The Thing with Feathers

by McCall Hoyle

  “How could I forget?” She smirks and holds out a hand. There’s an awkward pause while she waits for me to put down the pen and hold out my nail-bitten fingers. We shake.

  The substitute glances at us again, sizing us up, deciding whether it’s worth the effort of getting up out of her seat. She settles for a firm “Shush.”

  “She’s also my tutor,” Chatham whispers, flashing his sunniest smile and propping an elbow on my desk.

  “Really? I thought you said you could take care of your grades on your own.” Maddie arches a waxed brow.

  “I know, but I changed my mind,” he says without explanation.

  Her eyebrow threatens to lift off her face. “Well . . . if she’s your friend and your tutor, you must bring her to Daddy’s shrimp boil next weekend.” She manages to make the invitation sound scary, like drawing a switchblade across someone’s throat. “We should show our appreciation for the girl who’s going to keep our starting point guard on the court.”

  I cringe. I thought she was chilly, but I was wrong. She’s dry ice and frostbite, and my self-preservation instinct tells me there’s no way I’m going to her daddy’s shrimp boil or anywhere within a five-mile radius of her house.

  After school, I swing by the lit-mag teacher’s room like I promised Ayla I would. I stand in the doorway, observing the people inside. A balding teacher sits behind his desk reading from a fat stack of papers. He occasionally scribbles something on one of them with his red pen. A handful of students occupy the room. Ayla and Katsu sit side by side in front of an open laptop. When I clear my throat, they look up.

  “Guys . . .” Ayla stands up and pauses dramatically, waiting for the other students in the room to look at her. “This is my friend, Emilie. Some of you have met her.”

  When she stops, everyone in the room speaks in unison. “Hi, Emilie,” they say, like they’re reading from some kind of support-group script or something.

  I chuckle as Ayla pulls me toward Katsu and their laptop.

  “You came,” she says.

  “I told you I would.”

  She nods, seeming pleased. “Yes, you did.”

  Katsu offers me a blue plastic chair, which I accept.

  “We just need to finish this blurb on the theater department’s next musical,” Ayla says. “Then I can introduce you to Mr. Johnson.”

  “Sure,” I agree, even though I have no desire to meet Mr. Johnson, who I assume is the teacher.

  Katsu runs his hand through his spiky black hair. “This would be much easier if the drama director had actually chosen a show someone had heard of.”

  I lean forward for a better view of the image on the screen and smile. “You haven’t heard of Hello, Dolly!?”

  “No,” Katsu says.

  Ayla shakes her head.

  “Yes, you have.” I hum a couple of lines of the Hello, Dolly! chorus.

  They smile patiently but obviously don’t recognize the song.

  “It’s one of the longest-running Broadway shows ever. It won ten Tony Awards,” I explain.

  Katsu shrugs.

  “It played two thousand eight hundred and forty-four times.” I can understand that they’ve never seen it—it’s not like a lot of shows come through our town. But to not even know it exists? My dad hated musicals, but even he would sometimes be caught whistling the famous tune.

  “Um, yeah. Never heard of it.” Ayla smiles at me, then turns back to the laptop to type a few lines.

  “Why do you know so much about this show?” Katsu asks as he leans forward to read what Ayla typed.

  “I just like musicals and movies and books. I’m kind of an arts-and-entertainment geek.” I shrug.

  “So you can write. You’re an arts-and-entertainment geek. Any other hidden talents or stores of knowledge?” Katsu laces his hands behind his head and leans back in his chair.

  “I kind of like history and politics,” I say, like it’s no big deal. And with them, it’s not. It feels perfectly natural to open up to them.

  He sits up, leans forward, and looks down his nose at me—all fatherly all of a sudden. “You, my friend, should join the quiz bowl team. I think arts and entertainment is one of their main categories. Or maybe the debate team if you know as much about history and politics as you do obscure Broadway shows.”

  I open my mouth to argue. If I’m not careful, these two will have my face plastered all over the yearbook in extracurricular photos.

  Before I can respond, I hear Maddie’s voice interrupting us. “Did I hear someone say ‘debate team’?”

  I cross my arms and let my eyelids droop, hoping my cool posture is more noticeable than the fire burning the tips of my ears. I never even heard her enter the room.

  “What do you need, Maddie?” Katsu asks.

  “Mr. Simpson asked me to give you the dates for the next round of debates.” She pushes a sticky note with some dates written on it in Ayla’s direction.

  “Emilie here is a history and politics whiz if you need an alternate or something,” Katsu says, tapping the back of my chair.

  Maddie’s eyes widen as though he said I’d won a Nobel Peace Prize for Literature or the Miss Universe Pageant and she’d only gotten second place. “That’s cool, but it requires a lot of time and studying.” She backpedals a step toward the door.

  “That’s the point. I don’t think Emilie would have to study that much—especially not for the historical and political topics.”

  Maddie’s face puckers like someone poured pickle juice in her Cap’n Crunch. “The team’s full,” she says, and heads to the door without a backward glance.

  Ayla presses her teeth into her bottom lip, holding back a smile until Maddie’s footsteps recede down the hall. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think she felt threatened, Emilie.”

  “I don’t think so.” I shake my head. Ayla’s observation couldn’t be farther from the truth. Beautiful Maddie, with her stellar grades and cute spirit wear, is about as likely to be scared of me as she is to run screaming from a marshmallow. But I don’t argue. Instead, I kick back and people watch while Ayla and Katsu finish their write-up about the play. The room and the kids in it are comfortable with themselves and with each other.

  I could almost see myself comfortable here too.

  Almost.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Our journey had advanced—

  EMILY DICKINSON

  It’s been seventy-eight days since my last seizure. Chatham and Ayla and the lapse in seizures are weakening my defenses. I could be lured into believing I have a shot at normal. But the last time I traveled that road, it didn’t end well.

  Last time I went two and a half months without a seizure, Mom and I got a little confident. We drove Dad’s truck up to the four-wheel-drive area of the beach on a fall afternoon. We pretty much had the place to ourselves. It was gorgeous. The wild ponies grazed the dunes. The weather was perfect.

  We sat on the tailgate, ate extra-crunchy PB&J sandwiches and salt-and-vinegar potato chips, and drank root beer. And held hands as the tide came in. Then without any warning, any aura, any anything—bam. I seized. Mom’s phone didn’t have a signal. The beach was deserted. She says she screamed for help. Nobody came. The seconds ticked toward the five-minute red zone as the seizure continued, then moved into the 911, life-or-death zone. If a park ranger hadn’t been patrolling the beach, if he hadn’t had a radio, if an EMT hadn’t been close by, I don’t know what would have happened.

  After that, Mom and I agreed to be more careful. And until recently we have been, despite Dr. Wellesley’s encouragement to “participate more actively in life.” But with each passing day, the temptation grows.

  Chatham called tonight. He just had a grammar question about a paper he’s writing for US History. But still, North Ridge’s most valuable player and Mr. Most Likely to Succeed called me.

  While I was sitting in the counseling office the other morning, I flipped through last year’s yearbook. Chatham’s picture decorated ev
ery other page. There were pictures of him on the basketball court, in a classroom dressed as a Greek god, and on the dance floor dipping an ancient but smiling assistant principal.

  He has that effect on people, which is why I’m sitting here on the couch still grinning like crazy after hanging up the phone. Hitch nestles his head in my lap as I contemplate my good fortune. It’s the first day since I started at the Ridge that I’ve come home with enough energy to make it through the afternoon and evening without a nap.

  My phone rings for the second time tonight, and Hitch’s brow furrows. It’s sad that my dog looks confused when my phone rings, like he’s baffled by my blossoming social life.

  When I answer, Ayla launches into a breathless summary of the discussion she just finished with Katsu about a new opinion column in the magazine. “He wants a new perspective from someone who hasn’t lived in Crystal Cove their entire life.” She pauses significantly.

  “I have lived in the Cove my entire life.” I sigh. Ayla and I have been through this before.

  “But you’re an out—” She trails off.

  “Outsider.” I don’t try to conceal the edge in my voice.

  “You know what I mean. You’re new to the Ridge.” She shuffles papers while we talk. “Just think about it.”

  “Ayla, I’m honored. Really, I am. But I’m not sure about this.”

  I don’t want more connections to North Ridge. I’m already obligated to Chatham for this Dickinson project and for tutoring. And Ayla is definitely creeping into friend territory. The more I let myself get sucked into their sphere, the harder it’s going to be to break free.

  At some point, the fake life I’m leading is going to come crashing down. I’ve been tricked before into thinking my seizures were gone, but they always return at the worst possible times—like at a public swimming lesson or the time I slept over at a friend’s house in sixth grade, seized, and wet the bed.

  “Just think about it.”

  I don’t respond. Ayla’s dad says something in the background. I slump into the couch and try to ignore the hole in my heart. Tonight is Mom’s night to close up at the library, so Hitch and I are home alone—again. If I happen to need help with homework, I’m on my own. I picture Ayla and her dad seated at the kitchen table, puzzling through an equation, laughing at some inside joke, her mom standing at the stove transferring cookies from the pan to a cooling rack.

  I stare at the ceiling as Ayla rattles off a list of things she needs to do for school tomorrow, including finding a childhood picture for the genetics project I almost forgot. When she hangs up, I drag myself off the couch and flip on the overhead light. Dad’s beach glass glimmers in the windowsill above the sink. I blow him a kiss and head down the short hall to Mom’s room and the boxes full of photographs stored in the back of her closet. I might as well find a picture for my own project while I’m thinking about it.

  Hitch pads along beside me and I squeeze his ear, telling him what a good man he is.

  Mom’s bedroom door is cracked. I push it open, heading across the darkened room to the master bath without turning on any lights. It’s still hard to look at Dad’s empty side of the bed. I spent every Saturday morning of my childhood wedged between my parents, watching Scooby-Doo reruns on that bed. When I was sick or scared, they always made room for me. The first time I walked into this room after the funeral, Dad’s keys were still on the nightstand beside a row of pill bottles. For one second, I forgot he was dead. Then a wall of grief hit me so hard I ran to their bathroom and puked my guts out.

  The memory causes my stomach to twist in on itself. I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth. I need to find a picture and get out of here.

  Hitch’s nails click on the cold tile floor as we shuffle through the bathroom to the walk-in closet on the far side. I loved this closet when I was a kid. It was the best hiding place in the house. I spent more winter afternoons than I can count curled up with a flashlight and a book behind Dad’s shirts.

  Without any windows, it’s pitch dark in the closet. It doesn’t matter. I could find the light switch blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back. But when I flick the switch, I pause, blinking. Something’s wrong. Dad’s side of the closet is empty, except for the “World’s Greatest Dad” T-shirt I gave him the summer before he died and a couple of boxes labeled Jim’s clothes. I hold the doorframe for a second before sliding to the floor. Hitch whines.

  I sit, leaning against the wall, my knees squeezed to my chest. Mom asked me a couple weeks ago if I wanted any more of Dad’s shirts, but I didn’t think anything about it at the time. When the initial shock passes, I crawl toward the first box, untucking one of the flaps and pulling it open. I gasp. For one second, Dad’s in the room with me—at least the faint smell of him is.

  I pull out an L.L. Bean hoodie, burying my face in the soft cotton. A hint of the Calvin Klein cologne my mother bought him every year for Christmas mixes with the memory of wood shavings from his shop in the storage room, and the apple-scented shampoo he used for as long as I can remember. I clutch the sweatshirt to my chest, hot tears forming in my eyes, too upset to respond when Hitch nudges my cheek.

  Images of my mother from the last few weeks flash in my head—the unrecognized number on her phone, her polished nails, my dad’s clothes boxes. Then it hits me: What if she’s moving on? What if she’s dating?

  It all starts to make sense. She keeps saying we need to work on my emotional and social well-being, but that’s not it at all. She’s starting a new life for herself, packing up Dad’s things and sending me off to school.

  Every time I think I have my life figured out, something rocks my world. One minute I’m a happy-go-lucky second grader, the next I’m epileptic. One day I have a pretty normal family, the next I’ve lost my father. I thought Mom and I had settled into our sad little existence without Dad, and now she’s going to have some kind of midlife crisis or something. I can’t deal. And this time, instead of avoiding an argument, I’m going to tell her what I think.

  I’m halfway through a Full House rerun I’ve seen twenty times when the Honda putters into the carport under the house. One good thing about living in a house designed to withstand hurricanes and floods is the elevation. By the time Mom climbs the stairs to the front deck, I’ve turned off the TV and organized my interrogation about the mystery caller, the manicure, and the midlife crisis.

  As the front door swings open, I suck down a steadying breath. A warped spring in the sofa creaks as Hitch jumps down to greet Mom. She enters in a swoosh. Rustling plastic grocery bags hang from one arm. A stack of DVDs nestles in the crook of the other.

  “It’s not Monday, but who cares?” She glances across the room at me as she jiggles her key from the lock.

  “Mom, we need to—”

  Before I can finish my sentence, she presses her lips into a thin smile, the way she did when she held Dad’s hand during his chemo treatments. Her whole body tightens like she’s bracing for a disappointment. The Wizard of Oz slides from the top of the stack and slaps the wood floor. “Oh, okay. I understand. I should’ve given you a heads up. I just thought . . .” The crow’s-feet at the corner of her eyes deepen.

  Hitch whimpers, looking from the movie on the floor to my face. Well . . . great. Just great. With a sigh, I throw the blanket off my lap and cross the room to help her. A colorful Dorothy, skipping along the yellow-brick road with her new friends, smiles up at me. I hand the DVD back to her, grab the grocery bags, and head to the kitchen.

  “Gummy bears, Twizzlers, and Skittles?” I ask as I unload the first bag.

  She smiles, revealing a hint of teeth this time. “And I thought we’d go to Fat Boyz for ice cream before the movie.”

  That’s two smiles in as many days. I almost hate to burst her bubble. Almost. “Mom . . . we need to talk.”

  “About chocolate chip cookie dough?” She lifts her eyebrows teasingly as she straightens the pile of Disney movies she rented.

  I stack the bags of can
dy on the bar, then cross my arms. Her smile falters, and Hitch glances between us, whining. The bag of Skittles slips off the counter. When it hits the floor, we both flinch.

  “What’s going on, really?” I ask.

  She shakes her head like I’ve sprouted a third eye. “Emilie, we’ve been through this. I love you. I just want us both to be well—physically . . . and emotionally.”

  I want to believe her. I want to believe in fresh starts and bright futures. But experience has taught me that stuff only happens in fairy tales, and I’m no Cinderella.

  She reaches across the bar to rest her hand on top of mine.

  “So what’s the special occasion?” I ask, concentrating on not pulling my hand away.

  “I just want to spend time with you.”

  I want to spend time with you too. The words form in my brain but stick in my throat. Hitch’s heavy breathing is the only sound in the quiet room.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re turning into Fat Boyz and I haven’t said a word about the potential mystery boyfriend. So much for the great inquisition. I’m a wuss.

  The parking lot’s empty except for a rusty Jeep and a gold BMW. We park and walk up the steps to the take-out window beneath the rounded pink overhang.

  “A double scoop of chocolate chip cookie dough in a waffle cone, rocky road in a cup with two spoons, and French vanilla in a doggie bowl,” Mom orders, and drops a dollar in the tip cup in front of the window.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I force myself to meet her eyes as I grab an extra handful of napkins. It’s the least I can do. She’s spent a lot of this week’s gas budget on our little outing tonight.

  “You want to sit on the deck or walk on the beach?” she asks.

  The hulking man behind the counter bends down to pass our order out the window. I immediately grab mine. “How ’bout the pier?” I ask around a mouthful of deliciousness.

  “Great idea. We haven’t walked the pier since . . .” Her voice trails off.

  Without speaking, we sit on the bottom step and wait for Hitch to finish his French vanilla. Mom hands me one of her spoons to taste test her rocky road.