The Thing with Feathers

by McCall Hoyle

  Crap. Crap. Crap. I hurt him.

  “Hitch, I’m sorry.”

  He leans to the left on the next circle.

  A scream rises in my throat, but I hold it in. He’ll flip. And if I leave him, I don’t know what he’ll do. His eyes are bugging, and every time he barks, he swallows pool water.

  Can’t someone hear him barking?

  I have to do something, so I kick off my shoes, suck in a deep lungful of air, and slip into the pool. The cool water takes away my one good breath. I gasp, moving my arms and legs instinctively, doggy-paddle style like I did in first grade. For the millisecond it takes Hitch to reach me, I think my rescue attempt might work. I might be able to swim.

  He’s leaning to the left but smiling as he closes the short gap between us. When he reaches for me with his good paw, his claws tangle in my wet shirt, pulling me under.

  I choke on the chlorinated water but somehow drag myself to the surface. We inch forward. The six feet to the ladder shouldn’t be a big deal, but it feels more like six miles. My arms and legs scream. I tread water and cough, trying to expel the pool water from my lungs, and form a plan. Hitch turns on me, concern etched in his face. If I don’t do something fast, he’s going to reach for me again.

  And that is not an option.

  It’s a recipe for disaster.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  A charm invests a face—

  EMILY DICKINSON

  Hitch, freeze!” It’s not a command I’ve used often, because he’s so well behaved. We’ve certainly never practiced it in the water. But it is a command the canine assistant trainers teach for emergencies like this when a dog is in danger. He looks skeptical, but he does what he’s told, struggling to tread water despite his injured leg.

  I’m not used to being on this side of the rescue team, but it’s my turn. I have to do something. So I kick like I’ve never kicked before and pull with my arms the way Dad instructed when I was little. Hitch whines when I pull away from him but stays in place. My fingers brush cold steel and I latch on for dear life.

  Without releasing my death grip on the ladder, I turn back to Hitch. “Hitch, come,” I say, trying to control the panic in my voice. As he approaches, I wrap one arm around the side rail and brace my foot on the bottom rung. With my free hand, I tap the top step the way I tap the couch or the car seat or wherever I want him to jump. Of course he can’t jump, but he is able to snag the rung with his good paw.

  My teeth chatter as I contemplate my limited options. Dragging him out was an epic disaster. I can’t imagine how my releasing the ladder and pushing him upward will go any better, but it’s the best I’ve got.

  “Watch me, Hitch,” I say, my chest aching from the water I swallowed or fear or both.

  As I loosen my grip on the side rail, one of the heavy metal doors whooshes open. “Anyone in here?” Chatham calls.

  I open my mouth to scream but break into another fit of coughing. Hitch barks frantically.

  Flip-flops slap the wet concrete. “Emilie? What the—” Chatham reaches down to help me.

  “No.” I shake my head. “Hitch is hurt. Help him. Don’t pull on his leg.”

  Without hesitation, he drops to the wet cement. Lying on his stomach with his cheek pressed to the ground, he reaches his long arms beneath the water and grabs Hitch under the arms like a child.

  “Look at me,” he says, determination etched on his face. “You’re going to have to help me get him up.” He nods at the silver rail. “But keep one hand on the ladder.”

  He doesn’t have to worry. I’d rather walk across a flaming bed of knives than risk going under again.

  Somehow, we hoist Hitch up the ladder and onto the concrete pool deck. He flops on his side, one eye closed, sides heaving, but manages a weak thump of his tail.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Chatham,” I whisper, looking up at him without releasing my death grip on the ladder.

  “Y’all scared the crap out of me.” He gestures to the ladder. “Now, let’s get you out of there.”

  I place my other foot on the bottom rung and reach for his outstretched hand. My legs shake as I climb. When I reach the top, I crawl over to Hitch.

  “Oh, baby, are you okay?” His tail thumps the wet cement for a second before he raises his head to kiss my cheek.

  Chatham squats beside us, resting a hand on my back. “He’s okay. Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then come here.” He pulls me to my feet, then to his chest for a hug. When he squeezes me, my wet body melts against his. I tilt my head to look up at him. His lips part. A bead of water hangs on his angular jaw.

  Hitch sighs, dragging himself up on his three good legs. Once there, he shakes, showering us with gallons of wet-doggy water.

  Chatham laughs and pulls me to the metal bleachers, where we sit more on Hitch’s level. Hitch rests his tender front leg on Chatham’s lap and delivers a nice, big kiss on the lips. Chatham chuckles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  I grab him by the collar of his wet T-shirt. “My turn.” I smile, pressing my lips to his quickly, then pull back. I’m a changed person after my near drowning in the pool and my icy dip in the Atlantic yesterday.

  But we still haven’t had a chance to talk. After the fiasco at The Potter’s House, Chatham probably wants nothing to do with me. I hang my head, shivering now that the adrenaline’s wearing off.

  “Hey, I helped saved your life.” He grins, hauling me closer. “I’d think you’d be a little more appreciative.”

  He traces the outline of my lips with his pointer finger, then leans in to brush the corner of my mouth with his own, his breath warming my cheek. My hands reach for the back of his neck, tangling in his wet hair.

  He pulls back, studying my face. “Are you sure you want this?”

  “Yes.” I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. “Yes. Are you sure you want this?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure,” he says, his mouth centimeters from my lips.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve known since the second day I saw you.”

  I study his face, wondering for a moment if he’s teasing me. Since the second day? I don’t even remember what we said or did the second day I knew him.

  “Yep.” He pulls me farther into his lap. “You had me with the Ferris Bueller quote. I knew then you were smart and funny. Somebody I wanted to get to know better.”

  I try to maintain eye contact, but my gaze keep dropping to his lips. If he doesn’t kiss me—really kiss me—I’m going to self-combust. I pull his mouth to mine, greedy. I tell myself to keep my eyes open, to memorize every detail of his face, but reason disappears when he kisses me long and slow.

  Hitch barks. Our eyes pop open, and we disintegrate into a fit of laughter. I’ve laughed more in the last forty-eight hours than I have in the last four years.

  When the bell rings, we scramble into high gear—gathering shoes, finger-combing our hair, wringing water from our clothes.

  Chatham’s eyes travel the length of my body. “We’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

  I shrug. For once in my life, I don’t care what anyone else thinks.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Triumph—may be of several kinds—

  EMILY DICKINSON

  We wait near the double doors for the hall to clear. As we rush to Ms. Younghouse in the clinic, Hitch barely favors his left leg. It seems like he just needed a few minutes to recover from the panic caused by my fall and the shock of me almost ripping his leg out of its socket.

  Nurse Younghouse clucks like a mother hen when she sees our wet clothes and forces us into spare PE uniforms she keeps for dress-code violations and emergencies. While our things tumble in a dryer in the back room, she swaddles us together in a cotton blanket. We’re two shivering caterpillars crammed in one cocoon, and I must admit it’s pretty cozy.

  Ms. Younghouse rubs Hitch with a thick white towel, paying special attenti
on to his ears and tail. Just to be safe, she tapes a couple of ice-filled sandwich bags around his leg. “How long were you under?”

  “It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.” I concentrate on her eyes, willing myself not to blink. “I promise.”

  “She was above water when I came in.” Chatham crosses his heart with his finger. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Okay, Emilie. But I still have to call your mom.” She reaches for the cordless phone on the desk behind her.

  Chatham squeezes my shoulder while I fiddle with the charm bracelet dangling from my wrist. Ms. Younghouse delivers a quick recap of what happened, reassures Mom I’m in good condition, then hands me the phone.

  “Are you okay?” Mom asks, her voice squeaking on the last word.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” I promise. And I am.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Her voice is muffled like she’s holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder and digging in her pocketbook. Keys jingle in the background.

  “No, really, I want to stay.”

  Ms. Younghouse and Chatham watch my face expectantly.

  “Okay . . .” Mom doesn’t sound confident. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.” I glance down at the lighthouse charm hanging from my wrist. “And Mom—”

  “Yes?” she answers before I finish.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” The smile in her voice reminds me of that Dickinson quote Chatham and I annotated what feels like ages ago—the one about not living in vain if you can stop one heart from breaking. It feels good to be mending Mom’s heart for once instead of breaking it.

  I agree to meet her in the pickup line after school and hang up.

  Ms. Younghouse leaves to collect our clothes. Hitch pads along behind her, completely recovered from our ordeal. Chatham rests his head on top of mine.

  “I thought you weren’t coming this morning.” I break the silence.

  “I waited.” He pulls the blanket tighter around my waist. “You didn’t show and Coach Carnes wanted to see me.”

  I deflate a little, my shoulders hunching. “Are you in trouble with the team because of Thursday?”

  He waits several seconds before responding. “I’m not on the team.”

  What? How? “This is my fault.”

  “No.” He hooks my chin with his finger, turning my face toward his. “I told Coach I was finished.”

  “You can’t quit. Your dad will flip.”

  “I’m not a quitter.” A two-dimple, full-on smile lights his face. “I made a choice. I chose to focus on what I want: to focus on swimming.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “My dad can deal with it. Besides, this way we might actually get to see each other once in a while.”

  The hummingbirds are back, swarming in my belly. “But you said everything between us was built on lies.” My voice catches.

  “You wouldn’t answer my calls or texts.” His smile falters. “I was mad. And confused.”

  “What about my seizures?” I whisper, unable to meet his eyes, picking at a loose thread on the blanket.

  “Let’s focus on what we can control and worry about the other stuff later.” He squeezes my hand.

  “You’re right.” I rest my head in the hollow beneath his chin and close my eyes.

  Ms. Younghouse breezes in with our clothes. “Okay, lovebirds. It’s time to get y’all to your next class. The bell’s going to ring in ten minutes.”

  She releases us and we head toward Ms. Ringgold’s class. The room looks empty, but the lights are on. It’s her planning period. Chatham knocks.

  “Come in,” Ms. Ringgold calls.

  Chatham eases open the door. She’s at the back of the room, rotating potted plants near the window. As soon as she spots us, she rushes over, dropping to the floor in front of Hitch, scratching him under the chin.

  “Well, aren’t you handsome?” She makes kissy faces at him. Hitch eats it up, smiling from ear to ear. “Hi, to you too, Emilie.” She pushes herself off the floor and hugs me. “Welcome back.”

  “I’m glad to be back.” I lean into her hug. “Is it okay if we hang out in here till the bell rings?”

  “Absolutely. I’m just debudding the violets.” She points to a ceramic pot at the end of the row. I’m pretty sure it’s the plant I noticed drooping a week ago. She pinches a purple bloom near the green leaves, snips it off in one quick motion, then tosses it into an empty coffee cup. “So, Chatham, your grades have improved recently,” she says, beaming and plucking another bloom from the plant.

  “Thanks to my new tutor.” He drapes an arm across my shoulders. It feels natural, like the indentation under his arm was carved out and custom sized to fit me. My spine straightens.

  Ms. Ringgold nods, shifting plump leaves out of the way to reach another bloom. She glances up and catches me staring.

  I point to the flower. “You’re ripping off the blooms.”

  She smiles, her eyes twinkling. “No. I’m pruning back old growth to make room for the new. It’ll come back even healthier with more blooms in a couple of weeks. Watch and see.”

  The bell rings. Maddie and a few chatty girls stumble into the room. When they see us, their voices drop several notches. My stomach drops even further.

  “Y’all see me after school if you need me. Okay?” Ms. Ringgold says, heading to her desk, ready to start class.

  Chatham and I slip into our seats in the back. A few people glance at me and Hitch but look away. Their eyes dart around the room, looking at the floor, the whiteboard, out the window—anywhere but at us. No one acknowledges me until Ayla walks in. She sees me and stops, her face expressionless. I smile and wave, praying she doesn’t pretend I’m invisible like the rest of the class.

  She hesitates. For a second, I think she’s going to ignore me, and I wouldn’t blame her. Then she blinks and smiles. I can’t explain it, but I just know things are going to be okay with us.

  She hurries over. “I’ve been trying to call you.” She bends down to hug me and Hitch.

  “I know. I’m sorry . . .” What can I say that won’t sound like an excuse? “There’s been a lot going on.”

  Ms. Ringgold claps her hands and clears her throat. “It’s going to be a great day, guys. We have a new student.” She smiles at Hitch. He beams, his tail thumping the tile floor.

  Derek laughs and tilts his chin at me and Hitch in greeting. Nobody else moves or makes a sound.

  “I’ll save you a seat at lunch,” Ayla whispers, turning toward her desk.

  Chatham tugs on her paint-splattered sleeve. “Save two.”

  Ayla steals a glance at me. I nod.

  “Okay.” She smiles, then heads to her desk. “See y’all at lunch.”

  Ms. Ringgold points at the board. Wild red hair bounces around her face. “We’re going to try to get through a few more American-author presentations today.” She surveys the room. “Any volunteers?”

  No one breathes. There’s enough nervous energy in the room to ignite an electrical storm.

  I peek over at Chatham. He raises an eyebrow. A mischievous smirk dances at the corners of his mouth as I raise my hand.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I read my sentence—steadily—

  EMILY DICKINSON

  Excellent.” Ms. Ringgold waves me and Chatham to the front. She scurries to her desk, turning on the projector and pulling up the slideshow we emailed her last week.

  Chatham waits for Hitch and me to make our way up the tight row before following us. We take our places—front and center, Hitch on my left, Chatham on my right. I try to swallow, but my dry throat constricts. Hitch sits beside me, his leash slippery in my palm.

  I’m supposed to start with Dickinson’s biography. Chatham’s going to analyze a poem. We’re supposed to close with a famous quotation or short reading.

  The clock above the board behind us ticks. Hitch nudges my trembling thigh, shaking me out of my deep freeze. My mouth opens. “Emily Dick
inson is probably America’s most famous female poet. Partially because of her unique voice and style. Partially because of the mystery surrounding her reclusive nature.”

  Ayla perches on the edge of her chair. Ms. Ringgold clicks her keyboard, and a grainy black-and-white photo of a plain woman appears on the screen, accompanied by a bulleted list of biographical information. Date of birth—1830. Date of death—1886. Education—Mount Holyoke and Amherst Colleges.

  The knots in my throat and stomach loosen as I talk. A girl I don’t know in the middle row smiles. I’m pretty sure I make eye contact with a guy in the back.

  Ms. Ringgold forwards to the next slide. I’m supposed to be talking about Dickinson’s personal life—how she was called “The Myth” by her neighbors because she chose to stay secluded in her father’s home and entertained very few visitors. But I go rebel. Before I can stop myself, I’m digging into rumors surrounding her health.

  “A popular biography published in two thousand and ten suggested she might have suffered from epilepsy.” I pause, waiting for my peers to acknowledge me. The second hand ticks. Maddie makes eye contact. The girls, who have been following her lead, look up. “Some of you might have seen what epilepsy looks like if you were at the game Thursday.”

  No one moves. Even Ms. Ringgold is frozen—speechless.

  “I have seizures.” There, I said it. I inhale, pausing to choose each work carefully. “I’m not mentally disabled. I’m not possessed by demons.” My voice rises. “And, no, I’m not contagious.

  “It’s like an electrical disturbance in the wiring of my brain. That’s it. Otherwise, I’m normal. And I don’t want to lock myself away from the world like Emily Dickinson because my epilepsy makes me and other people feel uncomfortable. Not anymore.”

  Chatham reaches for my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. I square my shoulders.

  “I want to be in control.” My voice shakes. Hitch nuzzles his head under my free hand, encouraging me. “I want to be a part of this school. If you’re interested, I’ll tell you anything you want to know, so you don’t have to be afraid of me or anyone else who has epilepsy.”