He almost laughed, hearing the sharp, pragmatic tone of this voice. Was it was the same one he’d heard when he was still tied up in Grace’s basement, telling him there was nothing he could do if Randall and Amos were dead, that he had to calm down to think things through? This voice was new to him. It sounded like himself, only more grown up, like someone who knew a thing or two about the world. Like somebody he could trust.
Charlie reached up squeezed his nostrils closed, then blew hard. He felt his ears pop, then…wind on his face, a bird chirping overhead. The loud hooooo of a ferry’s horn below, signaling that it was about to dock.
He couldn’t hear the adults talking about him in the living room above.
He stood still, eyes closed, feeling for a moment the simple softness of the grass beneath his feet.
Then, the sound of the deck door sliding open.
“Hey Charlie,” he heard Jeremy shout from above and behind him.
He whirled around, feeling stupid as he realized how he must have looked, standing there in the yard all by himself, maybe even talking out loud like a crazy person.
“Yeah?” he replied, his voice a little too loud.
“Rita and I are gonna leave now.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“You need anything?” Jeremy said to him, and Charlie could see the worry only half-hidden behind his smile.
Before he could answer, Rita stepped out onto the deck and stood next to her husband.
“Anything, Charlie. You just ask, okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Um, thanks. Thanks for coming over,” he said, although he wasn’t really sure why he’d said it.
“You’re welcome, Charlie,” Rita said. “Get some rest, okay? You’ve been through a lot.”
“Okay. Uh, you too.”
Jeremy’s smile widened, and for a moment Charlie could see the worry disappear.
“We slept fine last night, you goofball. You’re the one who needs a nap!”
In spite of himself, Charlie laughed.
He watched the bottoms of their feet through the slats in the deck, as they walked into the house and slid the door shut behind them.
Charlie turned back toward the water and looked up at the sky. Fat clouds colored gunmetal gray pushed and jostled against each other. It looked like it could rain any minute. But for now, there was only a cold wind, and the briny smell of the Sound.
He looked at the large maple tree directly above him. Many of its leaves had turned from green to shocks of rust-red and orange. A few branches, however, were already bare. Their naked twigs pointed like accusing fingers, as if blaming October for robbing them of their clothing, some of which lay scattered near his feet.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He entered a familiar number on the dial pad. Then he waited, his thumb hovering over the call button.
Should he call her?
Should he call and tell her that he knew? That he knew what happened?
What would he say? “Hi Mom, it’s me. Charlie. I know what Thomas did to you. I know he’s my father. I know why you ran away from home.”
No. He wasn’t ready to have that conversation with her. Maybe she wasn’t ready to have it with him, either.
Then what would he say? “Hi Mom, I can fly around on a broomstick now. It’s cool. Wanna go for a ride some time?”
That just sounded stupid. And she probably couldn’t even fly anymore. If she could, would he want to?
The truth was, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. He was confused. On the one hand, he was still mad at her for lying to him, for dumping him off and leaving in the middle of the night. Just because bad stuff happened to her as a teenager, did that give her the right to treat him like that? Wasn’t she being a hypocrite?
On the other hand, maybe he wasn’t being fair to her. He had learned what happened to her by being inside Thomas’s mind, not hers. He didn’t know what it had been like for her. Maybe he should show her some compassion.
One thing he was clear about: he didn’t want to go back to California. Not yet, anyway. As violent and frightening as the past few days had been, he still really liked his life here, with Beverly and Randall, with his new witch friends. With Diego.
His thumb moved closer to the send button.
Charlie waited.
Then he watched as it moved over to delete. It pressed down on the button and held it, until all ten digits disappeared from the screen.
“Abracadabra. Just like magic,” he said, laughing a mirthless laugh while putting the phone back in his pocket.
He looked again at the tree above him, running his eyes along the thin lines of its branches. He felt into his chest, where there was the small spark that was Grace, small and hot like a tiny ember. It wasn’t burning into him like it had before, but he had no doubt it, or she, would try again. Would try to burn a hole right through him. He had no doubts anymore of what she was capable of.
“I’m going to find you, Grace,” Charlie whispered out loud, and he pictured the words coming out of his mouth like wisps of smoke. He imagined the wind grabbing at his words and rushing away with them, twirling them up through the bare branches and the dying leaves of the maple tree, drifting upwards and becoming something solid.
Something like a prayer.
Charlie turned and walked toward the door that led into the basement, then went inside.
Epilogue
Diego Ramirez walked home from the Sunday Farmers Market. His uncle had offered him a ride, but he’d declined. He liked taking walks, and wanted to take advantage of the break in the rain.
He left the parking lot where the vendors were breaking down their stalls. He’d just eaten a puff pastry from Irina’s Russian Delights, which was a few stalls over from his uncle’s, and some crumbs still clung to his upper lip. Irina seemed to think that Diego’s “gay ting” as she called it, was just a passing phase.
“Vy you not take my granddaughter here out for coffee, ya? Eez she not beautiful?” She always said to him. The granddaughter, whose name was Svetlana and who was beautiful, would turn bright red and chastise her babushka. Somehow it always turned into Irina plying Diego with free leftover desserts. Today had been no exception.
He walked past the bank on the corner, and the small insurance agency, waited for the light to cross Alaska Street, then headed down to 45th. Several of the trees had exploded in fall colors recently, and he wanted to enjoy them before he got home.
A gust of cold wind blew down the street. Diego flipped the collar of his jacket up against his neck and buried his hands in his pockets. He’d been warm all day, selling apples to the swarms of customers who gossiped with each other and chatted about their Halloween plans. Now that he was simply walking, he was starting to get cold. He shivered once, then smiled to himself as he thought about calling Charlie when he got home. He would ask him how his uncle had been doing since yesterday afternoon, after Diego had driven them home from the hospital. Maybe they would just chat on the phone. Or maybe Charlie would be free to get together that night.
He crossed Charleston and could see Puget Academy, its square brick façade dwarfing the Craftsman homes on the street, several of which had pumpkins sitting out on their porches.
The school seemed to be taking its Sunday rest. The parking lot was empty, and no one milled about on its grounds.
Once he passed the school, Diego took a left on Hinds and headed down the hill. He felt a drop of rain on the back of his neck, and readjusted his collar.
Hearing the sound of an engine behind him, he turned around.
A sleek black car with smoky windows and Oregon plates pulled up to the curb. The exterior of the car was so carefully polished that it shone like a mirror made of obsidian. The passenger-side window opened, revealing the face of a very handsome man with dark hair and two-day stubble on his cheeks. A small red cut bridged the top of his nose. The man smiled at Diego and raised his arms, one of which was wrapped in a white plaster cast, in a helpless gesture.
“Dude! We are so lost. Can you help us?”
“Sure,” Diego said, bending over slightly to talk to the man. “Where are you headed?”
––-
A woman walked out onto her lawn on Hinds Street, carrying a rake and several trash bags. She looked up and saw a tall boy standing on the nearby curb, bending over and talking to someone through the passenger-side window of a shiny, expensive-looking car. An arm, hanging out the window, pointed in one direction. The boy pointed in another. There was laughter. The boy shook his head, smiling and pointing emphatically. The hand of the person in the car pointed again.
The woman watched as the boy paused, looked back up Hinds, then shrugged his shoulders.
The back door on the passenger side opened, and the boy climbed inside.
The woman wondered who the boy was, who the people were inside the nice, black car with the Oregon plates. But she wasn’t worried. She started to rake the newly fallen leaves.
This neighborhood had always been a safe place.
Every acknowledgments section worth its salt should begin with two things: a quote, and an apology. Because without these two things, all the reader is left with is a long list of thank-yous to people like Aunt Reba.
I’ll start this off with the apology: I’m sorry that this section is so long. By nature, I’m as effusive as a cocker spaniel. Add to that the fact that this is my first book, and what you’re left with is page after page of acknowledgments. I’ve done my best to arrange things in categories for an easier read, and to leave out too many insider jokes. I’ll also try to rein it in for books two and three. But still. Sorry.
And now for the quote. I’m paraphrasing a bit, since I can’t remember who said it, but it goes something like this:
“The only true pain in life comes from love unexpressed.”
Here’s to expressing some love:
To my teachers: Mrs. Eliason, my second grade teachers, who enchanted me with her love of Halloween; Mrs. Smith, who told me in the fifth grade that I had a gift for storytelling; Mrs. Zozel-Johnson, who without telling me, printed my poem in the program for First Friday Mass at Holy Family Elementary School when I was in the sixth grade, leaving me terrified, and secretly thrilled; Mr. Mangione, Mrs. Westinghouse, Ms. Moffat, my high school Spanish teachers, who introduced me to the fine, fine language of Español; my sophomore English teacher Sister Judith, who taught me Greek and Latin root words, and who led me to the creepy writings of Shirley Jackson; my junior English teacher Sister Francis, who guided me with gusto through Beowulf, Chaucer, Jane Austen, and Harper Lee; Lo Sun Perry Laoshi, the best teacher I’ve ever had for anything, ever, who opened the door to the exciting world of Mandarin my second year in college; Wu Li Mei Laoshi, at Taiwan Normal University, who taught me to enjoy the poetry of classical Chinese, rather than run to the hills.
To my writing teachers: Ms. Parsons, my seventh grade English teacher, who showed me how to diagram sentences, and who made memorizing poems great fun (especially that fantastic poem about cats, Catalogue, by Rosalie Moore); my high school freshman English teacher Mr. Danforth, the strictest of grammarians, who drilled into me the correct use of the comma (any mistakes are mine, Mr. Danforth!); Mr. McBride, my senior English teacher, who introduced me to Judith Guest’s extraordinary novel Ordinary People, as well as everything John Steinbeck, and whose compliments about my poetry and free-form writing carried great weight; Beth Kalikoff, a university writing professor, whose advice to write badly, with enthusiasm and quantity, then poke through the garbage for the diamonds, has paid off in dividends; Don Matthews and the gang at the Creative Edge in Monterey, who provided the forum where I read my first erotic poetry out loud; Jen Cross and Carol Queen, who showed me that writing erotica is not only fun, and healing, but also a great way to hone my skills as a writer; Mary Reynolds Thompson, the intrepid guide of my Kimchees writing group, who somehow manages the perfect balance between information, support, challenge, and compassion. Mary is the patron saint of writers!
To my writing buddies: Francisco Mora, who listened with curiosity and encouragement to early drafts of The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Straight, even though the writing was so rough at times that I wanted to bite chalk; my beloved Kimchees: Cat Williford, a truly modern Goddess, and courageous, brazen storyteller, who roped me into joining the group in the first place; Lauren Powers, my fellow Standing Person, incredibly comedic and astute in all that she writes, who published a book before I did, damn it; Kim Fowler, the newest Kimchee member, whose prose is so pretty you could just pull up a kitchen stool and listen to it all day, weeping. The Kimchees’ consistency, love, and cheerleading have kept me going when I’ve wanted to quit. May writers everywhere have such support.
To my champions: Donna Krone, who helped me remember that the LGBTQQ young adult fiction market isn’t, actually, fully saturated, and that one more book for queer kids, so they don’t have to switch pronouns when they read is, in fact, a good thing; Pam Noda, who asked me regularly about the book’s progress with sweetness and interest, and who shared her own joys of having worked as an editor and bringing a book to market; Dennis Martin, who said all the right things when I told him, for the hundredth time, that I didn’t think I could finish the book, and who showed me an easy way to remove double spaces following a period, after I’d already finished the darned thing; Sabrina Roblin, who checked in with me on my writing developments, all the while sharing her musical milestones with me. What a boss!
To my spiritual teachers: Fred Jealous, who showed me that in order to be a strong man, I had to be vulnerable; Janet Thomas, who taught me to love women’s innate strength, as well as to look for the gold in any conflict (and who knows how to rock a witch costume!); Karen Kimsey-House, Henry Kimsey-House, and Laura Whitworth, for being friends, colleagues, and top-notch human beings, and for helping me to have a passion-filled career. I will be forever grateful; John Vercelli, who reminded me not to ostracize the majority when taking a stand for the minority; the Standing People, who pushed me to see that I was funnier than I thought, and who gave me lots of opportunities to get over myself; Jeanine Mancusi, an ardent supporter, friend, and my first coach, who helped me come out of the closet so long ago, who laughed and cried with me over my life’s adventures, and who listened to countless early versions of Charlie; Leza Danly, who encouraged me to breathe life into Charlie, making him as real to me as a nephew, or a neighbor’s child, and who championed the entire arc of Charlie’s development; Leza and Jeanine together, two powerful witches in their own right, who guided me to take great interest in, and love, all parts of myself.
To influential authors/books/poems/stories: Keana Davenport’s epic, beautiful novel Song of the Exile; Patrick Ness’s Chaos Walking series, and his brilliant insights into the adolescent mindset; Marisha Pessl’s Special Topics in Calamity Physics. Do you know that was her first book? How intimidating; Amanda Hocking, who is the folk hero of indie publishing; Donna Tartt’s disturbing, fantastic The Secret History; Suzanne Collins’s Hunger Games trilogy. I deeply appreciate her work on the impact of violence on children; Elizabeth Gilbert, for showing the humor in pain, and the role of pain in life, as well as for her brilliantly clear stance on that controversial topic: marriage. I am a true Lizbian; J.K. Rowling, who single-handedly helped magical adults the world over (including me) come out of the closet; Stephenie Meyer, who swept me up in the romance of Bella’s world (This is a minor miracle, since I’ve never liked reading romance novels); Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird, and the way she tackled controversial subjects through the eyes of Scout Finch; Truman Capote’s painful, exceptional short story The Thanksgiving Visitor; Barbara Kingsolver’s novel Poisonwood Bible, and the odd, brilliant relationship between the twins Leah and Adah; Elizabeth Strout, for the complex relationships she weaves, especially in her books Olive Kitteridge and Amy and Isabelle: A Novel; Mary Doria Russell, for her economy of language, her research, and her fine, fine storytelling (her book The Sparrow b
rought me to my knees), and for insisting that I tell the truth as one of her early readers. I feel smarter just by knowing her; Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea series, and for the artful way she matured her protagonist over the seasons of his life; Pablo Neruda’s poem Morning (Love Sonnet XXVII), or Desnuda in Spanish, because it’s lush and beautiful, and inspired Tom’s interaction with Grace at the Vancouver International Airport; Ruth Chew, whose urban witch stories enchanted me as a young boy; Alice Walker, Toni Morrison and Gloria Steinem, my first official feminist writers. I know they are three different people, who write differently and live in different places, but in my mind they all live in a writing enclave together somewhere, which includes both mountain paths and pavement.
To real estate folks: Su Harambe, Sonia and Kendall Baker, and Steve Hughes, for helping me buy my own witchy house in West Seattle.
To my trainers: Rene Bibaud, who not only taught me incredible rope-jumping tricks, but is also a wonderful, inspiring friend; Helen Yuan, whose enthusiasm keeps me sweating and punching in the boxing ring in Shanghai; Priscilla Bell, hands down the toughest trainer on the block. Her workouts push me past my own self-imposed limitations every single time. I am grateful for how this perseverance has carried over into my writing life.
To my fellow readers: Gretchen Batton and Bob Price, early readers of all things Mary. Our teamwork, differing viewpoints, and mutual respect have taught me a great deal about how real readers respond to new material, and how to enjoy editorial nitty-gritty.
To food (A strange topic to acknowledge, I admit. But after the fourth or fifth early reader pointed out how much food was in the book, I stood back and said, “Huh. I hadn’t realized.” Hence, its own section): Ina Garten, for inspiring the gourmet ‘smores at Malcolm’s cabin in Chapter 55. One day I hope to share a meal or two with her, or just be her sous chef while she whips up killer food in that amazing kitchen of hers; Terry Sweeney, for his delicious, gingery mocktails, and for trying to convince me that I’m a closet foodie. I’m not sure it’s true, but the prospect is exciting; David Darst, for his inspirational lamb burgers. Count yourself lucky if he grills for you someday; Eric Gower, at Breakaway Matcha, for his out-of-this-world matcha green tea, my beloved witchy potion for early morning (or afternoon) writing.
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