date. It’s an art-tutoring session. It might even qualify as the exact opposite of a date.
“You should come to the game. There’s gonna be a bonfire at James’s place afterward. We could hang out . . . find another time this weekend for art?”
“I don’t really go to parties . . .” I begin, reaching for my bag. The first bus is pulling away, and I’ve got to go.
“Come with me,” he says, releasing my bag. “It’ll be—”
“Wild? Cool? We’ll get wasted?” I supply some of the words I’ve heard used to describe their parties.
“Fun,” Liam says. “It’ll be fun.”
Stop being such a buzzkill, Leighton. Maybe you’ll actually make a second friend before you leave this school. The bus driver adjusts her mirror and places her hand on the gear. Move along, ducklings, her expression says. I feel put on the spot, and I just know that Campbell is watching every moment of this from the bus window. Too much pressure, and I falter.
“Sorry, I just can’t.” Cool, Barnes. You are super cool. Keep turning down this super-cute, terribly nice guy who is interested in you. But Liam doesn’t call me on it. He tries one last time.
“No party. But maybe I’ll see ya at the game. And maybe we can work on art at my house Sunday?”
Heavy sigh from the bus driver.
“I’ve gotta go.” I climb onto the bus, doing my best to ignore the glare I get from the driver as she shifts the gear and closes the door behind me. I squish in beside Campbell and reach over her to pinch the releases on the window, lowering the top.
If These Wings Could Fly Page 6