Freefly

by Michele Tallarita

  “I hate you,” I spit.

  He raises his eyebrows. “My dear, there’s no such thing as hate, nor is there such a thing as love. There is only advantage. Does having you in my possession give me an advantage? Why, yes. It does.” He roars with laughter. “That’s where you went wrong. Keeping company with Damien Savage offered you no advantage whatsoever. In fact, I would argue that it was distinctly disadvantageous. Don’t go blubbering that he cared about you or really understood you.” He scrunches up his face and speaks in a high-pitched, mocking tone. “That’s bologna. Indulgence. You lost sight of the big picture, my dear. You let temporary pleasure get in the way of what you wanted.”

  “How do you know what I wanted?”

  “You wanted to not be here, right?” He lets out another round of laughter, making my eardrums feel like they’re going to explode.

  He stretches some sticky bandage onto my shoulder and smooths it with his fingers. His gray hair is slick and shiny, contrasting sharply with the many wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He pulls away to reach down into his black bag, then turns back with a syringe in his hand.

  The muscles in my stomach clench. “What is that?”

  Thorne smiles slightly as he sticks the syringe into a small bottle and draws the clear contents into the needle. “Just something to make you a little more...unconscious.”

  “Don’t!”

  “Oh, but why?”

  My voice trembles. “I’ll—I’ll die.”

  He tilts his head in confusion. “My dear, I have no intention of killing you. As explained, having you alive is very much to my advantage.”

  “That’s not what I mean—”

  “Damien Savage on the other hand...”

  I stiffen. “What about him?”

  Thorne crouches beside me, reaches behind my back, and unlocks the cuffs around my wrists with a few clicks. He yanks one of my arms towards him and jerks up the sleeve of Damien’s sweatshirt, then examines the blue veins in my arm, probing them with his two forefingers. “I think he knows just a little too much.” He shakes the syringe and raises it. “I think he’s about to have a tragic accident.”

  With my free hand, I jab at the buckle of my seatbelt and arch into the air, knocking Thorne back and whipping to the other side of the plane. I flatten myself against the back wall, literally shaking with anger. Thorne brushes himself off and eyes me carefully.

  “Well, this is unusual,” he says, wielding the needle at his side. “Where have you been these last three years, little Sammie? It seems to me someone’s taught you to fight back.”

  I press my hands against the cool metal wall. “I’m not going to let you kill him.”

  “I’m afraid there’s not much you can do to stop me—”

  I plow into him. We land with a crash! on the floor of the plane. I pull back my fist and jam it into Thorne’s face, breaking his nose with a satisfying crunch. Blood gushes from his nostrils, and he lets out a wail. In an instant, the pilot emerges from the cockpit and rushes toward me. I roll off of Thorne in time to catch the pilot in my arms and throw him to the floor. His head cracks against the metal. Thorne grabs me from behind, and I pull down with all my might and flip him. When he begins to stir, I kick him in the ribs. He stills.

  Panting, I look down at myself. Blood reddens the front of my sweatshirt in little droplets. Thorne and the pilot lie sprawled on the ground. The pilot’s eyes are closed, and blood pools around his head. I’ve killed him. I know it instantly.

  With a lurch, the plane veers downward. There’s no pilot. We’re going to crash.

  Damien

  The phone rings several times. I pace my room, anxiety surging through my veins. I’ve never spoken with criminals before. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I somehow make this situation worse?

  “What’s a matter, Sammie?” says a low, gritty voice.

  I squeeze the phone tightly. “It’s—it’s not Sammie. She’s been kidnapped.”

  There’s a sharp intake of breath, followed by a pause. “By you?”

  “No. By the scientists.”

  He says a few curse words. “How long ago?”

  “A few hours. They took her away in a jet. You’ve got to do something.”

  There’s another long pause, this time with the sound of muttering in the background. “Who am I talking to?”

  I hesitate. Do I want to reveal my identity? “A friend of Sammie’s.”

  “I’m a friend of Sammie’s, too. What’s your name, kid?”

  “It’s—it’s Damien.”

  “Alright, Damien. I’ll see what I can do.”

  The line clicks, and something like relief rushes through me. I’ve managed to do something, something that could get Sammie away from Michael Thorne. I’m not powerless, not entirely. I sink down on the end of my bed and allow a small amount of hope to rise within me. Maybe the criminals will rescue her. Maybe she will come hovering up to the window this very night.

  Mom blows open my bedroom door. “Damien, come down and eat dinner.”

  I practically jump out of my skin, throwing myself in front of the strange pile of items on my bed. “Mom, what happened to knocking?”

  Her eyes narrow. “What is all that? Are those Cheetos? You’ll spoil your appetite, dear.”

  Mad scientists and criminals have become involved in my life, and Mom’s worried about a bag of Cheetos. “I’m not very hungry.”

  “Please come down, Damien,” she says. “Your father and I are very worried about you.”

  She stares at me for long moment, before I let out a sigh. “Alright.”

  I follow her downstairs and slide into my usual place at the kitchen table. In the center, a plate of crumbly, gray meatloaf steams, along with a tureen of gravy and a bowl of mashed potatoes. Dad sits in the same place Sammie did yesterday afternoon, when she told me about her past. He shovels mashed potatoes into his mouth.

  “You feeling better, son?” he says.

  I spoon a small pile of mashed potatoes onto my plate, pondering my recent phone conversation. “A little.”

  “Good,” he says.

  Mom sits down in her chair to my right and cuts me a heaping slice of meat loaf. Though I’m not the least bit hungry, I jab a small piece onto my fork to satisfy her.

  Dad lifts his glass and takes a long swig of his Coca-cola. “So, Damien,” he says. “Are you ready to tell us what went on today?”

  “Honey,” Mom says to Dad, “maybe he doesn’t have to tell us. We don’t want to put too much pressure on him.”

  Dad looks at her adoringly. “You’re right. You’re always right.”

  I swirl my fork around in my mashed potatoes and try to ignore the fact that my parents are freaks.

  “But, Damien,” Mom says, “if you do feel like telling us why you skipped your classes today, you can tell us. We’ll try not to judge you. We’re just worried about you.”

  “But we trust you,” Dad interjects.

  Mom nods. “We do.”

  I gaze down at my plate and find myself, unexpectedly, feeling guilty. My parents love me and care about me, and they just want to know I’m alright. I shouldn’t leave them completely in the dark. After all, I know I didn’t like it very much when the person I loved refused to be open with me.

  “Well, uh,” I begin, uncertain how to describe what, exactly, went on today. “I got in a fight.”

  Mom clasps her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Damien! Are you okay?”

  “With who?” Dad says.

  “I’m fine.” I fiddle with the prongs of my fork as I consider Dad’s question. There are two possible answers: Joe Butt and Michael Thorne. “Just some guys with big egos.”

  “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Mom says.

  “I swear, I’m fine. Somebody...defended me. I didn’t even have to fight.” I swallow hard, scared that my parents will be embarrassed of me for needing a savior.

  Dad holds up his glass. “Kudos to that person.”

&
nbsp; “You should invite him over to dinner,” Mom says. “I’d love to meet him.”

  My cheeks burn. “I don’t think, uh, he’s in town—”

  There’s a huge thud! from upstairs. I leap to my feet, causing my chair to scrape against the floor. My parents stare at me, wide-eyed.

  “What was that?” Dad says.

  “Let me go check.” I bolt up the stairs, my mind racing with hopeful thoughts. What if it’s Sammie? Could the criminals have possibly worked this fast? I breathe quickly. What if it’s Michael Thorne or one of his men, come to hurt me or my family? I slow as I approach my room. The door is half-open, revealing darkness within. But someone is definitely there: soft footsteps sound against the carpet, and someone breathes raggedly. Though I am practically paralyzed with fear, I reach into the room and flick on the lights.

  Sammie whirls around. Her face is covered in black soot, as if she shot up a chimney, and her hands tremble at her sides.

  “Sammie!” I say.

  “You went through my stuff.” She stares sadly at the pile of things on my bed.

  I step toward her. “I’m sorry. I had to. You were gone, and—

  She runs up to me and hugs me tightly. For several seconds, we just breathe, body to body, her chest moving up and down against mine. I pull back to examine her face more closely. As always, bruises: one large one along her collarbone, another small one near her left temple. Soot shines on her face, coating her entire left cheek and then lightening up on the right side, like a gradient. The sweatshirt is torn at the collar, revealing her sooty but bandaged shoulder. What exactly did the criminals do the rescue her, send her on a wild ride through a coal mine?

  “What...happened?” I say.

  Sammie’s face darkens, and her entire body trembles for a moment, as if she is wracked with electricity. “The jet...the pilot—”

  “Damien, what is going on here?” Mom appears in the doorway, Dad at her side. Sammie jerks away from me at the speed of light and stands with her body tense in the center of the room. Mom and Dad scrutinize her, looking extremely confused. Unfortunately, recognition flashes in my mother’s face. The photo Michael Thorne showed her, the one of Sammie when she was younger—Mom remembers it. She thinks Sammie is a criminal, wanted for terrorizing Boorsville.

  “She’s my date!” I cry, scared Mom is about to bolt downstairs and call the police.

  Mom gawks at me. “Your date?”

  “Yup,” I say. In the corner of my eye, I register that Sammie is also gawking at me. “To the Spring Shake. It’s tonight, you know. Did I not mention that I was going?”

  “The Spring Shake?” Dad says. “Isn’t that a dance? You’re going to a dance, Damien?”

  I gulp, realizing how preposterous this sounds. “You said you wanted me to diversify my schedule?”

  Dad grins. “We did! Good job!”

  “Honey, I’m not sure about this,” Mom says, setting her hand on his shoulder. “Do we want to let him go to a dance the same day he was in a fight?”

  Dad scrunches his brow. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Though he does already have his date here,” Mom says, and both she and Dad turn to look at Sammie. She squirms beneath their scrutiny, and they both tilt their heads at her sooty appearance.

  “The fight wasn’t Damien’s fault,” Sammie says, sounding nervous. “It was the other guy.”

  “You were there for the fight?” Dad says.

  “I was in the fight—”

  “She means...the guy fought with me over her,” I say.

  “Which guy?” Mom says.

  “No one,” I say.

  “He had red hair,” Sammie says, flexing her biceps. “And very large arms.”

  “Joe Butt?” Dad interjects. “I never liked that kid. Mean-spirited.”

  My face burns. “Can we not talk about Joe Butt?”

  “Who defended him?” Mom says to Sammie. When Sammie looks confused, Mom adds, “Damien said someone defended him. Who was it? We should send him something nice.”

  “I did,” Sammie says.

  Mom and Dad both stare at her. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear.

  “You did?” Dad says.

  I open my eyes to see Sammie shrug. “Yeah.”

  “She’s had...martial arts training,” I say, my voice choked.

  Sammie eyes me curiously, seeming to register my embarrassment. “Was it bad that I defended you?”

  I press my hands to my forehead. “No, it’s just—

  “Of course it’s not bad,” Mom says, walking over to pat Sammie on the shoulder. I flinch, expecting Sammie to go shooting out the window, but Sammie only tenses for a moment, then relaxes.

  “Of course not,” Dad says, leaning against the doorframe. “If you have martial arts training, you should use it when someone’s in need. In fact, where did you get yours? Maybe you should sign up, Damien.”

  Sammie’s eyes go wide. “Um, it was, uh—”

  “A camp,” I say, and everyone turns to me.

  Sammie nods. “A camp. Yup, I stayed overnight. Lots of nights.”

  “Where at?” Dad says.

  Sammie bites her lip. “Uh, the Reading Tower.”

  “Oh, is that what they do in that thing?” Dad says. “It’s so weird, an old Japanese battle castle in Reading. I would never have guessed it was a martial arts camp.”

  “Yup, that’s what it is,” Sammie says, glancing at the ceiling. “A martial arts camp.”

  “Huh,” Dad says.

  “Not to be critical,” Mom says, gazing back and forth between Sammie and me, “but neither of you look very prepared to go to a dance.”

  Sammie slowly turns to me, and I look down at my outfit. I didn’t realize it until now, but my white T-shirt is covered in dirt and grass stains, probably from getting thrown from a jet. Obviously this does not compare with the bruised, bloodied, soot-covered person who is supposed to be my date.

  “How did you get up here, anyway?” Dad says, turning to Sammie. “We didn’t hear you use the front door. It kind of sounded like you came in through the window.”

  The small portion of Sammie’s face not covered in soot turns red. “Well, actually, I did come in through the window—”

  “It’s a tradition,” I say, and my parents whip their heads toward me. “Your date to the Spring Shake is supposed to climb in through your window.”

  Mom cocks her head. “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “That’s because it just started,” I say. “This year. It was the senior class’s idea.”

  Mom turns to Dad, and he shrugs.

  “Traditions are good,” he says, before turning to me. “Good job, Damien! Participating in a tradition!”

  Facepalm.

  “Well, you two should...clean up at least,” Mom says, puckering her brow as she looks Sammie and me over once again. “Are you okay, dear?” she says to Sammie.

  “Yeah, I...fell,” she says.

  Mom gives me a scolding look. “Damien, when someone has to climb in through the window, you volunteer. Don’t make your date do it. Look what happened.”

  “Mom, that’s actually not what happened—”

  “Yeah, Damien,” Sammie says, laughing a little. “What the heck? I thought you were a gentleman.”

  I clench my jaw. “Well, I guess I thought someone with martial arts training would be better at climbing into windows.”

  Mom shakes her head at me. “Dear, there’s just no correlation between those two activities.” She takes Sammie’s hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up. What’s your name again?”

  “Sammie,” she says as Mom tows her out of the room.

  “Very nice to meet you, Sammie,” Mom says, and they disappear down the hall.

  Still leaning against the doorframe, Dad crosses his arms and smiles at me. “Proud of you, son.”

  I fiddle nervously. “Yeah. Thanks, Dad.”

  “You’d better get cleaned up, too. You look like you wer
e rolling in grass.”

  He turns and leaves. Sighing, I walk to the end of the bed and sit down. Count on my parents to make things even more complicated than they already were. From down the hall, I can hear Mom chattering loudly. I hope Sammie doesn’t suffer too much.

  I stand up, push the door shut, and pull off my dirty T-shirt. I guess we don’t have much choice but to go to the Spring Shake, something I never (in a zillion years) thought would happen. But my parents now think we’re going, and since my car is still at school, they’re undoubtedly going to offer to drive us there and see us inside. I shake my head as I pull open the drawer containing my nicer shirts. This is bad. Very bad. What if I get Sammie caught again? How did the criminals manage to jailbreak her so quickly in the first place?

  After pulling on one of my white button-ups and a pair of khaki pants, I head downstairs to see what has become of my “date.” Dad is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping his post-dinner cup of coffee and doing a Sudoku puzzle.

  “Where are Sammie and Mom?” I say.

  “Still upstairs,” Dad says, not looking up.

  I cringe and sit down across from him. What could they possibly be doing up there? What if Mom is torturing her with...girl-related things? How would Sammie respond to that?

  Dad sets his puzzle down and looks me over. “Much better.”

  I flinch. “Thanks.”

  “You wanna borrow my tux? It’s from the disco era, but I think that style’s coming back.”

  “No, uh, that’s okay.”

  Dad shrugs. “Alright.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “So...you and Sammie, is it? Are you guys going steady?”

  My eyes bulge. “Dad.”

  “What? Is that not the term anymore?”

  “No, it’s just...complicated.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” I lean forward in my chair and stare at the table. I would like this conversation to terminate. Now.