The Thing with Feathers

by McCall Hoyle

  My finger is hovering over the Send button when a spot of green catches my eye. Mom’s Honda whips around a curve and into the parking lot. The woman flying into the lane cannot be my mother, though, because my mother never speeds. And yet it looks like her, and she’s smiling. So I slide into the passenger seat and pray I’m not being abducted by aliens.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” She wipes her palm on her tan linen pants.

  “No problem.” I watch the woman who looks like my mom out of the corner of my eye in case she morphs into some kind of mutant being.

  We drive north on the beach road with the windows rolled down a few inches. I count the fifty-year-old shacks dotting the shore, struggling to maintain their perches on the narrow strips of sand that haven’t been eroded by wind and waves. I’ve been studying them most of my life. If I’ve learned one thing from their precarious situation, it’s that Mother Nature is in control. She’ll take what she wants when she wants.

  That’s what happened with Dad. One day he was there for me, rubbing my back during the night after a nasty seizure. Before I could comprehend what was happening, he’d been ripped out of my life by forces outside my control, leaving me with an ache in my chest that never seems to subside.

  When Mom’s phone vibrates in the cup holder between our seats, I reach for it. An unfamiliar number blinks on the screen, which is weird, because nobody calls Mom. She doesn’t socialize much anymore.

  Before Dad died, my parents had people over all the time for their famous seafood shish kebabs. Mom would stake tiki torches out around the deck and serve frosty drinks with little umbrellas in them. I’d stay up way past my bedtime listening to the waves, Jimmy Buffet blaring on a portable CD player, and the sound of voices on the wind.

  But most of their friends were married with kids, and I think it got awkward for Mom being the third wheel. And it got awkward for me because my body was changing thanks to the joys of puberty. The doctors were having a hard time stabilizing my meds and seizures. No matter how kind the parents, their kids were scared by my seizures. And I couldn’t blame them. I was scared by my seizures.

  The last time Mom tried hanging out with a friend she met at the library, it didn’t go well. We went to eat dinner at the woman’s house. The two of them were going to organize a book club, but I seized before dessert and bumped my eyebrow on the woman’s kitchen table. My head bled like crazy.

  Mom’s friend was fine, but her husband said something about their homeowner’s insurance policy. He made both of us feel uncomfortable, like he thought we were going to sue them or something. After that, it just seemed easier to stay home than to venture out.

  “Who is that?” I ask, handing her the phone.

  “Oh. Probably a wrong number.” She rejects the call, sliding the phone under her thigh and pressing the power button on the radio. While she tunes the station to the talk show she likes, I blink to clear my vision, certain my eyes are playing tricks on me. Mom’s nails are painted a cheery shade of pink.

  My head spins. She hasn’t manicured her nails since before Dad died.

  Something is wrong—very wrong. My head swivels from side to side as I survey my surroundings, making sure we’re on the beach road leading to our house and not sliding down the rabbit hole into Wonderland.

  When we turn into the driveway, Cindy sits cross-legged on the deck. She and Hitch are communicating through the front window.

  “Hey, squirt!” I say as I climb the steps, trying not to think about Mom’s fingernails. “What are y’all talking about?”

  Cindy turns back to Hitch, wagging her finger at him. “We can’t tell. It’s a secret.”

  “What if I give you cookies?”

  “I’ll take cookies, but I can’t tell. I promised.”

  Mom shuffles past us to unlock the door. “I made snicker-doodles,” she says, holding the door open for us.

  Cindy’s eyes light up. “Lucky! Snickerdoodles.”

  They’re store-bought refrigerated cookie dough, so I’m not sure how lucky that makes me. But I keep my mouth shut.

  We play several hands of Old Maid, drink lemonade, and eat cookies while Mom pulls a couple of microwavable lasagnas out of the freezer. Hitch sits on high alert beside Cindy in case she drops a crumb. Finally, an ocean breeze rattles the chimes out back, and Cindy glances out the window toward her house.

  “I guess I better go,” she says, grabbing three cookies for the road.

  “Do you want me and Hitch to walk you home?”

  She turns to look in the direction of her house and shakes her head. “No. You know how Dad feels about dog hair.”

  Yes, I do. That’s another reason to steer clear of their house. That and the fact that it’s kind of cold and unfriendly. Oh, and pretty much every time Mom and I speak to Cindy’s parents, they offer to buy our house. If Mom would sell, they’d tear down our house in two-point-seven seconds flat for a “more uninterrupted view of the ocean.” What they mean is our old cottage is an eyesore.

  “’Bye, squirt,” I say.

  She waves and heads to the door, dropping a few crumbs along the way, much to Hitch’s delight.

  After she leaves, Mom and I eat microwavable lasagna in silence. Mom’s fork scrapes her plate, and I flinch.

  “Do you want to watch a movie?” she asks, poking at the tasteless red stuff on her plate. When I don’t respond, she notices me staring at her nails again. “I got a manicure.”

  Uh, yeah. I remain quiet, hoping my silence will force her to explain.

  “Dr. Wellesley says I should set an example for you by working on my emotional well-being.” She picks at the polish on her index finger.

  I want to ask how her getting a manicure is going to improve my emotional well-being, but I bite my tongue. The muscles in my shoulders tense the way they do when I fall asleep propped up in front of the TV. Hitch nuzzles my hand, worming his nose under my fingers so I’ll pet him.

  “You didn’t answer my question. About the movie.” She’s not going to let it go. Clearly, she wants to distract me from the paint on her nails.

  I swallow, avoiding her eyes.

  “We haven’t done Movie Monday in a while.” She reaches over to squeeze my hand.

  I start to pull away but stop myself. She’s right. When Dad was sick, we started this movie thing. Each week we’d draw straws. Whoever won got to choose a theme. Dad always chose something slapstick like a Looney Toons marathon. Mom and I preferred chick flicks and Disney classics. Dad liked Goobers and popcorn. We liked Twizzlers and gummy bears. We kept it up after Dad died, until a few months ago when Dr. Wellesley started talking about “moving forward” and pressured Mom to put me in school. Now, we’ve just kind of quit.

  She studies my face. I swallow again and look away.

  “I have too much homework.” It’s not a total lie. I do need to find a picture of myself for a genetics project in biology, and Ms. Ringgold told us to find at least five important quotes for our author research assignment. I could do both in about ten minutes, but I’m not telling my mom that.

  Hitch stares back and forth between our serious faces. I force a smile. He doesn’t deserve the additional stress of our strained relationship.

  Mom apparently decides not to force the issue. So I clear the table while she wipes down the counters. When she’s situated on the couch in front of our ancient TV, I head to my room to fake study. Hitch pads along behind me, plopping on the cool hardwood floor in front of my nightstand. I clear a spot on the quilt my grandmother made for my parents on their first wedding anniversary and pat the bed, inviting him to join me. When he takes me up on it, I lie down beside him, sinking my face into his thick fur, inhaling his smell—saltwater and sand with a tinge of wet dog.

  I should do my homework, but I need a few minutes to decompress. So I cuddle Hitch and close my eyes for just a second.

  When I open my eyes, the room is dark, the moon high in the sky. Hitch’s fur glows in the silver light. I brush tangled
hair off my face, blinking in confusion. He stares at me, his ears droopy. I ruffle his fur. Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t take his job of protecting me so seriously.

  He jumps to the floor, glancing back and forth from me to the door, and I remember I didn’t take him outside for his bedtime potty break. Plus, I need to wash my face and change into my pajamas. So I drag myself off the warm quilt and down the hallway toward the living room and the back door.

  Mom’s asleep on the couch, her cell phone clutched to her chest. The TV casts a warm glow on her face. She must be dreaming, because she’s smiling. I watch her for a minute, trying to remember the last time I saw her look happy. I honestly can’t remember. In fact, I’d forgotten that she’s pretty—in a middle-aged mom kind of way—when she smiles.

  Hitch pushes the screen door open with his nose, letting himself out onto the deck, and I follow. He heads out into the dunes. I sit in Dad’s old Adirondack chair, drawing my knees to my chest. The night breeze rustles the sea oats, muffling the sound of the waves. Out here, near the ocean, life is simple. Earth. Wind. Water. The sea moves in its own slow dance with the moon.

  I tilt my head back, closing my eyes, sucking the fresh air in through my nose and holding it for a second before exhaling through my mouth. My muscles unwind. For a minute, I forget about school, about epilepsy, about how much I miss Dad. For one second, I live in the present like Hitch—until the sound of breaking glass shatters the night.

  My eyes shoot open.

  “Please! Just shut up,” a woman shouts.

  Hitch barks from the beach. I scramble toward him, calling his name under my breath. In an instant he’s at my side, seated, on high alert as he’s been trained to do any time there’s a hint of danger.

  The lights come on in Cindy’s kitchen next door, illuminating a wall of glass. The house is attractive in a sleek, modern kind of way, but entirely out of place in Crystal Cove. It hovers over our cottage like a nuclear reactor beside a wilderness cabin. Bright lights reflect off glossy white paint and stainless steel appliances.

  Inside, Cindy’s mom grips her head, and I’m reminded of the harsh reality of life—for every positive, there’s a negative. For every slow-receding tide, there’s a forceful rising tide ready to drown and erode everything in its path. For every teenage girl drinking in the glory of the night, there’s some sad, lost soul bobbing in choppy water.

  I know it’s rude to watch. Plus, I promised Mom I’d steer clear of Cindy’s parents. As I turn away, I remind myself it’s perfectly normal for husbands and wives to argue. Mom and Dad argued. There were tears and raised voices involved, but they always told me that was normal. Families argue. That doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.

  I turn toward the door, patting my thigh, signaling Hitch to come with me and sidestepping the turbulent water of my neighbors’ lives.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Saying nothing . . . sometimes says the Most.

  EMILY DICKINSON

  In English, we’re supposed to work on our research projects, but Ms. Ringgold is absent. Maybe she’s sick, but I’m guessing she probably needed a break. She expends an enormous amount of energy teaching. I’ve never seen anyone so jacked up about Frost and Longfellow. She’s determined eleventh graders will be interested in a bunch of dead white men and their flowery poems.

  Most of the class goofs off on their phones. After the sub reads Ms. Ringgold’s instructions to the class to work on our project, she plops down behind the desk and loses herself in an outdated issue of People magazine. The guy sitting behind Ayla snores even though she turns around and huffs at him every few minutes. Chatham scoots his desk next to mine, oblivious to the curious stares of Maddie and her Hawaiian Tropic buddies.

  “So let’s do this.” He opens his binder, pulling out the stapled packet Ms. Ringgold gave us last week. “I have to get an A to stay off the bench.” He leans forward, ready to attack this project, determination etched on his tan face. “My dad will blow a gasket if I don’t start.”

  I’d hate to run up against Chatham on the basketball court. He’s about the tallest, fittest guy in school. Plus, he seems really driven to succeed. From what I can remember of our poetry discussion the other day in the media center, he seemed focused and smart. So I don’t get why he has such a hard time with this class. Our project shouldn’t be that difficult: read and annotate a few Dickinson poems, research some biographical information, write an analysis essay—done.

  “So what else do you know about Dickinson?” I ask, already thinking about how quickly we can finish our assignment. I have a plan: make sure Chatham earns an A on this Dickinson thing and tutor him a couple of times before the next test. By that time I will have convinced Mom to let me go back to homeschooling or at least to take virtual classes online. I will have repaid Chatham for his kindness. And I can go back to hanging around the house with Hitch without worrying about seizing in front of a bunch of strangers. Back to my neutral little world without the worries of being dragged out to sea by Chatham’s blue eyes or drowning in sorrow when he learns how weird I am and bails on our friendship.

  “Not much. She wrote a ton of poems that nobody read until after she died.” He shrugs, twirling his pencil around his index finger.

  Okay, so he did a little research.

  I thumb the pages of my binder, looking for my notes, and a piece of paper slides from the pocket folder in the back. We both lean down to grab it, and our hands touch, his fingers brushing the back of my wrist. I yank my hand back. “A few of them were read, but you’re right. She went mostly unrecognized until after her death.”

  “That’s sad.” He cocks his head, studying my face like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Don’t you think if you have a gift like that, you need to share it with the world?”

  Well, first of all, I don’t have any gifts—at least ones that are that big and important. But if I did, I could totally relate to Emily Dickinson keeping her writing to herself. A person’s private life should be exactly that: private. And she was the queen of keeping to herself. I totally respect that.

  I realize I haven’t answered Chatham’s question, so I nod. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  He chuckles.

  “What’s funny?” I pick at a hangnail, fidgeting under his stare.

  He playfully bumps my arm with his fist.

  I look away. How can a fist bump to the bicep feel scary and intimate? Is it possible to want to melt into Chatham’s arms and into the floor, both at the same time?

  “Nothing.” He smiles. “I’m just not sure if you’d say anything if you disagreed.”

  I swallow the humongous lump lodged in my throat. “I would. Well . . . I might. It depends.” I blink, looking away again. Maybe he’s right. I don’t like to speak up, especially in front of strangers. But I’m not the only person who feels that way. Lots of wise, artsy types like Thoreau chose nature and solitude over social lives and noise. I’d like to think I could grow up to be a wise, artsy type too.

  He smiles. “You like movies?”

  “Yeah.” He knows I do. We’ve talked about that before. I have no idea why he changed the subject so suddenly, but I’m thankful nonetheless.

  “Best teen movie of all time?”

  I roll my pencil on the desk. “Easy. The Breakfast Club.”

  “Agreed.” He leans forward, resting his hands on top of the desk. “Most popular movie you wish you’d never seen.”

  This is stupid, but at least his attention has moved to something less personal. “Jaws. Definitely Jaws.” There’s no need to explain this one to anyone who lives on a barrier island.

  “Wrong. Not Jaws.”

  “Excuse me? How can I be wrong? It’s an opinion.”

  “Your opinion is wrong. There are worse movies.” He drums his fingers on the desk like he’s enjoying this.

  I open my mouth to argue, but the sub peers at us over the top of her magazine. I glance over at Ayla, but she’s lost in her own world, drawing on
the back of a spiral notebook with her earbuds in.

  I wipe a moist palm on my denim shorts. “Yeah, okay. About Dickinson. Did you find any quotes you like?” I ask loud enough for the sub to hear. My posture relaxes when she goes back to her reading.

  “‘Beauty—be not caused—It Is.’” When he smiles, his eyes light up. “I like that one.”

  I’m pretty sure he’s flirting with me. And if he is, I’m flattered—really flattered. But I have no idea how to respond. I haven’t had a substantial conversation with a guy since before Dad died. And that was back when I was thirteen and my substantial conversations consisted of arguing with Austin, the geeky son of one of my parents’ friends, over who was going to eat the last s’more.

  “Okay. That’s good.” I start to write the word beauty, pressing down so hard the lead in my pencil breaks. He hands me a pen.

  I’m studying my paper in an effort to avoid his eyes, so I don’t see Maddie approaching until it’s too late.

  A shadow falls across my desk. When I look up, I’m blinded by her bleached hair and teeth and the halo of fluorescent light encircling her face.

  She smiles at Chatham. “So, Chatham.” She drags his name out into three long syllables instead of two. “How’s the project going?”

  She smiles down at me.

  I can’t help noticing what polar opposites we are. She’s what Granddaddy Day, who was born and raised in North Carolina tobacco fields, would’ve called a cool drink of water—tall, thin, and attractive. I’m more lukewarm lemonade. There’s no catchy southern saying for that one.

  “Maddie, you remember my friend, Emilie Day.” He winks at me encouragingly.