Freefly (15 page)

“You’re lighter than my textbooks,” he mutters, laughing.

I laugh, too.  Then realize we’re both idiots.  “Wait a minute.”  I squeeze my eyes shut. 

“Woah!  Your weight’s gone!”

“I just remembered I can fly.”

“Oh.”  He lets out a small chuckle.  “Right.  I could have carried you, though.”

“Let’s move.”

Damien begins to walk, and the front of the backpack pushes me backwards as I hover.  When he descends the stairs, the top of the backpack pushes me down.  I’m less freaked out about this situation now that I’m flying.  It makes me feel like I have more control.

“Have a good day!” Damien’s mother calls. 

“Later,” Damien murmurs. 

The front door squeals open, then clicks shut behind us.  The sun is bright in the sky, pouring through the holes in the fabric, so that I can see everything:  Damien’s front porch, the green grass swishing beneath his feet, and, of course, two black cars parked on the curb, one on either side of Damien’s car.  My muscles coil.  If I can see
them
through the backpack, can they see me?  As if Damien somehow reads my thoughts, he walks faster, pulling me along. 

He opens the passenger side door and slides the backpack into the seat, so that I’m scrunched up facing the windshield.  I stop flying and let my weight press into the leather.  Damien lingers over me.

“I don’t think they suspect,” he hisses.

“Drive
away
,” I hiss back.

He shuts the door and climbs into the driver’s side.  The engine revs, and we jerk out of the spot between the two black cars.  As we cruise down Damien’s street, he lets out a long sigh.  I realize I’ve been clenching my fists so hard that my fingernails are digging into my palms.  I loosen my hands and breathe. 

Damien flicks on the radio, and a slow country song flows out.  We pick up speed as Damien swings right onto MacRearigan Road, the big highway where we first met each other.  There’s something weird about the fact that we’ve only been on this road together twice:  the day we met, and the day we’ll say goodbye forever.

Damien pulls open the backpack’s zipper, and cool air wafts in.

“I don’t see any more black cars,” he says.

I stick my arms out of the top of the backpack and force the zipper open the rest of the way, then float out and kick it to the floor.  Out the window, the sun shines down on the gray road whipping under us, while lines of trees on either side blur by.  The sun is heating up the car.  I roll up the sleeves of Damien’s sweatshirt. 

“Crap!  I’m still wearing your clothes!” I say. 

He smirks.  “It’s no big deal.”  Then he narrows his eyes.  “Actually, those are my favorite clothes ever and you’re going to have to come back as soon as possible to return them.”

I laugh.  “Whatever you say.” 

He flashes one of those rare wide smiles, the kind where his eyes get all bright and his one eyebrow jolts up.  I can’t help but laugh whenever he makes this face, and I do now, letting out a tumble of sound that makes my gut ache afterwards.  I wish it could always be like this:  Damien with one hand on the steering wheel, grinning at me as his black hair gets hit by the sunlight.  Me in the passenger seat, enjoying the waft of the air conditioning, listening to country music.  It’s almost like we’re normal.

Damien’s expression sinks again, and he turns to me.  “I don’t think you should fly till you’re well out of Boorsville, alright?  Take the bus to Kutztown, or even Reading.  They shouldn’t be able to trace you from there.”

I nod, wondering if Damien realizes if I took the bus to Reading, I’d have already reached my destination. 

“Do you have money for the bus?” he says. 

“Crud!  I left my backpack at your house.  I have money in that.”

“It’s okay.  I’ll lend you some.”

“Thanks,”  I swallow hard, my eyes prickling suddenly.  “For everything.”

He gives me a close-lipped smile that’s more sad than happy.  “I just wish this could have ended differently.”

“Me too.”

He pulls into the parking lot of a flat building with lots of buses rumbling in front of it.  On the sidewalk, several men in black suits huddle.  I recognize their faces.

“Damien, get out of here!” I say, throwing myself onto the floor and covering my head with my hands.  “They’re already here!”

“Crap.”  Damien yanks on the steering wheel, and the car squeals.  “Crap, crap, crap.”

He pulls back onto MacRearigan Road and jams on the accelerator.  The car blasts forward, and I’m thrown against the front wall.  Damien’s face is tense as he lifts his eyes to the rearview mirror.

“Are they following us?” I say.

“I don’t know.”

“What do we do?”

The muscles in his forearms are rigid as he grips the steering wheel.  “They’re following,” he murmurs, before stamping on the accelerator.

“Slow down!”  I shout, struck with an idea.  “Act normal.  Drive to school.”

“Are you nuts?”

“They won’t think I’m with you if you drive to school.”

He slows down and takes a deep breath, a film of sweat on his forehead.  He glances up at the rearview mirror.  “They’re still following.”

“It’s okay.”

I pull the empty backpack over me anyway, in case they catch up with us and look through the windows.  Damien’s gaze swings between the windshield and the rearview mirror, deep grooves in his forehead. 

“Where are they?” I say.

“Right behind us.”

He slows, and the turn signal begins to chirp.  Gravity presses me against the wall as he swings the car left.  Then there’s the sound of the rubber tires crawling over rugged pavement. 

“We’re in the school parking lot,” Damien says.

“Did they follow you in?”

He looks at me and lets out a breath.  “No.”

My chest heaves with relief.  Damien yanks the car into a parking spot and jerks off the engine, then collapses against the back of his seat.  I climb into the passenger seat and do the same, realizing that my heart is racing.  I’m not sure when we start laughing, but we do, both of us, for about three minutes straight.  By the time we stop, we’re both wheezing.  I take a deep breath and look at Damien.  He shakes his head and groans.

“That was close,” he says.  “Too close.”

“What now?”

“I don’t know.  If I leave the school, it’s going to look suspicious, right?  I think I have to go in.”

I turn to look out the window.  Other cars are pulling into spots all around us.  A stream of students lazes toward the school.

“Let’s both go in,” I say.

“
What?
”

“They’ll never suspect I'm in high school.  Plus, what am I supposed to do, wait in the car all day?” 

His mouth drops open a little, and something like horror enters his eyes.  “I don’t know, Sammie.”

“Please, Damien.  I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like.”

Several emotions phase across his face:  first panic, then embarrassment, then resignation.  His lips press together.  “Alright.”

I leap out of the car.  Damien climbs out slowly, looking like he might be sick, his eyes darting around at the other students. 

“You okay?” I say.

He nods, and we walk toward the school. 

CHAPTER 6

Damien

I can’t fathom how I miscalculated so badly that we’ve ended up walking toward my high school with actual intentions of going inside.  I can handle Joe Butt when I’m alone, but I think if Sammie sees me get my face bashed in I’m going to actually die of humiliation.  Not to mention, everyone is staring at us.  As we inch toward the entrance, walking close enough together that we look
together
, the people in front of us crane their necks and the people behind us whisper.  It is as if, by bringing a cute, blond female to school, I have done something as outrageous as forgetting to wear pants.  I try to focus on Sammie, who you’d think would be more nervous after being car-chased by her childhood menaces, but who practically gleams with excitement.  Her hair whips back and forth as looks at everything:  at the yellow school busses spewing students onto sidewalk, at the gum-laden pavement beneath our feet, and at the glass doors swinging open and closed as students flow inside. 

We follow the crowd through the doors and into the cool lobby. 

“We need to go to the office first,” I say.  “You need a visitor’s pass.”

She stops and gazes back and forth at the lobby, which has an oily yellowish floor and the same tan brick walls as the outside of the building.  The first bell must be about to ring, because students gush through the entrance, babbling loudly and scattering toward the school's various wings.  A bunch of guys in letter jackets leer at Sammie as they lumber by, and I have strange visions of hitting them over the head with chairs. 

We make our way toward the office, whose glass exterior allows passersby to glimpse the long counter and chairs inside.  I hold the door open for Sammie, then follow her in, immediately getting a blast of the warm office air.  Several students occupy the chairs, gazing at their knees.

Sammie gives me a hesitant look, and I yank my head at the counter, behind which a lady with curly gray hair scrawls on some papers.

“Excuse me,” I say. 

The lady looks up and smiles at me, then continues writing.  "Yes, dear?"

"I need a visitor's pass for my, uh…"

"Cousin," Sammie says.

I turn to Sammie, who shrugs. 

"Cousin," I say, disliking this story completely and totally.  "She's visiting from, uh, far away."

"Very far," Sammie interjects.

"And I was wondering if she could follow me around for the day," I say.  "So, uh, that's why we need a pass."

The lady looks up, then gazes back and forth between Sammie and me.  I wonder if she's questioning how a tall, olive-skinned, black-haired boy could possibly be related to a tiny, pale, blond girl. 

The lady shrugs.  "Okay."

She rips a pink sheet of paper from a pad, scribbles something onto it, and hands it to Sammie, who gazes it at like she's been handed a golden ticket.  We walk back into the hallway, which, by now, is quiet and empty.  First bell must have sounded while we were inside. 

"
Cousin?
" I spit.

She bites her lip.  "It was the first thing I could think of."

Mumbling, I motion for her to follow me down the B-wing hallway.  Rows of maroon lockers stream down both sides, and a strip of fluorescent lights casts a harsh glow against the shiny, yellowish floor.  Sammie looks up at the lights and frowns, tugging at the neckline of my sweatshirt.