Freefly (24 page)

“You can’t go back,” I say without looking away from the ocean. 

Damien’s reply comes a few seconds later.  “I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

There’s another long pause, filled with the rumble of the waves. 

“I know that, too,” he says.  “But I didn’t want to stay in Boorsville, not if you weren’t going to be there
—
”
“You could have had a normal life.”

“I didn’t want one.”  He touches my arm, and I turn to him.  His dark eyes are wide and intense.  “I never did.  Even before I met you.  I always wanted something more than Boorsville.”
I shake my head.  “You don’t want my life.”

“I want
you.
”

The statement shocks me.  He knows I’m a killer.  How can he still want to be with me?  “I can’t just run off into the sunset, you know.  I have to go back to being a criminal.  Tomorrow.”

His face falls.  “Why?  There’s no reason we both can’t run from them
—
”
“There are things you don’t understand.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” he snaps.  Then he shuts his eyes and says more quietly, “There’s something you’re keeping from me.  I know it.”

I don’t respond, because he’s right:  I haven’t told him everything.

Damien

Sammie and I trek inland, toward the boardwalk.  I keep my eyes on the twisting roller coaster, the ferris wheel with its bright red compartments, and the many storefronts extending down miles of wooden planks.  The sand is difficult to walk in, and the sun is growing brighter by the second.  I’m not sure what we’re going to do once we get there
—
it’s not like any of the stores or food stands are going to be open this early in the morning
—
but Sammie started walking toward it, so, obviously, I followed her. 

She is beyond frustrating.  After all we’ve been through together, she still won’t be completely open with me.  I don’t know what she’s hiding, but I know it’s bad.  It’s like when I knew she was in trouble, back when she disappeared:  a gut instinct.

As we get closer to the boardwalk, I am plagued by memories of last night.  Sammie thrashed and moaned for hours, and all I could do was watch.  I have never felt so powerless.  I guess being on the run with her doesn’t change the fact that I have never been anything but a liability.  The hours of agony she endured last night were a direct result of hauling
me
down the Atlantic coast.

Sammie and I clamber onto the boardwalk, both of us silent as we gaze at the closed storefronts and abandoned rides.  There is literally no one but us, which I find astounding, since it was crawling with people last night when we flew over.  The air smells faintly of popcorn, and crushed soda cups and candy wrappers litter the battered planks.  Sammie stops and faces me, with a curious look I know well.

“What sorts of stuff do they sell in these stores?” she says.

“Uh, let’s see...taffy, sea shells, T-shirts
—
”

“What’s taffy?”

I put my finger to my chin, pondering how to describe it.  “It’s a type of candy.  It’s very sweet and
very
sticky.  Mom used it to get out one of my baby teeth once.”

“Really?”

I nod.

“Alright, let me just break into one of these stores
—
”

“Wait, what?”
She starts walking toward a closed storefront with bars in front of its glass doors.  She gazes up, and I do, too.  A window near the roof of the building is latched open.  She takes a step back. 

I step in front of her.  “What are you doing?”

“You’re shirtless.  I’m barefoot and wearing a dress, and I also really want to try taffy.”  She steps around me.

I step in front of her again.  “You’re going to...steal?”

“Yes.”

“Sammie...”

“What?” she says sharply.  “If I had money, and the stores were open, I would buy the stuff.  But as it happens, this is our only option.”

I let her words sink in, then back off and look at the ground.

“Trust me,” she says, her voice softer.  “I don’t like it either.  Not at all.  But here’s the thing about living a life like this:  you have to do a lot of stuff you don’t like.”

She gives me a meaningful look and goes swooping through the window.  I know what she’s trying to do:  make me less happy about being on the run with her, convince me that we’re not going to “run off into the sunset.”  Well, it’s working.  I hate the idea of taking things I didn’t earn.  Though, after last night, it’s not as if I needed another reminder that this wasn’t going to be totally wonderful.

After a few minutes, Sammie lands on the boardwalk in front of me.  Her arms are laden with plastic bags, and her outfit has changed:  she now wears a pair of blue jogging shorts and a red T-shirt that says “Ocean City.”

“Nice Crocs,” I say, noticing the ridiculous plastic shoes strapped to her feet.

“They looked comfy.”

We sit down on a bench and begin to go through Sammie’s spoils, a sense of guilt thickening in my stomach.  Sammie was not timid:  she grabbed a whole box of Slim Jims, several containers of saltwater Taffy, three bottles of Coke, a sleeve of mixed nuts, and a ton of chips and pretzels in small aluminum packages.  My stomach lets out a growl.  Despite my guilt, I find myself reaching for the mixed nuts.

“Here,” Sammie says as I pour a mouthful onto my tongue.  She thrusts a balled-up T-shirt at me. 

I set my food aside and unfurl it.  “What
is
this?”

“I thought it was cute.”

“You got me a shirt with a duck on it.”

“Again, cute.”

Groaning, I pull the thing over my head.  Now I’ll really look intimidating to the cutthroat criminals and mad scientists.  “You’re going to get me killed.”

She looks horrified.  “What’s wrong with it?  I like it.”

I grab a Slim Jim and bite into it.  “Remember when we talked about how guys are supposed to be strong?  This is kind of like that.”

“Didn’t we decide there was no logic behind those rules?”
I mutter to myself and continue eating.  In the next half-hour, we consume most of the food Sammie stole.  We hardly talk, too busy shoving chips and Slim Jims and taffy into our mouths.  After a while, my stomach aches with satisfaction.  I lean back, basking in the rays of the morning sun.  Sammie does, too, looking tired.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

She gives me a pointed look and says nothing.  Interpretation:
Depends on the question.

“Who is Jiminy?” I say.

Sammie looks relieved.  “My friend.”

“At the Tower?”

She nods.  “He’s sort of the only one who treats me like an actual human being.  When I first got there, and I was terrified, he talked to me and stuff.  Took me out for pizza.  He said,
‘Look, kid, I know you don’t want to be here, but it’s gotta be better than where you’re coming from, right?’”  She laughs.  “I don’t think I would’ve made it without him.”

“He sounds like an okay guy,” I say, remembering the gravelly voice on the phone.

“He’s a killer,” Sammie snaps, startling me.  “Everybody at the Tower is.  Remember that.”

There’s a moment of silence between us, as Sammie’s statement hangs in the air.

“You’re not,” I say.

“I am.”  Her lip trembles.  “The pilot.  And Thorne
—
”

“You didn’t mean to.”

“I did.  I really did.”

There’s more silence.  Finally, I rise from the bench, sending wrappers and chip bags wafting to the floor.  I bend over and start snatching them up. 

“So, what’s the plan?” I say.

Sammie stands up, adding her own pile of wrappers to the litter.  “Find a place for you to lay low while I go back to the Tower.”

“Do you really have to?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ever going to explain why?”

“No.”

Arms full of our garbage, I shove away from her and jam the litter into a trash container so forcefully that it rocks back and forth.  When I return, Sammie is clutching her arms around her chest, looking extremely afraid.  My anger evaporates.

“What’s...going to be in store for you when you go back?” I say, keeping my voice low.

“Flowers and candy and a welcome home parade, I’m sure.”

I take a step closer to her, trying to catch hold of her gaze.  “They’re going to try to get you to say where I am, aren’t they?”

She nods.

“What if you can pull off double-fly with someone else now?  You’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Doesn’t matter.  The boss is...how do I put this? 
Possessive. 
He likes to be the most powerful person in all of our lives.  So even the idea of me carrying on a relationship with someone who isn’t under his control...let’s just say he’s going to want you no matter what.”

I swallow hard.  “I really don’t like the sound of this guy.”

“You’d like the sight of him even less.” 

She begins walking down the boardwalk, and I follow her.  I wish more than anything that I could protect her from this awful individual.  But, as usual, I can’t.  Sammie isn’t even asking me to; she’s asking me to hide. 

“Hide,” she snaps.

I have time only to glimpse someone coming down the boardwalk before Sammie drags me to the side of one of the buildings.  She presses me flat against the brick and peers around the corner.  I try to peer around, too, but she whacks me in the chest. 

“Ow,” I hiss.

“Shush.”

“Who is it?”

She stares for a few moments, then lets out a sigh and mutters, “Just a paper delivery guy.  It’s cool.”

We stumble out from behind the building.  Wearing a black spandex suit and sunglasses, the man is riding a bike and stopping every few feet to drop newspapers into the dispensers.  I can see how he might have alarmed Sammie:  the black garb, the sunglasses.  Both the scientists and the criminals seem to dress in a deliberately sinister fashion.

“Let’s walk a little,” Sammie says, starting down the boardwalk in the opposite direction.  “I want you to work off some of that food, before I have to drag your butt into the sky.”

“Hey!”

“What?  You’re heavy.  I’m used to carrying around...
me
.”  She gestures at herself.  I notice, for the bajillionth time, that she is really quite small.  Her wrists and arms look tiny, delicate.  If I didn’t know she was seventeen, I would guess younger.