The Thing with Feathers

by McCall Hoyle

  “Okay, then.” He waves a quick good-bye to George and shepherds me through the rain to his car. “I want to see you again before you get wrinkles.”

  I try to ignore the guilt chewing at my insides as he stands in the rain holding the door open for me, but I don’t pause to apologize. Instead, I snatch my phone from the cup holder and hit Escape, ignoring the text box announcing the seventeen missed messages. My fingers fly in a flurry of activity.

  Mom, I’m fine. I’m so sorry I forgot

  to text. Headed home now.

  My stomach sinks at her short response.

  Good. We need to talk.

  Chatham inches along at a reduced speed because of the weather, heading north on the bypass at a nice, safe thirty-five miles an hour. I try really hard not to lean forward in an effort to will the vehicle to higher speeds.

  Chatham can’t possibly understand the severity of my panic, which is probably why he’s so focused on the road and we’re draped in silence. The only sound penetrating our private little world is the scrape of the windshield wipers in their losing battle against the sheets of rain pummeling the glass. When we finally turn right off the highway onto my road, I’m wound so tight tension coils in my shoulders.

  I have to do something. I’ve got less than two minutes to tell him about the epilepsy. “Chatham, I, uh . . .” I pause, realizing in the middle of the awkward silence I should’ve thought through this confession ahead of time.

  “Look at that.” He whistles, taking a hand off the wheel to point at a swarm of blue lights up ahead. Several dark-colored sedans and SUVs block the road.

  For a second, I think the cops have descended on my house. “What the . . .”

  Chatham rolls to a stop, and I see they’re swarming Cindy’s house. I open the passenger-side door, jumping down to the sand at the edge of the road. But before I make it two steps from the car, a granite block of a buzz-cut officer cups my elbow in his meaty paw, pushing me back into the car.

  “The suspect’s in custody,” a gruff voice barks from his walkie-talkie.

  The suspect? It sounds like a reality cop show. Suspects aren’t taken into custody in Crystal Cove, North Carolina—not unless they’re teenagers driving under the influence.

  “Ten-four,” Concrete Cop snaps, then turns on me. “Do you live here?”

  “I, uh . . .” I shake my head. “I live next door.”

  “Then you need to get on inside.” He presses me into my seat, ducking his colossal head inside the car to speak to Chatham, who’s leaning over the console, eyes wide, mouth half open. “Son, get her home.” He gestures toward my house with his thumb.

  Chatham nods, his face washed out by the flashing blue lights.

  “But, wait.” I grab the sleeve of the man’s navy blue uniform. “I’m friends with Cindy, the little girl who lives in that house. You have to tell me if she’s okay.”

  “Miss, I don’t have to do anything.” He gently pries his arm free and steps back toward Cindy’s house. “But I’ll tell you she and her mom are safe.”

  Thank God.

  “You need to get home.” His radio crackles as he fiddles with one of the dials. “I’m sure Ms. Blackstone will check in with you when the situation is resolved.”

  I shut the door, praying that Mom has some information about what’s going on. Images and snippets of conversations pop in and out of my head, waving red flags I should’ve listened to over the past several months—the angry bruise on Cindy’s face, the frightened look when her mom called down to her on the beach, the heated argument between her parents in the sterile kitchen. I promised Mom when they’d moved in that I’d mind my own business. But now I’m second-guessing myself.

  “You know that family?” Chatham asks, squeezing around a police car, creeping toward my driveway. Every light in my house is on. He parks, turning off the engine and reaching for his door handle.

  “Mostly, I know the daughter. The parents, not so much.” I place a hand on his upper arm, stopping him before he steps out of the car. “I think it’d be best if I go in by myself.”

  “Okay.” He places a warm hand on top of mine. “I hope your mom isn’t too mad.”

  “She’ll be beyond mad. I hope I survive this.” Before opening the door, I take a minute to memorize his face, the straight line of his jaw, the wave in his still-damp hair, even the faint smell of his citrus shampoo. I don’t want this day to end. Standing out on that balcony with Chatham was the high point of my post-dead-dad life—a living, breathing fairy tale. The bad weather, the irate mom, the blue lights—these things don’t belong in that story.

  “Thanks for today. It was . . . special.” I lean across the console to brush his cheek with my lips, and my head spins at the bold gesture. It’s like I developed a backbone all of a sudden and morphed into Molly Ringwald in the closing scene of Pretty in Pink. Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. But still.

  I pull back a fraction of an inch, prepared to step out of the car and face my impending doom. Before I can escape, Chatham cups my face in his hands, pulling my mouth to his. His hands wrap around my neck, tangling in my rain-matted hair, and I forget about the crowd of police officers, my angry mom, and the promise I made Ayla. A pinwheel of flickering lights sparks on the backs of my eyelids and bursts into fireworks inside my head. His kiss is like the Fourth of July finale at the Nags Head Pier Spectacular. When he pulls away, it’s as if someone’s thrown cold water on me to douse the flames.

  It takes me a second to realize the flaring lights weren’t in my head. Mom’s backlit in the glass of the front door flipping the porch light on and off like the captain of a foundering ship signaling the coast guard. I push open the door, motioning for her to stop the psychotic flashing. If I could, I’d disappear inside the oversized Cape Hatteras National Seashore sweatshirt, but it doesn’t belong to me. I start to pull it over my head.

  Chatham stops me. “No. Keep it.” He turns the key in the ignition, and the engine roars to life. “It looks good on you.” His smile brightens the dim interior of his car. “Go—before your mom comes out here to get you.”

  Good advice. I head up the stairs to the front deck, looking over my shoulder, watching as he backs out of the driveway. When he taps the brakes, the red lights on the receding black SUV flicker through the fog like a scene in a cheap horror movie.

  Before my feet hit the bottom step, Mom opens the door. Hitch charges down to meet me, then escorts me up to the house, attached to my thigh like a suckerfish on the underbelly of a shark. I brace myself for the oncoming assault. But instead of the irate tirade I’m expecting, I’m greeted with a bearlike embrace. Mom and I haven’t had this much physical contact since her genius idea to “immerse me in life and in an authentic high school experience.” I mean, we’ve exchanged some awkward hugs, maybe even pecks on the cheek, but nothing this heartfelt, this genuine.

  After my initial shock, I settle into her arms, catapulted back in time to a real family with real emotions who comforted each other in their times of need—unlike the robotic, disjointed interactions she and I have suffered through more and more frequently since Dad died.

  “Oh, Emilie, sweetie.” She caresses the back of my damp head, hanging on to me for dear life. “Thank God, you’re okay. I was so worried.”

  The skin at the base of my neck tingles, coming back to life. Muscles in my shoulders relax, the way they’re supposed to under a mother’s soothing touch. My heart unknots.

  “You are okay, right?” She pushes me away to examine my face.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” And I kind of am. Despite my concern about what’s going on next door, I feel like I’ve made some kind of breakthrough today—first with Chatham, now with Mom.

  “Then why didn’t you call?” Her voice catches on the last word.

  “I should have. I’m sorry. Chatham and I both forgot our phones in the car. Then it rained . . .”

  “I was so worried—between the weather and you not calling. And now
this thing next door.” She gestures toward the blue lights.

  “What is going on next door, Mom?” I ask, steering the conversation away from my mess-up, and needing proof that Cindy’s okay.

  “I don’t know exactly.” She tucks a wild sprig of hair behind her ear. “About an hour ago, the first two cops showed up.”

  I step toward the glass door for a view of Cindy’s driveway while Mom closes the blinds on the front windows.

  “Cindy and Debbie left with a female officer before I could get down to them.” She shakes her head as if she can’t wrap her mind around the night’s events.

  The stocky officer glances up at me from where he stands in the driveway. When we lock eyes, I step back as if I’m the one caught in a crime instead of the suspect at the Blackstone’s house.

  “The next thing I know, policemen are breaking in the front door with one of those battering-ram things.” Her shoulders shrink inside Dad’s faded OBX T-shirt.

  Hitch abandons me to nuzzle his head under her hand. When she runs her fingers through the blond fur on his head, I notice her nails are bare. All traces of the pink nail polish have vanished. Dark circles bruise the puffy skin beneath her eyes, aging her face.

  A stitch of guilt pricks the edge of my heart as I scoot around the couch for a better-camouflaged view through the blinds. Mom squeezes in behind me. We peer down at Cindy’s house without talking. A minute later, Mr. Blackstone staggers out the front door, his hands cuffed behind his back, followed by two stern-faced officers.

  Mom gasps. “What in the world?” She pulls me back against her chest, wrapping me in her arms, the way she did before our constant bickering.

  When Mr. Blackstone looks up at our house, I let the blinds close all but a fraction of an inch. He’d have to have X-ray vision or super powers to see our eyes through the tiny slit in the blinds, but I still shiver. How could I be so blind to have never noticed the nasty glint in his eye? And to think I was jealous of Cindy’s life next door. How could I have thought having a Y chromosome in the house would magically make life better?

  My views of people and the world are changing so fast, my head spins in an effort to keep up. The family I thought I envied is crumbling before my eyes. I climbed a one-hundred-and-sixty-five-foot lighthouse today and kissed a boy I wouldn’t have had the confidence to make eye contact with a month ago. Even Mom and I are reaching out to each other.

  I strain at my too-tight shell, my hermit crab body preparing to molt, ready to shed this skin in favor of a larger shell that will accommodate my new growth. It’s time to head out into the aquarium unprotected in search of a better fit, time to quit burrowing down into the same old sand and hiding from the world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Each Life Converges to some Centre—

  EMILY DICKINSON

  Mom calls the Crystal Cove Police Department while I change into sweats and wash my face. But they won’t tell her what’s going on with the Blackstones. As she refills Hitch’s water bowl, I boot up her old laptop and search for information online. Our Wi-Fi creeps like some sort of prehistoric slug. After several minutes, aggravation gets the best of me, and I give up. Mom and I agree the media isn’t likely to report on Crystal Cove anyway.

  “We can go to the police station in person tomorrow,” she says as she heads down the hall to the linen closet.

  I prop myself in the corner of the couch, motioning for Hitch to join me. “I just hope Cindy’s okay.”

  Mom walks toward me with our favorite blankets. “They weren’t physically harmed, from what I could see. But the police were there a long time, like they were looking for something.”

  She pops Freaky Friday in the DVD player, then piles onto the couch with me and Hitch. We nibble Twizzlers. Neither of us laughs at our favorite scenes. Even the “fun-sucker” exchange between the mom and daughter fails to earn a chuckle. We take that as a sign to admit defeat and head to bed.

  In the morning, I brush my teeth and throw my hair into a messy ponytail. Twenty minutes later, we swing by the police department on our way to the library. The lady at the front desk refuses to give us any information other than to say, “Mrs. Blackstone and her daughter are safe.”

  Mom and I ride to the library in silence.

  “The whole thing is just weird,” I say as we let ourselves in through the employee entrance. The hush of the library and the familiar smell of books does little to calm my nerves.

  “It is, but we’re just going to have to accept that it’s none of our business.” Mom heads toward the back room and the book drop. She’s assumed her no-nonsense librarian persona, and I’ve been dismissed.

  I open my mouth to argue, but my vibrating phone distracts me. Pulling it from my pocket, I head across the lobby to log in to a computer. My cheeks warm when I read Chatham’s text.

  Busy with fam last night. Hope you

  survived the Wrath of Mom.

  I did.

  Good. Want to see you again this

  decade.

  I smile. Heat prickles my neck and cheeks when I think of his hands on my waist . . . and my lips on his. Me too.

  I close my eyes, trying to forget my promise to Ayla about being honest with Chatham.

  Another reply comes in. Today or tomorrow?

  Tuesday, actually. Out of

  school for appointment

  tomorrow. With Mom today.

  Okay. Can’t wait. Peace out.

  My chuckle sounds out of place in the empty library, but I can’t stop myself. I picture Chatham tapping his chest with his fist and flashing the peace sign like Kip in Napoleon Dynamite. Chatham knows his movies, that’s for sure. And I know what our next date should be: a classic-movie marathon.

  Typing my library code into the computer with one hand, I press my phone against my chest with the other and consider the seriousness of this observation. I’m kind of amazed at myself for contemplating a next date with Chatham—that sounds more like a glass-half-full girl than the Emilie Day I know.

  It sounds like a girl with plans. It sounds like a girl with a future.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been daydreaming—long enough to need a second to compose myself when my phone vibrates against my chest. Somehow, I manage to avoid falling out of the library rolly chair when I nearly jump out of my skin.

  It’s Ayla, which makes me both immensely happy and immensely sick to my stomach. I don’t know how to explain it exactly. I can’t wait to tell her all about last night, but I dread telling her I wimped out on telling Chatham about my seizures.

  I swipe my phone to accept her call.

  “What’re you doing?” she asks when I say hello.

  “I’m at the library with Mom.” I lean back in the chair, studying my smooth cuticles.

  “That’s crazy about your neighbors. Are you sure everyone’s okay?” she says. She texted me last night when I was looking for information about the Blackstones on the Internet. I told her I’d have to talk to her today.

  “I think so, but just the thought of that creep and I feel sick,” I say.

  “Me too. Hey, I don’t have long to talk. Dad and I are headed to Virginia Beach to meet a woman about displaying some of my stuff in her gallery.”

  “Oh, Ayla! That’s awesome.”

  “Yeah, but I want to hear about the date. How was it?”

  “Amazing.” I tilt my head back and spin in the rolly chair.

  “Did he kiss you?”

  “Um, yeah.” I spend the next several minutes describing how perfect it was. When I share the poetry analogy—the Emily Dickinson thing about the top of my head lifting off—Ayla laughs.

  Her dad says something in the background, and she pauses. “What did he say about the epilepsy?”

  I take a deep breath before responding.

  “Emilie?”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “You didn’t tell him. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s going to get harder
the longer you wait.”

  “I know.”

  She’s right, of course. But she doesn’t know how hard it is. She could have pretty much any guy she wants if she ever decided she wanted a relationship. I haven’t had that luxury. And Chatham is so nice. I don’t want to scare him away. I want to enjoy what we have. Is that so awful?

  “He deserves better.” Her voice drops, like Mom’s when I’ve disappointed her.

  “I know.” My voice cracks. I do know. I feel terrible and deceitful, and now she’s adding guilt on top of that.

  Her dad says something else.

  “I have to go. Can we talk tomorrow at school?” she asks.

  “I’ll see you Tuesday. I have appointments with Mom tomorrow.”

  I know her dad’s waiting for her, and she has to leave. But it still feels like I’m being brushed off. A few minutes ago, I felt so normal texting Chatham and answering Ayla’s call. Now I feel fake, like I’m pretending, like I’m watching an alternate version of my life play out on screen. But this isn’t a fantasy like The Lord of the Rings or The Princess Bride.

  This is real life.

  My life.

  And Ayla’s right. If I’m going to have a relationship with Chatham, I’m going to have to quit pretending to be someone else.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay . . .

  EMILY DICKINSON

  Monday morning I wake confused by the light streaming through the window. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I reach for my phone on the nightstand. It’s nine o’clock. I’m beyond late. Hitch lies on the floor, head raised on high alert, sphinxlike, waiting for me to drag myself out of bed.

  When I swing my legs to the floor, the fog in my head clears. Ugh. Mom let me sleep in because I have an appointment with Dr. Wellesley.

  I fall back on the pillows, not sure if I have the strength to prove my emotional growth this morning. Hitch jumps up on the bed, licking my fingers and face, wiggling his nose under my hand, unable to stand my laziness any longer.