If Birds Fly Back

by Carlie Sorosiak

  “Maybe I should try that with my bedroom,” she says. I don’t even have to look to know she’s goofily smiling. “My parents would be thrilled.” We hover over the pit for another few seconds before she adds, “Jump on three?”

  Is that going to be our thing? Like at the playground. One, two, three.

  When I don’t respond immediately, she just jumps, sundress ballooning at her sides. (How does she do that? Look like she’s suspended in midflight?)

  I follow.

  Flinging my arms wide like I’m trying to hug the air.

  Breaking through the top layer of balls.

  Getting swallowed by color.

  I lay my body flat and sink deeper, deeper. Roll my wrists and sweep forward in a swimming motion. I feel like a fish breathing underwater. After a fifth-grade presentation about sea life, I became incredibly jealous of fish. Of their gills, especially. How they can swim eyes open, lungs open, without feeling a burn.

  After a while, I surface.

  Linny’s not there.

  How long have I been under?

  My first thought: Beneath this ball pit is a loop in the space-time continuum. I have Rip Van Winkled it into the next century. (I hope I’ve solved all the mysteries in A Brief Compendium of Astrophysical Curiosities by now.)

  “Linny?”

  Nothing except the sound of young boys murdering one another in the next pit. (Bueno, still this century.)

  “Linny?”

  Seven, eight, nine seconds pass before the balls rumble and she emerges dolphin-like, camera in hand. “Sebastian, you have to see this! It’s so— Well, come see.” I wade over, waist deep. She rewinds the footage, then presses Play.

  It’s miraculous. She’s captured another world. The coolest part is the way the camera snakes through the pit, like it has a tail.

  The whole thing seems so natural for her. Like, instead of a hand, a camera grew there. (Maybe I phrased that wrong? Sounds too creepy. She’s not a cyborg or anything.)

  I reach out my hands. “May I?”

  Hesitantly, she passes me the camera. I sink back and press my eye to the viewfinder, zooming in on her face. “So, Linny Carson, tell me about yourself.”

  “Ugh, I hate that question. It’s so general.”

  “Fine . . . Er . . . If you could have a superpower, what would it be?”

  She presses two fingers to her chin. “Reading people’s minds.”

  “And why’s that?”

  She shrugs. Alternates between clenching her lips together and lowering herself deeper into the pit. Only her head floats above the surface, like a flower bulb you could uproot by the ponytail.

  “Oh come on,” I say. “Tell me.”

  “If you must know,” she says slowly, “if I could read minds, I would’ve known that Grace was about to leave, and maybe I could’ve gone with her or stopped her or something. But can we talk about something—literally anything—else?”

  “Oh, right, er—” I point with my free hand to the camera. “Is this what you want to do when you grow up? Make movies?”

  For some reason, her light fizzles even more. She grabs back the camera and switches it off. “Yeah. But I can’t really talk about that, either.”

  I despise the word can’t. Scientific history is full of hatred for it. Humans can’t fly, people told Leonardo da Vinci, so he designed a flying machine. You can’t see inside a body without slicing it open—Wilhelm Conrad Röntgen discovered X-rays. Think you can’t clone something? Introducing Dolly the Sheep.

  Granted, da Vinci’s flying machine didn’t work. Didn’t even lift off the ground. Much like this conversation.

  I’m pretty certain I should backtrack. Or backstroke, given the current floating situation. Running through possible discussions:

  Space ice cream

  The possibility of life on other planets

  What do people talk about in ball pits? What do people talk about with girls? Savannah’s tongue was always rammed so far down my throat, word formation wasn’t necessary.

  Oh, got it!

  “Favorite movie. Go.”

  She pops up a little. “Midnight in Miami.” A little more. “Ooo, ooo, or The Godfather. Or The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Or Dr. Strangelove. Or—”

  I laugh. “Can’t choose just one?”

  “Sometimes I think I can, but that’s like choosing a favorite child.”

  “You have children?” I tease.

  She whips a ball at me and says, “No!” And then: “What about you?”

  “I don’t have children, either.”

  Another ball—zing. It connects with my shoulder.

  “I meant, what’s your favorite movie.” Before The Empire Strikes Back forms on my lips, she adds, “It’s probably Midnight in Miami now, right?”

  Silencio.

  Something occurs to her. “You do like your dad’s movie, right?”

  Silencio.

  “You have seen your dad’s movie, right?”

  Silencio.

  “Sebastian! How? You’re not even a teensy bit curious?”

  I tilt my head, confused. “Of course I am. I just hadn’t seen it before I found out he was my dad and now it’s too—it’s too—” I stumble. “Everyone knows him as the famous writer, but I don’t want to know him like everyone else does. I want something that’s just us.”

  An eternity passes.

  Then Linny touches my shoulder.

  It makes my voice come out jagged. “That’s why I was so mad at you that first day and ran when you opened the door. Because you were one of thousands of people closer to him than I was, and it wasn’t supposed to be like that. And I wanted to tell him—right away. But you were always there.”

  For a second, I think I should’ve kept my mouth shut, finally used that superglue Mom chased me with years ago. I want to kick myself in the head for saying too much.

  But then Linny plunges her hand into the pit. In the seconds before hers finds mine, I swear I’ve taken a giant leap toward mastering hibernation. My heart practically stops beating.

  Fingers: intertwine.

  Let me tell you something about hands. They’re not one size fits all like hotel slippers. Ours slot together with an audible chink. (At least I can hear it.) I trace my thumb along her palm. I am a palm explorer now. Lewis and Clark of the palms.

  It’s almost better than the kiss.

  But is she going to apologize for this, too?

  “About yesterday,” Linny says, like she has a transcript of my thoughts. “I lied.”

  I don’t ask her to elaborate—because I know what she means. I squeeze her hand and she squeezes back.

  A QUESTION REGARDING DIMENSIONALITY:

  If the fourth dimension is duration, then can one awesome moment extend infinitely through time?

  How is this happening? I didn’t think it possible, but it’s happening. She likes me. At least, the evidence suggests so.

  And I’m stoked.

  But should I be happy, in the midst of everything else? With nothing I came here to do actually done?

  At that exact moment, the twelve-year-olds burst through the wall of introspection and, streaming in like rabid antelope, launch an attack on our pit. Balls grenade through the air as the birthday boy—by the look of his crown—bangs his chest and lets out a war cry.

  It is possibly the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

  19.

  Linny

  WHO: Captain Matthew Stanley

  WHEN: Three and a half nights in December 2013

  WHY: He wandered away from his military base and into the Hindu Kush Mountains of northeastern Afghanistan. When he returned to camp three and a half nights later, his superior asked him why he fled. He responded, “Thought I didn’t have any fight left in me, sir. Came back when I realized I did.”

  NOTES: When is Grace going to realize it’s time to come home? That there’s so much left to fight for?

  We are severely outnumbered, but we are also much m
ore strategic. Climbing onto the side of the pit, gaining the higher ground, is the obvious choice. . . . And that’s exactly why we don’t do it. Beating the opposing forces requires cunning deception.

  “Linny!” Sebastian shouts above the whiff of balls zipping through the air. “Down! Down!”

  We’re on the same page. I almost shout back, “Roger that!” but maybe people only say that in action and adventure films.

  Dipping below the balls once more, camera still in hand, I follow the curve of the pit’s walls, counting: one, two, three. Simultaneously, Sebastian and I spring from the pit and launch a counterattack. Fighting one-handed, I’m at a slight disadvantage, but we hold our own until Bally World’s manager appears out of nowhere, screaming, “DID YOU NOT SEE THE SIGN?” He points to the back wall, where a banner clearly dictates: No chewing gum. No shoes. Clothes must be worn at all times. DO NOT THROW THE BALLS.

  “Oh,” Sebastian says, looking guilty along with the other boys.

  The manager wags his finger at us. “Last. Warning. Normally I’d just kick you out, but I know this is a birthday party.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say as the twelve-year-old army leaves the pit. Sebastian and I wait until everyone’s gone to double over and clutch our sides, laughing.

  “I feel slightly better,” he says, struggling to catch his breath.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  We still have half an hour on our rental, so we float in the pit—several inches from each other—and play the Asteroid Game.

  “What would you do if an asteroid was crashing to earth?” Sebastian says. “Ten seconds to think about it. And . . . go.”

  “Besides cry? Depends. How long do I have before the asteroid touches down?”

  “Let’s say twenty-four hours.”

  “Okay. I’d say good-bye to everyone I love.” Try to, at least. What if I couldn’t reach Grace? “And then I’d do everything I’m afraid to do. Skydiving, cliff jumping, skinny-dipping—”

  “You cannot classify skinny-dipping and skydiving in the same category.”

  “Sure I can. Jumping out of a plane, terrifying. Having people stare at me when I’m naked, equally terrifying.”

  Without missing a beat, he deadpans, “Believe me when I say you do not have to worry about the last part.” And then all the color rushes to his face. Raising himself a few inches out of the pit, he turns ever so slightly toward me.

  Holy bananas.

  Is he going to kiss me, like in the movies? I picture Breakfast at Tiffany’s—George Peppard kissing Audrey Hepburn in the rain. Or Gone with the Wind—Clark Gable telling Vivien Leigh, “You should be kissed, and often.” Heck, I’ll even take the upside-down lip-lock in Spiderman, logistics of inverted kissing aside.

  Because I do want him to kiss me—even though he’s leaving at the end of the summer, even though I have other things I should be focusing on, even though, even though.

  “Linny?”

  “Yeah?”

  Every ball in the pit is motionless.

  “Am I imagining this,” he says, “or do I still have poop in my hair?”

  He bends over and, sure enough, there’s a short white streak near the crown of his head. “Only the tiniest bit,” I say, and since the magic is pretty much broken, we step out of the pit and gather the rest of our stuff.

  Near the lockers I ask, “Rain check on the movie? I kind of told my parents I’d be home for dinner.”

  “Fine with me,” Sebastian says, and then rather sheepishly, “That means I get to see you twice.”

  It’s not as good as a kiss, but it’s still like someone has tied a thousand balloons to my body: so light, so happy, at risk of floating away.

  MomandDad zap away the helium. At dinner, there is a grilling (and I don’t just mean the hamburgers that Dad brought back from Shake Shack).

  Mom’s updo is tighter than usual; it’s pulling her eyebrows into near-straight lines. “I called three times. Where were you all day?” she says, taking a sip of white wine.

  You know, just fought off an army, almost got kissed in a ball pit, searched for a lost chapter of a soon-to-be famous manuscript, and ate two tons of pecan brittle.

  I swallow a bite of hamburger. “Hanging out with a friend.”

  Dad says, “Cass or Ray?” He’s tucked a white napkin into his shirt collar, which I know drives Mom insane.

  “I do have other friends.”

  Mom sets down her fork. “And where did you meet this friend?” “This friend” rolls off her tongue like it’s a disease, as if she’s about to add it to the list on her office wall, right under S is for Syphilis.

  “Silver Springs. He volunteers there, too.”

  “Well,” she says, “is he free four Sundays from now?”

  Dropping my burger, I panic. “Why?” In my mind, I hear Grace laughing, saying, “Why do you think?”

  “Please tell me you haven’t forgotten about the Future Doctors of America luncheon we’re hosting.”

  Silence punctures the room.

  “You have,” she says. “Well. Mark it in your day planner, July tenth, like I told you. Why did we even buy you that planner if you aren’t going to use it? Anyway, the Jeffreys boy can’t make it, and I’ve ordered enough sandwiches for exactly twenty people.”

  Still panicking here. “So?”

  “So invite your friend. I have a right to know with whom my daughter’s spending her time.” She points a slender finger at my plate. “And don’t just eat your burger. The vegetables are there for a reason.”

  As soon as I finish my fresh-from-the-can green beans, I rush back into the safety of my closet, where I rewatch the footage from today. Since I angled the camera upward while filming him, Sebastian appears ten thousand feet tall—because in my mind, he is. Then there’s the moment when he takes over the camera, and suddenly I’m full screen. What’s strange is, for a moment, I look so blissfully happy, the girl I wish I were all the time. Do I really smile that big around him, like he just told me I get free ice cream for a year?

  I rub my fingers over my lips, remembering how it felt to kiss him: soft and reckless at the same time. I rewind and rewind, head growing hotter until I feel thoroughly flambéed. All I know is, when I flick off the lights promptly at 9:00 p.m., the first thing that pops into my brain is Sebastian’s hand in mine.

  THE LEFT-BEHINDS (SCENE 10)

  LINNY’S BEDROOM

  LINNY slips the yellow sundress over her head. It stands in stark contrast to the black-and-white everything else. She runs her hands over the dress to smooth it out, and the yellow transfers like paint onto her hands. It drips onto the carpet.

  Drop by drop, color inches into the room.

  She spreads her fingers and tries to lift off the ground.

  20.

  Sebastian

  “Gravitational instability is one proposition for the beginning of galaxies. Think of it—our universe could be the result of small perturbations.” A Brief Compendium of Astrophysical Curiosities, p. 188

  “I talked to your mom last night,” Ana says the next Friday over breakfast. “She said you texted her.”

  Through a mouthful of fried plantains, I say, “Mhmm.” After the ball pit, I sent her four words: I’m okay. Te amo. I wanted her to know that coming to Miami was the right choice. That I don’t blame her from the past, but I need to create my own future.

  “I think that’s great, Sebastian.” Ana beams. “You look happy. Realmente feliz.”

  “Gracias,” I say, getting up and putting my dish in the sink. “I am.” And maybe it’s not just Linny—maybe it’s this whole place. Being here with Ana and my dad in Miami. Speaking some Spanish in the house.

  She pushes up the sleeves of her magenta robe. Like she’s prepping for heavy conversation. “Is there something else going on with you, mijo?” There’s that word again! It gives me heart palpitations. “You seem extra happy.”

  I inspect the grout between the kitchen tiles. “Er—nope. Just . . . toda
y could be a very good day.”

  “What’s today?”

  “Nothing in particular.”

  “No, it’s definitely something. Do you . . .” She slaps one hand into the other. “You have a date with this girl from Silver Springs, am I right?”

  “No.”

  “Sí. Out with it.”

  I roll my eyes. “We’re just watching a movie.”

  Ana stands up. Ruffles my hair. “That’s how it starts.”

  (See A THEORY ON BEGINNINGS)

  After five hours of cleaning the Silver Springs kitchen and unsuccessfully questioning Álvaro about his disappearance, Linny and I are pounding the pavement to my aunt’s condo, Linny’s bike rolling between us. My mind’s blasting into hypergear, repeating: Movie. Movie. Movie.

  What if I mess this up? What if I tell her my best joke (“So, a duck walks into an antigravity chamber . . .”), and she doesn’t laugh? What if I sit down on the couch and it makes that pfft sound, and she thinks it’s me?

  This is an effing minefield.

  When Linny props her bike against the rack, I check for Ana’s Toyota in the lot. Nope. She’s out.

  It’s just Linny and me. Alone.

  I repeat: ALONE. Truly alone.

  I try not to dwell on that. Try not to dwell on the tanned freckles on her shoulders or the stamped feeling of her hand in mine. But . . . I have a hot girl, alone, in an empty apartment. For a moment, I feel slightly like (insert ultramanly cool guy here). Then I remember I’m a seventeen-year-old wannabe astrophysicist who’s only had one girlfriend.

  So, yeah.

  Inside, it’s blistering. Steam practically rises from the couch. Ana is willing to compromise on everything but the temperature. She says the heat is good for the skin.

  “It’s good for the skin,” I blurt out, because that’s what a normal person would say, right? Sometimes I wonder if I have verbal dysdecorum, which makes sufferers lose the ability to censor their speech.

  “What is?” Linny says.

  I mumble, “Nothing, nothing,” and search for a distraction. “Chicken!” I exclaim, like I’ve just spotted one sprinting across the yard. “I can make chicken.”

  “That’s . . . cool.”