Flying (11 page)

Darkness fills the room. He unplugged the night-light. Clouds have covered the moon and the sky and all the limitless possibilities that poets and scientists always blab on about. I keep imagining that Windigo thing, creeping up the stairs, slashing through the door, finding us.

“It's dead,” I tell myself.

But there are others. Obviously. One was creeping along the side of the house just a little while ago.

I ease myself out of Lyle's bed and check his cell to see if my dad has called back. He has not. This figures. He's the kind of dad who's never there when you need him, always busy, always working, always in another place, another city. I shuffle over to the laptop and flip it open. The blue screen casts light on the room, and I use it to check everything out. No monsters. Lyle's mouth is open a little bit.

The wireless is connected already, so I Google “Windigo.” The first link that shows up is from a pseudo-cryptozoology site. It says, “Deep in the world of woods and forest, in the dark abyss of no-man's-land, there are accounts of malevolence and horror that cause even the pluckiest of men to crumble in fear. These are the stories of things inhuman, things usually unseen, and when they are seen, it is too late.”

Oh, that is beautiful. That's going to help with the whole falling asleep issue. I check the windows. The shades are down. I still get that wiggly, awful feeling, like someone is watching. I am totally psyching myself out.

The website goes on to say that Windigos are humans who have turned cannibal, that they are large and hairy. It sounds nothing like what we saw.

I check out other sites. It's just more of the same, only with less over-the-top language. I even Google “exterminate monster,” but I just get a lot of hits for role-playing games and Daleks.

Totally frustrated, I pick up Lyle's phone and try my dad again. Nothing. No answer. How can he not answer? I try Seppie. The whole time it rings, I pray, “Please pick up. Please, please, please pick up.”

She doesn't pick up. And I scroll through Lyle's contacts because I am honestly that bored and that desperate, thinking that there must be someone to call for help. I get to my number and there's a picture of me sarcastically pointing a finger at him. He has my name as Mana Banana. I change it to Mana the Awesome.

When we were little, Lyle used to obsess about my name, because Mana is what a lot of gamers call the amount of magic spell energy you have. Mana. He called me Magic Girl after that, until he actually researched my name for real and found out that a lot of people think that it means “thunder,” or “wind of a storm,” or some sort of natural force created by a supernatural entity.

I can still remember us sitting together under a tree, jamming out to tunes on my phone, slamming down the snickerdoodle brownies my mom had made, and him announcing, “You have the coolest name ever.”

“Your name is cool,” I told him. We were, like, twelve then.

“Lyle the Crocodile is not a cool name,” he said, citing my favorite picture book when I was little. I think I pounced on him then, screaming “Crocodile!” and doing a tickle torture until he started chanting “Mana Banana.” Good times.

I close the laptop, shut the cell phone, and tiptoe over to the window, staring out at the darkness and nothingness. I feel so alone, even though Lyle snores on the bed. I hope that obnoxious China guy is okay out there. I hope the Windigos didn't get him.

China is the name of a country. It shouldn't be the name of a guy who isn't even Asian.

I go over to my bag and haul out the pretzel container, twist off the cap, and eat one. It's crunchy and sweet. I touch the new penguin sticker with my fingertips.

Lyle makes a little snorting groan noise on the bed. I put things away and slip back over there, slide in, and sigh. Eventually, sleep will come, right? And maybe I'll be able to think of some intelligent course of action for the morning. And maybe I don't think my shirtless best friend is ridiculously hot.

I am so good at telling myself lies.

 

CHAPTER 7

It's morning, and I'm kind of in the half-slumber zone. During the small part of the night when I was actually asleep, Lyle somehow spooned up against my back, with his arms wrapped around the bottom part of my rib cage. It feels good, and safe, and warm, like we're some old couple who sleeps together every night and still manages to love each other even though we both snore and emit stuff like the occasional sleep fart. I snuggle in a little bit closer and breathe deeply.

The half-sleep happiness where I don't really remember the situation that got me here doesn't last, though, because the door to his room flies open and there is his mom, Mrs. Stephenson.

There's no time to hide.

She starts to say, “Lylie, you've been sleep—”

I jump away. It does no good.

She shrieks.

Lyle's mom is tall and has church-woman hips, wide and strong. She gives the impression that she could battle monsters on a prairie and win, that kind of woman. And that's how she appears now. Her face turns white, then red. If humans were capable of having steam come out of their ears, she would have steam coming out of her ears. She quivers with emotion and I try to figure out what to do. Right now, I'm sort of huddled backwards against the wall, my legs tangled in sheets and draped over Lyle's midsection. I try to pull the comforter over my head, but it's tucked under us somehow.

“What is going on? What are you doing? Oh!” she yells.

“Mom, it's not how it seems,” Lyle mumbles, starting to sit up. He's all groggy.

“It is indeed how it seems. There is a girl in your bed … a
half-naked
girl in your bed.”

“It's just Mana,” he says.

Just Mana?
Do I not count as a girl? Nice. He puts his hand on my shoulder and then takes it away, like my ungirlness is burning him.

“I know who it is,” Mrs. Stephenson says, and focuses all her mother force on me. She starts pointing. “The police are trying to find you, young lady!”

“I … Um … I—”

“And you, mister, having a young … young … female … human being … in your bed.
In your bed!
Under my roof.” She backs up against the
Doctor Who
poster. Her hand covers her mouth. “Oh my word. Oh my word.
Oh my word!
And of all people? Mana? How could you do this to me, Lyle?”

“Mom … I didn't do anything. We didn't do anything.”

Right. Who would do anything with “just Mana”?

“Ha!” His mother spits out the laugh.

I wonder for a second what my mom would do. She would be mad, but she would probably be a cold, calm kind of angry, which is much worse. My mom … My stomach folds into itself again. I press my hand against it.

Lyle's boxers are a wee bit revealing. I make bug eyes at him so that he can fix himself. The tops of his ears turn bright red. He pulls the covers back up and over him.

While he does, I try to give him some backup. “We really didn't do anything, Mrs. Stephenson.”

She whirls on me. “Don't you pretend to be all polite with me, young lady. Get out.”

I stammer, think, cannot get my brain around what she just said. “What? I have no place to go.”

“Mom…” Lyle protests, sitting up and putting a pillow over his lap.

She points at me with a finger full of
leave
.

Hopping off the bed, I rush to the door and stumble down the hall, past Lyle's dad, who is standing there with shaving cream covering half his face and a razor in his hand. I throw open the door and run into the cold, wearing nothing except Lyle's T-shirt and boxers. The frozen ground stings my feet and pricks my lungs as I inhale. I think I make some sort of screaming noise from the pain of it. Lyle's voice echoes out from the open door.

“Mana! Jesus, Mom, she doesn't even have any shoes,” he yells. “Mana! Wait!”

She yells over him. “Don't you take the Lord's name in vain, young man. You're in enough trouble as it is.”

I keep on running because I can't think of what else to do. I run on my toes because it's all that my skin can stand, and in less than three minutes I'm at my house, staring at yellow tape. There's no sign of the Windigo except for a wet-looking smudge on the driveway. I quell the urge to vomit, and bolt onto the porch to try the front door. It's locked. The police locked it? Why?

Okay. Okay. That's probably standard police procedure and not a random fact I should be stressing about at the moment. The sky above me is gray and dull and seems like it's going to leak snow any second.

I need to get inside.

Hopping up and down, shivering, I try to figure out what to do. I rip the sock from around my ankle and shove it on one foot, even though it's bloody and stiff.

The broken window is boarded up. Then I remember the spare key. It's under a rock that I painted a daisy on, back when I was at YMCA day camp. I find it and go in, closing the door behind me.

The place is still a mess, but it's home. One of my duffel bags is on the floor by the door. I yank out an old dirty sweatshirt and jeans, plus some socks, hauling them on as quickly as I can. My cell is in there, too. I pull it out, flip it open. One message received, it says. It was sent at 7:08. Maybe it's from my mom. My heart leaps with hope—
A.M.?
7:08
A.M.?
No, no, it's
P.M.
Yesterday. Just after the game started.

I retrieve it.

It says, “Do not come home. Will tell more later. Do not come home. Stay at seppie's. Wait 4 my call. I love you. Mom.”

How did I miss this? Did I just totally fail to check? Or did it come through late? Gulping, I make sure that there aren't any missed calls. None. She texted me. She never texts me. I didn't know she knew how. It makes no sense that she wouldn't call and leave a voice mail. And it makes no sense that she didn't want me to come home.

Why?

I lock the door. It clicks into place. The thermostat is right near the door and I crank it all the way up. The furnace shudders on, making me jump. The baseboards start thumping. It reminds me of last night and the creature, and for a second I think maybe that's why she didn't want me to come home. But she couldn't have known about the Windigo. Not Mom. My mom doesn't believe in craziness. Once, when Seppie and I were in seventh grade, we had this séance, and we swore that we saw a sparkly lady in white walk across the living room and disappear into the bathroom. Mom? She scoffed. Really.
Scoffed
is a stupid word, but that is totally what she did.

I was so mad at her. I was all, “Why don't you believe me?”

And she straightened the hem of her slip and said, “I only believe the things I see.”

I thought that was so boring, almost as boring as actually wearing those beige slips under her skirts, but maybe it wasn't boring at all, because I sure am seeing a lot of things that I never, ever would have believed if someone had just randomly told me.

I dial her cell phone. Nothing. It goes directly to voice mail, like it does when it has lost its charge.

Wait. It was in the car anyway. Ugh. I am losing it, just operating on automatic and not even thinking about what I'm doing anymore. Slumping over to the love seat, I end up sitting on the one cushion that has been put back in place, and pull my knees up to my chest. I know it's stupid to be here. Especially if Mom warned me not to come home. But right now I have nowhere else to go. Right now, if a Windigo thing appears, then, well … let it freaking exterminate me. I don't care.

How can any of this be real?

“This makes no sense,” I announce to the room, to the house, to the possible hiding Windigos.

“Sure it does.”

I startle and see China standing in the kitchen. “God! What is up with you? Do you have to keep creeping up like that?”

He shrugs. His shoulders are massive under the leather jacket. His eyes don't shift, totally unreadable.

All the weird stuff? This all started with him and the gym.

I stand up and stomp over to him. I make my voice strong, bossy. “I mean it. What are you doing in my house?”

He doesn't back down. His voice is mellow, with just a tinge of anger. “A better question is, what are
you
doing here?”

“It's
my
house.”

“It's dangerous.” His eyes scan the mess, the Windigo footprints on the ceiling.

“Obviously.”

He moves a step forward. He brings his eyes back to me. They're dark eyes, deep. They match his voice. “I thought you and your little boyfriend went to his house.”

“He is not little and he is not my boyfriend.”

“He'd like to be.”

“Whatever. Wait. Really?”

He starts laughing. “Nice comeback.”

“Nice comeback
?
”
I stare at him. I force my mouth shut, my hands to unclench. “Is that what we're doing? Trading comebacks?”

He spreads out his hands, then drops them again to his sides. “It seems that way.”

“That is so stupid. My mom is missing and you think it's fun to banter.”

“You have to have a little fun. Even your mom had fun sometimes.”

“Like you would know.” My fists clench up again, because he just shrugs, and this time I don't unclench them. Instead, I ask, “How did you know I went to Lyle's house?”

He leans against the wall. “I put a tracking device on your clothes. Obviously, you are no longer wearing the same clothes, because according to my tracker you're still upstairs at the boy's house.”

“Lyle. At Lyle's house. Not ‘the boy.' He is not a boy.” As soon as I say this, I realize it sounds pervy somehow, like “He is not a boy. He is a man … all man.”

“What happened? Did you have a lovers' spat?” He smiles like this is possibly the funniest idea in the known universe, which makes me want to kick him.