by Dia Reeves
“But you did,” he said in a tone he hadn’t intended, shocked she was finally speaking to him.
“Not so that you could cling to her more pathetically than ever.”
“Why do you keep throwing Dez in my face? Stop avoiding the issue and talk to me.”
“Don’t tell me what to do; I don’t like it. And if I did like it, I still can’t take you to her. Period. I could carry you on my back, and you’d die because you’re not...” she paused, trying to find the words to explain all the ways he was lacking. “...one of us. Your flesh would melt clean off, and your soul would escape. So stop bothering me and go home.”
“Which home?”
“Any of them!”
✽ ✽ ✽
Again the next night:
Or morning. It was three o’clock and Ophelia would be sleepy. Too sleepy to remember how much she hated him. Sleepy enough to let down her extensive and heavily fortified guard.
Jimi left his bike on the walkway and veered away from the porch near the poison tree. He ventured across the pale grass and wasn’t surprised when it clung to his shoes like cobwebs. But he made it to one of the front windows and climbed through.
The window fastened on his arm as soon as he was inside.
Instead of screaming, Jimi bit back, right into the sill, which was soft and tore easily. Like flesh.
He spat the piece of sill out and hissed:
“Do I taste murderous? Or like I mean harm? Let go of me or I will ruin this entire house with my teeth.” It wouldn’t be a chore either. The wall had left a flavor like powdered sugar on his tongue.
The window rose slowly and released him, and Jimi made his way upstairs, rubbing the painful crease in his forearm and resenting the sweet taste in his mouth. Why couldn’t houses taste like steak?
He made it to Ophelia’s room.
She’d loosened her hair and it fluffed everywhere, dark clouds of it overlaying the pillows.
The voice, speaking from the darkness, nearly stopped his heart, but it was Jimi’s own voice. From the stereo:
“Mom made me listen to classical music when I’d go into toddler beast mode because music soothes beasts or something. The more refined the music, the more soothed the beast. Which is elitist crap. Plenty of classical music is raw. I mean real savage. I have a couple of good examples on this CD. Except for this first song. It really is gentle. Just this dork talking about love over a violin and a cello. Have you ever been in love, Ophelia? I keep trying to imagine you answering yes, and I can’t.”
What followed was an excerpt from Einstein on the Beach. A man’s deeply unromantic voice told a story about love. How it had no bounds, not even death. It got to Jimi every time.
Had it got to Ophelia? She’d clearly fallen asleep listening to his CD, but maybe it was only a cheap sleep aid, easier than counting sheep.
Jimi sat in the chair by the window across from her bed. Between her hair and her fluffy blanket, only a sliver of face was visible. He switched on the light and shook her awake.
“I thought about what you said. All that stuff about Dez. About taking me to her. I’m not asking you to take me to Dez. I don’t need you for that. I can blow my brains out, boom, no problem, no middleman, okay?” He sat forward in the chair. “Why wouldn’t you want to be friends with me? I’m Jimi Elba, for Christ’s sake. Everybody wants to be my friend.” They used to. “I’m gonna make you be friends with me.”
She looked so astonished, he removed the replacement phone his dad had bought him and snapped her picture. “How, Bossy McBosspants?”
“If I knew how to make you do what I say, I wouldn’t be here!”
“Shh!”
Jimi half-expected Pallid Jon and an army of monkeys to burst in and toss him out of the world. Or send him into eternity with all the dead people. Because they could do that.
“I’m not here to get you into trouble.”
“I don’t care about trouble.”
“What do you care about? Besides your folks and dead people. Is it my wings? You’re prejudiced against them because they’re not as good as yours. Admit it!”
“I don’t care about your wings, you stupid boy.” But she sounded more tired than angry. The three a.m. ambush thing was genius. “How do I explain it?”
“Try.”
“My family. Me. We love like psychos. It starts with friendships, but then it escalates. What if I fall in love with you, then get sick of your infuriating obsession with your dead girlfriend? So sick that I kill you? That’s a real possibility, Jimi. So for the last time, leave me alone before something happens.”
“It already happened. I’m waiting for you to admit it.”
That shattered the crisscross of chains, cracked her face wide open.
Ophelia quickly extinguished the light and burrowed under the covers. Her back to him.
Jimi considered, for the sake of evidence, turning on the lamp, stripping the covers away, and snapping another picture, but decided it was too much like spying. If they were really friends, he wouldn’t need to spy.
He stood. “Come see me tomorrow. In the daytime when it’s light and you can’t hide.”
“I don’t want to.” Her voice muffled.
“I know. Come anyway, and stop being a coward.”
Chapter 16
The midwinter party at the water tower was a longstanding tradition, but no one gave it. High schoolers simply showed up on the first Monday of Christmas break and the party gave itself.
The water tower squatted atop a grassy hill out in the country, a hill high enough to see the lights of Portero off to the west. To the east, the Sabine River twinkled, marking the border between Texas and Louisiana. Castelaine was further down the river, but couldn’t be seen from the water tower. The Piney Woods bristled against the moonlit sky and hid the city from view.
The last two weeks had been balmy and tonight was no exception. Jimi lounged coatlessly beneath the water tower, fairy lights strung along the X-bracing between the structure’s widely spaced legs, but the tank’s under belly was lost in winter darkness several feet overhead. Burning metal trash barrels had been placed around the tower at four corners and sparked green with charms to ward off an assortment of evils. They were working so far; three hours in, and everyone was still alive.
Music boomed from one of the many cars parked around the perimeter of the tower. Kids danced under the stars or drank beer from the generous supply of kegs.
Jimi wanted to dance too. Grab a girl and twirl her over his head, just get real fancy with it, but even at a party, even as high as everyone was, there was this coolness. As if he’d slid out of the world without knowing it, and no one could really see him.
So Jimi had parked himself beneath the tower, wallflower style, trying to drink himself into a better mood.
Failing.
“Jimi!” Sugar Lynn came over and knelt beside him. People did occasionally. Like Lecy, and Big Mike who was busy rolling joints for freshmen who hadn’t yet mastered the trick of it. Nice people who would have stopped to say hi to a rabid dog if it looked pitiful enough. The kind of thing Jimi did to other people—mercy socializing. God.
“Have a beer. A nice import instead of that kegger swill. No use to me anymore, what with only the one kidney and all.”
“Thanks. How’d you do on that biology test?”
“I passed! With a B plus thanks to your notes. I loved them!” To Lecy. “He draws little pictures in the margins. They really made the life cycle of amoebae come alive for me.”
“I’m happy for you.” Popping open the beer. “I live to serve.”
“You know, Jimi, I don’t care one bit about that whole angemon controversy. Not only did I not sign that petition, I refuse to be friends with anybody who did.”
“So you have no friends now.”
“Pretty much.” She glanced around the party, full of the disillusionment so common in sophomores. “People are mean.”
“But you aren’t, and
everybody needs friends. Even trolls.”
“Huh?”
“Be friends with who you want. I can take care of myself.”
She kissed Jimi’s cheek. “Thanks, Prez.”
When Sugar Lynn had gone, Lecy said, “Don’t let it bother you. Rishi’s always stirring up trouble. And gimme that.” Lecy took the beer—his fifth? sixth?—and placed it out of reach.
“That was a gift.”
“From you to me because you’re so kind.”
“You’re kind. Saving me from alcohol poisoning. Why’re you the only girl who’s ever nice to me?”
“I get weak for lost causes. Put your head in my lap.”
Jimi rested against Lecy, let her stroke his hair, a definite upgrade from concrete. She smelled of flowers, like always. A nice antidote to the weed and beer.
Carmin stalked over, tightly wound, a strange cast to his face, and gave extra rolling papers to Big Mike. “That’s the last of them.”
“You all right?”
Carmin glared at Jimi. “Compared to you, no. You make yourself right at home. With my girlfriend.”
“Thanks, man, don’t mind if I do.”
He really should take Lecy away from Carmin. She was only with him out of habit. People kicked habits all the time.
“Ow!”
Just like that.
“Don’t try me, asshole,” Carmin said, rubbing his ankle. “I am not in the mood. Christmas is nearly here, and I still haven’t got my Revelry invite.”
Everyone within hearing distance cracked up.
Big Mike said, “You need to let that dream die a quick, painless death.”
“Never! This is just a problem. Every problem has a solution.”
“That’s not a problem,” Jimi said. “I have problems.”
“Do you?” Carmin said. “Tell you what. I’ll give you some happiness if you get off my girl.”
“That’s what’s different about you.” Jimi stroked his hand down Lecy’s leg. “You’re sober!”
“I’m detoxing. Gotta be pure when I try that new smoke. Speaking of pure, when’s the last time you got laid?”
“Is that the solution to his problem, O Wise One?” said Lecy.
“It’s the solution to all of mine,” said Big Mike. “Freshman, change the music. We agreed this was a Selena Gomez free zone, didn’t we? Didn’t we?”
“What about Chrissie? That chick’s up for anything.”
“Hey,” chimed a hurt voice.
“Chrissie? Girl, what’s up?” Carmin gave her a hug.
“No girls.” Lecy said it so sternly that Carmin quickly let go of Chrissie, even though she hadn’t been talking to him. “You’re too emotionally devastated, Jimi. You can’t build a relationship on devastation.”
“Why not?” said Big Mike. “Devastation can be a real ice breaker. I started dating that jerk Sebastian based on similar number of funerals attended in the same calendar year. Relationships are easy.”
Jimi thought it over. “No, Lecy’s right. I deserve to be alone.”
“That’s not what I said!”
The freshman Big Mike had sent to change the music ran back. “Helibird! A helibird. I saw it!”
Big Mike stood and put the whistle dangling at his neck to his mouth. The shrill call cut through all other sounds, brought everyone running, crowding beneath the water tower, which offered little in the way of shelter.
Rishi’s voice rang out, “Freshman, restore the fires!”
Jimi rose to his feet. He was drunk so it took a minute. “You can’t be sending the freshmen on suicide missions.”
“Fine. You tend the fires, senior.”
Charms were thrown at Jimi from four directions, a symbolic stoning. Wanted him to go out in the dark and die, did they? Thought it was that easy, did they?
Jimi gathered what looked like the gauzy sacks Alexis stuffed into her dresser drawers to make the clothes inside smell nice; shoved them into his pockets, headed out into the night.
The barrel fires were lit, but they’d lost color, lost effectiveness. Clearly had if helibirds had traveled way out here. But Jimi ignored the barrels and stumbled down into the field at the bottom of the hill, past the maze of cars and trucks on the road that led back to Portero. The road also led to the Sabine. He could see it down there, a passing riverboat alight on the water.
Jimi found a pecan tree to pee on. December had been so warm, most of the leaves hadn’t turned color let alone fallen from the trees. But a different wind whipped through the leaves. A north wind. The cold was returning. Jimi could bury himself underground like a prairie dog and wait out the winter. Ophelia would think he was committing suicide, was sure to come visit him then; he only existed for her when he was on the edge of death.
“Are you okay?”
It was Lecy, leaning against somebody’s truck. Keeping an eye on him. The white lily in her hair glowed in the country darkness. Ophelia would glow like that. In her white coat.
“I’m peeing on a tree.”
“I noticed.”
“According to the laws of nature, the tree belongs to me now. Trees don’t die in car crashes.”
“Not usually.”
“Can you marry a tree?”
“In Texas? Probably.”
“How do you sex a tree?”
Lecy laughed.
“Sex it,” Jimi said, impatiently. “Tell whether it’s male or female.”
“I was probably asleep when Mr. Daily covered it in Biology, but I’m pretty sure that pecan tree swings both ways.”
“I should go pee on Ophelia. If I pee on her then I’ll own her and she’ll have to do what I say.”
“Girls don’t work that way, Jimi. Not even slightly.”
“Let’s run away together. The tree can come with us. We’ll go to Castelaine. People are, like, eighty percent less weird in Castelaine.”
Jimi zipped up and reached for Lecy.
“Ack! Penis hands.”
“My penis is next to godliness. What a dumb word. Is there a dumber word than penis?”
“Jesus.”
“That’s more profane than dumb.”
“No, in the tree! Jimi—”
It snatched him into the air, sharp claws biting into his shoulders. A whirring, fwapping sound like helicopter rotors. A helibird.
Lecy ran after him. Two Lecys. Four?
Jimi shouldn’t have had that last beer.
All four Lecys took a flying leap, but only one of her caught him around the waist, her extra weight intensifying the pain in his shoulders. She climbed him, her legs wrapping around him as she pulled the lily out of her hair. Jimi noticed a metallic glint before she jabbed the flower into the helibird’s leg.
The helibird squawked and released its grip on Jimi’s shoulders. He and Lecy plummeted to the ground and rolled to a stop not far from the water tower, and the bird landed next to them.
It twitched, long, thin wings beating the ground. Foam pooled beneath its sharp beak.
“Poison?” he said, as they hurried off and climbed the hill.
“Never leave home without it.” Lecy pinned the flower back into her hair, showing off her bare, pinchable arms. “You okay?”
“Great. Thanks to you. I’d kiss you if Carmin was around to get pissed about it.”
“I’ll go get him.” She stroked his face, and it felt like the old days when girls couldn’t resist him.
After Lecy disappeared into the crowd under the water tower, Jimi tended the barrel fires like he should have in the first place. It was hardly a chore—just toss in the charm and wait for the flames to turn green. Enjoy the scent. That was the new thing, scented charms. These ones smelled like banana splits.
As he tossed in the last charm, he heard the sound of flapping, like dozens of term papers loose in the wind. Jimi saw it clearly this time. The individual wings. It had four, like Jimi’s, only feathered and with a propeller-like rotation. Jimi was too drunk to react properly. He took two of t
he slowest steps in the history of life and was promptly snatched up. The talons pinching into the same grooves the other helibird had made.
Only this time, there was no cute girl below him giving chase.
“Why me?” Jimi said, to hear something other than the drum blast of his heart. “Because of my wings? Can you smell that I’m different?”
The bird lowered, then swiveled its head in an unpleasant angle to stare at Jimi.
“You have to go home.”
Jimi shouldn’t have been able to understand squawks shaped haphazardly into speech, but he did.
“I am home.” The bird only unkinked its neck and flew on. “Let me go!”
Up ahead, a door had opened in what should have been country darkness. A slit, like an eye, closing even as they sped toward the twisted trees and volcanic heat.
The level of escort had diminished greatly since the winged men, but that was Jimi’s own fault. He wasn’t in danger, he understood that now. This was just family shit. That he wasn’t sober enough to deal with.
The stingers came free of his shirt, and the one on the left darted up and jabbed the helibird’s ankle—did birds have ankles?—but he was careful not to unload all the venom. In case there were others.
The helibird immediately released Jimi and fell to earth like a feathery meteor.
But Jimi remained in the air, his shirt floating away on the current his wings had created. He circled in place until he could see the water tower he’d been stolen from. He flew toward it, aimed for the hill below the water tower, but somehow ended up on the hood of someone’s car and set off the alarm. He rolled to the ground and when he stood, everyone was staring at him.
Someone came forward and silenced the car alarm. Silenced the music. All was silent, except for the increasingly chill wind.
“You really do have wings,” someone said.
Not since Jimi had gone through his own freshman rite had he faced such an inscrutable audience. Had thought those days behind him.
“Fairy wings,” Big Mike said, amused. “You could have come as yourself to my party.”
“I didn’t have them then. Or maybe I did and they weren’t…ready.”