Everton Miles Is Stranger Than Me

by Philippa Dowding

  Dumb David Dumber whispers in my head.

  Oh yeah.

  Eventually a man comes into the waiting area and calls, “Mrs. Golden? Christopher and Christine?” Then he sees me and adds, “Gwendolyn?” as an afterthought. My brother and sister pop their heads up like jackrabbits, drop their blocks, and bolt through the door. The man smiles as they race into the room behind him then shakes my mother’s hand and introduces himself as Dr. Adam Parks.

  Dr. Adam Parks is annoyingly young. And worse still, distressingly nice. But I stay silent and stormy. I remind myself that he’s the enemy; he’s making me come to therapy for no reason.

  I take a seat beside my mother and stow Huckleberry Finn in my bag. Dr. Adam Parks sits across from us. Between us is a small table covered with snap-together toys, modelling clay in tubes, paper and pencil crayons, books, and a few strangely shaped blocks that I immediately want to pick up and investigate, but I don’t. Along one side of the room is a table with a train set on it. C2 are already deep in conversation about who lives in the toy train village, blissfully building a new imaginary world. You’d think they might realize they should say hello to the person in charge of the room, but nope. Nothing. Just more twinned oblivion on their part.

  My mom tries to corral them, but Dr. Adam Parks just laughs.

  “I want to meet you two first anyway,” he says. I clamp my mouth shut. My mom talks for a while, and Dr. Adam Parks writes down a few things, but mostly he appears to be listening. Nodding. Asking a few questions here and there. My mother tells him everything. About how C2 have always done well in school. Always been together. That we were worried that separating them might not be the best idea. She talks and talks then stops, embarrassed. It must be a relief for her to have someone to tell all this to. This has never occurred to me before.

  On the other hand, I haven’t said a word. I’ve been watching Dr. Adam Parks very closely. I could tell you how many hairs he has on his upper lip, I’ve observed him so well.

  What can this person possibly know about me? And what am I going to tell him? How exactly do you tell a therapist that you can fly? Or that a Rogue fallen spirit is following you? That doesn’t seem like something you could ever, ever share unless you wanted to be committed to a hospital somewhere. So this is an exercise in lying right from the start.

  Suddenly the conversation has stopped, and I realize that Dr. Adam Parks is looking at me. He asks, “Well, Gwendolyn? What do you think?”

  I blink. “What do I think? About what?”

  “Gwendolyn, please pay attention!” my mother says, exasperated. She’s obviously embarrassed with me, with my not listening.

  Dr. Adam Parks says, “It’s okay.”

  “No. Just tell me, what do I think about what?” I’m getting mad. My foot starts to jiggle. A few months ago, this might have meant the beginning of an uncontrollable flying jag. But not now. Now I have more control. Suddenly this makes me a little sad. It might be nice to shoot up to the ceiling in a rage right at the moment.

  My mother is about to tell me to be polite, I can tell, but Dr. Adam Parks speaks fast.

  “About your dad? Do you think your dad’s death has affected your little brother and sister?” I stare at him. I think my mouth is open. Okay, who said he could say anything about my dad? Who told him he could go right there?

  It’s none of his business.

  “I have no idea what you mean,” I say as acidly as I can. Then I pick up my backpack and walk out of the room. I just leave the building. I walk down the front steps and out onto the main street.

  No one comes after me, and I keep walking. Therapy session over. I just walk, and as I cross the streets and the parks and wander past the schools and buildings I’ve known all my life, I have an intense, burning thought.

  Dr. Adams Parks just doesn’t get to know about my dad. Not ever.

  And what would I tell him anyway?

  Eighteen

  I spend the next few hours walking around town, trying not to think. Not about therapy. Not about Martin Evells and Mr. McGillies. Definitely not about Everton or the Spirit Flyer. Or the Rogue.

  When I get home, my mom doesn’t mention my vanishing act. At dinner, my family talks about Dr. Adam Parks, but no one asks me what I did after I left the office. I pick at my salad and go to bed early.

  The next day, high school starts for real.

  In gym class, Shelley Norman won’t leave me alone. We’re playing field hockey, and my shins and ankles are black and blue. Every time Shelley tackles me with her wooden field hockey stick, I have another bruise. I’m going to be the limping kid all year.

  Whenever I see Shelley in the hallways, Everton has his arm over her shoulders. He says hello with a grin, and she gives me a little stab-of-hatred look. They’re like a two-headed dog, one that snarls and one that licks your hand.

  Pottery class is interesting, even if I can’t stand wearing Shelley’s smock. There’s something grossly encouraging about sliding your hands around in a lump of clay. It can become anything. When I finally fashion my first lopsided clay goblet, I’m oddly proud, prouder than I should be.

  At the end of each class, we explain our creative efforts to Chas before we leave. If it’s a sculpture, we talk about “presence and absence,” which is the main reason I’ll never try a sculpture, because I have no idea what that means. If it’s a bowl or cup, he puts water in it to see if it leaks. I hold my first hideous creation, a mug, out to Chas. He pours a little water into it, and I hold my breath. Sure enough, a second later the water just drains away out the bottom. My creation leaks. He shrugs and says, “Next week, Gwendolyn.”

  I stick my leaky effort on the shelf above my name in the neatly labelled “Gwendolyn’s Creation Space” and head off to my next class.

  On Friday, I slide into my seat beside Martin Evells just as class starts.

  “Hi,” he whispers. He passes me a sheet about our first assignment.

  “Plant cells,” he says.

  Plants.

  Okay.

  You know who has a lot of plants around his house, Martin? Mr. McGillies. Because he lives in a cornfield. Do you know him, Martin? I think you do. Quite well.

  The bell rings, Mr. Tupperman tells us to take our seats, and we sit quietly to learn about plants. And it’s too hard to concentrate. I simply can’t.

  There is so much unsaid between Martin and me. This isn’t going to work. I squirm in my seat and stare down the eyepiece of a microscope at some weirdly shaped cells, which I try to draw. Clearly, I’m as bad at drawing plant cells as I am at shaping clay. When the hour is up, I’ve tried so hard not to touch Martin or make eye contact with him that I’m a nervous wreck.

  When the bell rings, I bolt out of my chair, which falls over.

  Martin, the gentleman, picks it up as the rest of the class files past us.

  “Gwen, we need … we probably should talk.” He smiles this crooked grin that I’ve always loved. I don’t bark at him, so he goes on.

  “Do you want to meet at The Float Boat tonight? At eight?” he asks. I can’t think of how to say no, so I nod. “Yes, sure.”

  I walk C2 home after school. Jez is off at a dentist appointment, so I can’t talk to her about the impending meeting with Martin. We stop at The Float Boat like we do every Friday. My little brother and sister roar around, stuffing jelly beans into candy bags while I watch. Mr. and Mrs. Forest see me and wave hello, but they’re too busy with the Friday after-school crowd to chat. Just as well. I wave back. I have a feeling if I started talking to Mrs. Forest about what was going on in my Night Flying life, I’d never stop. And she’d be scared and worried and tell me not to fly out to Mr. McGillies’s cabin.

  If she doesn’t know what’s out there, she can’t forbid me to go, can she?

  After dinner, I’m a sweaty, horrible ball of lumpen clay. I have a date with Mar
tin. Is that what it is? No matter how much I knead and tug at myself, I cannot seem to shape my thoughts or my body into anything resembling Gwendolyn Golden. At least, not the Gwendolyn Golden I’d like to be.

  I phone Jez and tell her about Martin. Her face is still frozen from the dentist, so she’s a bit slurry and hard to understand, but our conversation goes something like this:

  Me: “I can’t do this.”

  Jez: “Yesh, you can.”

  Me: “No, I really can’t.”

  Jez: “Gwendolyn, lishen to me. You CAN talk to Martin. You HAVE to talk to Martin. You are his shience partner, you have to share a lab desk with him ALL YEAR. There’s the small matter of the Worst Kiss Ever. And let’s not forget his mother phoned the police on you and started rumours. You have to talk to him. And it’s not necessarily a date.”

  Me: “I can’t do this.”

  Jez: “Yesh, you can.”

  Me: “No, I can’t.”

  We go on like this for a while. Then I say, “Maybe I can talk about the kiss. About his mom. It would be nice to hear an apology about both of those things. But … I can’t do this.”

  “Yesh, you can.” Eventually we grind to a halt, and she ends the conversation with a half-hearted “Good luck, call me when you get home.” Then that’s it.

  I’m on my own.

  It takes me a long time to get ready. Far too long. I wear the new jeans Mom got me for the start of school, running shoes, and my swishy green shirt she gave me for my birthday. My hair, well there’s only so much I can do with heavy, wavy hair.

  At seven thirty, I tell Mom I’m going out, and since she and C2 are deep into a game of Monopoly, she waves goodbye and tells me to be home by eleven or call.

  What exactly will I call with, Mom? I don’t have a phone, remember?

  As the door shuts behind me, I realize I’m missing board game night. When did I get so forgetful about board game night? I love board game night. First my paper route and now board games left behind on the growing heap of my childhood. What’s next?

  I step out of the house and resist the urge to look up and scan the sky. Instead, I hold my father’s gold feather around my neck. It’s a beautiful fall night, and cool air gently blows against my skin. Stars start to come out. I can hear kids playing road hockey a few streets over. I round the corner to The Float Boat and stop dead.

  Everton Miles walks toward me.

  “Jeesh, Gwen, don’t look so happy to see me,” he teases. He stops in front of me, and I try not to notice how nice he looks.

  “Hello, Everton. Can I help you?”

  “You look nice,” he says. How like him to be disarming.

  “Thanks. I have to go.”

  “Your date is waiting for you in The Float Boat,” he says quietly. How does he know about Martin?

  “It’s not a date. He’s my science partner.”

  “Okay, well, whatever you want to call him, Mr. McGillies’s helper is wearing seriously too much body spray. You may want to keep your distance.” He says this with glee.

  “Tell me what you want, Everton.”

  He gets serious. “Look, just don’t go out to the cabin with him, okay? There’s the … you know.” He drops his voice even lower. “It’s dangerous, Gwen. I’m not kidding. Stay away from there.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “I can call Celestine, remember? You were out there alone with just her. And if it’s so dangerous, why didn’t you tell Mrs. Forest about it, or anyone else?” I try not to ask myself the same question. Everton hesitates before he answers me.

  “I don’t want to bring the entire Night Flyer community down on us for a Rogue trial unless it’s real. I’m still trying to gather evidence. You say you’ve seen it, but Celestine and I haven’t, not really. But you shouldn’t go near there, not alone.” He actually sounds a bit worried about me.

  “Well, if I’m with Martin, I won’t be alone, will I?” The clock in the town hall down the street starts to chime. It’s eight o’clock. His dark blue eyes hold mine. It’s unnerving.

  The last bell chimes.

  I head onto the front porch of The Float Boat. His final words drift out of the darkness. “Just don’t go out there, Gwendolyn Golden. For me.”

  Why would I do anything for you, Everton Miles?

  I square my shoulders and walk into the store.

  Nineteen

  BODY SPRAY!

  Everton is right. I can smell Martin from across the store. I take a final big breath of clean air and slide into the booth with him. Mrs. Forest brings us both a float and says hello with a wink. I hate floats. She knows that, but Martin doesn’t and must have bought this for me. I take a polite sip and gag.

  I still hate floats.

  Mrs. Forest vanishes into the back, and we’re alone. Martin takes a big sip and then clears his throat. “You look nice,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I consider giving him a tip about using less body spray, but it’s too late to help in the current situation, and it would just embarrass him. He takes another sip.

  “Gwen, I’ve wanted to talk to you all summer, but I was too scared, I guess. Now we’re science partners, we have to. I’m really sorry.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You know what I mean.” He’s sheepish. He takes another long drink of float and won’t look up.

  “What are you sorry for?” I prompt. He takes a deep breath and finds something on the wall beside us fascinating.

  “First of all, I’m really sorry my mom started a rumour about you. I know you don’t do drugs. You wouldn’t believe the arguments we had all summer about it. I even made her tell her church group the truth. I watched her say that you weren’t a drug addict, that she was wrong. I’m really sorry she phoned the police on you, too. I begged her not to.”

  He takes another embarrassed sip of his float. He certainly seems sorry. It must have taken a lot of determination to get Mrs. Evells to confess to her church group, but maybe they confess stuff like that all the time. I wouldn’t know.

  “Okay, thank you. It was interesting when the police showed up.”

  There’s a silence and more staring at the wall, so I finally ask, “Are you sorry for anything else?”

  Martin looks more uncomfortable, if that’s possible, and he’s saved for a moment by a young family that walks into the store. The kids run over to the huge barrel of lollipops and pick out their favourite flavours. They’re loud.

  Martin lowers his voice.

  “Yes. I’m really sorry that I stopped being your friend when we were little, Gwen.” We finally make eye contact, and he looks anguished.

  “I wish I could say that was my mom’s fault, too. It was, partly. But to be honest, I thought it was weird that your dad disappeared. I was really worried that my dad would disappear, too. I was a little kid, it scared me. The truth is, I look back at those times when we played all summer in my backyard, and I think I was happy because of you. Happier than I would have been without you.”

  I’m shocked at this piece of self-revelation. My hand creeps toward my father’s golden feather, but I catch myself and stop. Martin looks at me with such hope that he’ll be forgiven.

  “There’s one more thing. You need to apologize for one more thing.”

  He’s puzzled. He’s coming up blank.

  “In your playhouse? Last summer? The Worst Kiss Ever?” I prompt. His whole body sinks.

  “Oh, that.” He turns away. His cheeks turn a deep pink blush. “I’m too ashamed to think about it. I’m really, really sorry about that. I am.” He looks at his hands in his lap.

  The little kids behind me make a lot of noise. The youngest girl shouts, “LemonLemonLemon!” at the top of her voice. It reminds me that once upon a time Martin used to smell like lemons. A nice, sweet, clean smell I always loved. Adolescence has made him abando
n his own natural scent. I’ve almost gotten used to the body spray, but I’ve been breathing through my mouth.

  Martin looks miserable. I could just leave now and somehow manage science class all year. But the truth is, I like this boy. I do. Despite everything.

  “It’s not your fault that your mother called the police on me or started a rumour. And I guess if your father disappeared when we were little, I might have been scared too. But as for the playhouse last summer … if you want to kiss someone, just ask first.”

  He nods. “Yeah, of course. Don’t worry. I promise. That’ll never happen again, ever.”

  I feel like an enormous weight has just been removed from my very soul. But I’m not done, and I lower my voice.

  “And thanks for not telling anyone. About me. About, you know.” I look slowly up at the ceiling, as though I’m watching something float up there.

  He pulls himself as close as he can to me across the table and drops his voice to a whisper. “Why, whatever do you mean, Gwendolyn Golden?” He’s got a wicked little grin and a glint in his eye that I remember all too well. My six-year-old self giggles, which is hardly very grown up, but I can’t help it.

  Then we sit and talk through another float for Martin and two plates of French fries, then a cup of tea each. We talk about school, we talk about his favourite sport (soccer) and my favourite sport (I don’t really have one except flying), we talk about books (he’s read way more than me). At nine thirty, he looks at his watch.

  “Oh, I have to go. I have to see a friend.”

  “Who?” I’m suddenly wary.

  “Do you know the old bottle man? Mr. McGillies? A few friends and I have been helping him. Tonight is my night to go to his cabin. Do you want to come?”

  Twenty

  I have no self-control. I have no right to be doing what I’m doing. I’ve been warned against it by a fellow Night Flyer, a Spirit Flyer, and by every bit of good sense I have at my disposal. Even Your First Flight: A Night Flyer’s Handbook (The Complete & Unabridged Version, Newly Updated!) warned me to be careful.