Freefly

by Michele Tallarita

  “You feel that?” she says.

  “What?”

  “Your heartbeat. Life.”

  I nod.

  “A lot of people, I don’t think they’re very careful with it. They’re so focused on improving their own lives, they don’t care what they do to other people’s.”

  I swallow hard, as my heart continues to pulse beneath her fingers. After a long moment, she pulls her hand away.

  “I’m sorry I ruined your life,” she says, her voice barely a whisper.

  “I’m sorry other people ruined yours.”

  She steps away, then slides down into the chair again, as if all of her energy is drained. I sit in the chair beside her, watching her carefully, trying to gauge her emotional state. She is unreadable. Her expression is blank, her eyes distant, as if she has withdrawn from reality.

  “How did you escape?” I say.

  She jolts. “What?”

  “The science lab. How did you escape?”

  “I didn’t.”

  I cock my head. “What?”

  “Can we—can we go somewhere else? I think I need to get out of this kitchen.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s too white.”

  We get up from the table, and I lead her into the living room, where she’s never been. (Heck, I hardly even go in here, too often studying to be lounging with my parents in front of the TV.) The room has thick green carpet, tan couches made of leather, and walls painted a pale yellow. Against one wall, a wooden entertainment center contains the widescreen television, Dad’s record player, and shelves and shelves of videotapes and DVDs. Sammie jumps into the air and hovers about two feet off the ground to get a look at the framed pictures arranged atop the entertainment center.

  “Aw, it’s you at the...zoo? Is that a zoo?” she says.

  “Considering there’s a zebra behind me, I think it’s safe to say that’s a zoo.”

  She casts me an annoyed look. “Raised in a science lab. Still figuring out the world.”

  I swallow hard. “Right.”

  “And what’s this? Why are you wearing that weird hat?”

  “I was a cowboy for Halloween.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eight.”

  She turns to me and grins. “You were so cute.”

  My heart goes spluttering. I’m extremely embarrassed to have her poring over the old photos my parents insist on plastering every room with. (This is one of those things that makes me wish I had a brother or sister, with whom I could have split the embarrassment.) But also...she called me cute. The eight-year-old version of me, but still.

  Then Sammie’s story comes crashing down on me again, and my emotions slump. Someone stole from her the chance to wear a goofy costume and sprint from door to door begging for candy. As if this hits Sammie, too, she sinks to the ground and clutches her arms around her chest.

  “I don’t really remember my family, in case you’re wondering,” she says. “I barely remember my mom, and my dad...” She shakes her head.

  “Do you think your family looked for you, after you got taken?”

  She shrugs, looking distant again. “I hope they didn’t. Thorne, well, he gets what he wants, and people who get in his way...tend to disappear.”

  I shiver, thinking about how I refused to help him yesterday. “You said you didn’t escape from him, but if that’s the case, how are you here?”

  She walks over to one of the couches and drops onto it, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to her chest. “I got kidnapped.”

  My mouth drops open. “By who?”

  “Let’s go ahead and use the general term ‘criminals.’”

  “You got kidnapped from mad scientists by criminals?”

  She nods. “Basically.”

  “Is that...where you go every day? To the criminals?”

  She nods again, and her eyes drop to the floor.

  “What kind of criminals are we talking about here?” I say.

  “The highly organized, rich, powerful kind.”

  “Do you, like, engage in crime?” Unexpectedly, my tone comes out disgusted. I think I’m more repulsed by the idea of criminals kidnapping Sammie than with Sammie herself for doing what they say, but she looks like she’s been slapped in the face.

  “I didn’t have a choice. You try seeing nothing but the inside of a science lab for eleven years, then being stuffed in a bag and taken to this weird place. I was terrified. I thought they were going to kill me. And maybe I have to engage in crime, but at least I get to have some kind of life.”

  I step forward with my hand raised. “Sammie—”

  She blasts into the air and plasters herself against the wall. “Don’t do that!”

  “I’m sorry.” I back away, feeling, once again, like scum. What is wrong with me? She’s open with me for the first time ever and I make her feel awful about herself? “I didn’t mean to sound harsh. I’m just trying to understand all of this.”

  Her face remains angry for another moment, then crushes into sadness. “No, I’m sorry.” She lowers herself to the ground, landing softly on her feet, before beginning to tremble as if someone is shaking her. “I’ve—I’ve never told anyone all of this, and I just—”

  She puts her face into her hands and sobs. I approach slowly, my arms plastered to my sides. When I’m about two feet away, she throws herself against me, pressing her head into my chest. I wrap my arms around her as she continues to cry, shaking the both of us. Meanwhile, I keep my eyes on the gray light glowing around the closed blinds, at the sheets of fabric and glass that are the only things standing between the girl I love and the people who tormented her. Though I know there is basically nothing I can do to protect her, I wrap my arms around her more tightly.

  She pulls her head away from my chest. “I’m sorry,” she croaks. “I don’t usually cry this much. Not ever, actually.”

  I’m very much focused on her hand on my back. “It’s okay.”

  “That’s actually the biggest reason I didn’t want to talk to you about any of this. Because I knew I’d break down. And, well, to survive in my situation, I’ve got to be...tough.” Her face clouds over as she says the last part, as if there is more to it.

  “What’s wrong?” I say.

  She pulls away from me all the way, causing something like physical pain to course through me. Is it bad that my life’s purpose has condensed into keeping this one person safe? Especially since I am completely powerless to do so? And, even worse, since this person doesn’t love me back (nor should she)?

  “They want me to kill people.”

  I jerk from my thoughts. “What?”

  “The criminals. Their big business is killing people.”

  I’m almost afraid to ask, but I manage to murmur, “Have you?”

  She turns to me, eyes wide, and shakes her head.

  I let out a sigh of relief. I’m not sure how I would have dealt with that information, the idea of Sammie taking the life of another person. Added to all of the other horrible stuff I’ve learned today, that would have just been overkill (no pun intended).

  “What happens if you don’t do what they say?” I ask.

  She stares at me, long and hard, and says nothing.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Either that, or they’ll send me back, you know, where they found me. Which obviously would not be good.”

  “Right.” My eyes travel to the yellowish bruise on her cheek. “Is that why you disappeared for a week? Because you won’t kill people?”

  “Sort of.” She takes a deep breath and squeezes her eyes shut, rubbing her temples. “I think I need to sleep again.”

  We go back upstairs, which is probably a good idea anyway, since Mom and Dad are going to be home soon. Sammie says nothing as she climbs onto my bed and promptly falls asleep. I walk to the window and pull aside the blind. The black cars remain, except now there are two outside my house, flanking my Pontiac. I inhale sharply. How long before they’re busting
through the front door? Do they already know she’s here?

  No, they can’t. If that were so, they’d be up here already. Still, how am I going to get her out of here without them seeing?

  CHAPTER 5

  Sammie

  I have horrible dreams.

  I’m lying on my back on a hard table. Michael Thorne’s face hovers over me, blurry around the edges. He smiles wide, in that creepy way he has, and jams something sharp into my upper arm. The room begins to spin, slow at first, then faster and faster, a dark blur of beeping machines and people in white coats. I scream, piercing the air. The room shatters before my eyes.

  Then I’m sitting on a hard floor with my legs crossed. Overhead, the lights hum. I know this room well: there’s a long sheet of foam in one corner, which is supposed to be a bed. A small window, the only source of natural light, overlooks a perfectly manicured lawn. In the center of the room, a metal chair faces the door. I sit with my back completely straight, one hand on each knee, unmoving. My mind is perfectly blank. I can remain this way for hours, letting time slide over me.

  The door bursts open, and several whitecoats surge inside. They grab me by the arms and carry me into a long, white hallway. I blink, and we’re inside another room. Foam pads stick to my temples, and sweat beads on my forehead. The whitecoats surround me, jotting on notepads, as I float in the center of the room. This will go on for hours.

  I blink again. This time I’m outside, standing in the grass. The wind whips my hair, and the gray sky churns overhead. Michael Thorne stands ten feet away from me, grinning. Kneeling before him, Damien looks at me with large, fearful eyes. Thorne has a gun to Damien’s head! I rush forward.

  “Don’t, Sammie!” Damien calls.

  Bam! The gun fires, and Damien’s eyes go blank.

  Damien

  Sammie wakes up screaming.

  It’s after 8, and I’m sitting at my desk reading when the screams rip from her throat, high-pitched and blood-curdling. I jump out of my chair. She backs into the headboard, her eyes wide with terror, her hands grasping at the wood.

  “Sammie!” I shout.

  She keeps screaming.

  “Sammie!”

  She blinks several times before her eyes focus on me. Relief seems to wash over her face.

  Footsteps sound on the stairs.

  “Hide!” I hiss. “Not outside!”

  She scrambles off the bed and dashes into my closet, slamming the door shut behind her. I grab the remote control and switch on the television, just in time for my parents to come barreling into the room.

  “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” shouts Mom, and her head swings back and forth as she scans the room. Dad stands behind her, clutching a metal baseball bat.

  “Sorry!” I shout, plopping onto my bed. “It was just the television. I, um, leaned on the remote and the volume shot up for a few seconds.”

  Mom and Dad both look at the TV. Unfortunately, the spiderweb documentary seems to be playing again. The screen displays a tiny spider dancing across silvery threads to soft classical musical.

  “What was that shrieking?” Dad says.

  “I was, uh, watching a slasher film,” I say. “I changed it, though. It got too scary.”

  Snickering comes from the closet, and both of my parents turn toward it.

  “Mom!” I shout, to distract them.

  My parents turn back to me, alarmed.

  “What, Damien?” Mom says.

  “Can you make me some more tea?”

  She walks toward me and sets her hand on my forehead. “Are you feeling okay? You’re acting strange.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m just, uh, getting over whatever I had this morning.”

  “Maybe you ought to take another day off,” Dad says, setting the baseball bat against the wall.

  Mom takes her hand off my forehead. “I agree.”

  “No!” I shout, and my parents look alarmed again. Though my scholastic future is ruined, I’ve been thinking about ways to get Sammie out of the house and away from the black cars, and going to school tomorrow is an integral part of one of my ideas. “I mean, um, I don’t want to miss any more classes.”

  My parents look at each other and seem to have a moment, as if my comment has struck upon some earlier topic discussed between them.

  “Damien,” Dad says, crossing his arms over his chest, “we’re a little worried about you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s nothing too serious, dear.” Mom sets her hand on my shoulder. “We just think you’ve been working a little too hard on your academics.”

  I cock my head. This doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a parent should condemn you for.

  “We want you to do well, Damien,” Dad says, as if he senses my confusion. “But life isn’t all about school. We think you ought to pick up some other interests. Join a club, or maybe even a sport.”

  My face burns at the thought of Sammie in the closet, hearing all of this. How will I explain my parents not knowing I’m on the baseball team? “This is...sudden.”

  “We just want you to live a balanced life,” Mom says, giving my shoulder a pat. “We want you to invest in some relationships, you know, with people.”

  I continue to burn with embarrassment. Could my parents have chosen any other time, ever, to talk about this? As opposed to when the girl I love and who actually thinks I’m awesome is in the closet?

  I manage to croak out a sound.

  “Is that an, ‘I’ll consider it’?” says Dad.

  I nod.

  Mom gives Dad an “I told you so” look and they walk out of the room, leaving me on the bed wishing I could poof into another dimension. The closet door budges open, and Sammie’s face appears in the gap, her eyes wide. I look at her for a second before the humiliation becomes too great, and I’m forced to look away. Her footfalls must be completely silent, because the next thing I know, the bed sinks as she adds her weight to the end of it.

  “Damien,” Sammie whispers.

  I turn my head, ever so slightly, but still cannot meet her eyes.

  “I thought you were on the baseball team,” she says softly.

  I rise from the bed and walk to the window. The blinds are pulled shut, so I stare at the brown fabric as shame pools in the pit of my stomach. How will I explain lying to her for so long? And how will I bear my dishonesty after her complete openness this afternoon?

  “I’m not on the baseball team,” I murmur.

  Sammie rises from the bed and walks over to me. She puts one hand on my shoulder, then the other hand on my other shoulder, and turns me toward her, so that we’re face to face. Even then, my eyes travel downward, toward the floor.

  “Damien,” Sammie says, stern this time.

  I meet her eyes.

  “Why did you lie to me?” she asks gently. Her expression does not contain anger, merely confusion.

  I don’t know how to explain to her that I am a friendless, worthless loser, just like Thorne said, and that I just wanted her to like me. Not, not just like me. I wanted her to look at me the way she does sometimes, like I’m someone great. Now, without even a shot at GLOBE, I have literally nothing to offer.

  Sammie stares at me for another long moment, wide-eyed and expectant, before dropping her hands off my shoulders. She walks to the bed, snatches the remote control, and switches on one of those cartoon superhero shows. Then she sinks to the carpet and leans against the side of the bed.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  She glances up at me. “Watching this.”

  “But—but I lied to you.”

  “I know.”

  “And I didn’t explain why.”

  “Damien,” she says, “do you really expect me to be angry at you for not explaining yourself? Me, the queen of not explaining?”

  My mouth falls open. She has a point. But still. “You did explain. Today.”

  “Not for a whole year.” She smiles at me in an accepting way. After finding out
that all the stories I told—all those grand-slams I batted in order to lead my team to victory—were one gigantic lie, she actually smiles at me. “I feel like all I do is take and take and take from you. First your bed, then your future, next it’ll be...” She trails off, her eyes going distant. “So you don’t have to tell me why you lied, okay? Be the selfish one for once.”

  I stand there, stunned at Sammie’s assessment of our relationship. Take and take and take? Her? I was looking at it the other way around. No one talks to me at school, unless it’s Joe Butt or the Leslies taunting me, right before kicking my butt. But she wanted to know me, asked me question after question about my life, listened to me like everything I said was massively interesting. Does she know how much she has given to me, simply by doing that?

  I slump down beside her, tuning in to the superhero cartoon. A flying man in a bright red suit punches the crap out of a greasy-haired robber. I glance at Sammie out of the corner of my eye, wondering which of the two she is identifying with. A second later, she flips to the food channel, and we watch a woman smooth purple frosting onto tan cupcakes.

  “There’s a bus station right by my school.” I say.

  Sammie turns to me, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  I nod. From downstairs, my parents’ laughter rumbles. “Michael Thorne wouldn’t expect you to travel by bus.”

  She tilts her head, considering this. “How would I get to the bus station, though? I can’t leave your house without them seeing me.”

  “I carry a very large backpack to school each morning.”

  “Are you suggesting...”

  “Yes, I am,” I say, laughing a little. Then, apologetically, “It was all I could think of. If it would make you, like, freak out or something, obviously we’ll have to think up another plan, but—

  “No, I’ll do it.” She nods, looking suddenly determined. “That’s a really good plan.”

  The cupcake lady grins at the camera before setting the plate of desserts onto a table. My stomach groans, and Sammie and I both giggle. Then, unexpectedly, a deep sadness settles over the both of us, like dust being shaken from the ceiling. Once Sammie boards a bus and rides out of Boorsville, when will we see each other again? My house is under surveillance. She can’t just come flying back here.