Freefly (9 page)

I tilt my head.  “What do you mean?”

“Supernatural abilities, Damien.  Telekinetic abilities.  I’m talking about the ability to move things with your mind, to read thoughts.”  He leans toward me.  “To fly.” 

He flips over the white sheet of paper, which turns out to be a photograph.  The glossy ink colors the face of...a girl with blond hair, blue eyes, and a bored, blank expression.  It’s...Sammie.  Several years younger, but there’s no doubt it’s her. 

I look up at the man, who studies me carefully, his face plastered into a grin.  I struggle to keep my expression neutral, not wanting to reveal that I recognize the girl (or that I love her).  Why does he have her photo?  Why is he showing it to me, at what is supposed to be my GLOBE interview?  Is he responsible for her disappearance? 

“What is this about?” I murmur. 

“Whatever you want it to be about, my boy.  It can be about you telling me where she is, and me pulling some strings to get you into GLOBE.”  He drums his fingers along the edge of the photograph.  “Or it can be about me putting it on your record that you cheated on your SATs and keeping you from getting into any college or university, ever.”

My mouth drops open.  “You can’t do that.”

“Power, my boy.  I have it.”  He smiles.  “You don’t.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“I think you do.”

“I
don’t.
”  It’s half true.  Though I know who Sammie is, I couldn’t tell this guy her whereabouts even if I wanted to.  Her secrecy has made me ignorant.

The man studies me some more, and his grin straightens into a frown.  He senses that I am telling the truth.  “But you know who she is.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then why was
this
in your bedroom?”  He reaches into another drawer and pulls out a long, metal arrow with red feathers:  the arrow I pulled from Sammie’s leg one year ago.  I had hidden it in my bedroom closet.  The fact that he has it means my room has been searched. 

“What is this?”  I rise from my chair and back away.  When I turn to the door, I see that it is closed.  A window in the door reveals a man standing outside, his back turned.  This whole thing is a setup.  I have been lured here, so this person, this Michael Thorne, can glean information about Sammie.  I turn back to Thorne, who has set the arrow beside the photograph of Sammie and chews on the end of a licorice stick. 

“I found the arrow outside my house,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.  “I thought it was cool, so I kept it.”

The man rips off a piece of licorice with his teeth.  “Uh huh.  And I’m Martha Ste
wart.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.  I don’t know that girl.” 

He slams his hand against the desk.  “You’re being a real thorn in my side, Damien Savage.  It’s a shame, too.  I thought we could be friends.  But you’re useless, after all.  Bullied, antisocial, weak.  I bet you’re in love with her.  A girl who can fly, paying attention to the likes of you?  But you’re nothing compared to her.  You think you can be with her?  You’re not worth a second of her time.  You think you can protect her?  You can’t even protect yourself.  So I suggest you fork over whatever knowledge you have and move on with your pathetic life.  Either that, or I will destroy your record and you’ll be cleaning toilets for the next five decades.”

I grasp the back of the chair, feeling suddenly weak.  Everything he said is true.  I am pathetic.  I can’t protect Sammie or fight for her.  But I do love her, and I will not give up any information
—
though my head feels light at the thought of throwing away my entire future.

“I...” I mumble. 

Michael Thorne inclines his ear, a smile forming on his face again.  “Yes?”

“I don’t know that girl.”

He snarls and pushes away from his desk.  “Then I suggest you leave.  Do you realize I could murder you right here, and no one would ever know what happened to you? 
I
am
one of those great men you want to be, Damien.  I could have helped you go very far.  But I’m going to do the opposite.  The only reason I’m not going to killing you right here, right now, is because I think Sammie hangs around your place, and the next time she comes looking for you, I’m going to snag her.  Don’t think you helped her today, my boy.  You didn’t.  We’re going to get her with or without what measly information you can offer us.”

I remain frozen, grasping the chair, weak with fear. 

“Get out!” shouts Thorne.

I fling myself toward the door, which has miraculously opened, and walk back through the room full of kids taking the SATs.  Though the room is silent, my blood roars in my ears.  I’m not getting into GLOBE.  I’m not getting in anywhere.  I have ruined my life, for a girl who may never come back
—
who
shouldn’t
come back, or she’ll be captured by an evil, powerful man named Michael Thorne.  The thought of her in his clutches scares me more than my own ruination.  But how can I warn her, when I have no idea where she is?

I get into my car and press my forehead against the steering wheel.  If only I could see Sammie again, maybe I would know what to do.  Though maybe, since this Michael Thorne still doesn't have her, she might be okay.

CHAPTER 4

Sammie

I am officially not okay.  I’m sitting on a hard metal chair, so exhausted that my arms slump beside me and my head lolls backwards.  Did you get that?  It
lolls backwards
, as in I don’t have the energy to lift my head.  My entire body flinches with each clench of my heart, and a sharp pain throbs in my temples.  I’ve been slammed up against my limits.  Heck, I’m a million miles past my limits.  Soon, my body is going to give out, and I hope the boss realizes that, or I’m going to keel over right here.  The only thing that keeps me going is one thought, blaring round and round my head, like the sliding text at the bottom of a news show: 
I have to warn Damien. 

Though I failed at the Code Black today, the boss has not sent me back to the white place.  Instead, I’ve been taken back to the Tower and stuck in this room.  My shirt clings to me, drenched in sweat.  My hair snakes down my spine, soaked as well.  I’m on the brink of unconsciousness, and would welcome it if it weren’t for that one thought: 
I have to warn Damien. 

The door creaks open, and I squeeze my eyes shut, pretending to be knocked out. 

“Kid.”

I open my eyes.

Jiminy walks toward me, his face stern but concerned, a white towel in his hand.  He thrusts it at me, and I press my face into it. 

“You’re not looking so good,” he says.  Beneath the single bulb that lights the dingy room, his bald head gleams, and his brow furrows. 

“Not feeling so good, either,” I say.

“You better keep it together.  This is your last chance, kid.  I’m doing the best I can, but if you can’t pull this off, the boss is going to get rid of you.  He’s having a hard time understanding why you can’t do a Code Black, and frankly, I am too.” 

I wring the towel out and hand it back to Jiminy.  He balls it up and puts it in his pocket.  Sometimes, because he’s nice to me, I forget that Jiminy is a murderer just like the rest of ‘em here, a guy who’s long past breaking down the wall that keeps one person from taking the life of another.  It’s normal to them all, just business as usual.  Maybe they don’t even remember a time in their life when it felt wrong.

“I just can’t do it, Jiminy.” 

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you better pull this off.”  He signals at the small room.  “Or I don’t know if I can help you.” 

“I’m trying.  I really am.”

“Well, try harder,” he yells.  He shuts his eyes for a moment and breathes, then says more softly, “I care about you, kid.  I don’t want to see you sent back to that place.”

My spine prickles.  “Me either.”

“Here.”  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cardboard carton. 

“Orange juice?”

“Drink up, quick, before the boss gets back.  You need your strength.”

“I hate orange juice.”

“You eat too much junk.  Drink it already.”

I pop open the carton and dump the orange liquid down my throat, trying to bypass my tongue altogether (I really do hate orange juice).  But it’s cool and thick, and my head aches a little less after pouring the last of it down. 

“Thanks.”  I hand the empty carton back to Jiminy, gasping.

He crushes it in his fist and shoves it in his pocket, then puts his ear against the door.  “Here he comes.  Try harder, alright?”

I nod, but even now my vision blackens, and my temples throb.  I will not last much longer.

Damien

The morning after my terrifying GLOBE interview, I awaken in my chair in my room, my cheek flat against the cool surface of my desk.  I jolt upright and look around for Sammie, though naturally she is not in my empty bedroom, nor flying outside beneath the cloudy sky.  Why did I think she would be?

I stand and reach one hand over my head, stretching the crick out of my neck.  After returning from the test prep center yesterday, I went straight to my room and planted myself by the window, scanning the night sky as anxiety scrambled my thoughts.  My future:  gone.  Sammie:  also gone, and in grave danger if she returns.  Still, I desperately wish she had.  It’s illogical, because the last thing I want is for Michael Thorne, whoever he is, to lay hands on her.  But I want to see her.  Which is also illogical:  How could someone like her could care for someone like me?  Thorne was right; I am nothing like the strong, athletic, popular person I make myself out to be when I am with her.  I am the opposite.

I don’t bother showering, because I’m not sure I can get myself to go to school.  This will be my first absent day since the third grade.  But what’s the point, if I have no future?  Sure, I love science, but I can read my books here and spare myself a Butt beating. 

I walk quietly down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the lamp hanging from the ceiling drowns the room in yellow light, bright and happy compared to the dull, cloudy day.  Dad goes to work early on Wednesdays, to do some management stuff, but Mom is sitting at the kitchen table, holding the comics section of the newspaper close to her face.  When I enter the room, she looks up and smiles.

“We didn’t catch you last night.  How’d your interview go?” she says.

I stare at the floor and walk toward the toaster.  “Not very well.”

“Aw, sweetie.”  Her tone goes all mushy.  “I’m sure it went better than you think.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Well, your father and I love you.”

I smile grimly.  “Thanks.”

I pluck a silvery packet of Pop Tarts out of the cupboard and slide the pastries into the toaster.  While I wait for them to bake, I can’t keep my eyes from wandering out the window, which looks out onto our backyard as well as the neighbors’ backyard directly across from us.  In between two houses across the way, there is a man in a black suit walking by.  Even from afar, I recognize him.  Michael Thorne.  He disappears around the front of the neighbors’ house.  I grasp the edge of the counter, suddenly trembling.  What is Thorne doing walking around my neighborhood?  Will he come to my house?  Will he kill me or my family?