Forbidden (43 page)

I remember what I know, that I am the least worthy of this place, my life no more significant than dust on an empty shelf. Arrogance makes me look at Michael and suspect that I, too, might have a purpose in all this.
Am I more than someone’s afterthought? What is the reason for me?

I exhale unanswered questions and look up. Stars wink and wait, and I wish I had their patience. I am desperate to be useful like Michael.

“What are you looking for?” His voice is deep and tranquil.

“Mom used to say they were the angels’ campfires,” I say wistfully with a slight smile.

We’re quiet again, drifting, and I wonder,
Where is the confection in the air if not here? Mom, what am I missing?

“What are you listening for?” Michael asks, and I look at him. Does he know? He can’t possibly. I’ve never shared Mom’s bizarre ideas with anyone. I’ve been too afraid to face reality, the possible truth that Mom was going insane and taking me with her.

I stare long and hard at Michael. I know there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him. I want things I never imagined. I’m filled with a restlessness I can’t name. It
exhilarates me. It scares me.

“Michael?”

“Yes, Sophia?”

“You are changing me.”

“Yes, Sophia.”

We hold a steady, meaningful gaze until clouds envelope us, and I can’t see him anymore. They alter their form to accommodate our shape, and then move on as though we were never there. A flock of ducks breezes by, flapping soundlessly in a V formation. They spare us a passing glance and nothing more, making me feel utterly insignificant.

Just as my mood mellows and Self-pity tries to join the party, we take off again.

Michael pulls hard, vigorous strokes and we dip sharply to the left and come up under the cloud bank. I’m surprised to find it’s pouring rain and then realize you hear rain only when it hits something.
Like falling dreams
.

Michael shouts, “Hang on!” so I squeeze my legs tighter around his waist. We pick up speed and dip and rise like a roller coaster. I raise my hands, screaming at the top of my lungs.

By the time we finally descend, we’re breathless and laughing. We pass over Haven Hurst which is lit up like a Christmas yard ornament. The gazebo lights have been left on again and beads of rain sparkle in their glow.

I look at my house and feel a pinch in my stomach. It’s dark but for a solitary light in the living room. I think about Dad with a sense of impending fear.

He should not be left alone!
Mom’s voice is sharp and reprimanding, as though she has told me this a thousand times. I fill with panic.

“Michael! Take me home!” He has already sensed my concern and is slowing down. “What is that?” I point to a line of black smoke rising over the back dormer. It snakes across the roof and under the eaves of the front porch. It seems to vanish beneath the door.

“What? There’s nothing there.” Michael frowns at me like maybe the change in altitude is messing with my head. We ease down across the street into a scattering of elms next to Hadley’s Market. “You gotta stick the landing or you’ll feel it tomorrow.” We gently touch down, and my knees give way but he catches me.

Michael’s wings retract, and he grips my shoulders to ensure my balance. I’m staring at my house, dark and spooky beneath the rain. Did I imagine the black smudge? It seemed real but if Michael didn’t see it …

“You okay?” he asks. We are drenched, and Michael shakes his head, spraying a halo of water over me.

“Thank you.” I throw my arms around his neck.

“For what?” He laughs, holding me tightly.

“For the best night of my life!” I hang on to make my point, but also to fight the nagging feeling about the black smudge. I am afraid it was not meant for Michael to see, but for me.

Chapter 35

Thank You, Sir, May I Have Another

Today is Friday, exactly two weeks, five days, and seven hours since my Neverland High Flying Adventure with Michael, and Mom’s strange warning about Dad. I’ve kept a close eye on Dad but nothing has changed, and now I’m wondering if I imagined Mom’s voice or the black smoke that crept into the house. Flying with Michael and drinking an intoxicating rain cloud could have messed with my head, right?

So I am sitting in astronomy class watching Mr. Cummings putter around in search of the dry erase markers that everyone can see. Duffy has hidden them behind the astral projector but no one is pointing them out. We all want to be left alone and not lectured at. Michael and his brothers are absent, again. Willa, the office secretary, labels their frequent absences as “Emergency calls from home” and hasn’t a shred of suspicion. I’m guessing they work some kind of compulsion on everyone so no one is overly suspicious; that thing Michael tried on me at the mud pit. I’m rather proud that it didn’t work.

So with my newfound knowledge, I no longer speculate about where or why the Patronus brothers go missing. I have a general understanding of what they are doing. I am the girl whose secret boyfriend disappears at random intervals.

Bailey and Rachel keep me grounded with the earthly and mundane; Rachel has fallen in love and roams the school with Holden in her eyes. I think it’s nice not to have to hide your feelings like Michael and I do. Bailey has neglected to mention our hypnotic mosh pit episode in the library, and I am guessing that Milvi compelled her to forget the details. I’m glad it wasn’t up to me; the fewer lies I have to tell, the better. It’s hard not telling her about Michael and me, but I’m soldiering on. It hasn’t been easy.

Dante hasn’t been easy.

Although Michael and I have been careful not to show any public affection, Dante isn’t buying our “just friends” routine. I know he knows; I can see it in his eyes. I haven’t spoken to him since the dance, and his words have been replaced by strategically aimed, penetrating stares that unnerve me. Even now I can feel the heat of his glare piercing the back of my head. I take my restitution with due shame and guilt. We were friends and I dumped him without a word. I feel horrible.

Mr. Cummings finally abandons his search for the erasers just as the bell rings. He announces that his overly generous time extension on the astronomy packets has expired. We are to hand them in now. So I plop an obscenely large project folder onto his desk, and he raises a sardonic eyebrow.

“Michael and I finished together,” I say smugly. Michael’s knowledge of any and all things celestial was astounding. With an angel as my personal tutor, it took us only three days. I’ve never learned so much so fast.

“Yes, well …” Mr. Cummings flips through the packet with a slippery smile. “Let’s see if I’m able to give
you
any credit. Hmm?”

Because it’s Friday and I have better things to do than sit in detention, I bite down the colorful modifier I want to unleash.

Bailey mumbles, “What a douche,” and follows me out. We dump our backpacks into the jeep and she asks if I’m going to tonight’s pep rally bonfire. Tomorrow is an afternoon football game and then tomorrow night is Halloween. I’ve been particularly dreading Halloween this year. Everyone assumes I’ll go to Dante’s party, but no one realizes I haven’t spoken to him in weeks. Besides, I’m sure he has changed his mind about requiring my sparkling personality.

Despite the cool autumn day, the sun is smacked against the sky like a nicotine patch pumping out UV adrenaline; it’s making me edgy and I can’t shake the foreboding feeling that has been plaguing me for days. Something significant is going to happen. Good or bad, I can’t decide.

I eventually tell Bailey that I’m tired and staying home tonight. This is a lie. My worry about Dad has escalated and I don’t want to leave him alone at night. But since I have to work at the
Gazette
for a while, I give Bailey a ride to the square.

The town is awash with a fresh wave of tourists who stroll and shop and lick ice cream or sip steaming cups of cider. A flock of cyclists in racing gear darts in and around like a colorful school of fish.

Miss Minnie and LeRoy are bent over the computer when I enter the office. They are engaged in their typical verbal trench warfare. Miss Minnie is being particularly feisty, so LeRoy whacks the side of the computer. She lays into her younger brother, explaining for the umpteenth time that he can’t go around smacking the computer like it’s an old television set on the blink. It seems LeRoy has lost the last several pages of tomorrow’s edition. Miss Minnie asks if I’ll take a look. I’m eager to be useful so I dig in.

Three hours later, I am cross-eyed but triumphant. I swivel around and announce, “Okay, lost pages have been retrieved, a safety backup file has been created, and all
articles and photos have been secured.” Miss Minnie smiles as though she knew I would come through. We’ve become pretty close since I started working here. Sometimes I wish she were more than my boss. Grandma maybe? Great-grandma even? It sucks never to have met my relatives.

LeRoy doles out paper cups containing his homemade brew. We offer a toast to the electronic gods and then clink and drink. Hot apple cider goes well with accomplishment.

I try to feel proud about doing something important, but I can’t. Maybe I’m being too picky. Maybe I’m fooling myself, but I can’t help wondering if I’m meant for something more. Something … well, I don’t know what, but it’s like an itch under my skin that I can’t scratch.

LeRoy wants to know if Dad is coming to the bonfire, but I shrug him off. It’s not passive curiosity but downright concern. Not that I blame LeRoy; Dad has lost weight and patience. He’s become a stubborn mule, and it would be a miracle if I could coax him out of the house.

“Anything else I can do?” I ask Miss Minnie.
Please give me something to occupy my mind so I don’t have to go home and watch Dad deteriorate before my eyes. Or wait in vain for Michael to come around
.

“How about some candid photos capturing Haven Hurst Halloween charm?” she suggests.

“I’m on it.”

*  *  *

The town square is haunted by the season, a modern rendition of Sleepy Hollow. The grass in the park is shriveled, and the trees have decomposed into rigor mortis yellow, plasma red, and pumpkin gut orange. Spider webs are stretched over nooks and crannies, and the pumpkin patch is a garden of decapitated heads. The back end of a witch on a broomstick is smashed into the Aunt Tik furniture store. A row of jack-o’-lanterns in neon wigs are puking their pumpkin seed guts out in the window of the Cut ’N Dye hair salon. And a bloody zombie in an Armani suit is hanging by the necktie in Viktor Vogue’s Haberdashery.

Across the square is the Hickory Stick, whose display window features a scarecrow in a flannel shirt and jeans. But his back is to the window and his jeans have been pulled down and two bright orange pumpkin cheeks are mooning the square. I heard
Mayor Jones is on the warpath, so I raise my camera and document Cheeky before the town council votes to remove him, or at least forces somebody to pull up his pants.

When my work is complete, there is nothing left to do but go home.

*  *  *

The house is dark and cold. It’s chilly out but Dad hasn’t started a fire, so I do. I load a few dry logs, shove crumpled newspaper beneath the grate, and light it. I watch it glow and spread while absently petting Sundance. The house is too quiet, so I kick off my shoes and pad down the hallway to Dad’s office.

The room is dark but for a circle of pale light from Dad’s decrepit old desk lamp. He has fallen asleep on a stack of books but jerks awake when Sundance barrels in. Dad is a wreck with Einstein hair and a dungeon tan. Worry has gnawed him to the bone. He is noticeably flustered and starts thumping books shut as I approach.

“Wattaya up to?” I fake a cheerful tone and perch my hip on his desk.
Maybe if I lead by example, Dad will follow
.

He makes a show of hiding his work. “Oh, nothing.”

“You going to the rally tonight?”

“What? No. That’s not for me.”

“Let’s go, Dad. It’ll be fun. You haven’t been out in days.” I try to catch his eye but he won’t look up.

“I go to the library,” he mumbles halfheartedly. He is systematically touching his things and organizing nothing.

My stomach hurts deep in the pit, and my dangling foot takes on a nervous shake. “Dad, what’s wrong?”

He runs a hand through his unruly hair, and his lips move but nothing comes out. It’s like he’s making an imaginary list in his head. I want to cry but steel myself against the urge.

“What’s this?” I reach for a notebook, and he snatches it away.

“I told you! I’m researching for a book!”

This is Dad’s excuse for shutting himself away. So now he is a writer of books. Hmm …

Since neither of us is going out, Dad suggests we have dinner in front of the TV, and then he hastily ushers me out of the office. I decide I’ve had enough of his odd behavior; there is snooping to be done. So after we devour leftover lasagna and a loaf of
French bread and watch our fill of various sporting events, I yawn and stretch with fake fatigue. I tell Dad that I’m off to the bathtub and then to bed. I’ll see him in the morning.

*  *  *

It’s an old claw-foot tub that makes for a swimming pool when filled, and I bob for a good thirty minutes to ensure that Dad has gone to bed. Then I slip into flannel pajamas and a tank top, and tiptoe across the landing. I look and listen. All dark. All quiet. I creep downstairs like a burglar in my own home. Dad never locks his office so I try the door. It’s locked.
Damn!
I trudge to the kitchen and rummage through the junk drawer in search of appropriate sleuthing devices to jimmy a lock. I settle for a flat-head screwdriver and a nail file.

Several attempts later, the antique lock gives way with a rusty click. A strange mix of excitement and guilt winds through me as I creep inside.

The desk is a study in eyesore and olfactory offenses: cluttered books and notepads, leftover sandwich stubs and coffee dregs. I twitch my nose and push the leftovers aside. There are seven books in all, four concerning dreams and the power of the subconscious, two examining various cultural theories on the afterlife, and the last book titled
The History of Hell
.