Freefly

by Michele Tallarita

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Damien!” Mom’s voice booms up the stairs. “What was that crash?”

  “Nothing, Mom! I tripped when I went to turn on the television!”

  Sammie seems to realize we’re engaging in physical contact, because she stiffens and pulls away from me, shuffling backwards until her back is against the wall.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to get out of Boorsville without them seeing me.” She wipes the tears off her face with the back of her hand. “Those black cars? I’ve seen them before. There are tracking devices inside them. They’re going to be able to tell the second I hit the sky.”

  “Who are they?” I ask.

  Her lips press into a tight line: I’ve broken her rule. No questions, remember?

  “You can’t expect me not to ask, Sammie. I’m too far in this now. Michael Thorne was in my house.”

  Her mouth falls open. “He was?”

  “He’s saying you’re a criminal. He showed your picture to my mom.”

  She shakes her head and presses her face into her knees. Against the gray sweatshirt, in the dull light of the window, her hair looks almost white. When she looks up again, the rings under her eyes are deep purple.

  “When was the last time you slept?” I say.

  “Couple days ago,” she mumbles.

  “Sammie.”

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Whose was it?”

  She shakes her head and rises slowly to her feet, then walks to the window and pulls down the blind. When she turns back around, her face is crumpled, like she’s going to cry. I jump to my feet, in case, you know, she wants to hug again.

  “Talk to me,” I say.

  She presses her face into her hands. “I can’t.”

  “It’s my fault, isn’t it? If I were better, stronger, you’d be able to be open with me—

  “It’s not that, Damien.” She looks up, alarmed. “It’s not you.”

  I don’t know what to say, because I can’t think of any reason for her silence other than my own incompetence. A cold breeze blusters in through the crack beneath the blind, and drops of water spray into the room. Sammie pulls her hands inside the sleeves of the baggy sweatshirt, shivering.

  “Here.” I walk to the bedside table and grab the mug of tea, which is still steaming. “Drink this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Green tea.”

  She crinkles her nose. “Yuck.”

  “Just drink it. It’ll warm you up.”

  She takes it reluctantly, then sits on the end of the bed and takes a sip. Her face puckers. “Is there any sugar in this?”

  I can’t help but laugh. She scoots to the top of the bed and slams the mug down on the bedside table, then sinks down against the pillows. Instantly, her eyelids droop.

  “Woah,” she whispers. “Just got tired.”

  I perk up. “That makes sense. Have you ever heard of Ivan Pavlov?”

  She shakes her head.

  “He was one of the most brilliant scientists of all time. He was most famous for his experiments involving dogs. Whenever Pavlov fed them, he would ring a bell. Eventually, all Pavlov had to do was ring the bell and the dogs would start salivating.”

  Sammie stares at me for a long moment. “Are you comparing me to a dog?”

  My eyes widen. “No! I mean...I was just pointing out that because you associate that bed with sleep, when you lie down on it, you get tired. It’s psychology!”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Or it could be the fact that I haven’t slept in three days.”

  “Yeah. That too, I guess.”

  She laughs, then shuts her eyes and lets out a long breath. A few seconds later, she has fallen asleep. This astounds me. There are evil men outside, watching the house and scanning the skies. Michael Thorne just shared the same roof as us. And she feels safe enough to sleep, with just me here to protect her? You think you can protect her? No, I don’t.

  I walk to my desk and lean toward the window. Carefully, I pull back the blind and peer outside. The black cars, slick with rain, sit in front of every other house. The windows are tinted, so I can’t see inside them, but no doubt whoever it is has a good view of my house. Sammie is lucky no one saw her. Very lucky.

  I turn back around. She breathes long and even, a tuft of hair covering her eyes. She looks deathly pale again. Where has she been? What has happened since I last saw her? The rings under her eyes, the way the bones in her face seem more pronounced: everything points to the idea that she’s been starved, tortured. My blood boils. I wish I could beat whoever did this to a pulp. Instead I reach under my bed, pull out my Phillies blanket, and drape it over her, pulling the red fleece up to her shoulders. I run out to the hall closet and grab another blanket, then drape that over her, too.

  Sammie

  One second Damien’s rattling off about a scientist named Pavlov, the next I’m conked out on his bed, despite the fact that there’s an army of enemies sitting on the other side of the bedroom wall. But I’m so tired. I haven’t lay down on something soft in what seems like forever. Plus, Damien is here. Somehow, he makes me feel safe.

  I have ruined his life. I didn’t even ask him about his GLOBE interview, but when Michael Thorne walks into your house, everything is about to go wrong. I imagine Thorne will threaten him, if he hasn’t already, and demand that Damien give information about me (or suffer the consequences). If only I could have warned him. No, I was too late anyway. I ruined his life the moment I entered his house, that very first day.

  Nothing around me ever stays whole.

  I have this one memory, which I consider the only real memory from my childhood. I don’t know how old I am, but I’ve got on these weird pajamas with feet, so that should give you some idea. My mom is holding me in this big green armchair we used to have. She turns the page of a book with pictures, and it shows a sort of egg-man sitting on the edge of a wall, looking like he’s about to fall off. I start to cry, and Mom puts her fingers to her lips and says, “Shh, Sammie. It’s just a story.” She has blond hair, like me, and a kind smile. That’s really the only memory I have of her, before they got me, the people from the white place.

  I will never go back to that place—-I would rather die. (I will die, in fact, but by the time Thorne realizes it it’ll be too late.) But if Thorne and his men are tracking the Boorsville skies, the chances of my getting out of here are slim to none. And I have to be back at the Tower in 48 hours, a brief vacation before the torture sessions with the boss continue.

  Sleep smothers me, deep and heavy, for several hours. I open my eyes a few times and see Damien pacing back and forth. Other times, he sits cross-legged on the floor, his eyes on a book in his lap. I wonder why he’s not in school. Earlier, when I melted down, I noticed his palms were scabbed over, like he raked them across pavement. I wonder what happened to him. I should be open with him, tell him everything, but I don’t know if I can do it without breaking down. It’s bad enough I cried in front of him. If I told him everything, I’d lose it big time. And he thinks it’s him that keeps me from talking to him? Sheesh. I should just leave him alone. I need to stop coming back here.

  Damien

  She wakes up looking sad. I remain seated at my desk, twisted toward the television. A documentary about spiderwebs plays. I’ve been glancing back and forth between that and Sammie for the past hour.

  “What time is it?” she murmurs, rubbing her eyes with her fists. I realize this is the first time I have ever seen her wake up. Usually, she is gone by morning. The light from my bedside lamp bounces off her hair, which sticks up around the crown of her head.

  I glance at the digital clock. “2:03. Are you hungry?”

  “What are you watching?”

  “Spiderwebs. It’s interesting, but a little depressing. These spiders create the most intricate designs, some really beautiful geometry, but a kid on a skateboard can smash right through it without even knowing.”

  She sits
up, looking even sadder. Darn it. “Sorry,” I say.

  “Did you say something about food?”

  I motion for her to follow me out into the hallway. “I closed all the blinds in the kitchen, so they won’t be able to see inside,” I say.

  I lead her down the stairs. It’s extremely strange. Excluding the first day I met her, when I pulled an arrow out of her leg in the kitchen, our relationship (whatever it is) has been confined to my bedroom. She gazes at all of my school portraits on the walls, and, exactly like the first day I met her, I die a little inside.

  “Mom and Dad won’t be back until five,” I say as we enter the kitchen. The counters are clear and pristine, and the metal sink gleams. “Mom’s kind of a neat freak.”

  “Did she ever read you stories? When you were little?”

  I turn back to her. Her expression is strange: her eyes are cast slightly downward, as if she is embarrassed to ask.

  “You mean before bed?” I say.

  “Yeah. When you were in pajamas.”

  I walk to the refrigerator and pull it open, slanting light into the room. “All the time. I used to like this one called Goodnight Moon.”

  “Is that about an egg?”

  “An egg?”

  “Sitting on a wall.”

  “Oh.” I slam the fridge shut (nothing but healthy food in there, which Sammie would certainly reject) and yank open the freezer. “No. I think you’re talking about Humpty Dumpty.”

  “Humpty who?”

  “Humpty Dumpty. You know, Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.”

  Her face lights up. “Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.”

  “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men.”

  “Couldn’t put Humpty together again!” Her mouth falls open. “I can’t believe it. I remember that.”

  I shake my head. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I’ve learned to suppress the urge to question. Usually. “How do you feel about oven-baked pizza?”

  “Very positive.”

  I pull a metal pan from the drawer, bathe it in Pam, and lay two gigantic frozen pizza blocks on top. I slide the pan into the oven and set the timer for 20 minutes.

  Sammie clutches the counter for support. “Do you have anything to eat in the meantime? I think my stomach just caught up with me.”

  I go into the cupboard and pull out a packet of Pop Tarts, then toss them at her.

  She grins. “Sweet.”

  We move to the table. Sammie sits in the chair across from me, her elbows on the table, taking gigantic bites out of the pink-frosted Pop Tarts. In the light of the lamp overhead, I notice, for the first time, a yellowish bruise covering the right side of her face.

  “Your cheek,” I say.

  She chews more slowly, casting her eyes down. “What about it?”

  “It’s all bruised up.”

  She swallows one last time and doesn’t take another bite. “Well, your palms are all scraped. And I saw you clutching your stomach earlier. I’m not the only one who’s injured.”

  “That’s different. Those are...sports injuries.”

  “Can we pretend mine are, too?”

  “Sammie.”

  “I can’t talk about it, Damien. I just can’t.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t stay in the dark any longer. Look, you disappeared for a week. A week. I thought you were hurt, or dead, or I don’t even know. The way you act about wherever you go makes me think of every worst-case scenario in the book. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep.”

  She stands from the table. “I should leave.”

  “It’s too late!”

  My tone stuns me, and her, too: for a moment she looks almost scared. I cast my eyes down. I didn’t mean to get angry.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Stay, please.”

  Slowly, she sinks back into the chair.

  I take a deep breath. “Listen. Michael Thorne...he wanted me to give information about you.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. I couldn’t. But he said he was going to make sure I never got into any college, ever. Is he...does he have the power to do something like that?”

  Her whole body slumps in the chair, and she looks on the verge of crying again. “Damien, I’m so sorry. You should have talked.”

  “I couldn’t, okay?” I breathe hard and am completely unpreprared for the following words to fly out of my mouth: “I love you.”

  She shakes her head back and forth, hard. Excellent.

  “It’s true. I love you. I know you said it could never happen between us, but it’s too late. I think about you all day long. I wonder where you are, if you’re doing okay, if you’re hurt, if you’re hungry, when you’re going to come back. Isn’t it obvious? I want to know you, not just as the girl who flies through my window every night, but as a whole person. I know you don’t love me back, and I don’t blame you, but can’t you tell me your story? I threw away my future because I didn’t want that guy to hurt you. Can’t you answer some of my questions?”

  The oven dings, and I leap from my chair, mostly because I don’t think I can bear to watch Sammie’s reaction. Hot air blasts me in the face as I yank open the oven door and pull out the sizzling pizza. Carefully, I walk the pan across the kitchen and set it on the table with a clack. I look up to see Sammie’s face. It’s worse than I imagined: she’s full-out bawling, her face in her hands. I rush forward to comfort her, then leap back (because after making her cry the last thing I want to do is freak her out with physical contact). I feel like scum. Clearly, I cannot do anything right.

  “I’m sorry.” I sink down in the chair beside her. “Just—pretend I never said anything. We can...go on as usual, okay? Please. You’re starving. I’m starving. Let’s eat pizza.”

  She looks up, swallowing hard. Though I feel like knifing myself, I run a knife through the pizza and cut it into four big squares, then hold one of them out to her.

  Though tears continue to drip down her face, she takes it and bites off a large piece. I pick up my own piece and take a bite, flinching as the hot tomato sauce scalds the top of my mouth. We eat in silence. I wonder what is going through her mind. Undoubtedly, it is a plan to get out of here and never return. I give her my other square of pizza, because she finishes her own two squares and is obviously still hungry.

  When we are finished, she leans back in her chair and eyes the ceiling, as if there is something fascinating up there. I glance up myself, but find nothing but the usual bare white plaster. I look back at Sammie. Her eyes have closed. Has she gone to sleep?

  “I didn’t have a normal childhood,” she says.

  I jolt. She just said something about her past. I remain silent, scared that I’ll say something idiotic and make her clam up again.

  She clenches and unclenches her fingers around her arms. “I had a really bad childhood, actually. I...you know those dogs you were talking about?”

  I tilt my head. “Dogs?”

  She opens her eyes. “Yeah. Pavlov and his dogs, the ones who salivated when he rang the bell.”

  “Yeah,” I say, wondering how this relates to her past.

  “Did he keep them in a lab?”

  “Probably.”

  “I bet he did, because he was experimenting on them.” She glares down at the table. “And—and I bet he didn’t let them go outside, because he was afraid if they interacted with outside stuff, like the grass and trees and air, the experiments would get messed up. I bet he put tubes in their mouths and stuck them with needles, and ran all sorts of tests, and made them lie in a metal tube so he could look at their brains. And I bet—I bet those dogs wished more than anything they could have a normal life, and wondered why they were being treated this way when it wasn’t their fault they were born with the ability to...salivate.”

  She looks up, breathing hard. Her blue eyes contain a mixture of emotions: anger, pain, and extreme vulnerability. I want to get out of my chair and hold her, but I know this would freak her out, and now I know
why: she grew up in a science lab, getting experimented on like some kind of test animal. Of course she doesn’t like to be touched. How many years of her life did she spend getting poked and prodded without her permission?

  “Sammie, I’m so sorry.”

  She laughs a little, and her eyes fill with tears. “For what?”

  “That this happened to you.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “No, I mean, that’s just something you say.” All those times she didn’t understand some figure of speech, the reason she knows nothing about school, or families, or field trips—she never experienced them. Anger burns through me, a powerful feeling that starts at the tips of my fingers and surges up into my arms and chest. How could someone do this to her?

  “It was that guy, wasn’t it? Michael Thorne,” I spit.

  She nods. “He was sort of the leader of the whole thing, though the place was huge. Tons of scientists and doctors and, uh, how do I put this? Investors? Their big goal was to figure out the exact gene that turned on the ability to fly, so that maybe they could turn it on in other people, too. Sell it to the military and whoever else had the money. So there were always lots of people around, coming in to see what I could do. Checking out the product.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Thats...that’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?”

  I shake my head. “How long were you there?”

  She takes a deep breath and glances at the ceiling. “I’m not entirely sure. I hardly remember anything before it, so I must have been really young when they...took me. About eleven years? It’s blurry. Whole months kind of fuzz together. I—I try not to think about it.”

  I blink. Eleven years? I’m having a hard time processing this. It’s just, I didn’t think people were capable of this, of holding a child captive for more than a decade. If it were any child I would be enraged, but because it’s Sammie, I’m completely losing it. I rise from my chair.

  “Damien, are you okay?”

  “I don’t understand how this could happen.”

  She gets up, steps in front of me, and lays her hand on my chest. I start, shaken. Her eyes are wide and intense, their blueness vivid against the gray of my sweatshirt.