Everton Miles Is Stranger Than Me

by Philippa Dowding

  And then we talk about growing up missing someone we love. It’s not that hard to talk to Everton. It’s weird having the place to ourselves, and I’m still a little nervous that Abilith is going to appear, but I also know that he won’t. I’m a bit sad when Everton tells me that Mr. McGillies has been moved into town to stay in the men’s shelter. He’s out of the hospital, though, at least for now. I guess his doctors decided he needed more constant help, and the cabin is too cold for a sick old man. I’m sad that he can’t be here to see how beautiful his bottles are in the moonlight, but we’re here, Everton and I, to see it for him.

  I’ll describe it to him if I ever see him again.

  The Spirit Flyers stand motionless and gently golden against the snowy fields the entire time.

  Thirty

  The first week back at school is a weird blessing. No one seems to notice my absence. It’s like I was hardly away. People have short memories, I guess, or I’m just not that interesting. Either way, it’s okay to walk the halls again and have no one pay attention to me. I go to science with Martin, I go to pottery class with Jez, I even go to gym, and Shelley Norman completely ignores me.

  School has been transformed in my absence. Holiday decorations cover the walls and windows, and a food drive box overflows in front of the principal’s office.

  The week zooms by, but I’ve missed quite a bit despite Martin’s kind efforts. I’m ashamed to admit that I never did do any of the homework he brought me.

  Then on Friday I have my second therapy appointment with Dr. Adam Parks. Adam. As I’m sitting there with my bum turning to stone on the hard plastic chair, the office door opens and Jeffrey Parks walks out. He mumbles, “Hi, Gwendolyn,” and brushes past me.

  “Hi, Jeffrey,” I mumble back. Then Jeffrey slides out the clinic door without a sound.

  Adam comes out of his office and calls my name and says hello. I follow him inside, and today there IS drum music playing. It’s actually good, and I’m disappointed when he turns it off and sits down across from me. On the table between us is a child’s drawing. Adam sees me looking.

  “Christine drew that last week. She left it for you.”

  I pick it up and look closely at my sister’s art. A girl that looks like Christine floats above a field of flowers. I notice there’s no Christopher in the picture. I think I might look a bit worried.

  “Your sister has a vivid imagination, don’t you think? She has dreams about flying. Did you know that? It’s not unusual for kids her age.” I know I look worried now.

  “She dreams that your dad could fly, too,” he says, very quietly.

  My heart leaps. Then my eyes sting.

  Drip.

  A tear rolls down my cheek.

  “I’m not sure I can talk about my dad,” I whisper. Please don’t make me!

  “You have real memories of him. Christine doesn’t, so she dreams about him. It’s natural.”

  Drip … d … drip.

  I struggle for something safe to say, something that has nothing to do with me or my family.

  “Huckleberry had a terrible dad,” I manage.

  “That’s true,” Adam says gently. “Nothing like yours. From what I hear, he was a great dad.”

  Drip. D … d … drip. Drip.

  There goes the faucet. For a horrible second, the tap opens and this sound comes out of me. It’s a little kid sound, a sound a six-year-old might make. A hoot, a cry, and a sob (something I don’t remember actually doing when I was six), all mixed together with tears.

  I’m pretty sure this is what I’ve been afraid of.

  First Everton’s car. Now here. Once you start to feel things, it’s hard to stop.

  Adam says kindly, “Take a breath, Gwendolyn.” Which I do. Clearly he’s no stranger to leaky faucets, since he knows exactly when to hand me the tissues. My tears stop fast, but I clutch the box of tissues like they’ll protect me. Like a little kid. Adam leans back in his chair.

  “You may not think so, but you’re a great big sister. The twins never stop talking about you. If they were here and you could tell them anything about your dad, what would you say?” he asks.

  And that’s it. I just start talking. I go from crying to chatting in about two minutes, which feels a little crazy, honestly, but it’s like a light switches on. I talk and talk about my father, everything that I can remember, anyway, the funny things we did, the places we liked, moments that I can remember as clear as a bell, even though I’ve hidden them away for years because it just hurt too much.

  It’s odd but the more I talk, the more I remember. It’s a flood of memories, not tears this time, though, which is a nice change. Adam asks a few questions, but mostly he just listens and I talk.

  Finally I get up to leave. “Come back any time, Gwendolyn. I’m here except next week, when I’m taking my nephew to Florida,” he says.

  A penny drops. “Jeffrey Parks. Jeffrey’s your nephew.” He nods. I’m suddenly glad that sad Jeffrey has someone to talk to. Come to think of it, he hasn’t cried again in school since the first day.

  “Have a good holiday. Keep reading the classics,” Adam says then locks the clinic door behind me. I walk home thinking about Christine and her drawing. Did I dream about flying when I was her age? Before I could actually fly. I can’t remember.

  It’s dark out when I get home. My two school-appointed sessions are over. Good thing, since the whole Night Flyer part of my life was getting awfully close to the surface.

  I feel my father’s feather next to my heart, and I’m tired but lighter, much lighter all the way home. Almost light enough to float away.

  Thirty-One

  The last few days of school before the winter holiday go by in a blur.

  We’re doing square dance in gym, which is just ridiculous. Why would anyone want teenagers to square dance? Shelley Norman keeps a wide berth and laughs with her friends. They aren’t laughing at me, which is a nice change. There’s a new cleanliness to her, too, which I have to say isn’t all that bad.

  Then I score a major success in our last pottery class.

  I still haven’t created a leak-free goblet. The first few goblets created a flood. After a while, I managed to get the flood down to a few drops. Last week the goblet almost held, and just a tiny bead of moisture rolled out of the bottom. Every time I show my work to Chas, it leaks and he says, “Next week, Gwendolyn.” I have no idea if he actually expects my goblet ever to hold water. I know I don’t.

  But today, we take my dried goblet out of the kiln and I hold it like a fragile little bird. Everyone goes up with their creation and quietly talks it over with Chas, then one by one they leave the class as he wishes them a happy holiday. Then it’s Jez’s turn, and her creation is a fantastic bowl with curly handles like something you’d find in a Greek exhibit at the museum. It’s perfect, like every week.

  Then it’s my turn. I cautiously take my goblet up to the front of the class, and we pour water into it and wait patiently. Then we wait a little longer, and a little longer. Since I’ve never created a goblet that doesn’t leak, I have no idea how long we have to wait.

  Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. And Chas says, “Congratulations, Gwendolyn, you’re holding water! Happy holidays!” This feels like a major victory for some reason. I stow Shelley Norman’s smock on my peg and head out into the hall with my water-retaining clay goblet. Down the hall, I see Everton laughing with Martin at his locker.

  Everton calls me over. I join them with my goblet clutched in my hands.

  “Did you win something? The House Cup for Hufflepuff?” Everton teases me.

  “No. It doesn’t leak,” I answer, which makes them both burst out laughing.

  Whatever. I roll my eyes, but Everton doesn’t let me get too mad. He puts his hand on my arm for a second, then drops it.

  “I have to go to the city for the holidays. I’
m staying with my aunt, but I’ll come over as soon as I get back.” He drops his voice. “If you fly, call her.” For a moment he’s very close to me. I can feel his heat, smell the scent of his shampoo. He smiles, those dark blue eyes shine, and he whispers, “Be good, Gwendolyn Golden.”

  I walk away cradling my cup, my heart beating a little too hard, my cheeks oddly flushed.

  In our last science class together for the term, Martin and I are friendly and chatty. His tutoring really helped. He’s so helpful, in fact, that when Mr. Tupperman hands us our last test, Martin and I are gleeful over the red 68%, much better! scrawled at the top of the page. As we gather our books and get up to leave, Martin slips me an envelope.

  “Open it later,” he says quietly. “Have a great holiday, Gwen. Call if you want to do anything, like go to a movie or something,” he says, then he’s gone.

  I stuff the letter into my backpack and forget about it.

  At the very end of the day we have a holiday assembly which everyone fidgets through. Then Jez and I walk C2 home through the snowy streets, and after I feed them and stick them in front of the television to watch holiday specials, Jez and I hide out in my bedroom. I pull some books out of my bag, and Martin’s card falls out. Jez grabs it, teasing me.

  “What’s this?”

  I groan. “Oh, don’t open it. It’s from Martin.” Something about the way he looked at me when he told me to “open it later” has me worried.

  Jez ignores me and rips it open. It’s a Christmas card with sparkles on it. Santa stands on a rooftop with the moon behind him. He’s got his arm around a red-nosed reindeer. Inside it says, You’re my Rudolph, friends for life! Happy Holidays.

  It’s signed Martin E. A single x stands on a line of its own below his name.

  Jez seems a little surprised. I’m mortified.

  “A kiss? Whoa,” she says. We both stare at it until I groan and grab the card and smash it closed.

  That little x makes me blush. Since he started tutoring me, there’s been no more tension about holding hands or anything like that. We get along great as friends, so the thought of an x makes me break out in a sweat. Although he did apologize for the terrible x last summer, is he hoping there are more x’s in our future?

  I jam the card under my bed with my handbook. Jez is no help.

  “He really likes you, Gwen. He always did.”

  A few months ago this might have made me happy. Martin is a nice guy, despite his horrible mother and the Worst Kiss Ever. But it’s impossible to think about Martin in that way now.

  A pair of dark blue eyes keep popping up whenever I try to think of Martin’s face.

  It’s hopeless.

  Thirty-Two

  The holidays are different this year. For one thing, Mom has a little more money due to her promotion at work, which is new for us. We never have much money. That means that C2 get exactly what they asked for: matching rocket sleds.

  My mom gives me a bookstore gift card and a really nice sweater. But my big gift? My first phone. Well, it’s not entirely mine. I have to share it with my mom, which to me completely misses the point. How exactly am I supposed to contact her if she has the phone, and I’m out somewhere and want to call her? But at least we have one. It’s a start.

  I spend Christmas morning reading the instructions. There’s quite a bit to know. I set it up with my mother’s initials and mine, since we’re sharing it: EGG.

  My first text is to Jez. I’ve phoned her from home for years, so I know her number.

  Sup?

  I think this is funny, since she doesn’t know I have a phone, or part of one. And what normal person would call herself EGG? She texts back wrong number, then who is this, then stop, and along that generally annoyed tone for a bit. Finally I text, How’s the short guy? What’s his name? Prentice? She texts back, Gwen?

  Joke’s over, but it was fun while it lasted. Then Jez and her mom go out of town for the rest of the holidays, and she’s forbidden to text and has to turn off her phone. We have a quiet holiday dinner, just Mom, C2, Cassie, and me. Then after everyone is full of turkey, we lie down on the couch and the floor and play Monopoly. It’s a new set that the twins got as a gift, since the old one is spread out all over the house.

  Christine wins. Christopher spends an hour showing us his impression of his teacher and his schoolmates, which is hilarious, and Mom, Cassie, and I watch from the couch. I’m tired and calm, and I go to bed feeling almost normal.

  I read the final few chapters of Your First Flight: A Night Flyer’s Handbook: Courage in the Skies (Allied Night Flyers behind the Lines 1914–1946), Enemies and Entities (A Beginner’s Primer), and finally A Modernist View (Rules, Regulations, and Responsibilities, Prehistory to Present Day).

  The Enemies and Entities chapter I’ve already partly read (I skip the page with Abilith’s picture on it). I could definitely tell the editors a thing or two on the subject of RSFs. I’m hardly a beginner there. I skim, but I do stop to read the section on the Shade.

  It’s a ridiculously short entry (and no illustration from T. Bosch, I notice): A cloud of misery and despair, seeks to overcome the innocent or unsuspecting, typically in moments of great stress, exertion, or even delight. Populated with souls of the dead trapped by the sad memories of the living, escape is almost impossible. Avoid the Shade at all costs.

  The editors do have a gift for understatement. I try not to think about my father’s feet or Mr. McGillies, and skip to the last chapter, A Modernist View. It’s no fun either.

  The Rules part is pretty simple. Basically there’s only one: don’t let non-flyers catch you flying, and if they do and want to burn you at the stake, you’re on your own. (It’s not the first time I think the Night Flyer’s Handbook hasn’t been as “newly updated!” as the editors pretend.)

  The Regulations part is mostly about being a good Watcher or Mentor, if you ever take the oath to be one. Neither job sounds all that appealing, frankly. Just a lot of worry and late nights.

  The Responsibilities section is most worrying of all, since it’s pretty much all about the choice you have to make about your gift of flight, one year after your first Midsummer Party.

  To fly or not to fly.

  It’s the last chapter. As I close the book, I realize I’m officially finished Your First Flight: A Night Flyer’s Handbook (The Complete & Unabridged Version, Newly Updated!), which is both a relief and leaves me oddly proud that I actually got through it. It’s under my bed, where it’s going to stay for a while. Something I won’t dip into that often, but it’ll always be there if I need it.

  A few days before school starts, I’m sitting in the window of The Float Boat, sipping tea. I look out at the sleepy, snowy street when all the shoppers in the store suddenly leave and the place falls quiet. I’ve noticed that a store is like a beach; people come and go in waves.

  Mrs. Forest joins me at the table with her own cup of tea. She blows on it, and a waft of mint drifts over to me.

  “Mrs. Forest, what exactly are the Spirit Flyers?” Her eyebrows shoot up, because we haven’t talked about Night Flying in ages.

  “They’re immortals, guardians. They keep an eye out for us. If you need one, any Spirit Flyer can show up.”

  “Need one?”

  “Yes, if you need protection, or guarding, or help if you’re in mortal danger, they’ll appear if you call them. Usually.”

  I think about this. “Does everyone get a Spirit Flyer? Not just Night Flyers?”

  She takes a sip of tea and shakes yes and no. “That I can’t answer, honey. I can’t say what guardians might watch other people. Far as I know, the Spirit Flyers are just for us, but they aren’t the only good out there.” I take a sip of my own tea.

  “Why aren’t they mentioned anywhere in the Night Flyer’s Handbook?” Mrs. Forest looks surprised.

  “They aren’t?” I shake
my head, and she shrugs. “Well, maybe it’s because they wrote it.”

  I nod. Okay. Sure. It’s weird enough to be written by starshot immortals. Why not? I’ll have to ask more about that later, because right now I have a more important question.

  “Mrs. Forest, why didn’t the Spirit Flyers save my dad?” I say this really quietly. I can’t look at her, so I stare out the window at the sidewalk. It’s snowing a little now, and the afternoon sun goes behind a cloud. Mrs. Forest might have taken me in her arms even a few short months ago, but she can’t now. I’m older. I’m wiser. I don’t need a hug — I need answers.

  “I don’t know, Gwendolyn. I don’t know why they keep an eye out for some of us but aren’t there for others. Maybe they thought your dad could take care of himself, or maybe they were looking the other way when he called. They do have limits.”

  I’m about to ask her what she means when Martin walks in.

  “Hey, Mrs. Forest. Hi, Gwendolyn!” Is he blushing? Or maybe his cheeks are just rosy from the cold outside. There’s an old grocery cart on the porch of The Float Boat, half full of bottles. “Do you have any today, Mrs. Forest?”

  “Two bags,” she says. She disappears into the back room, returns with two bags filled with glass bottles, and hands them over to Martin.

  “Thanks, see you next week, Mrs. Forest. Bye, Gwen,” he says quickly. He’s still blushing. Then he walks out to the porch and dumps the new bottles into the cart. That cart looks awfully familiar.

  “Bye, Mrs. Forest!” I grab my coat and run outside. Martin is already heading down the sidewalk. He’s about to stop at the bakery next door.

  “Martin!” He stops and looks awkward.

  “Hi, Gwen.” He squints a little because the sun has come back out. He looks sweet standing there in the snow beside Mr. McGillies’s old bottle cart.