How I Fly

by Anne Eliot

  Ellen blinks. “Oh man. I should have checked it myself. I shouldn’t be relying on anyone to translate things for me, should I?”

  I bite back the snide comments about how you should be able to trust your boyfriend. Instead, I hope she comes to the conclusion herself, and add, “Ellen, you haven’t missed an assignment turn-in date once in your entire life.”

  She sighs. “You’re right about that, but I guess there’s always a first time for everything, isn’t there? But—wait, let’s see what I typed in my phone calendar.” She pauses on her crutches and grabs her iPhone out of her back pocket. She frowns. “Look. It’s all here.”

  I lean over her shoulder to peer at her calendar, trying very hard not to notice how I’ve pinpointed that her new shampoo smells like honey and vanilla all at once.

  Like she’s a pastry or something…

  My stomach growls desperately as I read: Project two, as well as Human Expressions DUE before Grand Bend trip AT 5PM.

  “See?” She sighs. “I just must have typed in the wrong thing. I’ll have to check Harrison’s list that he gave me with all the dates on it. I do remember typing it—and I also remember that I wasn’t exactly myself that day because…because…”

  She glances up at me, and I realize I’m standing way too close to her.

  “Because that was the day you came back…here.”

  I step back and cross my arms, feeling like I need a shield of armor against her—against the wave of longing washing over me that’s so huge I’m already swept away. I’m unable to stop from admiring her soft skin and the way her braid nestles against what I know is the softest part of her neck. I’m unable to stop staring at the way she chews her lips, bottom to top, then top to bottom when she’s worried, like she is now. And it takes all of my strength to tear my gaze off her big, wide-set black eyes, all while I’m unable to not wish I could run my finger along the little twists at the edges of her lips that are always there even when she’s not smiling—and simply make her smile with that one move.

  “Ah. That makes sense. Of course this is my fault,” I say, pushing away our past and locking myself back in the present. The present nightmare of Ellen Foster and I being just-freaking—stupid-suck-ass friends. Friends. Friends. Friends. God how I hate that damn word!

  She protests, “No! I’d worked out so hard at the pool that day that I could hardly move. I’m sure I added the dates while I was exhausted.”

  “Because you cried your ass off that day and because you probably worked out too hard so you wouldn’t have to think about me.”

  “Cam, this is so you, trying to take the blame for me.”

  She laughs, and I hold my breath. Not because I want to, but because my entire body and soul have frozen with longing. I can’t believe how much want her to laugh and say my name at the same time again and again.

  Finally I say, “Ah, so you do remember some of how I am. Good. Then you won’t stop me when I go explain to Professor Perry how this is all my fault.” I laugh, pretending I’m going to go back into the classroom.

  She laughs again and pauses on her crutches to grab my shirt. “I remember all of how you are, and I don’t think Professor Perry needs to know our huge personal dramas. Do you?”

  “I’m pretty sure he knows most of it.” I shrug. “Let me layer on how I’m a criminal and that I messed up your head and type in the wrong turn-in times. I know it will help.”

  “Never.” She laughs again, and we fall in place beside each other as we exit into the small garden. “He gave me a second chance. He also lectured me about flirting with my boyfriend in class, and how I was losing focus on his lectures, as well as how my giggling in class makes him very upset. And”—she blinks as we make it to the gate that takes us to the quad and I hold it open for her—”that guy apparently thinks the worst of me. Like he somehow believes that I’ve been goofing off nonstop outside of class. Like, seriously going to parties and not working. I know I giggle a lot in class, but…he thinks I’m a girl gone wild.”

  I roll my eyes. “He just doesn’t understand that you’re so ticklish that you giggle even if you think you’re going to be tickled.”

  “Right! See? I must give off some sort of bad-girl vibe, huh?”

  “So strange.” I frown, wondering as much as Ellen is where Professor Perry got his ideas. Can’t the guy see that all Ellen does is take photos, edit photos, wish to work more on photos—that is, until Harrison Shaw showed up in the mix. My head buzzes again with the realization that so much of this has to do with Ellen’s new boyfriend, but she can’t seem to see that, which makes me hate the guy more than I already do.

  Ellen adds, “Anyhow, I explained everything and I’ve promised to work twice as hard as well as to cut the giggling, of course.”

  “Well, good luck convincing Harrison not to shove pencils into your sides and tickle you all the damn day. That seems to be one of his favorite pastimes.”

  “Oh, you guys noticed that?” Her cheeks go beet red. “Well, no wonder the professor’s angry if it’s disturbing all of you up there in the back row. I suppose it’s driving the guy insane because he’s only a few feet from us. It’s just that Harrison’s the kind of person who takes nothing seriously—like he plays all the time and he’s so—funny and he’s so cute and he cracks me up and Harrison probably doesn’t know what he’s doing to me—”

  Something crossing my expression must have stopped her from going on, because she sort of stutters off into silence.

  I hold quiet, too, because all I want to say is that I think Harrison does understand exactly what he’s doing. The question is, why is he doing it? But that won’t go over well. I bite my lower lip as I get angrier and angrier about my suspicions and, at this point, I’m counting down the seconds until I can corner Patrick after lunch with all this information so we can compare notes. I don’t even care if I sound like a psycho ex-boyfriend. I just want to lay it all on the table and have a talk. If Patrick thinks I’m way out of line and just being jealous and terrible, he’ll tell me to my face.

  Or he’ll punch me. Either way. I’m looking forward to the conversation.

  As we make it through the garden and take the shortcut that gets us directly in to the dining hall, I spy the jerk in question standing in the food line with Chloe, Charisse, and a their other friend Sheridan. Harrison doesn’t seem to be worried about Ellen at all—nor is he worrying about her or texting her to see if she’s okay. From here, he seems to be actually making his moves on the French girls. Possibly all of them, because he’s reaching around them to grab a food tray, all while moving in close and making them laugh flirtatiously.

  Ellen sees him and waves, not annoyed like she should be, not jealous like she might be—though she doesn’t need to be jealous, because she’s two thousand times more beautiful than any girl from France—but still, she should be something besides grinning and in love with Harrison Shaw when he’s openly all over with other girls, shouldn’t she?

  Harrison pulls his arms from around the girls and waves his tray wide. “Ellen! There you are!”

  She smiles and waves back at him as though she’s been hypnotized.

  I wonder again if I’m making all this Harrison conspiracy stuff up in my head…because I can’t be mature about him and Ellen dating? Is that what’s going on here?

  We walk toward the line, and the French girls all laugh again at something Harrison’s whispering. It’s all I can do not to cement my feet to the floor and let Ellen walk on without me.

  “See?” she says. “He’s always just playing around. He makes everyone laugh. Look at those three girls—they couldn’t stop laughing if they wanted to. That’s really Harrison just being Harrison. He told me he loves making people laugh.”

  People. Or hot girls?

  Hate. Hate. Hate.

  I’m so annoyed I feel like my temples are going to pound off my head from my brand-new headache.

  Stroke.

  Although I know I shouldn’t ask it at
all, I find my voice going brittle, and I bite out, “Why the hell didn’t he wait for you after class? Like, when he knew Professor Perry was going to say something to you, why didn’t he wait for you?”

  “Oh.” Ellen shoots me a glance as though she’s startled that I sound so angry. “Don’t you know? Harrison is, like, pre-diabetic or something. He gets really low blood sugar and he can’t wait for me all the time because he needs to eat. A lot. Like, all the time or something, so he’s always running off because he’s got to take care of that or he feels really sick. Didn’t he mention it? You probably noticed he keeps a careful diet.”

  “Oh. Oh, right.” I know I’m supposed to feel like an ass right now, but I don’t believe it on word about Harrison’s story. I’ve watched Harrison down super-sized slushy drinks, entire bags of caramel popcorn, three chocolate bars at once just yesterday, and he’s addicted to the late-night hot chocolates he gets out of the student lounge made with two or three chocolate drink packets. I’m pretty sure if a kid had pre-diabetic tendencies, his diet would be very different.

  Harrison steps out of line to come over to talk, placing his hand in Ellen’s. “Hey. What happened? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

  Ellen flushes like she’s embarrassed. “I forgot to turn in my assignments, and he wanted to talk to me about it.”

  Keeping my face steadfast, I watch Harrison like a hawk, but the guy does all the right things: Eyebrows up. Mouth drops open. Small gasp of shock and one very concerned “Ellen. You’re kidding. I’m so sorry.” And then a statement that’s more telling than everything: “Are you out of the scholarship running? Did he…kick you out? My God. I’m so sorry.”

  Ellen raises her brows. “Don’t worry, I’m okay. He gave me another chance.”

  I pretend to check my text messages, but I’ve not missed the small flicker of what looks like disappointment or annoyance that’s crossed his face.

  Was there a flicker? Is he disappointed Ellen’s not been kicked out of the scholarship running? What’s this guy’s deal? There are three scholarships. Why would he want Ellen out? Why am I suddenly feeling as if I’m going insane here…oh…man.

  I’m losing it.

  Losing it.

  I quickly text Patrick, who’s been tracking us from across the room: Save me. I need to talk to you. I need to get out of here. We need to talk.

  And then, just when I’m about to convince Patrick to take me to the nurse’s office so I can check myself into some sort of psychiatric office to be evaluated, Patrick texts me back: Dude. I know. Something’s not right about Harrison Shaw. Meet me out front.

  Ellen

  I flop back against my seat and can’t help but pout to Laura, who’s my seatmate for the ride to Grand Bend. “This bus situation is not what I’d hoped it would be.”

  I’m referring to the part where Harrison didn’t fight to sit next to me; rather he let Patrick and Cam convince him to sit with them. I shouldn’t be annoyed about the guy friendship that’s hopefully solidifying between those three…but I am. I’d hoped Harrison and I could snuggle up and nap on each other. But Patrick and Cam had been so insistent. Pushy, even. Saying how it was guy time.

  *Imagines what guy time really means. Can’t think of anything because there’s no TV, no video games to play, and it’s not like they’re going to sit and talk, because guys don’t do that.*

  I mutter out half of my thoughts. “And now—look at what their dumb guy time has turned into. Just…ugh. It’s not guy time anymore. It’s guy French-fantasy time!”

  “Right?” Laura crosses her arms in front of her and copies my pout. “I can’t believe no one told us the French girls would be going with us to Grand Bend. I feel like we should’ve been split by class for the bus ride. Photo students in the back, exchange students in the front, and…it’s all just a big mess now, isn’t it?”

  “I think Professor Perry was surprised too, but he seems to be quite friendly snuggled up there with Madame Bouchard now.”

  We both scoot up and peer over the tops of the seats to the front of the bus, and I add, “You mean he’s friendly with Madame Bouchard’s long legs?”

  Laura smirks. “She should move those away from him. He’s likely to drool on her ankles! Bloody disgusting the way he’s making those cow’s eyes at her.”

  I grin, realizing how much I’ve missed hanging out with Laura London and her cute accent. “And the way she smells like expensive Chanel perfume?” I add.

  Laura holds her nose. “For that matter, this whole bus smells like a duty-free shop exploded in here.” She wrinkles her nose at every French kid near us, and then leans in to whisper, “And did you bloody notice the unfairness that exists in the entire country of France?”

  I blink. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She leans even closer and blinks her wide blue eyes. “The women of France are genetically advanced, while the guys…are simply skinny…very well-dressed…newts! Not a one of the ones we got here this summer are even worth half-a-snog, don’t you think? Making matters worse, we’re going to have to see them pasty white rib caged boys wearing European Speedos at Grand Bend whilst our boys will be happily staring at Chloe, Charisse and Sheridan’s …everythings!”

  “Speedos!” I gasp out. “No one wears those anymore.”

  “Oh, they would, and they do! I was raised on the beaches of Europe. Prepare yourself that the visitors will be wearing swimsuits so small you couldn’t fit them on a newborn’s baby toe.”

  I bust out laughing, imagining Laura in her 1920s getup next to a girl dressed in a postage-stamp bikini. Trying really hard to think of a positive, I whisper, “Before they got on the bus, this whole smelled like sweaty soccer socks. You know it’s better now.”

  “Yeah. I guess. But did you see their shorts?”

  “The guys’ shorts?” I give her an innocent look. “Or the shorts on the genetically advanced creatures? Because I didn’t think they were wearing shorts at all—I only saw shirts and—”

  “Please. Don’t say what we all saw. It’s demeaning to speak of other people’s nude body parts. Cheeky French bottom-flashing-nudists.”

  I choke back a laugh. “Literally.”

  “If I weren’t so cheesed, I’d laugh, because it’s kind of funny.”

  “You’re so cute when you get…cheesed.” I grin. “I’m happy to be sitting only with you anyhow. I’ve missed you these past weeks.”

  “It’s been for a good cause. I’ve left you and your Harrison alone to grow your love.” She giggles. “But I’ve also missed you. I’m assuming once we get to the lake, you’ll be slipping off to be alone with him again?” She pouts mournfully.

  I smile. “I hope so. But I’m not going to abandon you. It appears we will both need to do some swimsuit shopping.”

  “Oh, not me. I’ll be hiding out with Cam whilst waiting and wishing for Patrick to finally fall in love with someone else. If I put this beauty”—she points at her body—”into a bikini from this century, I’ll have lost all my hard work.”

  Laura sighs, glancing back to where Patrick, Cam and Harrison—who’d thought they’d secured the six-seat back row all to themselves—are now smashed like sardines because of the sudden arrival of Chloe, Charisse, and Sheridan.

  “Possibly, this bus ride is going to help with some of that. Thanks to you and France.”

  “Yeah. Great.” I sigh, trying really hard to be a supportive friend even though I think Laura should be with Patrick, while trying not to be jealous that Harrison is now pressed between Sheridan and Charisse. Sadly, both of these things are indirectly my fault.

  Not my fault that the French students are on our bus, of course.

  That, according to Professor Perry’s hasty explanation while the extra students all crowded on last minute when a second bus never showed up, was a matter of budget constraints.

  See…while he was doing his informative speech, I was only half listening, because I’d started reading a new
book on my iPhone Kindle app. I actually never saw the French girls coming until they were literally on top of us. Once I realized what was happening, I tried to move fast and grab the seats next to our boys for me and Laura—but, of course, when I move fast…well…yeah.

  Nothing happens.

  In this case, my good arm cooperated enough to slide the crutches out from under the seats just in time for the bad arm to spaz. It looked like I was trying to trip the French girls by whacking them as they passed by. While I muttered, “Sorry! Sorry!” Charisse ended up sprawled all over Harrison’s and Patrick’s laps. Something neither of the guys seemed to mind.

  In fact, the guys—and I mean all the guys on the bus, not the skinny French guys who were used to girls like this—didn’t seem to mind anything at all. That’s because suddenly all these tanned exotic butt cheeks were dashing down the aisle at exactly face height.

  They were all saying very charming things, like, “Excusez-moi,” while working to shove their cool French leather bags in the little racks above the seats.

  Sadly, when everyone sat back down, the very last row was filled up with the giggling beauty triplets. More surprising, Patrick, Cam, and Harrison were suddenly sitting French girl to Canadian boy, French girl to Canadian boy, and French girl to Canadian boy. Not even three boys to one side for guy time with the three French girls to the other side, how it should have been.

  Laura huffs out another big breath of air and whispers, “Do you think that Chloe…do ya-think she’s keen on Patrick? I mean…really, truly and deeply keen?”

  I keep my face straight and say what I think Laura wants to hear: “I don’t know. They’re becoming good friends. I know that. And…she’s nice. She really is.”

  “Good. Being friends is where it starts, right? That’s how it works…friends to dating? I have high hopes for this week. You and Harrison…you are…really good friends, right?”