If Birds Fly Back

by Carlie Sorosiak

  It should be weird, spinning around the floor with Álvaro Herrera. A month ago, if you’d told me I’d be dancing with a presumed-dead novelist on the Fourth of July, I’d tell you to quit messing with me, but after I learn the basic beat, it feels almost natural. He feels almost natural. Sort of grandfatherly. Not that my grandpa had the grace of a professional dancer or even once spiked the limonada . . .

  “There! ¡Perfecto!” Álvaro seems genuinely proud, although I’m still crunching his toes every other step. “I tell you, I am the best teacher. No one in Miami could move like me. Next week, I’ll teach you tango. These dances, very sensual. Done with the right person? Enough to fall in love.” His eyes roam over to where Sebastian continues to flip burgers. “You are falling, no?”

  My voice has something in common with driftwood: it splinters. “Falling—in love with—Sebastian?”

  “Sebas-TIAN! You look at him like he cups the whole world in his hands. This is a universal look. Believe me when I tell you I know this look.” He spins me in and out, the hem of my shirt flapping with the movement. “So when do we tell him?”

  “We?”

  His eyes crinkle at the corners as he dissolves into a peal of laughter. “Oh! ¡Mi amor! Lo siento, but it was too easy! No, I will never tell, but you must.” After several more intricate steps, the laughter and the crinkling fade. What replaces them is something much bleaker. The cut—now a scar on his forehead—still reminds me of lightning, and appropriately so, because his face is a thunderstorm. “You must,” he repeats in a deep baritone. “You must. You must. If you listen to any one thing, listen to this. Sometimes there are no second chances to say how we feel. I only want to make you understand. You understand this, yes?”

  He says it so earnestly, my lungs feel as if they’ve been pinpricked. “Yeah,” I gasp out. “Of course.”

  This whole time, I’ve been thinking of him like Grace. But suddenly I wonder if he has a Grace.

  “Good. So . . .” He stops dancing and shouts across the courtyard: “¡Oye! Sebas-TIAN!”

  Mildly horrified, I say, “What are you doing?”

  “Giving you a chance, mi amor.”

  Sebastian appears moments later, wielding a greasy spatula like a baton. My eyes flick between them—Sebastian to Álvaro and back again. Positioned side by side, the resemblance is startling, like they’re the same person on opposite ends of the age spectrum. Álvaro releases my grip and makes the swap: me for the spatula. “I’ll take that,” he says, shifting away, “and you take her. Dance! Dance!”

  Slightly confused, Sebastian winds his arms around my waist, his hands on my lower back. Let me repeat that: Hands. Lower. Back.

  Muchas gracias, Álvaro.

  Sebastian’s whole face is lit up. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I say.

  “So, should I be jealous that he got the first dance?”

  My instinct is to lower my eyes, embarrassed, but there’s nowhere to look except the diminishing gap between us. At my high school’s dances, teachers usually dart around with flashlights to ensure we’re at least four inches apart, as if three inches of separation automatically leads to babies. Sebastian and I are approaching the danger zone.

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “Super jealous.”

  Is it wrong that I want to slam my body into his and roll around on the dance floor in a tangle of limbs like it’s the end of the world? Probably.

  I am falling, no?

  He pulls me infinitesimally closer. “I like this,” he says.

  It’s an almost perfect moment—almost, because Cass charges in a minute later, breath reeking of that lemonade. Overhead are blue and white streamers, and she yanks one of them down to wrap it around her neck like a scarf. “You missed a f-freaking great party,” she slurs. “But I thought—ya know? Cass, you should be with your friend. Tha’s all I thought. So here I am!”

  “Are you drunk?” Sebastian asks. He’s not a huge Cass fan—I can tell.

  “Duh.” She winks, hiccups. “And I have a sur-prise for you, Lin-a-Lin-Lin.” From her purse she extracts a blue bikini like she’s yanking a rabbit from a hat. “’S for you. Go put it on.”

  I tell her that underneath my T-shirt I’m already wearing a one-piece. (Florida 101: always be prepared for the beach.)

  “Purrrfect,” she coos as she drops her purse and wrenches up her dress, revealing her sparkly two-piece and scintillating figure. Discarding the dress in a heap on the concrete, she grabs one of my hands from Sebastian’s shoulder. Grabs his hand, too, and starts dragging us toward the pool. “Take a walk on the wiiiild side.”

  A swim on the wild side, she means. Flip-flops gripping the concrete, I say, “Should you be swimming? Plus, I haven’t seen anyone in there all summer.”

  “All the more reason to jump. You even know how to have fun, Lin-a-Lin-Lin? Come on, on, on.” For a moment it’s like last year—Cass urging me on to do adventurous things, except that last year Grace was at her side.

  Metal barriers guard the pool to avoid accidental drowning. We hop over them as Cass prods me to strip. Reluctantly, I undress and cover myself with my hands—although I don’t have enough hands for everything I want to cover. I mind-film myself a thousand more.

  Next to Cass, Sebastian peels off his T-shirt and . . . Whoa. I have to close my lips to keep my heart from lurching out of my mouth. He’s like a drawing—all lean lines and perfect hues. In the sunlight, his skin’s the color of honey. Back dimples galore.

  Teetering at the edge, Cass yells, “Now!” and I can feel a hundred eyes on us as we pierce the waterline. Streams of water balloon outward. For three seconds it’s dreamily quiet, and I remember when Cass, Grace, and I were at swim camp three summers ago, and we shared secrets underwater. Warbles of words we could only speak when no one else could understand us.

  I told them I’d never kissed a boy.

  Cass confessed that, sometimes, she wished she’d been born into another family.

  Grace said she wanted to be a bird.

  My feet touch the warm bottom, and I spring weightlessly upward, breaking the surface again. Sebastian’s a blur beside me. I blink, rub the chlorine from my eyes, and watch him shake his head like a dog. Beads of water run down his neck. Down his chest. Probably down his . . .

  Holy bananas.

  To avoid giving too much away, I finagle a few curls to shade my eyes. Even still, I can tell he’s studying me. Because I can’t help it, I imagine water sloshing as he walks over, reaches up, and gently parts my hair, tucking wet chunks behind my ears.

  But then something abso-freaking-lutely crazy happens. He actually does it—walks over, tucks my hair. “There,” he says, dark-gray eyes catching mine. “Much better.”

  I disintegrate, reassemble myself, and disintegrate again. I want to tell Grace. I need to tell Grace.

  There are fireworks.

  No—I mean actual fireworks. The sky pops, becoming a constellation of fizzling color. I wish I had a waterproof camera so I could film it from this angle. Us, down below. Above, all the residents peering up in wonder, like kids seeing the sky lit up for the first time. Álvaro looks happy, too—the happiest I’ve seen him in weeks.

  But then he glances down at the pool, to where we’re standing. He stares at us with no recognition in his eyes, like we’re not even people but seaweed floating in the ocean. Maybe worse than that. Maybe the water’s turning us invisible. He’s staring like nothing’s there at all.

  THE LEFT-BEHINDS (SCENE 11)

  CARSON FAMILY DINING ROOM

  There are little bits of color in the room: orange flames atop sixteen silver sparklers, lit on a small cake. DAD, MOM, and CASS surround LINNY as they sing her “Happy Birthday.”

  LINNY smiles when the song ends but is obviously unhappy.

  CASS

  (excitedly)

  Go on, blow out the candles!

  (chanting)

  Blow—them—out, blow—them—out!

  LINNY does. A hopeful pause
as she waits for her wish.

  As DAD cuts the cake, the home phone rings in the kitchen—so loud that it rocks the whole house.

  LINNY’s eyes widen. She rushes from the table, stumbling to the kitchen against the earthquake-like vibrations. Everyone watches her, unsure.

  LINNY

  I’ll get it! I’ll get it!

  She answers, breathless.

  LINNY (continued)

  Hello?

  On the other end of the line, we hear a man’s voice and banjo music.

  CALLER

  Hello, there. My name’s Buck Johnson, and I know what you’ve been thinking to yourself. It’s that time of year again, and my lawn needs landscaping! I’m here to tell you that at Buck Johnson and Company—

  LINNY crashes the receiver on the countertop, taking a chunk out of the granite. Pieces of the ceiling crumble and fall.

  She runs a hand over her back, checking for something. When she doesn’t find it, she stares at the kitchen wreckage like there’s nothing there at all.

  22.

  Sebastian

  “The concept of parallel worlds is passionately contested, but who knows? In another universe, we could be having the same debate.” A Brief Compendium of Astrophysical Curiosities, p. 112

  The fabric of my swim trunks is way too thin.

  This tops the list of the worst possible times and places to get an erection. In the pool. At an old-people’s home. With my father fifteen feet away.

  But she looks so goddamn gorgeous.

  And this is the smoothest I’ve ever been.

  And we are so close to each other, teeny-tiny layers between us.

  I tell my mind—and let’s face it, the stick of dynamite twenty seconds away from forming in my swim trunks—to chill eff out. I whip out my best boner-killing material (DEAD-PEOPLE-BLOOD-BLOOD-BLOOD-MICAH-HITTING-ON-MY-MOM) until the threat is 85 percent neutralized.

  How I’m managing words, I have no clue. Any more clothes off and I’ll need one of those Stephen Hawking machines to speak.

  I think: I’m going to kiss her.

  I’m going to kiss her right here. Right now.

  In a parallel world, I already have.

  I’m going to tuck her hair behind her ears and kiss her, finally—a second kiss.

  But then boom, boom in the sky.

  And then Álvaro’s eyes on us.

  How am I being cock-blocked by my eighty-two-year-old dad?

  After the fireworks fizzle out, Linny, Cass, and I leave the pool, grab some cupcakes, and set up camp on the lounge chairs. A rope of wet hair rests on Linny’s shoulder.

  Next to me, she licks off the cupcake frosting.

  I nearly lose it.

  “May I?” Álvaro says, slow-walking up behind us, pointing his cane at an open pool chair. Cass says, “Sure,” as he lowers himself down. Adjusts his kneecaps. Even over “The Star-Spangled Banner” playing in the distance, I can hear his cartilage sliding.

  “You look like you’re part of the picture,” Linny observes, and I see what she means. To Álvaro’s back is a mural. Paint chipping. Ocean, seagulls. It’s as if he’s bobbing along in the water.

  Álvaro twists to view the beach scene and says, “Ah, so I am.” Turning again to us: “When I was very young, younger than now, I would swim and swim and swim. I wanted to be in”—snapping his fingers—“las Olimpiadas.”

  Linny smiles. “The Olympics? So you were really good?”

  “Bah! No, I was horrible. But that is juventud! To be young is to have dreams.” He crinkles his eyebrows at the three of us. “You must promise me: do not—do not let anyone tell you that because you are young you cannot do things. That you cannot feel things. It is because you are young that you can feel everything.”

  Just like that, Linny’s hand drifts toward mine on the lounge chair. And I do feel everything, all at once. When the cleaning crew removes the rest of the streamers, we stay. When the music stops late into the night, we stay. Cock-block aside, I wouldn’t trade one second of this everything.

  It’s Sunday morning. Future Doctors of America lunch day. Already eighty degrees and humid as I bike to the address Linny gave me. On my T-shirt is Einstein sticking out his tongue. Considering that I’m drenched in sweat, it feels like he’s actually licking me.

  A line of parked cars (all with HONOR STUDENT bumper stickers) snakes around Linny’s block. Every house is a weird shade of blue, but I identify hers right away. It’s the one with the nuclear-green lawn, she texted me. And she’s right. Sprinklers lightly spritz. Neon water pools near the gutter. Their white-porcelain flamingo has a weird expression, like it’s choking.

  I ring the doorbell once. Twice. Three times for good measure.

  A striking man with sandy hair answers the door. Next to him is a striking woman in a beige pantsuit, curly hair pulled into a tight bun. Linny’s parents. Must be. They look a lot like her. (If Linny were made of plastic. If Linny had a dial in her back, set to Disapproval.) They throw me a look that simultaneously reads “What’s your pedigree?” and “I hope we purchased enough sandwiches.”

  “Hi,” I hear myself say. “I’m Sebastian, Linny’s friend?” It comes out as a question.

  “Ah,” Linny’s dad says robotically. “Please, please, come in.”

  I swipe my sneakers four times on the doormat. It’s the type of house that requires clean shoes. Kind of like visiting a nanotech lab.

  In the all-white foyer, Linny’s mom pinches her chin. “So, Sebastian, are you at all interested in the medical profession?”

  On the nervous scale, I’m a twelve out of ten. It doesn’t help that, at that exact moment, classical music switches on somewhere in the house. Long, pounding notes that rattle my rib cage. “I’m actually going to Cal Tech this fall for physics. I want to study—er—dark matter and stuff and eventually solve all the big mysteries of the universe.”

  They nod in apparent approval. Strange how they do it simultaneously. Like bobble heads on the same dashboard.

  In my peripheral vision, I spot Linny in a sea of Future Doctors of America, chatting with a vampire-pale guy in a sweater vest. When I catch her eye, she mouths Excuse me to him and bolts across the living room. Wedges herself between her parents.

  “You’re here!” she says as if I wouldn’t show up.

  Linny’s dad: “We were just talking to Sebastian about his future.”

  Linny’s mom: “He’s interested in physics. Did you know that, darling?” Turning back to me, “Marilyn’s incredibly interested in emerging scientific research as well, aren’t you?”

  Linny, devoid of emotion: “Oh yeah. All about it.”

  I remember in the ball pit how she told me her parents would—if they had the opportunity—dress her up in scrubs and a stethoscope. Keep her in a cabinet like a china doll, on display for the neighbors. I think I’m getting a glimpse of what she means.

  Linny, to me: “You must be really hungry. Sandwiches?” Without waiting for an answer, she grabs my elbow and yanks me down the hallway. We pass all her school pictures, arranged chronologically in silver frames. In each picture, her smile fades a little more.

  Happy.

  Moderately happy.

  Glum.

  Audition for an antidepressant commercial.

  And what’s with the nail holes a foot above every photo, like other frames used to hang there?

  “Sorry, I just had to get out,” Linny says, bursting into the kitchen. The tile is brilliantly white. The counters, bare (except for the sandwiches). A note on the refrigerator reads: Grocery Store—Celery, Bleach. “My parents can be a bit full-on.”

  “Trust me,” I say, “I’ll be the first to acknowledge the difficulty of having parents for parents.”

  She nods appreciatively, reaches awkwardly behind her back to grab the end of her ponytail. “Thanks so, so much for coming.”

  “No problem,” I tell her. “Hey, above your pictures in the hallway . . . ?”

  “Grace’s p
hotos.”

  “Oh.”

  “They took them down about two months ago. I can’t tell if it was for me or for them. . . . Sandwich?”

  Lifting the bread off one of them, examining what may be the only colorful object in the house—“Is that cheese? Why the hell is it pink?”

  “Because it’s fancy?” Linny presses two fingers into the sandwich’s soft flesh. “A few times a year—same people, same horrible sandwiches.” Pause. “Do you maybe want to see my room, before my parents drag me back to the party?”

  Wait. What?

  Girls’ rooms are sacred, mysterious spaces. Mars before Voyager 1. To be invited in so casually is mind-boggling.

  “You have to take off your shoes, though,” she adds at the bottom of the back stairs. “White carpeting and all.”

  Our socked feet quietly touch the floor all the way to her room. Once there, my eyes flicker around. “It looks like a clean room.”

  “Well, my parents like it tidy.”

  “No,” I say, running my hand against one of the near-bare walls. “I mean like in a hospital or a lab. Where they strip out all the environmental pollutants—no dust or chemicals or anything.”

  Linny smirks. “My parents would probably consider you a pollutant.” Counting on her fingers—“One, you’re a boy. And two, you’re a boy who’s not a Future Doctor of America.”

  Both mortal sins, I guess. We stifle laughs in silence as I continue to peer around her room.

  “You have a turtle.”

  “Hector. He’s my sister’s. But, you know.”

  The door to her closet is cracked open wide enough to see inside. “Why are there pillows?”

  “Hmm?”

  “On the floor of your closet. Why are there pillows?”

  “Oh—I kind of hang out in there sometimes. Don’t judge me.”

  “Never,” I say, heading across the room. “But I am intrigued.” Opening the door wider, I crawl inside on my hands and knees. Turn around and pop my head between two pairs of pants. “You coming?”