Freefly (10 page)

“Damien, what are you doing?”

I jerk my head toward my mother. 

She stares at me, smiling curiously.  “Your Pop Tarts popped and you’re just standing there like a statue.”

I whip toward the toaster.  My Pop Tarts jut out, their edges brown.  I turn back to my mother.  At this point her smile has faded. 

“Are you okay, Damien?”

“I think I’m feeling sick.”

She rises from the table and walks over to me, then puts her hand on my forehead.  “You do feel a little clammy.”

I cough, for effect.

“Well, that’s that,” she says.  “Go on upstairs and lie down.  You overwork yourself, dear.  You’ve got to relax a little.”

I walk up the first part of the stairs, then bolt the rest of the way.  I sprint into my parents’ bedroom and gaze out their window, which faces the backyard.  I can’t see Thorne anywhere.  I fly down the hallway to my room, fling open the door (I don’t remember closing it), and promptly have a stroke. 

“Sammie!?”

She sits on the end of my bed, her arms clutched around her chest, her entire body shaking.  She is drenched:  her hair clumps on her forehead, and her clothes cling to her.  There is definitely something wrong.  Deep rings darken her eyes, and her skin is so pale it seems translucent. 

“Are you okay?”  I shut the door behind me and take a step closer, restraining myself from barreling towards her and throwing my arms around her.  “You’re soaked.”

She opens her lips, which are bright blue.  “It’s cloudy.  Clouds are wet.”

“Can I check your pulse?”

She recoils, her eyes widening.  Wherever she’s been, it’s not been good for her whole physical contact issue.  “Why?”

“I think you might be hypothermic.”

She casts her eyes down, and I step closer.  I clasp her wrist, which is cold as marble, and put the tips of my two forefingers to the vein.  Her heartbeat thumps very slowly.  I know from a course I took on human biology that this is a symptom of hypothermia.  The textbook choruses in my head: 
Remove wet clothing and replace it with dry, warm clothing. Give the person something warm to drink.  Make use of hot water bottles, warm baths, or heat packs placed under the arms and on the chest. 

“Do you have a change of clothes?” I ask

She shakes her head, still looking down.

I drop her wrist and walk to my dresser, pull open the bottom drawer, and take out a large gray hoodie and a pair of maroon sweatpants with a drawstring. 

I hold them out to her.  “You should go take a hot shower.”

She raises her head and looks at me uncertainly.  “Here?”

“Yes.”

“What about your parents?  Won’t they hear it?”

“I haven’t showered yet.  They’ll think it’s me.  Anyway, it’s just my mom downstairs, and she’ll be gone pretty soon.”

She bites her lip, then takes the clothes and stands.  I lead her to the bathroom and show her where the towels are. 

She closes the door behind me, and I hear the water surge on.  I turn away from the door and exhale, long and hard, letting all of the anxiety over Sammie’s disappearance wash out of me.  She’s okay.  She’s here.  She looks a little like someone pulled from the Atlantic after the
Titanic
sank, but other than that, she seems fine.  A little skittish, but how is that new?  For right now, all is right with the world.

Voices drift upstairs, coming from the kitchen.  One is high and friendly
—
my mother’s
—
but the other is low and talking quickly.  Terror seizes me.  Michael Thorne is in my house, talking to my mother.  I fly down the stairs as quietly as I can and peer around the corner, careful not to let myself be seen. 

“You know what they say about wolves in sheeps’ clothing,” Thorne says, sitting at the kitchen table beside Mom.  Both study a piece of paper:  the photograph of Sammie, the same one he showed me yesterday. 

“She might look harmless as apple pie, but she’s a very dangerous criminal,” Thorne says.  “Are you sure you haven’t seen her?”

My mother looks up, her brow puckered with concern.  “I’m sure, Officer.  Do we need to be concerned about crime in the area?”

“Not anymore.  I’ve got more people patrolling the neighborhood than ants on a sugar spill.”

I shift my weight, and the floor creaks beneath me.  Both Mom and Thorne look up.

“Damien?” Mom says. 

I step into the kitchen, eyeing Thorne. 

He gives me a wide smile, but his gray eyes are menacing.  “Why aren’t you in school, young man?”

“I’m feeling sick,” I snap, though my stomach flutters.  Thorne is clutching something at his waistband, and I’m scared it might be a gun. 

“I thought you were in the shower,” Mom says, and we all listen to the whine of the water in the pipes.

“Yes, who
is
that in the shower?” Thorne says, standing.

I move myself in front of the hallway.  “No one.  I was about to get in, but I heard you guys talking and came to see who it was.”

“Is that so?” Thorne says.

“Yes,” I snarl.

He bends his elbow to clutch whatever is at his waistband again.  “You’re not trying to hide someone up there, are you?”

Mom stands from the table.  “Officer, my son is a straight arrow.  He doesn’t hang around with criminals.  He interviewed with GLOBE yesterday.”

Thorne lets his hand fall from his side and turns to her.  “You don’t say?”

Mom nods.

“Well, in that case, I’ll get out of your hair.”  He holds out his hand to me.  His smile is so wide it’s more of a sneer, his teeth pointy, the skin around his eyes crinkling.  Cautiously, I hold out my hand, and he grasps it so hard it’s painful. 

“Get back to school soon, my boy,” he says.  “I’m sure you’re
going
places.”

He releases my hand, and I walk him down the hall to the front door.  He glances up the stairs when we pass them, and I pray to God Sammie doesn’t drop the soap.

He pulls open the front door, the hinges squealing, then turns back to me.  Behind him, a forceful rain pelts the front yard.  Black cars line the street, raindrops pouring down their windows. 

“We are all over the place,” he hisses, “and we are watching you.”

I gulp.

He shuts the door behind him, and I am forced to have another one of those exhaling moments.  I am alive, Mom is alive, and Sammie is safe.  For now.  Those black cars are all over the street.  How did Sammie manage to get in, without them seeing her?  How will she get out?

I sprint up the stairs.  The shower is off, but the bathroom door is still closed, the light glowing beneath it.  I run into my room and yank the blind down over the window, to keep Thorne and his men from seeing inside.  I look around for something else to do, but I realize there isn’t anything. 
You think you can protect her?
Thorne said yesterday.  He’s right.  I am powerless to protect her.

“What’s the matter?”  Sammie appears in the doorway, her hair wet and tucked into my sweatshirt, which billows around her like a dress.  She looks better:  her skin is pink instead of deathly pale, and her lips are no longer blue. 

“Sammie, you’re in serious danger,” I say.

Footfalls sound on the stairs, and my mother calls, “You’d better be in bed!  I’m bringing you some tea!”

“Hide,” I hiss at Sammie.

“No problem.”  She sprints toward the window and ducks under the blind, disappearing.  Before I can scream at her to get back inside, Mom appears in the doorway with a steaming mug.

“What are you doing?” she says.

I realize I am standing in the middle of the room, muscles tense, mouth wide open in preparation to shout at Sammie. 

“Why did you close the blinds?”  Mom walks toward the window and yanks the blinds up.  I cringe, waiting for her to screech upon seeing a girl hovering outside, but there is no one.  “Natural light is good for you.  Go on, get into bed.”

Though my first instinct is to rush to the window and yell at Sammie to get back in, I realize that the sooner I do what Mom says, the sooner she’ll leave.  I scramble to the bed and flop on my back.

“That’s better,” Mom says, putting the cup of tea in my hands.  “I want you to rest today, Damien.  You really do work yourself too hard.” 

“Okay, Mom.” 

“No homework.  I mean it.”

“You got it.”

She sighs, then makes for the door.  My muscles clench in preparation to jump out of the bed the second she’s out of sight. 

Mom turns back.  “That was weird, wasn’t it?”

“What?” I say, barely containing my anxiety.

“That police officer.”

“Very weird.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

I nod, then, to make her happy, take a sip of tea.  She gives me a small smile, then heads down the stairs.

I explode out of the bed and run to the window.  I have barely reached it when Sammie zooms back inside, slamming right into me.  We crash to the ground, and I scramble to separate us (I know she hates physical contact) until I realize she’s clinging to me, sobbing. 

“They’re out there,” she whispers, her chest throbbing against mine as we sit on the floor.  Her arms are thrown around my neck.  For a moment, I have no idea what to do, but then my arms act of their own accord, closing around her.

“I tried to tell you,” I say.  “Did they see you?” 

“I don’t think so.”

“Damien!”  Mom’s voice booms up the stairs.  “What was that crash?”

“Nothing, Mom!  I tripped when I went to turn on the television!”

Sammie seems to realize we’re engaging in physical contact, because she stiffens and pulls away from me, shuffling backwards until her back is against the wall. 

“I don’t know how I’m going to get out of Boorsville without them seeing me.”  She wipes the tears off her face with the back of her hand.  “Those black cars?  I’ve seen them before.  There are tracking devices inside them.  They’re going to be able to tell the second I hit the sky.”

“Who are they?” I ask. 

Her lips press into a tight line:  I’ve broken her rule.  No questions, remember?

“You can’t expect me not to ask, Sammie.  I’m too far in this now.  Michael Thorne was in my house.”

Her mouth falls open.  “He was?”

“He’s saying you’re a criminal.  He showed your picture to my mom.”

She shakes her head and presses her face into her knees.  Against the gray sweatshirt, in the dull light of the window, her hair looks almost white.  When she looks up again, the rings under her eyes are deep purple. 

“When was the last time you slept?” I say.