But even without the guilt, I find myself falling to my knees and dropping my face away from the scene, because I can’t bear to look. The sounds are still vivid and awful, though: the man’s whispered counting as he bears down on Sammie’s chest, the grind of his knee against the dirt. Tears rush into my eyes, and I let them fall.
It’s over. I’ve lost her.
I look up to see the bearded man drawing out the pads of the AED. As he pulls away from her, Sammie’s eyes flicker open.
“Sammie!” I say.
Seemingly overcome with shock, she leaps into the air, shooting up about six feet. Her eyes dart around at the construction workers until they lock on me. I fall forward onto my hands, going limp with joy and relief.
“Damien!” Sammie says. “Are you okay?”
I manage to pick myself up, though my limbs feel weirdly gelatinous. As I wobble to my feet, I notice that the construction workers are frozen in place, their faces slack with awe as they stare at Sammie.
“I’m great,” I say, my voice breaking. I realize that there are still tears coming out of my eyes, and I wipe them with the back of my hand.
“What happened?” Sammie tenses. “Did they hurt you?”
“No,” I say. “They saved your life.”
Sammie cocks her head. The bearded man seems to overcome his awe, because he reaches into his pocket and drags out a cell phone.
“I’m going to call an ambulance,” he says.
Sammie throws herself about three feet higher into the air.
“Don’t!” I say. When the man stares at me, puzzled, I say, “We can’t.”
After a moment, he nods, then slides his phone back into his pocket. Sammie drifts down and lands in the dirt, bending her knees to lessen the impact. She looks fine—pale and cut up—but fine, alive, staring at me. Then I realize: it’s over. The destruction of the device in Sammie’s neck means her ties to the criminals are cut, and we have escaped from the scientists.
“You’re free,” I say.
She narrows her eyes, then reaches for the back of her neck.
“Destroyed,” I say.
At this, she bawls openly. I wrap my arms around her, and the construction workers back off, giving us space. Minutes pass as Sammie sobs into my T-shirt, while I clutch my hands together behind her. I estimate that the likelihood of this moment happening—Sammie free, both of us okay, no secrets left between us—was one in a million. Yet it is unfolding before my eyes. I want to memorize it, this feeling of delirious freedom and uncomplicated love. This is greatness.
Sammie pulls away from me, then clutches my hand. Despite the tears that still shine on her face, she grins. We begin to walk toward the woods.
“Wait a minute!” The bearded construction worker runs up beside us. “Where are you going to go?”
Sammie raises an eyebrow. “Up.”
And we blast into the air.
****
WANTED: FLYING TEENAGERS. NO HOAX.
By Patrice Carbonaro
A night of fun was transformed into one of terror and amazement when an unidentified criminal girl and a Boorsville boy, Damien Savage, 17, flew through a window and up into the sky during Boorsville High’s Spring Shake on Friday.
The girl, who federal officials on the scene declined to identify, was being pursued by the FBI on charges of terrorism, homicide, and robbery, among other crimes. The two teens made their miraculous escape after federal agents raided the dance and attempted to capture the wanted girl.
Officials would not say whether Savage was involved in the crimes.
Agent Michael Thorne of the FBI says that he is mystified by the phenomenal flight, but insists that he and his fellow officers have the situation under control.
"We have been tracking this criminal for quite some time, and we have not lost the trail. We will not give up the search,” he says.
When asked how the FBI is responding to the to the phenomenon of human flight, Thorne says, "We're as shocked as everyone else is. We'd like to know more about this girl. Her capture is paramount to us."
Thorne urges anyone with information about the whereabouts of either Savage or the girl to contact authorities immediately.
"Not only will you be taking a violent criminal off the streets, you will be helping to move the human race a great step forward,” he says.
What’s up?
Sammie here. I bet you’ve been reading a whole lot of news stories like the one above, right? Well, Damien and I wrote all this down so you could get the whole story. We’re not the bad guys. (That would be Thorne, the boss, and maybe Joe Butt.) Thorne’s trying to use the media against us, but we thought that maybe, if we reached enough people, we could use it against him. So pass this thing on, alright? The more people who know what’s actually up with us, the less we’ll be treated like a couple of fugitives. Who knows, maybe we could finally stop running.
Since all this stuff went down, Damien and I have been pretty much everywhere. England, France, Russia, South America (briefly), California, Arizona, Utah—you point it out on a map, we’ve probably touched down and bought Cheetos. Damien’s earning some money writing science articles for a kids’ website. Me, I’m just soaking it all up, all these places I’ve always wanted to go but couldn’t. We go to public libraries a lot, to read and learn about stuff. We go to movies and baseball games. Of course, we have to wear disguises to all of these places.
When things settle down, which hopefully they do, we’re going to go find my mom. As far as we know, Damien’s parents are still in Boorsville, but we haven’t been able to see them. (Sidenote: We read in the news that Boorsville High actually graduated Damien at the end of this school year, since he had enough credits.) We’d like to thank the people who’ve helped us so far, like those construction workers back in the woods, the guy with all the hot dogs in Chicago, the bread place in Paris, and all of the people who’ve spotted us but haven’t called the police. Sorry we can’t offer you a whole lot in return. But hey, if you ever need anything delivered...
Sammie
Damien
“I don’t know, Sammie. I don’t necessarily like this look.”
“What’s not to like? You look like a pirate.”
“That’s not really a good thing.”
“Then take off the moustache.”
“Alright.”
Sammie and I are standing outside the Phillies’ stadium. Thoroughly disguised, Sammie is wearing sunglasses and a backwards Phillies cap we just bought off a street vendor. I’ve got a bandanna tied around my head, completely covering my dark hair (it’s a real giveaway), and I was wearing a huge fake moustache Sammie picked up from God knows where. I tuck the moustache into the pocket of my jeans and look around. In the mid-afternoon sun, tons of people are streaming into the stadium, almost all of them in bright red Phillies garb. No one seems to notice us, which is good: bad things happen when people notice us. (I am referring to things like screaming, chasing, police-calling, and general chaos.)
“Ready?” Sammie says, holding out her hand.
I take it and grin. “Yes.”
We join the stream of people drifting into the big red entrance. Inside, there’s a long hallway with lots of stands selling hamburgers, hot dogs, T-shirts, and foam fingers. I hand our tickets to the man ripping them and take back the stubs. We follow the crowd out to the bleachers, then begin the climb the metal steps. Carnival music booms, and the smell of buttery popcorn permeates the air. I glance back at Sammie. She’s gazing at everything, a curious look on her face.
When we’ve reached about as high as we can go, we file into our row and take our seats. Below, the Phillies have taken the field, looking like tiny white dots in their pin-striped uniforms. Sammie and I saved for months for these tickets. While it would have been relatively easy for us to float to the top of the stadium and drop into the back row, we wanted to do this legally. Baseball is something we both like—me because I always have, and her because I told her so ma
ny baseball stories that she actually knows the rules. At the public library, we’ve been scrolling through the scores of every Phillies game and keeping up with each player’s stats. We’re fans.
“Why is that guy screaming the word peanuts?” Sammie says.
“He’s selling them.”
“That was unclear.”
“Do you want to get some?”
She tilts her head and reaches into her pockets, then pulls out a crumpled one dollar bill and a couple of nickels. “Will this be enough?”
“If you multiplied it by seven, maybe.”
“That seems awfully expensive.”
“Lesson Number 16 of today: Before entering a sports arena, stuff your pockets.”
I dig into my jeans and whip out two king-sized Snickers bars. Sammie snatches one and rips off the wrapper.
“Nice,” she says.
“I figured you would approve.”
“You figured correctly.”
I peel open my own Snickers bar and sink my teeth into it. My mouth full of caramel and nougat, I say, “Eventually we’re going to have to start working more vegetables into our diet.”
Sammie raises an eyebrow. “Who says?”
“The food pyramid.”
“I don’t know what that is, but I doubt its authority.”
I shake my head and turn my eyes toward the game. The players are getting warmed up, whipping a ball around the field so fast it’s hard to follow.
“Utley’s looking good,” Sammie says.
“So is Luna.”
Her knees bounce up and down. “I hope they win!”
“I don’t know, Sammie. They’re not supposed to.”
She turns to me with a sly look. “I have faith in the underdog.”
I grin. With a burst of music and applause, a singer walks out onto the field and begins belting the national anthem. Sammie and I, along with the few thousand other people packing the stands, leap to our feet. The singer’s powerful soprano becomes the only noise. Sammie clasps my hand, and my heart beats faster.
“I’m glad we made it here,” Sammie whispers.
“Me too,” I say.
Acknowledgements
Thanks, Shannon, for proofreading, Patrice for the backyard photoshoot, Annemarie for letting me write on our vacation, and Mom and Dad, for the whole feeding/raising/sending to college bundle.
Though they really had nothing to do with this particular piece of writing, I also have to thank my college roommates—Heather, Sam, Hannah, Danielle, and Erika—for putting up with my writerly rants and moods. I love you guys. Also, thanks, Jen, for teaching me important stuff and repeatedly pulling me out of the abyss.
Ladies at the Feather House: You are amazing. Thanks for all of your support this past year.
Lafayette College English Department: THANKS FOR SENDING ME TO GRAD SCHOOL! (First year made possible by the March Fellowship.) I promise I’ll write something a bit more serious.
Finally, thank God, who makes all things possible.
Things I Thought While Writing This Book
That People Who Know Me May Find Amusing
My goodness, this is violent. Right off the bat—punching and hitting and stuff. I really wonder about myself.
Fudge-face?
Person I sort of know who somehow knows I’m writing an eBook: “What’s it about?”
Me: “Uh, well, uh, a flying person. And criminals. And mad scientists. It’s, you know, for fun.”
Person: “Right.”
This is completely implausible. I don’t care.
Am I using too many details? I realize this entire endeavor was partly an exercise in better-detail-using, but how many times am I going to have to describe these people’s faces? Seriously, the next book I write, I’m using faceless characters. I’ll write a book about walls. Talking walls.
I use the word smash too much. He smashed this. She smashed that. Smash smash smash. Again with the violent themes.
My friends are going to think I’ve gone mad.
There Sammie goes again, crying. I’m trying to write her strong, yet I keep making her cry. All my feminist cred, out the window. As if the romance-centric-ness of this entire thing didn’t do that already.
Wait, I didn’t want Jiminy to die!! Writer-self: “Too bad. Muahaha.”
I like writing as a guy better than writing as a girl. Great. That’s a fun detail I really wanted to learn about myself.
She explodes? You can’t think of anything better than that? Writer-self: “Heh. Heh. Sorry.”
I’m a bit concerned about the fact that they sleep in the same room together every night. I mean, it’s not like they’re doing anything, but still, I’m a Christian here. I shouldn’t be writing that. Then again, Damien is only trying to be kind, and they’re not Christians. Then again, I created them and am more or less glorifying their actions. Then again, I think having Damien take Sammie to the window and be like, “Sorry, the author is a Christian, so you can’t stay here tonight even though it’s one of exactly one places you feel sort of safe. Get out. Go on, now.”—would be less Christian than what I’ve got going on. Not to mention totally out of character.
Well, what if the arrow hit her in the heart? Then she’d die. I don’t think Thorne would shoot arrows at her if there was a chance she could die. Writer-self: “They are magical non-death arrows.” Self: “Oh. I didn’t know that.”
Where does Sammie go when she’s not at Damien’s or at the Tower?
Maybe no one will think of that.
Of course they’ll think of that. It’s a huge missing detail.
Whatever. The book is $2.99. For that price, they can make up where she goes themselves.
Boy, do I love writing Damien’s parents.
No one is going to buy this. Except people who know you. And then they’ll just think you’re weird(er).
I should go to bed.
Should I advertise that I’m using the proceeds of this book to feed myself at grad school? I bet that’d up the sales. My author bio pic could be me looking sad and hungry. And maybe I could get that “Arms of An Angel” song to play.
Mom keeps bugging me to write something beautiful or historical. *Sigh.*
I SUCK!!!!
I’M AMAZING!!!!
She’s not good enough for him. She’s just not. I hate her. (The awkward moment when you’re in love with the guy you created and get all jealous of the girl you created.)
This is totally unprofessional. I’m stopping.
Okay, one more.
About the Author
Michele Tallarita is a potentially schizophrenic 22-year-old from Pennsylvania. She’s off to Temple University to get her MFA in fiction, so wish her luck. If you want to read her short story about angsty swamp monsters, look it up on the Young Adult Review Network (YARN).
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