The Sky Above Us

by Natalie Lund

  In early elementary school, reading specialists had pulled him from class, tested him for dyslexia—which they’d determined he didn’t have—and told him to work on reading comprehension and fluency, as though he knew what that meant and could somehow will himself to get better. He saw the looks on other kids’ faces when he had to sit at the half-moon table with Mr. Bern and read a picture book while everyone else had moved on to chapter books. He’d been in conferences when Mrs. Palmer told his parents that he needed to try harder and apply himself. It made him feel like a small fist of charcoal, burning with shame.

  So he’d started cheating off Nate. And once he’d started doing better on quizzes and tests, Mr. Bern and Mrs. Palmer had left him alone. His parents were so proud. Shane quickly realized that fitting in and surviving school meant collecting more willing friends like Nate, so he started paying attention to kids—popular and unpopular alike. He complimented them, gave them expensive clothes his mom had picked for him, invited them over to his pool, and bought them doughy cafeteria cookies with his over-abundance of allowance. It had worked; here he was, about to be a senior.

  But Cass wouldn’t understand. She’d tell him he should have advocated for himself more, talked to other teachers, asked for a different kind of help—not understanding what that would have taken from him, how small he’d be now.

  * * *

  • • •

  Izzy and Shane had the same first period, English, so they dropped Cass off together. He kissed Cass, who was a force to kiss, like locking lips with a tropical storm: salt and rain and power. Izzy stood beside them, making a hairball sound in her throat.

  “Oh, you’re next,” Cass said, pulling Izzy toward them so they were in a weird three-way hug.

  “Ew,” Izzy said.

  Cass stepped into her classroom, giving them a bright smile over her shoulder.

  “Shall we, m’lady?” Shane gave a mock bow and offered his arm to Izzy. She rolled her eyes.

  Shane had taken Israel—a moody, thin-skinned kid—under his wing at the beginning of high school to get Izzy on his good side. Despite the fact that Israel was now a prince of the school on his way to taking over Wall Street, Izzy was still not impressed with Shane.

  When they walked into first period, Shane noticed that Mrs. Gutierrez had written Vocabulary Quiz in green letters on the whiteboard. That meant he’d have to sit behind Kyle, whose football bulk could hide Shane from the teacher, and near Javi, a teammate who was happy to tilt his paper.

  But Izzy was watching him with a smirk as he settled into the seat. “I don’t know if I’d pick Javi,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “For a vocabulary quiz? He knows, like, three words. You’re-blind-ref.” She ticked the words off on her fingers.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, though he knew his neck was flushing. It always betrayed him. Sometimes he wished he had long hair like Nate to hide it.

  “Yeah, you do.”

  He shrugged. “I just need to stay on the soccer team for our last game. Not get an A.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, and took a seat in the back corner of the room.

  As Mrs. Gutierrez distributed the quizzes, he glanced over his shoulder. Izzy wasn’t looking at him, but she did seem to know he was looking at her. Her lips curled up slightly, like she was thinking about something that made her happy. And Shane wondered, uneasily, if she could be thinking about his secret that he couldn’t read well. Knowing her, she’d hold on to it and lob it like a grenade into his relationship.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IZZY

  The evening of

  I CHOOSE THE Kroger right off the public beach as a meeting place because no townies will recognize me and coo about my loss. It’s full of summer tourists: flip-flops, board shorts, and bottle-blond hair as far as the eye can see. I order an iced coffee from the Starbucks inside and chew on the straw until Cass shows. She looks terrible and fucking beautiful at the same time because she’s Cass. Her hair is a half-braided nest, but she’s wrapped a frayed piece of purple silk around it. She’s got deep blue half-moons under her eyes and her lips are chapped, but she’s in these jeans and a thin black hoodie that make her seem willowy and strong at the same time, like some video game avatar. For a while I thought Israel had a crush on her, but he’s always been loyal to Shane, who plucked him from a life of unpopularity. And, despite the one slipup, Cass has always been loyal to Shane, too. What it is about that noodle-armed court jester, I will never know.

  Cass wraps her arms around me and squeezes. I squeeze back.

  “Why are we here, Iz?”

  “Because none of them know us.” I nod to the shoppers in their mesh tops and sleeveless man tanks, strolling by with carts of hard lemonade and margarita mix. I can tell she’s waiting on me to elaborate, giving me time and space to answer the real why. So patient, that Cass.

  “We need to go to the beach,” I say. “To where it happened.”

  Her face hardens until she’s all sharp angles. “No,” she says quietly.

  “Cass, I know you won’t understand this, but they’re not gone. Israel and Shane and Nate are still out there.” I leave out the dolphins for now.

  Cass cups my cheek with her palm, and it’s simultaneously the kindest and most patronizing gesture she’s ever made. “Izzy,” she says, looking me straight in the eye. “They pulled his body out of the ocean today, hon. Your parents identified him.”

  I shake off her hand and gesture at the sliding glass doors. “Just trust me, okay?”

  “Izzy, I can’t go back there.”

  “Don’t you want to talk to Shane one more time?”

  She flinches at his name. “Of course I do.”

  “You want to know why they were flying that plane, don’t you?”

  “I do. I just don’t believe that going to the beach will help us figure it out,” Cass says. “I don’t think I’m ready to see it yet,” she adds, her voice quiet—almost angry. “Have they even pulled the wreckage out?”

  “Okay, you don’t have to come.” I know that if I start walking, she’ll follow. I give her a hug, pretend to say goodbye, and march into the humidity.

  I cross the parking lot toward Ocean Drive. Out of my periphery, I see Cass lingering by her mom’s car, and I can see it flickering in her face. Love for me. And hurt. Because those fuckers left.

  I walk to the light, cross Ocean, and head a block north to confront the memorial that has already been erected. Someone has printed their junior year photos and put them in cheap plastic frames. Israel’s smoldering gaze now in black and white. There are more flowers wrapped in shiny paper. Teddy bears, crosses, saint candles, hand-drawn posters with their names. I step over the shit and climb onto the seawall. Police vehicles are still parked on the sand and a large portion of the beach and the water has been cordoned off with a network of cones and buoys. In the distance, outside the orange buoys, a coast guard boat is anchored, bobbing.

  The sun sinks behind me, warm on my back. Yesterday, I sat on a blanket beside Cass and watched the sky swirl with colors as the same sun set. Not far from us, Israel was standing ankle-deep in the ocean, holding a Solo cup. Nate was beside him, and Shane was telling a story with his hands, glancing toward Cass every few seconds.

  Who knew that sunset would be the last where everything was normal?

  “Why were they so stupid?” It’s Cass, predictably, at my elbow. Tears are welling in her eyes. She always knows what I’m thinking; she always has.

  “They aren’t,” I say. They are assholes, but they aren’t stupid.

  “Izzy.” Cass grabs my wrist and spins me so I’m facing her. “You know that I love you. More than anything.”

  I nod.

  “Which is why I have to say this to you again: Israel is dead.”

 
; Cass is not an ugly-crier. She cries stoically, face immobile, tears shedding freely, silently. But poor, lovely Cass has never felt something that can’t be explained rationally. She’s never had to. Things just come so naturally for her.

  I face the water again, looking for any boats zipping across the waves. I spot one, train my gaze on its wake, and there—one dorsal fin cutting through the wave. Another. A third.

  “That’s them.” I point.

  “What?”

  “Look behind that boat. The fins.”

  Cass’s jaw drops. She opens her mouth. Shuts it again. Opens it.

  “Shhh. Just watch.”

  And she does, but I can almost feel her disbelief.

  “Iz, I think I should take you home.” She sounds worried.

  “Cass.” Now it is my turn to grab her by the wrist. To turn her toward me. I know her better than she knows herself. “You have to believe me. Because the alternative is—the alternative is—” I can’t finish because the tears are trying to drown me: hot and gurgling in my throat. I grab my side where I last felt him, pinching the skin so hard I bite my tongue. Cass wraps an arm around my shoulders and walks me back across the street.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JANIE

  The evening of

  IT’S DARK WHEN I get home—although I’m not sure where the day went. My dad’s car is parked under our lofted house. I climb the stairs and peek through the window. He never bothers to shut the flowery curtains that look and smell like they’ve been there since the seventies, just as he hasn’t bothered to replace them. He’s snoring in our plaid recliner from Goodwill—I get my frugality from him—with his glasses perched on top of his head and his hairy belly peeking out over stretchy pants.

  I open the heavy storm door and let it smack against the siding. He doesn’t stir.

  His red-blond beard is slightly damp around his lips like he’s been drooling. Did he even notice that I was gone?

  “Nate died,” I say.

  Snore.

  A little bit louder: “Nate died.” Now I’m almost shouting: “Nate died.”

  Dad snorts awake, snuffles, and grapples on the coffee table for his glasses. Not finding them, he squints at me and tries to swallow a yawn. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nate died.” It’s the fourth time now. What charm is naming it four times? What will be kept safe now? What is there left to keep safe?

  “What?” he asks.

  “Our neighbor.”

  “I know who he is, Janie.” He’s irritated. “What happened?”

  “Nate, Shane, and Israel. A plane.” The words come out jumbled and lumpy. “It was in the air. Ocean. Probably the impact, right? Not drowning. How have you not heard about it? You work at the hospital, for God’s sake.” Now I’m near tears again. “I tried to find you.”

  He stares at me, and I can’t tell if he gets it. “Oh God. I’m so sorry, Janie-bug,” he finally says, sounding shocked. “I heard there was a plane crash, but they weren’t saying the names on the news. Poor Roy and Sofia. I can’t even imagine.”

  I hiccup.

  “Are you drunk?” he asks.

  “You are.” I say it like an insult, but he nods. If he’s anything, he’s an honest drunk.

  “You didn’t drive, did you?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Where’s your phone? Why didn’t you call?”

  “I lost it at the beach. Why didn’t you try to find me?” I want to collapse and nestle beside him in the recliner like I would when my mom read to me as a child—Little Women; Black Beauty; The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe—but I feel my stomach surging again. The heave of nothing that still manages to hurt like hell.

  “Janie?”

  I jog to the bathroom, wrap my arms around the porcelain basin, and lean into the bleachy smell of toilet water. One heave. Two. Nothing comes up, but my stomach, my throat, everything is seizing.

  A cold, wet towel is around my neck, and a hand is on my back drawing clumsy circles. “Oh, sweetie,” my dad says softly. The towel smells pleasantly of lavender—certainly not because of my dad or me, but because our housekeeper, Lori, comes once a week to clean and do laundry.

  “How did they learn to fly a plane?” Dad asks.

  The question is gentle, possibly rhetorical, but I snap: “Clearly they didn’t.”

  He pauses briefly, perhaps stung, but resumes the lazy circles on my back. I spit into the toilet.

  “The better question,” I say, my throat raw, “is why they were flying a plane in the first place.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  NATE

  Thirty-one days before

  COACH MANTLE HAD put out the mesh jerseys after school, which meant they were scrimmaging. He tossed the jerseys at the varsity starters, including Nate, and waved the second string onto the field. Shane and Israel jogged onto the field together, laughing, and Nate felt a quick tug of jealousy. They’d been friends with Israel since freshman year, but Shane had been Nate’s best friend since before he could remember. His mom had pictures of them at daycare together, covered in finger paint.

  Nate sat on the bench, smoothing his hair back into a tight ponytail.

  “Bryan and Colby, you’re strikers. Nate, Javi, and Aiden, I want you at midfield,” Coach called. “You have one game left, so make today count.”

  As a midfielder, Nate’s job was to be everywhere at once, to fill gaps in his team’s defense, to punch holes in the opposing team’s defense, to set up goals, and his favorite—to chase down opponents. When an opponent got a breakaway, Nate could feel the kick of energy in his calves, the horsepower in his quads. He was the fastest on their team, and probably on all the teams they played against. As long as he stayed in game shape this summer, he was certain he’d impress the scouts at camp.

  Nate took position, pinning one arm across his chest to stretch his shoulder before switching sides.

  Shane was pulling on his gloves. He had been the varsity second-string goalie since sophomore year, and occasionally Coach had him start for low-stakes games. He had the height and a huge wingspan, but he wasn’t as aggressive or scrappy as their starter.

  Israel took his spot on the midfield line. He was striker for the opposing team, which Nate thought was a poor choice. Israel liked to play offense so he could score, but he was a much better defensive player. Lately he’d been asking Nate to come practice penalty kicks with him on weekends. He’d been hungry for Nate’s shooting tips, which was flattering, but also strangely competitive—as though he were chomping at Nate’s heels.

  When Coach blew the whistle, Travis tapped the ball to Israel, who immediately started dribbling, a selfish move this early in the game. Nate began jockeying him, forcing him toward the field boundary.

  “That’s my Jack!” Coach shouted. He’d nicknamed Nate after a Jack Russell because he could be obsessively persistent, dogging a forward until he stepped out of bounds or made a mistake.

  Nate could tell Israel was getting anxious, that he was knocking the ball farther and farther in front of him as he moved down the sideline. Nate positioned himself to block off Israel’s passing lanes, so when Israel stopped, shielding the ball with his body, and tried to pivot, Nate was already there. Israel set the ball up for a desperate pass, and Nate dove in.

  He took the ball easily and was off, dribbling as fast as he could, his T-shirt flapping against his skin. In his periphery, he could see his teammates advancing with him, positioning themselves so they were ready for his pass. He could hear Israel behind him too, panting. Nate squared up with Danh, a big defender who was a little too slow for first string but could be a mountain when you needed it.

  “Me, me, me,” Nate’s striker, Colby, said, from the top of the box. Shane had stepped out of the goal, and was hunched slightly, arms out—ready for a leap. The angle was ri
ght—Nate could pass to Colby, who’d knock it right behind Shane.

  But Nate couldn’t pass because he was suddenly on his side, cheek planted in the grass. There was a searing pain in his right knee, like someone had peeled his kneecap clean off. Nate tried to think, tried to remember what had happened, but there was a blinding white light behind his eyes. He was dizzy with it. He rolled onto his back and tried to clasp his knee to his stomach, but the motion made him retch. He turned his head to the side and spit stomach acid into the grass.

  There were figures standing above him. Shane. Israel. Some of the others.

  “What are you doing down there, little doggy?” Shane asked. He was trying to make Nate laugh, but his expression changed when he saw Nate’s face. Israel stood beside Shane, a shorter, stockier shadow. His heavy brows were drawn together, like he was trying to puzzle something out. Nate felt dread pooling at the base of his throat. The pain was bad. Too bad.

  “Talk to me, Nate.” This from Coach. “Do you need to go to the trainer?”

  Nate found his voice, forced it out through his teeth. “I just need a minute.”

  “Get him inside, boys,” Coach said.

  Nate pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down at his leg. His knee looked fine, didn’t it? Israel and Shane crouched, each sliding an arm under his and pulling him up onto his good foot. Nate tentatively put weight on his injured leg, but it immediately buckled, pain sawing through him. He groaned at the shock of it, bit his lip to feel pain somewhere else in his body—to misdirect his mind.