“I found the arrow outside my house,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I thought it was cool, so I kept it.”
The man rips off a piece of licorice with his teeth. “Uh huh. And I’m Martha Stewart.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know that girl.”
He slams his hand against the desk. “You’re being a real thorn in my side, Damien Savage. It’s a shame, too. I thought we could be friends. But you’re useless, after all. Bullied, antisocial, weak. I bet you’re in love with her. A girl who can fly, paying attention to the likes of you? But you’re nothing compared to her. You think you can be with her? You’re not worth a second of her time. You think you can protect her? You can’t even protect yourself. So I suggest you fork over whatever knowledge you have and move on with your pathetic life. Either that, or I will destroy your record and you’ll be cleaning toilets for the next five decades.”
I grasp the back of the chair, feeling suddenly weak. Everything he said is true. I am pathetic. I can’t protect Sammie or fight for her. But I do love her, and I will not give up any information—though my head feels light at the thought of throwing away my entire future.
“I...” I mumble.
Michael Thorne inclines his ear, a smile forming on his face again. “Yes?”
“I don’t know that girl.”
He snarls and pushes away from his desk. “Then I suggest you leave. Do you realize I could murder you right here, and no one would ever know what happened to you? I am one of those great men you want to be, Damien. I could have helped you go very far. But I’m going to do the opposite. The only reason I’m not going to killing you right here, right now, is because I think Sammie hangs around your place, and the next time she comes looking for you, I’m going to snag her. Don’t think you helped her today, my boy. You didn’t. We’re going to get her with or without what measly information you can offer us.”
I remain frozen, grasping the chair, weak with fear.
“Get out!” shouts Thorne.
I fling myself toward the door, which has miraculously opened, and walk back through the room full of kids taking the SATs. Though the room is silent, my blood roars in my ears. I’m not getting into GLOBE. I’m not getting in anywhere. I have ruined my life, for a girl who may never come back—who shouldn’t come back, or she’ll be captured by an evil, powerful man named Michael Thorne. The thought of her in his clutches scares me more than my own ruination. But how can I warn her, when I have no idea where she is?
I get into my car and press my forehead against the steering wheel. If only I could see Sammie again, maybe I would know what to do. Though maybe, since this Michael Thorne still doesn't have her, she might be okay.
CHAPTER 4
Sammie
I am officially not okay. I’m sitting on a hard metal chair, so exhausted that my arms slump beside me and my head lolls backwards. Did you get that? It lolls backwards, as in I don’t have the energy to lift my head. My entire body flinches with each clench of my heart, and a sharp pain throbs in my temples. I’ve been slammed up against my limits. Heck, I’m a million miles past my limits. Soon, my body is going to give out, and I hope the boss realizes that, or I’m going to keel over right here. The only thing that keeps me going is one thought, blaring round and round my head, like the sliding text at the bottom of a news show: I have to warn Damien.
Though I failed at the Code Black today, the boss has not sent me back to the white place. Instead, I’ve been taken back to the Tower and stuck in this room. My shirt clings to me, drenched in sweat. My hair snakes down my spine, soaked as well. I’m on the brink of unconsciousness, and would welcome it if it weren’t for that one thought: I have to warn Damien.
The door creaks open, and I squeeze my eyes shut, pretending to be knocked out.
“Kid.”
I open my eyes.
Jiminy walks toward me, his face stern but concerned, a white towel in his hand. He thrusts it at me, and I press my face into it.
“You’re not looking so good,” he says. Beneath the single bulb that lights the dingy room, his bald head gleams, and his brow furrows.
“Not feeling so good, either,” I say.
“You better keep it together. This is your last chance, kid. I’m doing the best I can, but if you can’t pull this off, the boss is going to get rid of you. He’s having a hard time understanding why you can’t do a Code Black, and frankly, I am too.”
I wring the towel out and hand it back to Jiminy. He balls it up and puts it in his pocket. Sometimes, because he’s nice to me, I forget that Jiminy is a murderer just like the rest of ‘em here, a guy who’s long past breaking down the wall that keeps one person from taking the life of another. It’s normal to them all, just business as usual. Maybe they don’t even remember a time in their life when it felt wrong.
“I just can’t do it, Jiminy.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you better pull this off.” He signals at the small room. “Or I don’t know if I can help you.”
“I’m trying. I really am.”
“Well, try harder,” he yells. He shuts his eyes for a moment and breathes, then says more softly, “I care about you, kid. I don’t want to see you sent back to that place.”
My spine prickles. “Me either.”
“Here.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cardboard carton.
“Orange juice?”
“Drink up, quick, before the boss gets back. You need your strength.”
“I hate orange juice.”
“You eat too much junk. Drink it already.”
I pop open the carton and dump the orange liquid down my throat, trying to bypass my tongue altogether (I really do hate orange juice). But it’s cool and thick, and my head aches a little less after pouring the last of it down.
“Thanks.” I hand the empty carton back to Jiminy, gasping.
He crushes it in his fist and shoves it in his pocket, then puts his ear against the door. “Here he comes. Try harder, alright?”
I nod, but even now my vision blackens, and my temples throb. I will not last much longer.
Damien
The morning after my terrifying GLOBE interview, I awaken in my chair in my room, my cheek flat against the cool surface of my desk. I jolt upright and look around for Sammie, though naturally she is not in my empty bedroom, nor flying outside beneath the cloudy sky. Why did I think she would be?
I stand and reach one hand over my head, stretching the crick out of my neck. After returning from the test prep center yesterday, I went straight to my room and planted myself by the window, scanning the night sky as anxiety scrambled my thoughts. My future: gone. Sammie: also gone, and in grave danger if she returns. Still, I desperately wish she had. It’s illogical, because the last thing I want is for Michael Thorne, whoever he is, to lay hands on her. But I want to see her. Which is also illogical: How could someone like her could care for someone like me? Thorne was right; I am nothing like the strong, athletic, popular person I make myself out to be when I am with her. I am the opposite.
I don’t bother showering, because I’m not sure I can get myself to go to school. This will be my first absent day since the third grade. But what’s the point, if I have no future? Sure, I love science, but I can read my books here and spare myself a Butt beating.
I walk quietly down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the lamp hanging from the ceiling drowns the room in yellow light, bright and happy compared to the dull, cloudy day. Dad goes to work early on Wednesdays, to do some management stuff, but Mom is sitting at the kitchen table, holding the comics section of the newspaper close to her face. When I enter the room, she looks up and smiles.
“We didn’t catch you last night. How’d your interview go?” she says.
I stare at the floor and walk toward the toaster. “Not very well.”
“Aw, sweetie.” Her tone goes all mushy. “I’m sure it went better than
you think.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“Well, your father and I love you.”
I smile grimly. “Thanks.”
I pluck a silvery packet of Pop Tarts out of the cupboard and slide the pastries into the toaster. While I wait for them to bake, I can’t keep my eyes from wandering out the window, which looks out onto our backyard as well as the neighbors’ backyard directly across from us. In between two houses across the way, there is a man in a black suit walking by. Even from afar, I recognize him. Michael Thorne. He disappears around the front of the neighbors’ house. I grasp the edge of the counter, suddenly trembling. What is Thorne doing walking around my neighborhood? Will he come to my house? Will he kill me or my family?
“Damien, what are you doing?”
I jerk my head toward my mother.
She stares at me, smiling curiously. “Your Pop Tarts popped and you’re just standing there like a statue.”
I whip toward the toaster. My Pop Tarts jut out, their edges brown. I turn back to my mother. At this point her smile has faded.
“Are you okay, Damien?”
“I think I’m feeling sick.”
She rises from the table and walks over to me, then puts her hand on my forehead. “You do feel a little clammy.”
I cough, for effect.
“Well, that’s that,” she says. “Go on upstairs and lie down. You overwork yourself, dear. You’ve got to relax a little.”
I walk up the first part of the stairs, then bolt the rest of the way. I sprint into my parents’ bedroom and gaze out their window, which faces the backyard. I can’t see Thorne anywhere. I fly down the hallway to my room, fling open the door (I don’t remember closing it), and promptly have a stroke.
“Sammie!?”
She sits on the end of my bed, her arms clutched around her chest, her entire body shaking. She is drenched: her hair clumps on her forehead, and her clothes cling to her. There is definitely something wrong. Deep rings darken her eyes, and her skin is so pale it seems translucent.
“Are you okay?” I shut the door behind me and take a step closer, restraining myself from barreling towards her and throwing my arms around her. “You’re soaked.”
She opens her lips, which are bright blue. “It’s cloudy. Clouds are wet.”
“Can I check your pulse?”
She recoils, her eyes widening. Wherever she’s been, it’s not been good for her whole physical contact issue. “Why?”
“I think you might be hypothermic.”
She casts her eyes down, and I step closer. I clasp her wrist, which is cold as marble, and put the tips of my two forefingers to the vein. Her heartbeat thumps very slowly. I know from a course I took on human biology that this is a symptom of hypothermia. The textbook choruses in my head: Remove wet clothing and replace it with dry, warm clothing. Give the person something warm to drink. Make use of hot water bottles, warm baths, or heat packs placed under the arms and on the chest.
“Do you have a change of clothes?” I ask
She shakes her head, still looking down.
I drop her wrist and walk to my dresser, pull open the bottom drawer, and take out a large gray hoodie and a pair of maroon sweatpants with a drawstring.
I hold them out to her. “You should go take a hot shower.”
She raises her head and looks at me uncertainly. “Here?”
“Yes.”
“What about your parents? Won’t they hear it?”
“I haven’t showered yet. They’ll think it’s me. Anyway, it’s just my mom downstairs, and she’ll be gone pretty soon.”
She bites her lip, then takes the clothes and stands. I lead her to the bathroom and show her where the towels are.
She closes the door behind me, and I hear the water surge on. I turn away from the door and exhale, long and hard, letting all of the anxiety over Sammie’s disappearance wash out of me. She’s okay. She’s here. She looks a little like someone pulled from the Atlantic after the Titanic sank, but other than that, she seems fine. A little skittish, but how is that new? For right now, all is right with the world.
Voices drift upstairs, coming from the kitchen. One is high and friendly—my mother’s—but the other is low and talking quickly. Terror seizes me. Michael Thorne is in my house, talking to my mother. I fly down the stairs as quietly as I can and peer around the corner, careful not to let myself be seen.
“You know what they say about wolves in sheeps’ clothing,” Thorne says, sitting at the kitchen table beside Mom. Both study a piece of paper: the photograph of Sammie, the same one he showed me yesterday.
“She might look harmless as apple pie, but she’s a very dangerous criminal,” Thorne says. “Are you sure you haven’t seen her?”
My mother looks up, her brow puckered with concern. “I’m sure, Officer. Do we need to be concerned about crime in the area?”
“Not anymore. I’ve got more people patrolling the neighborhood than ants on a sugar spill.”
I shift my weight, and the floor creaks beneath me. Both Mom and Thorne look up.
“Damien?” Mom says.
I step into the kitchen, eyeing Thorne.
He gives me a wide smile, but his gray eyes are menacing. “Why aren’t you in school, young man?”
“I’m feeling sick,” I snap, though my stomach flutters. Thorne is clutching something at his waistband, and I’m scared it might be a gun.
“I thought you were in the shower,” Mom says, and we all listen to the whine of the water in the pipes.
“Yes, who is that in the shower?” Thorne says, standing.
I move myself in front of the hallway. “No one. I was about to get in, but I heard you guys talking and came to see who it was.”
“Is that so?” Thorne says.
“Yes,” I snarl.
He bends his elbow to clutch whatever is at his waistband again. “You’re not trying to hide someone up there, are you?”
Mom stands from the table. “Officer, my son is a straight arrow. He doesn’t hang around with criminals. He interviewed with GLOBE yesterday.”
Thorne lets his hand fall from his side and turns to her. “You don’t say?”
Mom nods.
“Well, in that case, I’ll get out of your hair.” He holds out his hand to me. His smile is so wide it’s more of a sneer, his teeth pointy, the skin around his eyes crinkling. Cautiously, I hold out my hand, and he grasps it so hard it’s painful.
“Get back to school soon, my boy,” he says. “I’m sure you’re going places.”
He releases my hand, and I walk him down the hall to the front door. He glances up the stairs when we pass them, and I pray to God Sammie doesn’t drop the soap.
He pulls open the front door, the hinges squealing, then turns back to me. Behind him, a forceful rain pelts the front yard. Black cars line the street, raindrops pouring down their windows.
“We are all over the place,” he hisses, “and we are watching you.”
I gulp.
He shuts the door behind him, and I am forced to have another one of those exhaling moments. I am alive, Mom is alive, and Sammie is safe. For now. Those black cars are all over the street. How did Sammie manage to get in, without them seeing her? How will she get out?
I sprint up the stairs. The shower is off, but the bathroom door is still closed, the light glowing beneath it. I run into my room and yank the blind down over the window, to keep Thorne and his men from seeing inside. I look around for something else to do, but I realize there isn’t anything. You think you can protect her? Thorne said yesterday. He’s right. I am powerless to protect her.
“What’s the matter?” Sammie appears in the doorway, her hair wet and tucked into my sweatshirt, which billows around her like a dress. She looks better: her skin is pink instead of deathly pale, and her lips are no longer blue.
“Sammie, you’re in serious danger,” I say.
Footfalls sound on the stairs, and my mother calls, “You’d better be
in bed! I’m bringing you some tea!”
“Hide,” I hiss at Sammie.
“No problem.” She sprints toward the window and ducks under the blind, disappearing. Before I can scream at her to get back inside, Mom appears in the doorway with a steaming mug.
“What are you doing?” she says.
I realize I am standing in the middle of the room, muscles tense, mouth wide open in preparation to shout at Sammie.
“Why did you close the blinds?” Mom walks toward the window and yanks the blinds up. I cringe, waiting for her to screech upon seeing a girl hovering outside, but there is no one. “Natural light is good for you. Go on, get into bed.”
Though my first instinct is to rush to the window and yell at Sammie to get back in, I realize that the sooner I do what Mom says, the sooner she’ll leave. I scramble to the bed and flop on my back.
“That’s better,” Mom says, putting the cup of tea in my hands. “I want you to rest today, Damien. You really do work yourself too hard.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“No homework. I mean it.”
“You got it.”
She sighs, then makes for the door. My muscles clench in preparation to jump out of the bed the second she’s out of sight.
Mom turns back. “That was weird, wasn’t it?”
“What?” I say, barely containing my anxiety.
“That police officer.”
“Very weird.”
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
I nod, then, to make her happy, take a sip of tea. She gives me a small smile, then heads down the stairs.
I explode out of the bed and run to the window. I have barely reached it when Sammie zooms back inside, slamming right into me. We crash to the ground, and I scramble to separate us (I know she hates physical contact) until I realize she’s clinging to me, sobbing.
“They’re out there,” she whispers, her chest throbbing against mine as we sit on the floor. Her arms are thrown around my neck. For a moment, I have no idea what to do, but then my arms act of their own accord, closing around her.
“I tried to tell you,” I say. “Did they see you?”
Freefly Page 6