If Birds Fly Back

by Carlie Sorosiak

  Cass has a Halloween party tonight. Yes, Halloween, because (a direct quote from her): “Getting to buy a costume only once a year is total bullshit.” Apparently she throws a massive blowout every summer. Sends the same invitations:

  KEG, JELL-O SHOTS, AND BYOB AT CASA CASS

  DRESS UP TO GET MESSED UP

  “Nope,” I say to Micah. Unless I want to invent my own superhero, go to the party as Professor Perspiration. (Florida. Summer. Enough said.) For the last seven years, Micah and I have coordinated our Halloween costumes. Stupid, I know—but two mad scientists or two Super Mario Bros. make a bigger impact than one.

  “How about a really ripped Ninja Turtle?” Micah suggests.

  “Isn’t that just a Ninja Turtle?”

  “Point taken. Oh, oh, how about—what’s that guy’s name? James Dean? Girls eat up that leather jacket shit.”

  “That would involve buying a leather jacket.”

  “What’s your budget?”

  “Twelve dollars.”

  “Ah . . . what’s your mom wearing tonight?”

  “Good-bye.”

  Ana rushes in with her purse, dressed in scrubs and late for work. She hands me a twenty—“for your costume,” she says—then plants a kiss on my forehead with “Mwa, be good.” I lock up a few minutes later on my way to Silver Springs.

  I get there twenty minutes earlier than usual. On purpose. Don’t get me wrong—I love hanging out with Linny. Especially after the Night of the Plastic Stars. But it would be nice to have some time with him alone, just Álvaro and me. But when he opens the door, his hair’s standing on end. Like the victim of a lightning strike.

  “Bad time?” I say, cautious.

  He flicks his head from left to right, checking down the hall. “Did you bring food?”

  “Er—should I have?”

  “Sí.”

  “Oh. Okay, I’ll—I’ll be right back. Uno momento.” In a faraway corner of my mind, it probably occurs to me that this is abnormal behavior, but in the moment, I only think burgers. Miami has tons of food trucks, scattered around the city and all along the beach. Korean bites. Fish tacos. And one right outside Silver Springs: María’s Cocina, which specializes in ground beef and chorizo patties on a Cuban roll. The nurses are always raving about them, so I purchase five (I’m not sure how hungry Álvaro is, but maybe five burgers is excessive) and spring back upstairs.

  This time when the door swings open, the scent of chorizo hits Álvaro’s nose, and I gain immediate entry. Sitting in his desk chair, he spreads out three burgers on his lap. Unwraps the tin foil and lets heat rise up into the air. Handing me two—“Here, eat.”

  “I’ve actually just had breakf—”

  “Eat.”

  “Okay.” I collapse into the armchair, two burgers in hand, and peel the foil from one. First bite—astoundingly good. Like, if I could marry a burger, it would be this burger.

  After another bite, another swallow, I attempt to dive into conversation. “I’m going to a party tonight.”

  Álvaro’s mouth is so full, it’s like he’s storing food for the winter. “Mmm?”

  “With Linny.” That’s a loaded phrase if ever there was one. With Linny. “Hey, can I . . . can I ask you something?”

  He bobs his head. “Mmmhmm.”

  “Okay, hypothetically speaking, if a girl kissed you at the playground, and then you kissed her on her bedroom floor, and then the two of you kissed each other approximately seventeen times in the last five days—you know, at the beach and stuff—then what does that make you?”

  Álvaro swallows. “A girl did not kiss me at the playground.”

  “No, no . . . it’s hypothetical.”

  “Ah.” Leaning back, burgers at risk of sliding off his knees—“This person, he likes this girl?”

  “Muchísimo.”

  “Then he must buy her flowers. He must.” The way Álvaro says this, so matter-of-factly, makes me feel like an asshat. Like I should’ve known.

  “Flowers,” I repeat.

  Just then, a knock at the door, and a few seconds later, Linny pops in her head—“Ooo, burgers.”

  Álvaro smiles at her knowingly. “Flowers.”

  25.

  Linny

  WHO: Socialite and hotel heiress Poppie Kerr

  WHEN: Thirteen days last February

  WHY: She told her friends, “Wait for me by the cab,” and then disappeared from a Paris nightclub. Paparazzi spotted her again at a soiree in Rome. “I just needed some ‘me’ time, you know?” Poppie said. “But this party was too good to miss.”

  NOTES: Grace has never missed one of Cass’s parties. Well, there’s a first time for everything.

  Half an hour before the Halloween party begins, I’m goofily smiling, sprawled faceup on my carpet in the exact spot where Sebastian kissed me.

  Downstairs, Mom is double-checking her tickets for the symphony. “Third row,” she says to someone on the phone. “Yes, I specifically requested row three.” She sounds higher-pitched than usual—a voice that could bend spoons. A lot of spoon bending going on lately. It may have something to do with the glow-in-the-dark stars (“Marilyn, what on earth have you done to your ceiling?”). But I make no excuses.

  I will never, ever take them down.

  I count them now—a habit I’m developing. I’m on seven when Dad, dressed in a sleek gray suit, raps his knuckles on my doorframe. “You going to be okay by yourself tonight?” He gives a small, nervous smile. Another one. For some reason, he won’t stop small-smiling me since the FDA lunch.

  “I’m sleeping over at Cass’s, remember? Ray’s going to be here in a bit to drive me.”

  Mom suddenly appears next to Dad, her beige dress pretty but straitjacket tight. “Bring an eye mask,” she instructs me. I’m shocked that’s all she says. Usually MomandDad insist I skip parties to—I don’t know—memorize structures in the human brain or something. At the very least, I expected a soliloquy about the dangers of alcohol consumption and premarital sex. They must be running very, very late to cut corners like this.

  As if on cue, Mom taps her watch and says to me, “Must go. No drinking! No intercourse!”

  Ah, there it is—to the point. Mom doesn’t mince words. For the first time in my life, I nod but wonder: what if I did have sex?

  Where did that thought come from?

  Once MomandDad are gone, I slip into my costume: a blue-and-white dress from the local thrift shop—and tie a black ribbon in my hair à la Alice in Wonderland. And when I say slip, I mean vacuum-seal myself into it. The top part constricts my boobs like a space-saving bag, which seemed like a good idea when I bought it weeks ago, but now I’m questioning it. After drying the last bit of my hair, I grab my Chuck Taylors from my desk drawer and head downstairs.

  Ray has just let himself in—should’ve never given him that spare key. His boyfriend, Lawrence, is by his side in a big honking Stetson and a plaid shirt. “Hey, Linny,” he says, all smiles and perfect dimples. Sheesh. “I’ve seen you around, but it’s nice to, you know, meet you. Heard a lot about you.”

  “You too,” I say. “I like your costume. Ranch hand?”

  “Bingo,” he says.

  “How do I look?” Ray asks, twirling in the foyer. He’s wearing a furry yellow jumpsuit bedecked with streamers. “I’m a Ray of sunshine. Get it?”

  “So clever!” Ingenuity aside, my lips go pink from clamping them together, trying not to explode into laughter. I have to state the obvious. “Since when is the sun furry?”

  He glares at me.

  Lawrence slaps his knee. “That’s what I said!”

  “And here I was,” Ray says, “about to tell you how awesome you look, Sister Marilyn. But since I’m forgiving, I’ll tell you anyway: Sebastian is going to want to fall down your rabbit hole.”

  “Ray! No more euphemisms.”

  Lawrence laughs us all the way out to the truck.

  THE LEFT-BEHINDS (SCENE 13)

  CARSON FAMILY HOUSE—
MIDDAY

  LINNY has dragged the cup and string to the roof of her house, where she is gazing at a slightly blue sky.

  Into the cup:

  LINNY

  How come I always have to start the talking?

  After a moment, we hear GRACE through the string.

  GRACE

  Dunno. You pick up the cup first.

  LINNY

  What if I didn’t?

  GRACE

  But you do.

  LINNY

  Humor me.

  GRACE

  I’m not sure you really want to know.

  LINNY

  Just—just tell me.

  GRACE takes a deep breath.

  GRACE

  I can’t fly when I’m tethered to the ground.

  26.

  Sebastian

  “Although the origination of cosmic rays is a mystery, we do know they are astoundingly strong. Imagine a particle in a man-made collider, then multiply its energy by 100 million.” A Brief Compendium of Astrophysical Curiosities, p. 205

  It’s a beehive. Swarms of people buzz in and out beneath black streamers and cardboard ghosts. All clutch red Solo cups. (The people, that is. Not the ghosts.)

  THE PARTIES-ARE-LIKE-COSMIC-RAYS PRINCIPLE:

  It is exactly like it sounds.

  “You want a beer?” Cass yells over the music. Orange lights eerily illuminate her face. Her black-taffeta dress barely squeezes through the doorframe as she yanks me into the kitchen. Extracts two cans from the fridge. Runs her tongue slowly across her pop-in vampire teeth. “Here,” she says, handing me a can, tilting her head to the side. “What’re you supposed to be?”

  I point to the Sharpie mustache I gave myself five minutes ago. The lines curve crazily up my cheeks like my little brother drew them. At least Paul would probably approve. “Salvador Dalí,” I say.

  Cass: confused stare.

  Me: “The Spanish painter?”

  Cass: raising an eyebrow.

  Me: “He did all those melting clocks.”

  “Mmm,” Cass says, taking a long swig of beer. “Cool.”

  I guess this is what people do at parties. Stand around and chat about things they don’t have in common. I’d like to say that, for most of high school, Micah and I avoided parties like the plague. But usually we just weren’t invited, until Savannah and I started dating and the proverbial party doors opened. Even still, we kind of stuck to ourselves.

  “Are the flowers for Linny?” she says, pointing to the bundle of sunflowers in my left hand.

  “Er—yeah.” Who walks into a party with flowers? Starting to think Álvaro misled me on this one. Changing the topic: “So your parents are cool with you throwing a massive party?”

  Cass shrugs. “They were hippies in college.”

  I wonder if they’re upstairs smoking pot or something.

  I wonder where Linny is—weren’t we supposed to meet at ten?

  I ask Cass, “Is Linny here yet?” The music booms suddenly louder.

  “What?” Cass yells.

  “Linny! Is she here yet?”

  “WHAT?”

  I give up for now. Popping the can tab, I take a huge, bitter gulp. I’ve never liked beer that much, but it’s a good time passer.

  Just then, Cass hisses over my shoulder: “Vould you lack me to suck your blud?”

  Ray bursts past me, extends his neck—“But of course, da-ling”—and Cass licks his collarbone.

  Linny materializes next to me. She pretends to vomit down her pretty blue dress. “Guys. Gross.” And then she stands on her tiptoes and plants two kisses on each side of my mustache lines. “Hi,” she says. “Sorry we’re a little late. Ray got lost.”

  What surprises me is how many people are staring at us. Well, at Linny. It occurs to me that Linny must be popular. Not just because of Cass—but because she’s mind-blowingly beautiful and cool and people notice her, as they should. Can’t blame them.

  “These are for you,” I say, thrusting the sunflowers at her.

  “Oh, oh, wow—thank you.” She presses the petals to her nose. “They smell like summer.”

  “Shots!” Cass says. Ten Dixie cups filled with green Jell-O wobble on a plate in her hands. “Take one! Take three! And then come dance, pleeeeeaaaaase.” Judging by the green hue of her lips, she’s already indulged in several.

  I pinch one between two fingers and squeeze it into my mouth. Tastes atrocious. Like it’s mixed with battery acid instead of water. I spit most of it into my palm.

  “Everclear vodka,” Cass says. “Ninety-five percent alcohol.” To Linny: “Okay, dancedancedance. Grace would’ve danced with me.”

  “Yeah,” Linny says quietly, “okay.”

  Cass herds us into the living room, where a cheap plastic disco ball emits orange, pulsating light. Around us are sweaty people dancing with their sweaty hands above their sweaty heads. Pushing through them reminds me of a salmon swimming upstream.

  There are limited dance moves in my arsenal. The robot. The sprinkler. A few salsa steps. None of which I’m about to break out in front of a crowd. Slow dancing is one thing. This is not happening.

  Linny tiptoes it again, still awkwardly holding the sunflowers. Her lips brush against my ear. “I think you’re supposed to move at least one part of your body when you dance. It’s kind of a rule.” Each breath she takes I can feel on my neck.

  DO NOT BLOW THIS, SEBASTIAN. I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU IF YOU BLOW THIS. JUST DANCE, YOU FOOL!

  But I’m frozen.

  The whole length of her is pressed against me, and I keep thinking: Here is a girl who cares about my dad.

  Here is a girl who understands.

  Here is an amazing, neurotic, gorgeous girl—and I have so many words for her. Three in particular.

  Of any land mammal, the giraffe has the biggest heart, weighing in at twenty-five pounds and two feet long. At least that was the case. I may have it beat. (Ha. Pun.)

  Because holy shit, I’m in love with Linny.

  And like an idiot, I begin to say this. I begin to tell her I love you. But it comes out as “I . . . I’m going to . . . I have to go.”

  Suddenly, I’m hauling ass across the party.

  Bursting through the back door.

  Lurching into Cass’s garden.

  Is this a stress attack? Probably. I may love Linny, but who knows what she’s thinking? Reading girls is as easy as decrypting messages from alien planets.

  The panic has transformed me into a weightless being. Like the time Linny and I jumped off the swings, suspended in air—except hopefully I won’t come crashing down this time.

  Get ahold of yourself, Sebastian. You’re not even drunk. I accidentally say this out loud. A couple interrupts their make-out session to glare at me.

  Onward!

  The backyard is all grasses and haphazard flower beds. Jungle-like. As I try to remember all the dangerous species in Florida (pythons, panthers, brown recluse spiders), I fumble. Trip. Emit more involuntary noises. Everything is muddled and loud. Across the garden are snippets of conversations:

  “She said what about your boyfriend?”

  “. . . and then I was, like, run bitch run!”

  “That’s why they call it intercourse.”

  And the cicadas! The goddamn singing cicadas! Buzzz, buzzzzzz, buzzzzzzz. Stupid bugs. Why do their above-ground life cycles last a billion years?

  To my left, a guy in a soccer jersey staggers from the bushes with beer cans duct-taped to both of his hands. He bends over ninety degrees and projectile vomits onto a tragically placed garden gnome. His girlfriend—or a girl who wants to be his girlfriend—rushes over. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she coos, petting his back. “Let it out.”

  And he lets it out. About four times.

  Wait.

  Five times.

  Running away from the vomit smell, I come to an abrupt halt beneath an oak tree. By that, I mean I run directly into one of its low-hanging branches.

 
Ah! ¡Uno idea! I shall scale this tree like a wildcat! I am Sir Edmund Hillary, and this is my Everest!

  After a few attempts, I climb that sucker and feel shielded from the world.

  At the same time, so much radioactive energy pulses through me, I’m convinced the branch is going to splinter to bits.

  I think maybe I’ll live in this tree forever. Create my own ecosphere. Survive on rainwater and local squirrels. I gaze upward and breathe. Night bleeds through the crisscrossed branches. It’s just the sky and me! No one else! No one else can find—

  “Sebastian?”

  Oh.

  “What are you doing?” Linny says, studying me from five feet below, sunflowers in hand.

  Valid question. Panicking about you.

  “All right if I come up?” she asks.

  I think I nod.

  She’s not a gifted climber like me but manages to scoot onto the low branch. Resting the flowers on her lap, she peers from root structure to canopy. “This is—um—a nice tree.”

  Crickets.

  Running her hands along the tree branch, swinging her legs—“You’re up here because . . . ?”

  Because I love you. “I don’t like . . . I don’t like dancing in front of people.”

  She giggles, stops swinging. “So the natural solution is to hide in a tree?”

  I crack a small smile despite the panic. “Obviously.”

  “Hey”—turning her shoulders toward me—“if I kissed you right now, would we really be Sebastian and Linny, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g?”

  Another smile. “I guess so.”

  Her lips press against mine. Once. Twice.

  “You’re so good at that,” I tell her.

  She kisses me again. “I have an idea.”

  27.

  Linny

  WHO: Magician Augustus the Great

  WHEN: Seventeen days in 1985

  WHY: He evaporated in a poof of smoke onstage during a Las Vegas show. The crowd marveled when he did not reappear; even his assistant worried. He returned in another poof during a rival magician’s performance. “This,” he shouted to the stunned audience, “now this is magic!”