The Thing with Feathers

by McCall Hoyle

  She takes her eyes off the road for a millisecond to glance at my face before refocusing her attention on the after-school rush. “He’s not a stranger. He’s . . . my friend.”

  “Well, he’s a stranger to me.” I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the passenger-side window, pressing my fingernails into my palms. “And I don’t want him messing with my dog.”

  “Emilie, Hitch likes him.” Her quiet words are almost snuffed out by the hum of the tires.

  I grit my teeth. Please, God, this can’t be happening. I can’t deal with this—not now, not today. I tap my head against the window.

  “I really want you to meet him.” Her jaw is so tight, the words grate against her teeth like sandpaper when she speaks. “We’re going to Poor Richard’s for crab legs after we drop you off at the game.”

  My jaw twitches. “I don’t want to.”

  Mature. I know.

  “Have you ever considered that maybe this is what I want?” There’s no fight left in her voice—just defeat, followed by silence.

  The quiet overwhelms me, and I feel kind of sick. Deep down, I know she’s right. I’m being childish and selfish. I bite my tongue for the rest of the drive home and the long walk up the stairs to the front porch.

  “Hi, Roger.” Mom’s voice and mouth smile when we walk in the house, but her eyes are still wary when she looks at me.

  Hitch is curled up with Roger in my corner of the couch. His blocky head rests in Roger’s lap, and it isn’t moving. The traitor doesn’t even rise to greet me. When I smile at him, he wags his tail and lifts his head an inch, but makes no effort to move until Roger stands to meet me with a smile and an outstretched hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I force a smile, mumbling something unintelligible. He reaches for my hand, pumping it in the two-fisted handshake of politicians and pastors. His fingers and eyes are kind of warm, but it might all be a show for Mom—the way he’s sucking up to Hitch and now me. He can’t be that nice. Why would he want to get involved with a middle-aged widow and her depressed, epileptic teenager?

  When Hitch finally pads over to me, I kneel down, nuzzling his face with my cheek, trying to ignore Roger. But the man’s too friendly to be ignored.

  “I have a golden.” Smile lines crinkle the corners of his eyes when he talks. “Her name’s Bella. We should get them together sometime for a play date.”

  I smile and grunt noncommittally, wishing he was a jerk so I could hate him for something other than dating my mother.

  “What can I get y’all to drink?” Mom asks, stepping around the counter and opening the refrigerator. She’s only moved fifteen feet, but I feel lost and alone, like that first day when she left me in the counselor’s office at the Ridge.

  “I’ll have water.” I pull out a stool at the bar to busy my hands and sit down.

  Roger pulls out the seat beside me. Mom hands him a Diet Coke. I stare at Dad’s beach-glass collection in the kitchen window, trying to ignore the weirdness of the situation. I don’t know whether I’m more upset my mother knows what Roger wants to drink without him answering or more concerned she likes a guy who drinks Diet Coke.

  Dad would’ve had real Coke, high-fructose corn syrup and all. He’d never shy away from a few extra calories. His hair might have been thinning, but he loved to run barefoot in the sand until the chemo made him so weak he had to walk. Eventually he just had to watch runners on the beach from the bedroom window. But Roger looks a little soft, if you ask me. I guess his face is okay for an old guy, and he seems friendly enough.

  But he’s not Dad.

  A lump forms in my throat, and I reach for an apple from the fruit tray Mom has arranged on the counter. But I can’t eat it. An oncoming headache pinches my skull.

  “So your mom says you like to read.” Roger nibbles a handful of grapes.

  I swallow a sip of water. “Um, yeah.”

  “Fiction or nonfiction?” he asks.

  “Both.”

  We struggle through nineteen minutes of awkward conversation before I can’t take it any longer. “This is the first game of the season. There will be a huge crowd. We’d better go,” I say to Mom, moving toward the bathroom to brush my teeth before we head back out.

  Hitch nudges the door open for me, and I hear Mom and Roger laughing nervously in the kitchen. I frown at Hitch, still shocked he hesitated when I came in. But when he wiggles his nose under my hand, I smile, hard feelings forgotten, and plop down on the closed toilet seat to hug him.

  “You coming?” Mom calls a minute later.

  I jump to my feet. When I do, the blood rushes to my head, and a wave of dizziness catches me off guard. “I’ll, uh . . . be right there.” I brace myself against the counter, taking a couple of steadying breaths. Hitch whines, but he doesn’t pull on my sleeve or pant leg. So I square my shoulders, remind myself I haven’t had a seizure in over three months, swish some Listerine in my mouth, spit, and head out to the living room followed by Hitch.

  “It’ll be okay, boy,” I mumble as I head out the door, but my stomach tightens at the sight of his black nose pressed against the glass door. I blow him a kiss, telling myself he’ll be fine on his own for one more night. Whether it’s for the best or not, he’ll be going to school with me next week.

  The three of us pile into Roger’s pine-scented station wagon and head back toward school. I turn away from Cindy’s dark house when we pass and mentally rehearse walking into the gym by myself and taking my seat behind the bench. Going to this game would be much easier if I were with Ayla, or even better if I were any of the hundreds of ordinary North Ridge teenage girls.

  But nothing about me is normal, so I do what my fifth-grade Sunday school teacher suggested: pray. I could really use a miracle with Chatham tonight and with the rest of the school on Monday when I show up with my furry, eighty-pound best friend in tow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  My Cocoon tightens—Colors teaze—I’m feeling for the Air—

  EMILY DICKINSON

  The breeze off the ocean has turned chilly. I shiver as I wait my turn outside the crowded gym doors. Every person in line wears either North Ridge blue and white or War Eagle red. I, on the other hand, am dressed in my standard fitted black tee. At least I traded in the usual khaki shorts for cream-colored jeans and dusted off the black baby-doll flats Mom bought me to wear the one time we went to church last year. I even added a pair of dangly silver earrings I grabbed when Mom and I were in the drugstore Monday.

  When I make it to the front of the line, I peek through the lobby to the packed gym beyond. A balding dad with a potbelly takes my ticket and stamps my hand. The crowd pushes me forward. My pulse vibrates in rhythm with the pounding music of the pep band. Teenage boys circle both ends of the court tossing easy layups as they warm up. For a second, I panic—I don’t know where to sit. I stand frozen and out of place, alone in the crowd.

  After a minute, I thaw enough to survey the gym. When I do, I realize all eyes are glued to the guys on the court or on the cheerleaders’ barely concealed behinds. The few people involved in conversation have to lean in to each other and strain to hear over the spirited chaos. No one’s paying me any attention.

  I exhale as a group of fans in front of me rushes toward the bleachers. When I spy two men in blue-and-white coaching shirts beside a row of folding chairs, I know where I’m supposed to sit. I just need to convince my feet to move in that direction when they really want to hide in the bathroom or duck outside and call Mom and Roger for a ride home. A vision of the two of them snuggled up against each other in a booth at Poor Richard’s motivates me to inch forward. I mutter “Excuse me” a thousand times as I squeeze around the perimeter of the court.

  Royal blue North Ridge towels mark either end of the first two rows of seats behind the bench. A couple of vaguely familiar ninth graders sit with racks of water bottles on the first row.

  “Are these seats saved?” I bow down so they can hear me, ignoring the headach
e building behind my eyes and pointing to the wooden bench behind them.

  “Officially, no,” the taller of the two says, his close-set eyes traveling from my shoes to my chest. His gaze never actually reaches my face. “Unofficially, yes.” He props himself on his elbows, blocking the row where I’d hoped to sit, staring at my boobs.

  Little creep. “Who are they unofficially saved for?” I ask through gritted teeth.

  A warning buzzer sounds over the noise of the crowd. I jump, almost losing my balance. The only thing keeping me from falling into the players’ folding seats below the bleachers is the creeper’s bony little claw on my thigh.

  Eww.

  His hand slides a little too slowly down my leg, stopping on my knee. “Certain girls.”

  Pressing my lips together, I jerk my leg free. “Well, Chatham told me to sit here.” I slide into the empty row behind him, ignoring his friend’s bulging eyes and focusing on the guys on the court.

  It takes me all of two seconds to spot Chatham shooting a three-pointer on the far side of the court. He moves like a dancer. When a teammate passes him the ball, his muscular calves contract. Ropey arms extend toward the ceiling. Large hands palm the ball until a perfectly timed release sends it sailing toward the basket, where it drops into the rim and swishes through the net. Transfixed by his beauty, I forget the pounding of the music and the noise of the crowd. I even forget the mounting pain in my head.

  The referees take the court, and the head coaches call their players in. Chatham huddles with his teammates around the bench. He nods at something the coach says, then glances up at the stands. When he spots me, a smile cracks open his face, and the flock of birds in my belly takes flight when he winks.

  Someone coughs beside me, and I look to my right. The birds in my belly drop like a Boeing 747 in a nosedive, crashing and burning on the runway. It’s Maddie.

  “Well, look who’s here—it’s Emilie.” She elbows the friend standing beside her.

  All of a sudden, I’m nauseous. Not like nervous-butterfly nauseous, but hang-your-head-over-the-toilet-and-puke nauseous. Nevertheless, I sit up relatively straight and meet her eyes. I nod but don’t speak as they slide into the bleachers beside me. Creeper boy smiles at them without saying a word.

  I’m seriously considering my escape options when the band stops. A voice booms over the loudspeaker, instructing fans to rise and introducing the senior who will sing the national anthem. When I stand, the gym spins. I place my right hand over my racing heart and breathe slowly through my nose in an effort to halt the swaying movement of the stands beneath my feet. My lips pucker at the sour taste on the back of my tongue. I’m fighting my own perilous fight when the singer hits her note on the line about the rocket’s red glare and the bombs bursting in air.

  All signs—the headache, the dizziness, the bad taste in my mouth—point to either an oncoming panic attack, which I haven’t had since the year after Dad died, or an impending seizure. I scan the sidelines. I’m trapped by two rows of long-legged players, a handful of coaches, and three women sitting at the scorer’s table.

  The song ends, and Maddie leans toward me. My throat tightens in defense against her suffocating cloud of hairspray, shampoo, and perfume. “Chatham must really like you if he invited you to sit behind the bench,” she says without taking her eyes off the court where the War Eagles’ starting lineup is being introduced. I can’t tell if it’s curiosity or malice in her tone.

  “I thought you’d be cheering,” I say, trying to steer the conversation away from me and wracking my brain for an escape plan.

  But Maddie just laughs, like I’m stupid or funny or both. “I’m not a basketball cheerleader,” she says. “That’s for girls who don’t make the football competition squad.” She shakes her head, flicking a strand of long blonde hair off her shoulder.

  “Oh.” I force a smile to cover my confusion. Who knew there were social classes within the cheerleading ranks? I thought once you hit cheering status, you were home free. Now I almost feel sorry for the beautiful girls with the big bows in their hair, bouncing on the balls of their feet at either end of the court. Do they understand their lowly status compared to Maddie and her crew?

  The announcer calls the North Ridge starting five. The gym erupts, and I forget about the cheerleaders. Swarms of feet pound the bleachers. Whistles, cheers, and applause drown out any attempt at conversation. I clap for Chatham when they call his number and smile when he looks up in the stands. Maddie waves so hard, a puff of stuffy air brushes my cheek.

  I’m thankful for a second to sit down and gather my thoughts when the referees and the tallest guys from each team take center court for the jump ball. I may not actually be able to play, but no one is born and raised in the Tar Heel state—the heart and soul of the ACC—without knowing a little about the game of hoops.

  The tip goes to Chatham. He throws a beautiful bounce pass to one of his teammates. The guy lobs a quick three-pointer, and North Ridge is on the board. But the War Eagles are vicious. The Ridge never leads by more than three. The gym buzzes with electricity.

  During the first full time-out, I survey the stands on the other side of the court in an effort to avoid Maddie’s prying eyes. I spot Ayla sitting with Katsu, and my stomach tightens. I should be sitting with them. She glances my way and waves. Once again, I wish she was on my side of the gym. I shouldn’t be fighting off Maddie by myself, not when I could have a friend on my side if I’d just done the right thing.

  “You want to hang with us after the game, since you’re, um . . . alone?” Maddie asks me. For the second time, I’m unsure of her motives. Is she trying to use me to get to Chatham, or does she have a more sinister plan in mind? It’s a little hard for me to believe that after weeks of the ice-queen routine she’s actually being friendly.

  “I’m leaving at halftime.” I didn’t even know I’d made the decision until the words plunge from my mouth. But now that I’ve said them, I know they’re true. No matter how disappointed Chatham is or how concerned Ayla is, I can’t risk seizing in this gym. As soon as the buzzer sounds for the second quarter, I’m texting Mom and telling her I’m ready to go. Then I’m texting Ayla and Chatham and to say I’m sick, which I’m pretty sure is about to be true.

  By the time Mom and Roger get here, it’ll be halftime. The sidelines should be clear enough with the players and coaches in the locker rooms that I can escape without falling over anyone.

  Chatham passes the ball to our center—some guy named Eric—who scores an easy layup, bringing the lead back to two. My neck gets a workout, swiveling back and forth in an attempt to keep up with the lightning-quick game. The War Eagles force an aggressive press, racing the ball up court in an attempt to score before the halftime buzzer. Chatham steps in front of their point guard. The guy trips over Chatham’s foot.

  The ref calls a foul on Chatham, and the crowd boos.

  “Get a pair of glasses, ref!” an angry voice shouts behind me. Chatham glances up into the stands, his jaw twitching.

  I look over my shoulder, trying to identify the obnoxious fan, and spot the man I noticed that night Mom and I went for ice cream at the pier. Except for the bulging vein in the man’s forehead, the stern cut of his jaw, and the pit-bull eyes, the guy’s a forty-something-year-old photocopy of Chatham. I turn away, not wanting my mental vision of Chatham to be polluted by the image of his dad.

  With four seconds left on the clock and the Ridge up by two, the War Eagles throw the ball from midcourt to one of their shooting guards. He snaps an overhead pass to one of their tallest players.

  “Three, two . . .” The crowd counts down the clock.

  My heart races.

  My head pounds.

  With one second to go, the guy launches a three-point shot. Time slows. The War Eagles cheer. North Ridge fans cringe. I cover my eyes with my hands, unable to watch. When I do, the world goes black.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Success is counted sweetest By those who ne’er su
cceed.

  EMILY DICKINSON

  The pungent smell of bleach rips through my nostrils, and the familiar beep of a heart-rate monitor beats out a steady tattoo on my right. My stomach turns in on itself, suffocating any hopeful butterflies or birdies that might still be holding on from earlier in the evening.

  Without opening my eyes, I recognize the sounds and smells of Outer Banks Hospital. Balling my left hand in a fist under the stiff white sheet, I press my fingernails into my palm, and pray for a few minutes alone before I have to deal with Mom or any other intruders.

  I don’t want to think about how I got here or the horrific scene I must’ve caused in the gym. Hot tears sting the backs of my eyes as my brain replays those last minutes at the game—Chatham’s dad seated behind me, Maddie hassling me about plans for the night, the arc of the perfectly executed three-pointer that very possibly could’ve given the War Eagles their first lead of the night.

  “Sweetie?” Mom whispers.

  I freeze, holding my breath, desperately needing a minute to organize my thoughts before dealing with her.

  “Sweetie?” She rubs my arm. “I know you’re awake. Talk to me. Please.”

  I shake my head.

  She brushes the hair back off my forehead. “You seized at the game.”

  I turn away.

  “The medics brought you to the hospital.” Her hand falls from my face.

  I grit my teeth—annoyed that she’s hovering and annoyed by the sudden absence of her hand. I want her to comfort me, to take care of me the way Dad would’ve. But at the same time I know she can’t.

  A pent-up sob rushes from my mouth. Hot tears escape my tightly closed lids, burning my cheeks. I swipe at my face, opening my eyes to a dimly lit, curtained-off corner of a room. From the sound of the drunken cursing on the other side of the screen, I must be stuck in the emergency room with the Friday night party crowd. That means my vital signs weren’t bad enough to warrant being admitted to the hospital. I’ll be going home tonight.