The Thing with Feathers

by McCall Hoyle

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Silence is all we dread.

  EMILY DICKINSON

  After spending Sunday at home and most of the day Monday at the doctor and running errands with Mom, it takes a second to readjust to school Tuesday morning. I wave to Ayla in the hall when I see her.

  She lifts her hand in a semi-wave. “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” she mumbles as she and her lit-mag buddy head up the hall. Feeling brushed off, I shuffle to my locker, head down, unaware of Chatham until I collide with his solid frame.

  “I missed you yesterday.” He grins, holding out a hand for me.

  When our hands touch for a moment, I smile. Being this close to him sends my nervous system into overdrive. Sights and smells and sounds from Saturday bombard my senses—his warm lips on mine, the curl of damp hair on his neck, the touch of his firm hands on my wet skin.

  “My appointment took longer than I thought, and then Mom wanted to hang out.” I turn away, digging around in my locker, trying to come up with a plan. I have to be honest with him. I have to tell him about the epilepsy. Today. Before this relationship goes any further. No matter what, I’m not a liar. I need to be honest with him to make things right with Ayla, and to explain my situation before Hitch comes to school next week. Or before Maddie fills his head with rumors and speculation.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks.

  Am I okay? Well, let’s see, that’s way trickier than it sounds—yes and no. “Uh, yeah, it was just a . . . follow-up.” A follow-up to almost a decade of neurological disorder.

  “That’s good,” he says, catching a binder for me and slipping it back in place before it can hit the floor.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I try counting to ten. At three, I cave. “Listen. We need to—” I turn to face him and notice for the first time the black circles of exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. “Are you okay?” I ask, my disclosure conversation all but forgotten.

  He shrugs. “Just tired. Mary Catherine’s afraid of storms. I was up with her most of the weekend. Then we had late practice last night.”

  When he slings my backpack over his shoulder, I smile, remembering the first time I met him in the counseling office.

  “Thanks to my awesome tutor, I’m back in the starting lineup.” He hides a yawn behind his free hand.

  “I’m sorry about your sister.” I touch his arm—a pretty bold move on my part, I must say.

  “No big deal.” He loops the arm around my waist, pulling me toward him. “It comes with the territory.”

  No big deal? Walking around half dead, sporting industrial-sized black bags under your eyes, is just a part of loving someone with special needs. What would Chatham look like if I seized on him? If there’s a nicer guy anywhere in the world who doesn’t deserve to be weighed down by a disabled girlfriend, I can’t imagine him.

  I don’t care what Mom or Ayla or Dr. Wellesley say. I’m not telling Chatham about my epilepsy today—not when he looks like one of the POWs we’ve been studying in US History.

  “Since you’re the one responsible for my improved grades and starting position, I thought you might want to come to our first game.” His hand tightens on my waist. “I could save you a seat behind the bench.”

  I glance up at him to make sure I’m hearing this right. It’s one thing to visit a lighthouse, just the two of us. It’s something else to have him save me a seat behind the bench. It’s so visible, so out in the open. It screams relationship. “Oh.” My lips part. My brain forms a response, but the words lodge in my throat.

  His hand falls from my side. “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he says, his voice barely audible over the noisy traffic in the hall. “Not everyone likes basketball.”

  I don’t care much about basketball, but that has nothing to do with my hesitation. All I’ve ever wanted since I was diagnosed with epilepsy is to be normal, and this is my shot. It’s just I don’t know if I’m ready for it. I’m chest deep in rising water and don’t know how to swim. The water’s about to rush over my head, and I’ve got two seconds to make a decision: head back to safety or start pumping my arms and legs.

  “No. It’s not that.” I’m on tiptoe, gripping the floor of the pool with my toenails. “I’d love to go.” Just like that, the bottom recedes. My arms and legs are moving, but with more thrashing than pumping.

  “Awesome. You can meet my parents.”

  I swallow a lungful of water. “Great,” I gasp, forcing a smile.

  He delivers me to math, where I spend the next fifty minutes trying to digest what just happened in the hall. Thankfully, I am so completely invisible to Mr. Gravitt that he fails to notice me. When he surveys the room for daydreamers, I shrink in my seat, scribble a random equation on my bare paper, and squint at it like Einstein puzzling through the theory of relativity.

  The bell rings, and I scurry to the bathroom. I need a second to gather my thoughts before facing Chatham and Ayla in second period. And—my stomach tightens—Maddie. Who may or may not have figured out my secret. I bolt myself into the last stall, drop my bag on the floor, and collapse on the toilet. Digging my fingers into my thighs, I suck down a couple of steadying breaths.

  When the bell rings a minute later, I jerk, and my butt lifts six inches off the toilet. Unfortunately, I snag my foot in the strap of my backpack, and before I can catch myself, my hand slips inside the rim of the toilet. I slide to the floor, disgusted with myself.

  I drag my hand out of the toilet, push off the sticky floor with the other, and try not to gag. When I stand, I’m eye level with one of my favorite author’s names written in silver paint pen. Frances Hodgson Burnett. In bubbly letters, some optimistic girl has scribed a quotation from The Secret Garden.

  I remember how badly I wanted to be Mary Lennox when I was little and slip out of my life and into her magical garden of blossoming flowers with its friendly robin. Now I study the fat words meandering up the wall: If you look the right way, you can see the whole world is a garden. Oh, how I want to believe those fifteen words—or at least meet a teenage girl with that hopefulness.

  Then I realize I have met a girl like that: Ayla. And she’s sitting in second period disappointed with me. I can’t blame her. After her mother deceived her the way she did, I’m willing to guess Ayla has zero tolerance for anything resembling dishonesty—even if it’s not really a lie, even if it’s just a lack of full disclosure.

  I grab my backpack and head to the sink to wash my hands before moving out of the safety of the bathroom and into whole wide world, praying that Frances Hodgson Burnett knows what she’s talking about.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tell all the truth but tell it slant—

  EMILY DICKINSON

  Okay, so I’m a wuss. I don’t head straight to Ms. Ringgold’s class. I swing by the clinic with a lame excuse, knowing I’ll be able to finagle a late pass out of Nurse Younghouse. “I’m feeling a little foggy,” I tell her.

  She presses the back of her hand to my forehead. “You don’t feel warm.” She flutters around my face in a cloud of lemons and Ivory soap. “Your color looks good.”

  I stare down at my clasped fingers in what I hope passes as pitiful or at least a little under the weather. If I’m feeling foggy, it’s because I’m not sleeping enough and I’m stressing about how to handle things with Ayla and Chatham. My funk has nothing to do with illness or epilepsy.

  “Your mom left Tylenol with your other meds. Do you need one?” She squeezes my hand. “You can call home if you need to.”

  I take a Tylenol and, more important, the pink slip she offers and head to Ms. Ringgold’s room fifteen minutes late for class. When I slide into the room, Ms. Ringgold acknowledges me with a nod and a quick smile from her seat in the back of the room, then turns back to Derek up front. He and another guy stand on either side of a projected image of Ernest Hemingway.

  I slip into my seat beside Chatham.

  “You okay?” he whispers, raising an eyebrow.
/>   I squeeze out a smile. “Yeah.”

  Ms. Ringgold shushes us and points to Derek. We refocus, which isn’t difficult considering Derek’s ability to captivate an audience.

  “And that, my friends, is why he was called Papa—that and the fact that he was super smoo-ooth with the ladies.” He slicks back his curly hair with two hands, swivels his hips, and gestures at the larger-than-life Hemingway photo.

  The class erupts into laughter. Even Ms. Ringgold chuckles.

  I can’t help myself. I smile too. And it hits me—I like this class. I like Ms. Ringgold, and I like being a part of the group laughing with Derek. There are things I’d miss if I were at home alone. The number one reason is sitting beside me, of course. And I tip my head to the side to look at Ayla. I owe it to her to make things right.

  When Derek and his partner head to their seats, Ms. Ringgold passes out half sheets of paper for peer evaluations of their work. She twists a pink pig kitchen timer on her desk and tells us we have six minutes to provide thoughtful feedback written in complete sentences.

  I glance around the room, not sure where to begin after missing most of the presentation. Pens and pencils scratch out a feverish pace on the mini rubrics. As I contemplate what to write, I study Ms. Ringgold’s violets in the windowsill. The pot on the end, the one that looked so cheery and plump last week, is now limp and withering. Shriveled blooms rest on drying brown leaves. Even Ms. Ringgold’s optimism wasn’t able to keep the thing alive once fall struck.

  I lift my pen to write something constructive about Derek’s use of humor. The pink pig dings a second later, and ink jags across my paper. I race to finish my sentence as Ms. Ringgold moves to the front of the room.

  “Make sure your name and the names of the presenters are on the rubric and pass them forward face down.” She turns her back to us and writes the names of students due to present tomorrow on the whiteboard, right beside an announcement for Thursday’s opening basketball game against the rival War Eagles.

  Luckily, Chatham and I are the next to last group and aren’t scheduled to go until next week. The thought of standing in front of this group raises my heart rate and the moisture level of my palms. I pass my paper forward, pretending to reread Friday’s notes and trying not to stare at Chatham. When someone crumples a piece of paper, I glance up. Maddie’s walking my way, and she’s smiling. Not good.

  She pauses at my seat. Every eye in the back half of the room, including both of Chatham’s, zeroes in on the two of us.

  “I hope your appointment went well yesterday.” She flashes me a blinding smile, then turns to Chatham. “You should see Emilie’s dog.”

  Crap. She’s pegged Hitch as an assistant dog. I should have known Miss Yale Law School Camp Girl would put two and two together.

  “I have.” The dimple in his left cheek pops. “When I went to her house.”

  A tiny crack fractures the foundation of Maddie’s smile, but she barely misses a beat. “I met him leaving the therapist’s office yesterday.”

  Chatham turns to me, confusion etched in his wrinkled brow, head tilted, studying my face.

  “Yeah, everybody loves Hitch.” I shrug, trying to look cool. “Spending time with him is really therapeutic for Dr. Wellesley’s counseling patients.” Hitch has passed the therapy dog test as part of his seizure-response training, so it’s not a total lie. It’s more of a half lie. Plus, I’m a counseling patient and his presence alleviates some of my anxiety, so maybe it’s really only like a quarter lie.

  “That’s cool. I didn’t know you and Hitch volunteered at a counseling office.” Chatham looks impressed.

  Maddie crosses her arms, squinting down at me. She knows I’m lying. I can tell by the frown on her face. She just hasn’t figured out a way to disprove my story yet.

  I look up front for Ms. Ringgold. What the heck’s taking her so long? “It’s no big deal. Hitch loves it.”

  “Maybe you could bring him to The Potter’s House sometime to visit with the kids.” He speaks to me as if Maddie’s invisible.

  “Yeah, maybe.” I answer noncommittally, feeling like the biggest jerk known to mankind. Now, I’m lying about helping therapy patients to Mr. Volunteer of the Year himself, Chatham York.

  When Ms. Ringgold addresses the class with instructions on how to annotate some obscure Hemingway short story, everyone in the room moans except for me. I exhale for the first time in several minutes, relieved to have something, anything, other than Maddie to occupy my attention.

  “I’ll walk you to third,” Chatham offers when the bell finally rings.

  “I have something I have to take care of.” I smile, backing away. I need to catch Ayla before she dodges me again.

  When Derek shoulder bumps Chatham from behind, I spy an opportunity for escape.

  “Okay. Don’t forget about the game Thursday,” he says, untangling himself from Derek’s playful headlock.

  “Got it.” I wave.

  Derek drags Chatham into the hallway. I clutch my binder to my chest, waiting for Ayla to make her way toward where I’m standing near the door. She forces a little smile. Her tight lips clash with the pink flower clipped in her wispy blonde hair.

  “Can we talk? Please.” I touch her forearm, guiding her toward the computer table in the back of the room before she can slip away again. A smiling miniature of Dr. Wellesley, wearing a white robe, halo floating above his head, perches on my left shoulder. The real Dr. Wellesley would fall over if he saw me reaching out—physically touching people—twice in one day. First Chatham, now Ayla.

  She places her free hand in her pocket. “Have you told Chatham?”

  I blink under her stare. “No, but—”

  She holds up a hand to stop me. “Emilie, I’m not trying to be mean.” She hesitates. “I just know how much it hurts to be deceived by someone you trust. Chatham’s a nice guy. Tell him. Everything will be all right.” Her voice drops on the last sentence. “I promise.” Now she’s the one laying a comforting hand on my arm.

  And I realize she’s not mad at me so much as pushing me to do the right thing, like a mama bird nudging her baby from the nest so it will learn to fly. My shoulders slump as I shrink back into myself. I’ve been such an idiot. I came to the Ridge with these preconceived notions about the fake kids at this school who all look alike with their bleached teeth and their bleached hair, when I’m the biggest fraud of all, pretending to be something I’m not and condemning them.

  I drag my eyes from the waxed tiles beneath my feet to her open face. “I was going to tell him. But then we had the thing with the neighbors Saturday and I had a doctor’s appointment yesterday and he doesn’t feel good today.” The sentences tumble out of my mouth in one big glob without any punctuation.

  She shakes her head. “Those are excuses.”

  I open my mouth to speak, then close my lips. Of course she’s right. I’m lying to myself and to Chatham. I’m more worried about guarding this pseudo life I’m creating and protecting my own heart than I am about Chatham’s feelings.

  “I’ll tell him Thursday after the game.” My voice drops when Ms. Ringgold stands up behind her desk.

  Ayla’s hand falls away from my arm. “You need to tell him today. You’re playing with fire the longer you wait.”

  “I can’t tell him at school, Ayla,” I whisper, avoiding Ms. Ringgold’s questioning eyes. “I promise. I’ll tell him Thursday.”

  She retreats toward the door, wiping at a smudge of paint on the back of her hand. “I hope that works out for you. I’ll be at the game afterward if you need me.”

  “Why don’t you go with me? He’s saving seats behind the bench.” I tag along behind her.

  Ms. Ringgold steps around her desk. “Girls, is everything okay?” I recognize the raised-brow, inquisitive-mother look on her face.

  “Yes,” Ayla and I answer in unison, our voices a little too high.

  Ayla turns back to me. “I’ll be there. Everybody will. We can talk afterward.” She smil
es at me, but her eyes are sad, like the little girl’s in her Forsaken painting.

  This is useless. I’m banging my head against a wall. She’s not budging till I tell him—till I do the right thing.

  She steps away from me, melting into the hall, and I have no choice but to head to third period.

  “Emilie,” Ms. Ringgold calls as I cross the threshold.

  I pretend not to hear her as I walk away, kicking myself for being such an idiot. A few weeks ago, I didn’t want to be here. I was positive I didn’t want any of this—friends, crushes, teachers who care. Currently, I’m not so sure. I feel like I should be happy. But now I’m so desperate to hang on to these people, even if it means pretending to be something I’m not, that I can’t enjoy their company. It’s like a storm surge has ripped me off my foundation, and I’m spinning around in tumultuous flood-waters. I’m floating around aimlessly—adrift—when what I really need to be doing is seeking higher ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I should not dare to leave my friend . . .

  EMILY DICKINSON

  Thursday afternoon, I’m filled with equal parts anticipation and dread. The butterflies in my belly wage war with the stomach acids threatening to make swiss cheese of my stomach lining. To make matters worse, Mom refuses to let me stay after school for the game. I could walk to the gym and watch the JV game and then Chatham’s game, but she won’t have any part of that. If I’m going to the varsity game, I’m going to come home first, suffer through some mother-daughter conversation, and choke down whatever healthy snack she’s prepared.

  “Why didn’t you bring Hitch?” I ask as we turn left out of the parking lot.

  “Well . . .” She drums her nails on the steering wheel without answering my question.

  My stomach drops at the sight of wine-colored nails.

  “He’s at home with Roger,” she says without meeting my eyes.

  My jaw drops. “Wh-at?” I choke on the last syllable. “You left Hitch at home with a stranger?” I turn in the seat to face her, my mouth hanging open.