The Thing with Feathers

by McCall Hoyle

  Ayla steps toward me, arms open, her flip-flops slapping the weathered boards beneath her feet.

  I let her hug me. “You’re right. It does suck.”

  I don’t know whether it’s the hug or the confession, but my chest expands. For the first time in three years, there’s a fullness in my abdomen, like someone just released a vise on my lungs. And I’m sucking in deep lungsful of air and wondering why Dr. Wellesley or Mom or some other adult didn’t think to remind me to breathe years ago.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Are Friends Delight or Pain?

  EMILY DICKINSON

  By the time we take Hitch for a walk on the beach, organize the tray of snacks we raided from the pantry, and head to my room, the sun is dipping on the horizon.

  Ayla turns on the overhead light and the lamp on the nightstand, then opens the blinds. “The Mona Lisa’s the Mona Lisa wherever you hang her, but even the Mona Lisa looks better under the right light, in a room that accentuates the dimensions of her frame. So let’s get cracking on highlighting your best features.”

  She gestures toward the chair with the painted butterfly seat at the little desk in the corner. Compared to Ayla’s sleek white bedroom with its splashy red accents, my room is a throwback to a decades-old American Girl magazine. It’s too late to worry about that, though, so I follow orders, sliding my butt onto the butterfly’s smiling face. In addition to hiding, I realize I’m also good at following directions.

  My earlier confidence falters under the glaring lights and Ayla’s squinty inspection like a storm-swept piece of seaweed. To her, I am just a blank canvas.

  “Ayla, I’ve changed my mind,” I start to protest.

  “Shh.” She grips my jaw between her thumb and fingers, tilting my head from one side to the other, her brow furrowing. “Good bones,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.

  “Great. Maybe Chatham’s more into skeletons than facial features,” I mumble, unable to enunciate clearly with her fingers pinching my chin.

  “Bone structure’s everything.” She ignores my humor, obviously serious about emphasizing my best features. “We just need to pluck a few brow hairs to frame your eyes and highlight your high cheekbones with a little bronzer.”

  I kind of doubt it will be that simple. But I hate to deflate her enthusiasm, seeing as how she’s my friend, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “This will be a piece of cake.” She steps across the room and opens the sliding door on my tiny closet. Her face falls when she spots the collection of graphic tees, khaki shorts, and jeans, but she doesn’t miss a beat. “Let me run downstairs. I have a couple of emergency wardrobe items in my car.”

  Hitch raises a skeptical brow in my direction when she leaves. I shrug and reach for Ayla’s makeup mirror, studying my reflection. Maybe it’s not so bad after all. “You don’t have to say anything. I know it’s crazy.”

  It’s hard to believe a few short months ago my mom was so worried about me becoming a pajama-wearing recluse, she upped my counseling sessions. It’s like the chicken-or-the-egg paradox. Did I start feeling better because I got out of the house and out of my pj’s, or did I start taking better care of myself because I was forced out of the house?

  Hitch sighs, stretching out on his side, laying his big head on my pillow, content with the fact that he’s right and he tried to warn me.

  Ayla returns with a gold-sequined tank top, a strapless red sundress, and a couple of colorful tops with a pair of jeans.

  “Sequins? To a lighthouse?” My nose curls. There are enough sparkles on that shirt to bring on a seizure.

  My colon ties itself in a knot at the word seizure. I still haven’t told Ayla about my epilepsy. She deserves better, and I really, really think I can trust her.

  “Yeah, it would’ve been a stretch.” She tosses it on the bed. “How ’bout the dress?”

  “It’s . . . tiny.”

  “Exactly.” Grinning, she shoves the soft cotton at me. Hitch eyes the dress distastefully as she holds it up to my chest.

  “Umm . . . not exactly lighthouse appropriate either. Plus, strapless isn’t really my style.”

  “Oh, okay. You’re right. You should be comfortable.” She selects a shirt with rolled-up sleeves that ties at the waist and the very skinny jeans. “Royal blue’s better for winter anyway.”

  I glance out the window. The wind’s a little cooler, and it’s getting dark a little earlier, but it’s barely fall. “It’s not winter.”

  “No. You’re a winter.” She brushes a strand of platinum hair off her forehead, smiling and shaking her head. “Your dark hair and fair complexion give your skin a cool tone.”

  How appropriate—my chilly temperament matches my skin tone. I tug on a wisp of hair near my cheek, wishing I could be warm and sunny like Ayla and Maddie and all the other beauties prancing around Crystal Cove. Or bold and confident like Jules with her purple hair. “Is the cool tone the reason I don’t tan?”

  “Pretty much.” She twists the side bangs away from my face and secures them in back with two crisscrossed bobby pins. “But who cares about a tan when you have this flawless skin?” She skims my cheek with her fingers.

  Whoa, flawless? The ocean breeze through the window must be going to her head.

  “Seriously. It’s porcelain-doll smooth.” She pulls a little pouch of makeup out of her bag and unzips it, retrieving a pair of tweezers and going to work on my eyebrows. Pressing my lips together, I concentrate on not whining as she plucks stray hairs. She pauses every few minutes to study her work. I sit up a little straighter.

  “That’s it. Look at you. I’ve barely done a thing. It’s more about how you carry yourself than it is about the makeup or clothes.” She smooths my brows with her thumbs. “Quit hiding behind your hair, throw your shoulders back, and ditch the lifeless beiges and blacks. They’re washing you out.” She grabs the shirt from the foot of the bed, dangling it in front of my face. “Put this on.”

  “It’s so . . .” I pause, searching for the right adjective. “Bright.”

  “You have to choose something.” She glances from the royal blue shirt to the little red dress.

  I accept it before she tries to choose for me.

  “The color’s perfect. The jewel tones will make you glow.” She tosses me the jeans.

  I scrunch my nose but drag myself out of the chair.

  “Trust me,” she says, digging through the lip glosses in her little bag. “I’m really good at this.” She squints to read the color on a tube of lipstick. “Wait till you see yourself with lip gloss and earrings.”

  I shut myself in the bathroom. I want to believe her, but I have a hard time seeing myself the way she does. Ayla’s awesome but also way overly optimistic.

  I slip out of my tan fitted tee and denim shorts, then pull the top over my head and yank on the jeans, ignoring the reflection of graying bra and white granny panties. If Ayla dislikes my nondescript wardrobe, she’d be traumatized by the state of my underwear. I’ve just never seen any use for frilly bras and panties. What’s the point when no one’s ever going to see them?

  A knock on the front door interrupts my thoughts. “Who’s that?” I wiggle, trying to make sure no skin shows between the shirt and jeans.

  Ayla’s soft footsteps pad to the front of the house, followed by Hitch’s clacking nails. “A little girl.”

  I frown. It must be Cindy, though I’m not sure why she’d be here tonight.

  Mentally shrugging, I glance at myself in the mirror . . . and my jaw drops. Ayla’s right. The blue of the shirt lights up my skin, turning it from pale to alabaster. The V-neck draws attention to my collarbone, lengthening my neck. With my hair off my face, my jaw and cheekbones look sharper, more defined. Ayla’s an artist in more ways than one.

  I can’t imagine what Cindy will think when she sees me like this, but she must need me if she walked over here this late on a Friday evening. By the time I venture out of the bathroom to join them, she and Ayla are in the kitch
en. Cindy kneels with her back to me, talking to Ayla, her arms wrapped around Hitch’s neck.

  When I enter, Ayla’s face brightens. “You look gorgeous, darling.” Her French accent is atrocious, but she’s beaming like a proud grandmamma when she steps toward me.

  I can’t help giggling . . . until Cindy turns to face me. When I spot the angry bruise on her right temple, the laughter dies in my throat. “Sweetie, what happened?” I reach toward the fist-sized black-and-yellow oval marring her face, and she shrinks from my touch.

  “Nothing.” She pulls her mouth into something resembling a smile, but the pained look in her eyes doesn’t fade. “I was playing hide-and-seek and ran into a door.” Her hand shakes a little when she tucks a tuft of curly blonde hair behind her ear.

  I glance at Ayla. Her facial expression perfectly sums up my feelings. Something’s up. I’ve never seen Cindy this nervous before, and Hitch won’t take his eyes off her face either.

  “Mom wants me to borrow some packing tape if you have any.” Standing with her hand on Hitch’s broad head, she looks like a delicate sandpiper ready to scuttle away from the threat of an incoming wave or a predatory bird.

  “Sure.” I rummage around in the junk drawer in the kitchen, trying to buy time. “What’re y’all working on?”

  “Mom’s just packing some boxes.” Cindy runs her fingers through Hitch’s thick mane without meeting my eyes. “She said it’s okay if you don’t have any.” She steps toward the door.

  “Wait.” I hold up a yellowing roll of tape. “I found some.” If I didn’t think she’d run, I’d pull her in for a hug. But if anyone knows how it feels to want some space, it’s me, so I give her what her stiff posture says she needs: room to breathe.

  “Thanks.” She accepts the tape, tilting her head back to examine my hair and outfit. “You look really pretty, Emilie.” The angelic smile I’m familiar with lights up her face.

  “Smart girl.” Ayla nods approvingly, putting Cindy at ease with the same calm energy that washes away my self-doubt. Two words from Ayla, and Cindy’s posture improves too. Now she looks less like a shorebird and more like a little girl.

  “Why don’t you stay?” Ayla asks, moving toward the hallway. “You can help with Emilie’s makeup and jewelry.”

  “Uh . . .” Cindy sighs, shuffling her feet, glancing from Ayla to the front door. “I better not. Mom’s waiting.”

  I follow her as she inches toward the door, still eyeing her bruise. “Come see me tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She slips out the front door and down the front steps. As her little blonde head fades into the evening light, my stomach tightens. Watching her go, I wonder what’s causing the uneasy feeling in my gut. Kids run into stuff all the time, right? Still, I hope she does come over tomorrow. Maybe then I can figure out what’s wrong.

  Hitch whines, and I blink.

  “Earth to Emilie.” Ayla waves a hand in front of my face as she reaches to close the door.

  Crap. I lost a minute there. Somehow, Ayla and Hitch crossed the room without me knowing. Did I just zone out for a second, or was that an absence seizure?

  “Are you all right?” she asks as the door clicks shut.

  “Um . . .” I have to tell her something. This episode could be nothing. I’ve been under a lot of stress with school and Chatham and this whole coming-out-of-my-shell thing. I could just be overly tired. Or it could be the precursor to something else—something big, like a grand mal seizure. My shoulders droop. It’s now or never, and never’s not really an option any longer. I owe Ayla the truth.

  “Ayla, we need to talk.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  My friends are my “estate.”

  EMILY DICKINSON

  I sit in the corner of the couch with a throw pillow clutched to my chest and Hitch curled at my feet. Ayla perches on the edge of Mom’s old recliner opposite me, obviously anxious to hear whatever it is I have to say.

  “I have epilepsy.” I spit the sentence out in one big word: Ihaveepilepsy.

  She exhales softly. As her face relaxes, she settles back into the worn upholstery. “Thank God.”

  “Thank God?” I knew Ayla was laid-back, but now I think she’s lost her freaking mind. Digging my fingers into the pillow, I resist the urge to gnaw on my nails.

  “Yeah, I thought you were going to say you were moving—or dying or something.” She swings the lever on the side of the chair, extending the footrest. “You should’ve seen the look on your face.”

  My heart races and I try swallowing around the lump in my throat. “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. I have a seizure disorder—convulsions.” If this were a cartoon, my high-pitched voice would shatter the glass in the windows.

  “That’s awful.” She kicks the footrest down, gets up, and steps around the coffee table, joining me on the couch, resting a hand on my knee. “I’m so sorry you have epilepsy. But I can’t help it—I’m relieved you’re not going to die on me.” Clasping my chin between her thumb and pointer finger, she angles my head so I’m facing her. “You’re not going to die on me. Are you?”

  I can’t help it. I smile. If Dr. Wellesley or Mom tried this positive, reverse-psychology crap on me, I’d be furious. But coming from Ayla, it’s funny in a kind of morbid way. Maybe she’s right. I could have one of those brain-eating amoebas I saw on the Discovery Channel or cancer like Dad.

  Secretly, though, I believe death is harder on the living than the dying. I think survivors experience the pain in its sharpest, rawest form. Dad looked pretty peaceful the night he closed his eyes in his hospice bed, with the soft cotton blankets pulled to his chin, and drifted away from us for the last time.

  I shake off the memory before it progresses to the part where the funeral home came to pick up his body and the reality of our loss set in. “No, I’m not going to die on you.”

  “Then let’s go teach you how to do your makeup while you tell me what I need to know.”

  And that’s what we do. In my room, I tell Ayla what it’s like to live with epilepsy. As she brushes my cheeks and nose with bronzer, I explain what kind of first aid she needs to be aware of if I seize: to make sure my airway is clear, roll me on my side, and basically ride it out—unless it lasts longer than five minutes. Then she needs to call 911.

  As I stare at the ceiling, she glides her mascara wand along my upper lashes, and I describe the worst-case scenario: a grand mal seizure, when a person can puke or lose control of her bladder or bowels.

  She nods and murmurs the occasional sympathetic sound, encouraging me to keep talking. “Who else knows?” she asks when I finish and she caps the tube of black noir mascara.

  Every muscle in my body tenses. I try to speak, but my jaw’s locked like the deadbolt on our front door. I know where this is headed, and I don’t want to think about it.

  A heavy stillness hangs over my room. The rustle of wind through the sea oats outside my window and Hitch’s steady breathing are the only sounds in my universe—well, those and the voice screaming excuses in my head for why I haven’t told anyone else yet.

  Ayla finally breaks the quiet. “Emilie, does Chatham know?”

  I lick my lips. The taste of the thick gloss caking my tongue makes me want to gag. I’m naked with my side bangs pulled back from my face. I shake my head.

  She sinks to the bed beside my chair. “You’ve got to tell him.” Her words dangle in the quiet room.

  “I can’t,” I mumble, studying my hands.

  “Why?” She scoots forward to the edge of the bed, angling her body so I have to face her.

  “Because . . .” I lift a hand to my mouth to chew on my nails, think better of it, and fold my fingers in my lap.

  “Because why?” She jiggles my knee, her eyes searching my face.

  If she leans any closer, we’ll be breathing the same air. “Because . . . I like him. I really like him.” There. I said it.

  There was this boy I really liked in elementary school—Nicholas
Wilkins. I thought he liked me too. But a few days after my first seizure, I heard him making fun of me in the media center. Boys circled around him laughing while he rolled his eyes back in his head and flung his arms around with his tongue sticking out. They never even saw me behind the magazine rack.

  Not long after that, I started homeschool.

  It’s stupid to compare Chatham to Nicholas Wilkins. But Chatham’s not a girl—he’s not Ayla. Friends can accept stuff like this better than potential boyfriends. I just need more time to figure out how to tell him.

  Hitch jumps down from the bed, coming to sit with us, his ears raised.

  “Emilie, Chatham York is one of the nicest guys I know.” Ayla rubs the soft fur between Hitch’s eyes. His ears relax. She even quiets my dog with her composure. “You’re not giving him enough credit.”

  I’d give anything to experience her tranquil calmness for one day. How can she be so confident, so serene?

  “I just can’t. Not yet.” I’ve deflated. My shoulders sag. The heat’s gone from my voice.

  “If he cares about you, the epilepsy won’t be an issue.” Her soft words loosen the knots in my head.

  I wring my hands. “I know, but that’s a big if.”

  “You have to have faith in him.” She squeezes my hand. “Promise me you’ll tell him tomorrow.”

  I’ve never been too great with the whole trust thing. Before Dad got sick, we used to go to this little Episcopal church on the beach road. In fifth grade, when I didn’t want to go to children’s church because I was worried about seizing, my parents talked to one of the Sunday school teachers about putting me at ease. She gave me a really great piece of advice. At snack time, while the other kids were wolfing down Goldfish crackers and Kool-Aid, she pulled me to her rocking chair in the corner and asked me if I prayed. When I nodded, she smiled like I’d given the correct response and then spewed this little nugget of wisdom: “If you pray, don’t worry; if you worry, don’t pray.” She said worrying was like praying for what you don’t want. Even in my ten-year-old mind, her advice seemed really astute.