Flying (10 page)

The Stephensons live in a big rectangular house that is supposed to look like an old-time New England colonial, but it's new. A mudroom with a low roof attaches the house to the garage. Lyle's room is right above the mudroom roof. So all you do is go to the back, step up onto the edges of the monstrous ceramic planter, grab onto the roof edge or Lyle's hands, and he hauls you up onto the roof. Then you both go back into his room via the window. As neighbors, we have done this about ten million times, and this is what we do tonight, but tonight it feels dangerous. Tonight it feels life-or-death.

Just as we both get onto the roof, and I look back toward my house, the men in suits get into one of the black cars. It drives by the two houses between mine and Lyle's. Headlights flash into Lyle's yard just as we flatten ourselves onto the roof shingles.

“Should we be hiding from them?” I ask.

“Maybe.”

“In all those shows you watched, were the Men in Black good or bad?”

“Both. In those old movies with Will Smith, they were good. Most conspiracy theorists think they're bad.”

“Conspiracy theorists?”

“The people who think the government is covering up the whole UFO thing. I talk about it all the time. Don't you listen?”

“Not really,” I admit.

He lets out a big breath. I've disappointed him, which makes my stomach back twist again.

“I'll listen better next time,” I whisper-promise.

He studies me for a second too long. “I can't believe you sometimes.”

“It's not like you listen to
me
when I talk about lip plumpers, and
I
don't get all pissy about it.”

After contemplating this for a second (I am assuming here), he says, “Point taken.”

He hustles in the window and gives me a hand into his room. I stand there and stare at all his
Doctor Who
posters as he plops the window screen back on and shuts it. No real lights illuminate the area, just a night-light, which is kind of cute, if you think about it. It would be cuter, however, if it wasn't a White Walker from
Game of Thrones
. After the Windigo, all pseudo humanoids creep me out.

“The other black car is leaving,” he whispers, all urgently.

I go to stare out the window with him. “Weird.”

“Ultraweird.”

“Super ultraweird.”

He crunches up his face at me. For a second everything seems normal. But it fades, because normal is not true. Normal is
never
true; I know that now.

I walk around the game controllers and running crap scattered all over the floor. I grab the sword he made back in seventh grade, when he was into those fantasy reenactment games. Then I hop over his trail runners. Lyle is one of the best cross-country runners in the county, which is why he's heading to Dartmouth on a scholarship. That's not until next September, though. And I have another whole year before I get to go, leave this place. That is, if we don't get eaten by monsters first.

“I wish we could run away from this,” I say.

“We don't even know what we'd be running from.” Lyle yanks his hand through his hair. “You're bleeding again.”

I peel away the scarf. My ankle has gashes along it that are still bleeding. “It's not that bad.”

“It's awful.” He takes a new sock out of his drawer and wraps it around my ankle. He tosses the bloodstained scarf into his little metal trash can. I wonder if his mom will notice it. She's the type of mom who would go through her son's trash. He comes back and squats in front of me. The top of his head is full of ruffled, light-brown hair, thick and soft-looking. “It's really awful, Mana.”

“Fine. I'm a total mess like normal; a stupid, horrible mess.”

“What are you talking about?”

I want to shout about how I'm not as smart as him or Seppie, not as good a runner, about my D, how I will never get into Dartmouth … but he meets my eyes and all my words get stuck somewhere behind my heart. He asks, “Did the Windigo thing do this?”

I shudder but don't answer.

He grits his teeth. “That's so wrong. I should've killed it.”

“I think you did.”

“I should have killed it before it hurt you.” He lifts my foot up gently and peeks beneath the sock again. “We should probably clean it out. I don't want it to get infected.”

I suck in a breath. “Does it feel weird?”

“Your foot?”

“No…” I don't want to actually say what I want to ask.

He guesses anyway. “Killing an unspecified life form?”

“Exactly.”

Shadows make homes beneath his eyes. “Kind of. I mean, it was going to kill you.”

“Kill us.”

“Right. It's just … I don't want to be the guy who kills off the one piece of proof we have that there's this bizarre species no one knew about.”

“I don't think you did.”

“Huh?”

“That guy, China, said that the Windigos were coming. That's why we had to hide. Windigos, plural.” I shudder again, maybe because I'm so creeped out or because I'm in shock. Maybe I'm cold. The body shudders when it needs to get warmer, right?

Lyle's face goes soft. He places my foot back on the floor, super gently. “Mana. It'll be okay. Your mom will be okay.”

“How do you know?”

“She's really capable, you know, as far as moms go, and
we
managed to get away from it.”

“She would have called me if she was okay,” I mumble.

“She doesn't have her cell.”

“She would find a cell. It's my mom. She's practical. Like Seppie.”

Blue lights flash in through the window. Lyle leans away from me to peer outside. “The police are here. At my house.”

“Wait. What? Why?”

“I gave them my name when I called. I'll have to go talk to them, explain stuff to the parents.”

“Should I come?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He scratches at his ear, nervous. “I just have a feeling. Trust me on this, Mana, okay?”

“Okay.”

The truth is that I don't want to have to try to explain everything to Deputy Bagley or some other cop. I've already lied about what happened in the locker room. The truth is that I'm not a good liar. The truth is that I'm more than happy to just hang out in Lyle's room, hug my knees to my chest, and rock back and forth for a little while. Some would call it my impersonation of a cheerleader having a nervous breakdown. I would say,
What impersonation?

*   *   *

He's gone for about ten minutes when a noise scuttles alongside the roof of the house. I bury myself under the covers, hiding, clutching the edges over my head like it's going to protect me somehow.

The scuttling pauses, then starts again, and gets closer. It sounds like it's walking along the side of the house now. Another pause. Every single beat of my heart pounds against my ribs, making them ache. I flatten myself down, but turn my head the smallest of bits so that I can lift up the covers enough for my eye to peek out.

The window is dark.

Then the scuttling happens again, much louder. I hold my breath, will myself not to move, not to scream. A face full of teeth appears at the window. The eyes track around the room, searching, searching for me.

Locate. Exterminate.

I cannot even swallow. Any scream I would want to make is trapped somewhere down by my pancreas and is not coming out. One second passes. The Windigo peers into and around the room again and scurries on, moving to another window.

Locate. Exterminate.

I don't move until Lyle comes back, and even then I'm not sure if I will ever be able to move again.

*   *   *

So, the police interview Lyle in front of his panicked parents. He tells them all that I was scared and ran off into the woods after we realized my house was broken into and that my mom's car was still there. We thought we heard a noise inside, he lies. I freaked and ran off. They only half believe him, he thinks. He tells them I'm worried frantic about my mother. They believe that, he says.

He does not tell them that while they are interviewing him, I am upstairs cowering in his bed like a baby. When he comes back, he helps me out from under the covers and tells me all about it.

“I am so freaked out,” I say, when I finally can speak again. He opens his arms. I step into them and I feel a little better. “You are the best friend ever.”

He tenses up, holds on another second, and then lets go. I tell him about the Windigo at the window.

“It was trying to find you? You, specifically?”

“I think so.”

He lets that settle in his brain, I guess, because there's a big pause before he says, “The parents are going to bed. They're beyond upset.”

“Me, too.”

He pauses again, thinking, the way Lyle does. I can tell because, whenever he tries to think of what to say, his eyes gaze toward the sky or the ceiling or whatever. Up. They focus upward. “We'll find your mom.”

I would like to believe that. I need to believe that, but—

“Come sleep on the bed with me,” he says.

I lift an eyebrow. It's a calculated lift, the kind the actresses execute in movies and the main characters do in books.

He says, “I won't feel like we're safe unless you're right next to me.”

This is true, but still. I feel sort of … um … awkward? Awkward about this, but kind of excited about it, too. I hide my awkwardness the way I always do: I tease him. “I think you're just doing some patented guy move, which I will call Offer to Share my Bed with Traumatized Girl in the Hopes of Polishing the Porpoise.”

“Polishing the porpoise?”

“Riding the baloney pony?” I offer up.

He laughs quietly. His dimples show when he laughs. I love his dimples. “Can you blame me?”

Lyle isn't really a total geek boy. It's just fun to torment him. Like everyone, he's a bunch of things all tangled up and beyond labels. His muscles are too big for a total geek boy. His hair is too nice. He runs like a jock. He works summers at the animal refuge like a hipster. He's charming, too. He has had a million girlfriends. They never last long. He always says he gets bored. Would he get bored of me? I wonder. Not that he would ever like me that way … but if he did …

He yanks a big T-shirt off a pile on the floor and pulls open a drawer. He holds up flannel boxers. “You can sleep in these.”

“They're kind of big.”

“You could sleep naked.” He gives a fake wink.

“Nice try.”

“Just seeing if I could convince you to do the naked horizontal dance of lust.” He tosses the clothes to me.

I catch them and change the topic. “Maybe we should call Seppie.”

“She's partying. She won't even hear her phone.”

“I know.”

Lyle cocks his head. He rips off his shirt. I refuse to stare at his muscles.

I stare at his muscles. What is wrong with me that I even notice his muscles? My mom is missing. My life has turned into a horror movie, and I'm staring at his abs, basically drooling. I hum under my breath to distract myself.

“I don't think we should involve her. I think this is kind of dangerous stuff.”

I swallow. Guilt burrows into my chest, making it hard to breathe. “I involved you.”

Nothing can happen to Lyle. Nothing.

“I involved myself.” He says this quietly, just like the rest of our conversation. We don't want his parents to wake up and figure out I'm here. Still, he says it in such a strong tone that I don't argue with him. He's being so brave, which is what he always is, always.

“You, Lyle Stephenson, are the best friend ever.” I go into the closet and shut the door. Lyle's clothes flutter around my head. Metal clothes hangers bang against each other. I pull on his stuff and step out. He's already under the covers.

His gaze goes up and down me. He starts twitching with laughter. “You look like you're three.”

The T-shirt goes down to my knees.

“You're bigger than me.” I state the obvious.

He lifts the covers so I can climb in. We both pull the covers back up and I turn on my side so we're facing each other. Our bent knees touch, skin on skin. He must have taken his jeans off. His knees aren't too hairy, but they're not girl smooth either. They feel foreign, but nice against mine.

“You
are
wearing
some
clothes, right?” I ask.

“Want to feel and find out?”

“Nice try.”

“A boy can dream.”

He's fake jolly. All show, trying to get me less scared, and it is so nice of him, but …

“My mom—”

“Will be okay.”

He takes me by the hands and pulls me in for a hug. I lean toward him, nestling into the comfort. He's wearing boxers or shorts, too.

“How do you know?” I ask him. “How do you know she'll be okay?”

“She just has to be. That's all. She has to be okay. So, she is.” His hand cups the back of my head. “The police will take care of it, you know that, right? It will all end up okay. Your mom will be home soon, making cupcakes and straightening the house and nagging you about studying.”

I pull in a breath. It brings the smell of warmth, and boy deodorant, and goodness. It brings the smell of Lyle.

“You are the best friend in the world,” I say again, even though I said it earlier. I want him to believe it.

He laughs. I feel his stomach wiggle against me when he does. He kisses the top of my head. “Don't forget it.”

“Like I ever could.”

*   *   *

Eventually, Lyle falls asleep. He makes tiny snore noises, which are kind of nice because it makes me know he is there, he is breathing, and I am not alone.

My eyes stay open.