The Thing with Feathers

by McCall Hoyle

  “What’s your secret, dude?” He props himself on the corner of my desk, smiling. “I thought we had this unspoken agreement to maintain the status quo, the mediocrity, to not stand out academically.”

  “You’re looking at it.” Chatham gestures toward me with both hands, like one of those TV hand models on the Home Shopping Network Mom loves to watch even though she never has the money to buy anything.

  Derek sits up, his eyes wide. “Really?”

  I flip a page, trying to look focused, and wish his voice weren’t quite so booming. When I look across the room, I notice Jules and the girl sitting beside her watching us, like they’re studying us for a piece of creative writing or maybe a nonfiction piece on dating rituals.

  “How about you share the love, man?” Derek slides off the desk, squatting so he’s eye level with us. “My GPA could use a boost.”

  “No can do. She’s all mine.” Chatham grins, but his jaw is set, his eyes firm.

  Derek throws up a hand in quick surrender—like he doesn’t want to mess with bowed-up, ready-to-spring Chatham.

  Chatham’s last three words thaw the frost around my heart a little. She’s all mine. She’s all mine. She’s all mine. I feel like that bacon-craving dog on the Beggin’ Strips commercial—panting, Bacon, bacon, bacon.

  When I look up, Ayla’s watching too, smiling from ear to ear. She wiggles her eyebrows like she can read my mind, and I laugh.

  Chatham and Derek turn in unison to face me.

  “What’s funny?” Chatham asks, squinting, obviously trying to read my thoughts.

  “Nothing.” I uncurl my spine. My shoulders rise higher than usual. Chatham and Derek couldn’t appreciate the irony of the situation. Maybe Ms. Ringgold could, if this were a scene in a book. She’d probably say it was a cliché, though—the two cutest guys in the class vying for the awkward, bookish girl’s attention. Or, in this case, her tutoring abilities. It’s like my own strange little version of a fairy tale, and I want to freeze it in time to smile over once I’ve left this place.

  When the bell rings, the fairy tale continues. “I’ll walk you to class,” Chatham says, grabbing my hand.

  I breathe slowly, picturing a brown bag expanding and deflating in front of my mouth, so I won’t hyperventilate. “Cool.”

  The one-word response doesn’t sound cool at all. I make a mental note to work on my vocabulary. Thankfully, the hall is too loud and too crowded to carry on a conversation.

  As we approach the door to my next class, Chatham squeezes my hand, stopping me in my tracks. We’re pressed together against the lockers by a river of bodies.

  Chatham studies my hand. “You don’t seem like the kind of girl to play hard to get.” The corners of his mouth turn up in a half smile.

  If the situation weren’t so unbelievably insane, I’d laugh out loud. Me play hard to get? “No, it’s not like that at all.” I glance toward my class. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “How do you know?”

  The scene unfolds like a movie in my head. I’m having this whole out-of-body experience, watching myself from above as I interact with the cutest boy in eastern North Carolina. Except I don’t know what my next line is. Though I can tell you it’s definitely not “I can’t go on a date with you because I have epilepsy.”

  The bell interrupts us. “You’re going to be late. I’ve got to go.” I pull away, telling my feet to move, but they ignore me. It’s like the few times I’ve braved standing at the water’s edge. A wave washes over my feet, warm and frothy. I freeze, standing perfectly still. Even though I know I’m not moving, it feels like I’m slipping forward toward the sea when the wave recedes, sucking at the sand around my feet. Chatham’s like that: an invisible current, a swell of floodwater threatening to wash out my foundation. If I don’t reinforce the levees around my heart, I’m going to float away. Or drown.

  “It’s just my mom’s crazy protective.” I tell myself it’s not a total lie and avoid his skeptical gaze. When my science teacher pokes his head out in the hallway, shooting us the evil eye, my feet decide to cooperate, dragging me into the lab and away from Chatham. I mouth the word “Sorry” as I slip inside the classroom.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  An awful Tempest mashed the air—

  EMILY DICKINSON

  At home, after the world’s longest day at the Ridge, Hitch and I cuddle on the couch. Our sofa wasn’t meant to support me and eighty-something pounds of squirming golden retriever, but I don’t have the heart to tell him to get down. He’s the one thing in this crazy world I can always count on—my rock, my best friend. When we were first introduced at Canine Companions four years ago, it was love at first sight. Dad used to tell anyone we met this story about how Hitch and I were like an old, married couple. From the moment we laid eyes on each other, we were hitched. People would shake their heads in confusion. Then Dad would explain the bad pun on Hitch’s name.

  I used to cringe when Dad told personal stories to the mailman or to strangers in line at the hardware store or when he sang along to his favorite eighties songs on the radio. Now I’d give anything to hear him. A dull ache pulls in my chest when I try to recall his voice. My shoulders slump as I hug myself, trying to block out the emptiness.

  It’s weird. I can remember every detail of his tan face, the indentation in his cleft chin, even the way the sun glinted off his five o’clock shadow when he didn’t shave, but I can’t recall his voice. I mean, I’d know it in an instant if I heard it, but I can’t quite re-create it in my head. When I try, it’s hollow, distant, like the summer I was seven and we made a homemade telephone out of tin cans and a piece of string. For an entire summer, I carried around my contraption. Dad was the only person who didn’t get tired of talking to me with a can to my ear. He’d whisper entire bedtime stories to me that way, long after Mom refused to communicate via the rickety apparatus.

  The only way to smother the pain rising from my chest to my throat is to think about something else. I stare at the Whitman poem Ms. Ringgold assigned, but my mind keeps wandering. Every once in a while Hitch sighs or nudges my hand, reminding me to keep petting him.

  I’m highlighting an implied metaphor in a line of poetry when the phone rings. The fluorescent pink marker jags across the page. I hurry over to the bar, grabbing the cordless phone. The number on the caller ID looks vaguely familiar, so I answer. There’s a long pause before a male voice asks to speak to Mom.

  “She can’t come to the phone right now,” I lie. If I made the effort to stick my head out the front door and call for her, she could come to the phone. She’s only walked downstairs to check the mail.

  “You must be Emilie.” The voice tries to strike up a conversation.

  I picture a flat-faced, smiling pug of a man hitting on my mother and almost throw up a little in my mouth. “Do I know you?”

  Hitch jumps off the couch, coming to stand at my side, alert to the ice in my voice.

  “I’m Roger.” He breathes into the phone as he speaks. “Your mother’s friend Roger.”

  He emphasizes the word friend as I concentrate on not puking.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you.” He hesitates, like he’s choosing each word carefully. “All good, of course.”

  I roll my eyes, digging the fingernails of my free hand into my palm, willing myself to at least be polite if not sociable. “Really? I haven’t heard anything about you.” Ouch—I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just . . . this is too weird.

  Mom dating.

  Me not.

  Roger gives up on the friendly chitchat. I glance at Hitch, who does this thing where he raises one eyebrow, then the other, and lets his lower eyelids sag. He’s obviously disappointed by my lack of social graces. If Hitch were a person, he’d be Mother Teresa or Gandhi or someone who treated all living creatures with the respect they deserve. It’s depressing how my dog is a better human being than I am.

  Before Roger can sputter out another cheery response, I mumble a quick good-
bye and something about giving Mom the message he called, then shove the phone down on the charger. Bracing myself against the counter, I close my eyes and exhale through my nose. Specks of light flash on the back of my closed eyelids.

  Hitch whines as I wipe my palm on my ratty sweatpants, but he doesn’t tug on my clothing in an effort to pull me to a safe place, which means I must just be overstressed and freaking out and not about to have an actual seizure. I open my eyes and study the sea oats outside the kitchen window, swaying on the dunes out back. My breathing begins to slow until the back door opens and Mom comes breezing in with a handful of envelopes and sale flyers.

  Then all my pent-up emotions erupt. “Your friend Roger called,” I hiss, fists balled at my side.

  A furniture advertisement slips from her hand, swishing to the floor. “Okay. Thanks.” She bends to pick it up, avoiding my eyes. “I’ll call him later.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this.” I stomp my foot like a spoiled five-year-old who didn’t get the toy she wanted in her Happy Meal.

  “Doing what, Emilie?” When she looks up at me, the ceiling light casts shadows on her face, accentuating the dark circles under her eyes.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I spit out the d-word we’ve both been avoiding: “Dating.” We lock eyes. “Mom, you’re dating.”

  “Is that really such a horrible thing?” There’s heat in her voice, and I withdraw a step, afraid I might have awakened a sleeping dragon. The color drains from the hand she uses to grip the mail. Her nostrils flare. “Your father loved me. He would want me to be happy.”

  “No.” I choke on the argument. “He told me you were like geese, that you mated for life.”

  Her free hand clutches her stomach like I punched her. She steps toward the breakfast table, grabbing one of the ladder-back chairs for support. “We were geese, Emilie. We did mate for life.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper. “But your father . . . died.” She turns the chair around, sinking into the sagging, woven seat, her eyes fat with tears. “He left me, Emilie. He left me.”

  When her shoulders sag, Hitch pads across the room to lay his big head in her lap.

  “It wasn’t his fault!” I scream, swiping my palm along the windowsill above the sink. Dad’s collection of beach glass slaps the counter, clatters in the stainless steel sink, and crashes to the hardwood floor. “And—you’re a liar. All this crap about emotional development has nothing to do with me. It’s all about you and your . . . your friend Roger.”

  Mom flinches but stays in her seat. Hitch’s eyes ricochet nervously back and forth between our faces. I run to my room, slamming and locking the door behind me before throwing myself face-first on the bed.

  I hate her. I hate my life. Most of all, I hate myself. I’m being immature. What kind of teenager is jealous of her own mom? But Mom had the love of her life once already. Now, she’s going to start dating again. My forty-two-year-old mother is going to find another goose and soar off into the sunset. I’ll be an armadillo or something equally hideous for the rest of my life, burrowing around in my shell, too afraid to take a risk on a relationship. I’m a coward.

  And I’m always going to be miserable if I don’t do something about it. Soon.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Much Madness is divinest Sense—

  EMILY DICKINSON

  Hitch scratches at my bedroom door around eight that night. I open it to let him in, relocking the door behind him. He jumps on the bed, and I lie down beside him, draping an arm across his chest. We lay like that for a long time. When Mom jiggles the doorknob and whispers my name around ten o’clock, I pretend to be asleep. Hitch whines but doesn’t get up.

  By eleven, Mom’s room is quiet, and it’s pretty obvious I won’t be falling asleep any time soon. I flip on the bedside lamp, glancing around the room for a distraction, and on the nightstand, there’s the little book of poetry Chatham gave me, staring me in the face. Anything is better than thinking about the scene I caused in the kitchen tonight. So I open the cover, careful not to damage the fragile spine.

  Chatham’s bold handwriting grabs my attention. Keep your face always toward the sunshine—and shadows will fall behind you. A smile pulls at the corners of my lips. The first time I read the inscription in the media center, I was too overwhelmed by Chatham’s physical closeness to really comprehend the message. But now, in the quiet of my room, the irony hits me. The first time I met him, he reminded me of the sun. How I would love to keep my face toward that flaming ball of light and let the shadows created by epilepsy, Mom, and all my insecurities fall behind me.

  If I were a glass-is-full kind of girl like Ayla, I would take Chatham up on his invite to Bodie Island Lighthouse. If I were a glass-is-full kind of girl, I would believe Mom and Dr. Wellesley when they said my seizure meds were working. I’d be optimistic about not having an episode in almost three months—at least one that I’m aware of. There’s always a chance I could’ve seized in my sleep. But Hitch is super reliable about waking Mom, and that hasn’t happened.

  I kick my legs over the side of the bed, pulling open the drawer of my bedside table and fumbling around until my hand grazes the spiral notebook I’m supposed to use to journal about my seizures.

  My neurologist seems to think I might be able to ward off some of my seizures by controlling my sleep, diet, and stress levels. Personally, I think he’s crazy. I’ve never been able to determine any rhyme or reason to what triggers a seizure. They just happen. They’re like storms during hurricane season—inevitable. I can try to lessen the damage by boarding up the windows and barricading myself in the house, but all the plywood in the world won’t push back the gale-force winds or the rising tides of a grand mal seizure.

  I flip toward the back of the notebook in search of my last entry—July 15. Glancing at the golden retriever calendar hanging on the back of my closet door, I realize it’s the fifteenth of October. It’s been exactly three months since my last seizure. I can’t believe Mom and I both forgot my three-month anniversary.

  Ugh. I want to run into her room, jump on her bed, and do a little victory dance. But I can’t since we’re not speaking—well, since I’m not speaking to her. The last time I went three months without a seizure was before I was diagnosed with epilepsy when I was seven years old.

  When I bounce on the bed, Hitch lifts his head. “I haven’t had a seizure in three months,” I whisper, squeezing his jowls and laughing at his scrunchy fish face. “Hitch, what if my meds are working?”

  He raises his left brow, placing a paw on my thigh.

  I bend down to kiss the top of his blond head, then float across the room to grab my phone off the dresser, my heart racing. This is huge. I need to celebrate, to face the sun, to let the shadows trail behind me.

  Before I can second-guess myself, I open the contacts in my phone and scroll to the Cs. My finger develops a mind of its own and presses the message button. Are you awake? I hit Send, instantly doubting myself. What have I done?

  Yes

  Crap. Crap. Crap. I rack my brain for a clever response. I’m an idiot. I should turn off my phone and pretend I never texted Chatham. But I’ll see him in class tomorrow. My pulse throbs in my neck. What do I say? He has to know something’s up. I’ve never called or texted him first.

  Hello?

  I have to say something. I stare across the room. When I blink, my vision clears. The dog on the calendar smiles encouragingly. It’s been three months, I remind myself. Channeling my favorite butt-kicking Disney princess, Mulan, I start typing. Hey, do you still want to go to Bodie?

  My phone’s dead weight in my damp palm. I’ve lost my freaking mind. It’s taking too long for him to respond. My free hand hovers at my neck as I inhale through my nose. If I don’t relax, my heart’s going to thump out of my chest.

  Hitch whimpers.

  When I squeeze my eyes shut, an image of a sleepy Chatham, lying on his bed, his sandy-brown hair mussed, flashes in my head, and a little groan esc
apes my lips. He’s changed his mind, invited someone else, decided I’m not into him. He’s laughing at me, toying with me.

  The phone vibrates. I jerk, bumping Hitch with my elbow. He narrows his eyes.

  “Sorry, Hitch. I’m an idiot.”

  He rests his head on his front legs with a sigh.

  I’ve been reprimanded by my dog. Squinting with one eye, I dare to peek at the phone.

  What about family day?

  Crap. What about family day? What about family day?

  My mom had a change of plans.

  And now I’m lying to the nicest boy on the face of the planet.

  Great! Saturday at four?

  Stop! Abort! the voice in my head commands, like Captain Kirk from the helm of the Enterprise. But do I listen? Of course not. I lack even one tidbit of Spock’s logic.

  Yes. Saturday at four. :)

  My plan is riddled with more holes than a duck brought down with one of Granddaddy Day’s shotguns. I don’t know whether to be more worried the buckshot will maim my relationship with Mom, who has no idea I’m putting myself out there on the dating front, or that I’ll mortally wound myself.

  One thing’s for sure: I’m taking risks, and Dr. Wellesley seems to think that’s what’s going to lead to me breaking out of my shell. But taking risks also leads to skydiving accidents, motorcycle crashes, and brain injuries. I guess one way or another other, I’ll develop or die.

  When Hitch stands, scratches the quilt where he’s been lying, circles a few times, and collapses in a lump back in his original spot, I know it’s my signal to go to sleep. And I try. I really, really do. But I end up tossing and turning until the alarm clock buzzes at six thirty, forcing me to face the day, my mother, and eventually Chatham.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Heart asks Pleasure—first—And then—Excuse from Pain—