Sister Dear (44 page)

“Emma,” I say. “It's okay. I'll help you.”

She snuffles and blinks a few times. “I'm scared.”

“I know. Me too,” I tell her. “But I won't let you fall. Give me your hand.”

Her palm is slippery wet. I grip it and try to smile so that she's not so nervous. “Slide your foot toward me. Then the other one.”

I watch Emma drag one foot about an inch. She tries the other one but gets her shoe caught on a bump. I inhale sharply, the scent of dirt and sweat filling my nose.

“Wait. Don't move,” I say, squeezing her hand.

Sirens wail. The crowd below grows bigger. I swallow hard.
Daredevil. Be like Daredevil.

“Hold on,” I tell her. “I won't let go.”

After what seems like forever, Emma moves her foot closer.

“Can you think of something great, like going on vacation or your birthday?” I ask.

“Or getting a pony.” For a moment, she sighs dreamily.

“Right,” I say. “Now, let's go.”

We begin to climb lower, inch by inch, but my arm muscle cramps. Emma hesitates. I squeeze her hand. I need to get her down. And fast.

“Emma,” I whisper. “Look to the right.”

The face of the tree genie is right there.

“Oh,” Emma breathes.

“Touch his nose, quick.”

She reaches out a finger and brushes it, then giggles. Right then, another gust of wind blows through the branches. Her curls tickle my cheek. I almost want to laugh. But I can't. Not yet.

Climbing down is simpler now; the limbs are wider, sturdier. The voices right below us are louder. The last big branch, large
enough to hold both of us, is about ten feet up from the ground. We stop here, gasping for breath.

Firefighters are waiting underneath us with a blanket. An ambulance is there with the back door open. Teachers are waving their hands. And saying something.

Jump.
They want Emma to jump.

“All right.” I use my most grown-up voice. “Emma, I need you to do one more thing.”

Her chin moves up and down.

“They want you to let go. So they can catch you.”

Emma's arms and legs get stiff. Her eyes widen, and we both swallow a gulp. We're taller than the high dive at Spring Hill Swim Club. I try not to sway when I look at the ground.

“Maybe pretend,” I tell her, thinking fast, “that you're a butterfly. Or an eagle.”

“How about a unicorn?” She gives me a lopsided grin.

I bite my lip.
Enough with the horses.
I want to get down. This rescue stuff isn't for sissies.

Emma looks at me.

“They're waiting for you, Emma. On the count of three, okay?”

When the firefighter below calls out “one,” she jumps, and her uniform billows open like a plaid parachute. She lands square on the blanket and beams in delight. A firefighter reaches in, grabs Emma, and scoops her up.

Emma waves good-bye to me as the firefighter carries her to the ambulance.

“Think you'll get the pony?” I yell after her.

She shakes her curls. “I can't tell you my wish. It won't come true!”

Emma's mother runs up then, crying, hugging, and kissing her.

With Emma okay, the grown-ups turn back to me. Most of
them have their arms crossed and don't look happy. No doubt the principal is ready to dish out a detention or two.

“Dude, your dad's going to freak when he finds out,” Mo says and rolls his eyes. “He hates your superhero stuff.”

“Don't remind me.” Inside, I feel sick. I know that I am supposed to get good grades, play sports, and be polite. My dad isn't a fan of making big scenes.

“It was pretty cool anyway.” Mo cocks his head. “Who are you today?”

“Daredevil.”

“Nice.” He grins and leans against the tree below me, waiting. “You coming down now, superhero?”

I lean back against the trunk, waiting for the firefighters to come back with the blanket. “Yep.”

“Go ahead,” Mo dares me, raising an eyebrow and grinning.

I hesitate, thinking I'd be crazy to jump. But superheroes take chances, don't they? I'd seen Daredevil jump from this height before. So holding my breath, I let go. Somehow, though, I twist midair and land smack down on my face. Hard.

The belly flop knocks the breath from my lungs. Time stops.

The smell of cut grass makes me want to sneeze. And someone's wearing really, really bad perfume. At least I'm not dead. Everyone is shouting and my ears hurt. There are hands touching my legs and arms. I roll my head an inch to one side. All I can see are shoes. A pair of black heels come closer.

“Jack, sweetheart, can you hear me?”

I push myself up with one arm and swipe at my hair with the back of my hand. “Sure thing,” I answer, jaw set at the ridiculous question. Even superheroes stumble sometimes.

“Jack—”

“I'm fine.” To prove it, I try to jump up and get to my feet. But
like Superman with a mound of Kryptonite in the room, I am so weak that I almost fall over.

The office lady's mouth stretches wide and yawns.

My brain won't work. What is her name? Two of her now? Ink-stained fingers snap in front of my nose. My brain starts to rewind. My knees give out. Everything slides to the right and goes black.

The story continues in Laura McNeill's
Center of Gravity
. . .