“You can’t use my column against me like that.” I point my spoon at him.
“I’m pretty sure I just did.”
I open my mouth again, but I’ve got nothing. The art show isn’t until tonight, and the fresh air might feel good.
“Okay, fine. I’m in.”
“Great. We’re meeting the others in thirty minutes.”
“What others?”
“Amelia and Sofia are going.”
“When did you even coordinate—you know what, never mind. I don’t want to know how much you and Sofia are plotting together.”
“That’s probably for the best. Let’s go.”
And with that, he shoves a travel mug into my hands and we are out the door, driving toward the hiking trails closest to school. We pull into a familiar parking lot, and Amelia and Sofia are already there, waving to us.
“Hey, this is my favorite parking lot in Auburn,” I say.
“What a crazy coincidence, mine too,” Liam says.
I take a sip from the mug he gave me earlier. “Wait, this is hot cocoa.”
“Mmhmm. It’s delicious.”
“Coffee is delicious, and it has caffeine.”
“Coffee is not delicious, you heathen. And you know I don’t drink coffee.”
“What do you have against coffee anyway?”
“Uhh . . .” Liam rubs his hands over his head, which I’ve realized he always does when he isn’t sure what to say. A little spacer to give him time to collect his thoughts. “You know how I can get really stuck in my head about stuff? I worry a lot. Caffeine just kind of amplifies those thoughts.”
I think of the school pamphlets on his desk and his thing with glasses and his perfectionism in just about every area of his life, and it all clicks.
“That makes sense. I’m sorry I was nosy.”
“No worries.” He dismisses the uncomfortable topic, and then gives me his winning smile. “You ready?”
Our hike is quick and breathless in the cold air. Sofia and Amelia are laughing ahead of us.
“Hey, I forgot to ask which pieces of yours are in the show tonight,” I say. We turned in our portfolios a few days ago and decided with our art teacher which ones should be displayed.
“Oh, I’m not actually sure. I really wanted him to pick my moonscapes, but Mr. Taylor liked another set better. What about you?”
“Portrait of an Old Crow.”
“Good, I like that one.”
I think of Joe and my pocket full of gifts, and I smile.
I like it, too.
We reach one of the lookout peaks and find a perfect view of Auburn. It looks so small from up here.
Amelia and Liam start chatting about student council, and I sit next to Sofia, who reaches for the travel mug in my hands.
“Mmm, hot chocolate,” she says after taking a sip. “Good, you drink too much caffeine.”
“I drink the exact right amount, thank you very much,” I say.
“So,” Sofia says, and I can guess what’s coming. “How was last night?”
I look over my shoulder at Liam, but it doesn’t seem like he can hear us. He and Amelia are looking up, and I follow their gazes. There are dozens of crows soaring just off the edge of the lookout.
“Um, fine. Very . . . uneventful.”
“Oh yeah?” Sofia raises her eyebrows at me.
“Well, actually, there was something.”
“Oh my God, I knew it.”
“Not that. Liam said he loves me.” I double-check that Liam isn’t overhearing us.
“Whoa.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s huge,” Sofia says, passing me the hot chocolate again.
“Yep.” The crows are now rising and diving, and it reminds me of the morning in the rain when Liam and I saw them playing. Today it’s like they are surfing the wind.
“And you . . . ?”
“Oh, I panicked.”
“Naturally,” she says, laughing and putting her arm around me. “Take your time with it, Leighton. He’s been smitten with you from, like, day one. And I think you have been, too. But that doesn’t mean you have to say anything you aren’t ready for.”
“Yeah? I’m not being frigid?”
“Leighton, you have the biggest heart of anyone I know.” Some of the crows descend and land in the trees below, and a new batch of crows rise like a dark cloud. Dr. Cornell sent me another update on the crows—some kind of thermal map that experts use to track bird migration habits, and that they’ve used on Auburn. It looked like one giant maroon mass to me, but Dr. Cornell explained in his notes that the birds are mostly drawn to the mountains and the water supplies. Auburn officials are trying to bring in falconers next. They’ll release live hawks to torment the crow populations, encouraging them to leave with a natural enemy.
But crows are intelligent, resourceful. They can problem-solve. I don’t think anything the town tries is going to work.
The crows will leave when they want to.
And when they do, I hope they know better than to come back.
Chapter Fifty
WE ARE REQUIRED TO ATTEND THE art show and stand by our drawings. I’m sure there are worse forms of high school humiliation, but not many.
I’m standing next to Portrait of an Old Crow. It’s the best piece I’ve submitted all term, which isn’t saying much. Liam thinks I should go right into Art II this spring with my last elective. He said I have “potential.”
I told him that’s what people say about ugly old houses that need a ton of work.
I try to pretend that tonight is like ripping off a bandage. One quick tug, then the pain is over. But the minutes I spend standing there, letting everyone stare at and comment on my drawing, are not quick. The town feels particularly small tonight.
I check the clock every ninety seconds.
As soon as the clock hits 7:30, I bolt from my station. I buzz through the small labyrinth of display walls that have been erected throughout the gym for the show. There is still one small crowd gathered, and I’m so pleased for him when I realize that it is Liam’s spot. We make eye contact, and he frowns.
I slip through the people standing there, and I’m about to ask what’s wrong, when I catch his art pieces. I stop hard. I’m just another onlooker now, staring at the drawing that Liam has displayed for the show. It’s designed to look like the cover of a comic book.
In one corner, a little girl stands with her arm outstretched. A crow is perched on her forearm. The other side shows an older girl. She is turned partially away, and the drawing is of her upper body, her straight hair, her soft face. She has wings growing out of her back. Big, thick feathers sprouting right from her shoulder blades. The center drawing is a young woman. She is drawn kneeling on the ground, crying. She is surrounded by a sea of black feathers. She looks alone. She looks devastated.
She looks like me.
I try to unsee it, but I can’t. The third girl is me. Not exactly, but there is a familiarity. The shape of her jaw. The part in her hair. My eyes scan the three drawings again, and then find the little tag that is taped below them, giving the title and artist.
“THESE BROKEN WINGS: AN ORIGIN STORY”
LIAM MCNAMARA
Liam is looking right at me. For a moment, I don’t remember that there is a small crowd beside me or that we are at school with our peers and teachers. All I see is him, looking at me.
“Is this how you see me?” I ask.
“Leighton,” Liam says. He moves toward me, and I step back.
I’m hurt and embarrassed and trying to process too many emotions in too public a space.
I turn on my heel and make my way toward the girls’ locker room. He’s following me.
“Leighton, I’m your ride,” he says.
I stop walking. How could I forget that? Not just my ride. I’m staying at his house.
“Please, Leighton, let’s just drive and talk,” he says.
He looks miserable. He isn’t chasing
after me now. Just leaning against the end of the bleachers, waiting for me to make a decision.
I nod.
It is freezing cold outside, and windy, and there is black ice everywhere. Liam offers me his arm while we cross the slippery parking lot, but I don’t take it. I slip once, and pick myself up, silent.
The drive is quiet, in part because I’m still angry, and in part because the roads are dangerous, and I want Liam to focus. He pulls into the driveway at his house.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“I am not broken,” I say, finally interrupting the silence.
“No. Leighton. I know that,” Liam says. “I swear, it’s a stupid piece for class. I didn’t even mean for it to look like you. You’re just on my mind a lot, and it . . . happened. And Mr. Taylor liked it a lot; I couldn’t convince him to pick something else.”
“You could have taken it out of your portfolio.”
“It would have risked . . .”
He stops short.
“Your grade? You didn’t want to risk the A.”
He sighs and nods.
“I am not a broken thing you have to fix. I’m not your four-point-oh. Or your application to Harvard. I’m not a hobby or a project or a school assignment.”
“I know that.”
“You could have warned me,” I add.
“Definitely, yes, I should have,” he says.
I stop for a moment, collecting my thoughts, weighing my feelings. I realize I don’t actually know how to argue and reach a resolution. I haven’t ever seen that.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Leighton. I’m really sorry.”
“I know,” I say. I saw that before I even saw the drawings—the regret on his face when I walked up.
“I know you’re mad, but could I show you the rest of it?”
“The rest of what?”
“The comic. The ones at the show were just the cover.”
I follow Liam into the house, shrugging off our heavy coats and boots. In his room he reaches for a thick notebook on his bedside table and flips through it. The pages are divided up into a comic book layout—with thought bubbles and speech boxes. He gets to a few pages that are all filled in. It’s the girl surrounded by crows, but in the next box, she rises. Her arms stretch out and birds land on them.
In Liam’s drawings, this girl transforms until she is more feather than girl. One box focuses on her new wickedly sharp talons.
“She’s a superhero. This is her origin story.”
“Yeah,” I say softly, running my fingers lightly over the page of drawings. “She looks so fearless.”
“That was on purpose. Not broken.”
I look up at Liam. “This is amazing.”
“I made one for Fiona, too. Her hero alter ego can dance-fight people to death. And I was going to make one for Campbell next, but the only power I can think of for her is that she kills people with her brain.”
I laugh.
“Campbell would love that,” I tell him. Liam’s fingers touch the back of my hand, almost like an accident. I turn my hand until our palms fit together.
I could have refused to see the rest of the drawings. Refused to even talk to him. It would have been so easy to stay mad, to dwell on it all night, but I’ve seen how that kind of relentless anger builds on itself. I get to decide for myself what things I’ll carry, and anger isn’t going to be one of them.
Chapter Fifty-One
ON SUNDAY, I HAVE TO GO HOME.
When I walk into the house, I find everyone in the living room. Dad sits with his head between his hands, and when he lifts his face at the sound of my entrance, there’s real regret there. Real pain. There isn’t even a crack on the wall or ceiling anymore, like once again the house is pretending it never happened.
“Leighton. Thank you for coming home.” He says it like I had a choice in this.
I stand in the doorway, neither coming nor going, unsure of what I’m waiting for.
“I just want you girls to know that I’m really sorry, and I have no idea what came over me the other night. It’s been a lot of pressure with the company, things I don’t want to worry you guys with, and I think I was just bottling it all up.”
Mom moves to sit beside him on the couch. “Your father and I talked a lot this weekend on the phone, about how terrible his behavior was, and what needs to change around here so we don’t have a repeat of Thursday night. Starting with us keeping the house in really good shape so it doesn’t stress him out after a long day at work. And we have to watch heat and energy use and keep the bills as low as we can.”
Every word makes my jaw tighten more. Dad takes over, listing a few more things that are part of their grand strategy—but it’s all focused on this house, and us. Like it was only our actions that led to his outburst.
Campbell meets my eyes and gives me the subtlest shake of her head. She is thinking the same thing.
And silently asking me not to say anything.
But this isn’t a solution.
“And we are going to add some more fun stuff,” he says. “We haven’t been good at family time lately, being low on money and everything, but your amazing mom made a list of things we can do that aren’t too expensive.”
Now he looks to me, because Juniper is smiling and Campbell is nodding along, and Mom is holding his hand. We’ve all come back together, and he’s waiting for me to join the moment. To commit to their plan.
“Please, Leighton,” Mom says softly. “Can we just try?”
I bite the inside of my bottom lip, worrying it with my teeth.
“Okay,” I say. And there are a lot of things I don’t say.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. It isn’t a lie. He means it. He always means it.
Dad offers to make everyone dinner, and Campbell and Juniper offer to help. I make myself some coffee and go sit on the front stoop.
“There are so many,” Mom says as she joins me outside.
The tree in our yard is full again.
I spy Joe near the top, his gray feathers giving him away.
I try to remember the estimate that came with the thermal image of them.
“Well over fifty thousand now,” I tell her.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, sipping our coffee and watching the birds.
“He’s not a monster, Leighton,” she says. “He’s just a person. A flawed person, who has a lot of demons.”
“I know,” I say. But that’s not an excuse, I think.
“But that’s not an excuse,” she says, and I turn to her. Her eyes are still on the tree. “I know it’s been really strained here lately. I just want to believe that those good things can prevail. I still see that side of him. I see him fighting for it. Fighting for us. He spent the weekend sleeping on a friend’s couch, Leighton. He’s humiliated.”
“I don’t care if he’s humiliated.”
In fact, I like it. Most of the time it seems like we are the ones who feel all of his shame. “Where did he stay?”
I guess the answer before she says it, hope that I’m wrong.
“With Bill,” Mom says.
Officer DiMarco. Of course. It’s the only option awful enough to be true. Instead of protecting us, the police harbor him.
“He feels out of control,” I say. And it’s the truth, or at least what I can understand about it. All those promising futures closed off, and now this business is failing, and even though I think he must’ve hated his own father and some part of him resents the business, I know how stressful it is to fail. His anger is not some great mystery.
Maybe I never took his football dream, but I left the cap off the toothpaste so that it dripped all over the counter. I didn’t wreck his knee in that championship game, but I folded the towels wrong.
I didn’t steal his wife on purpose, but she loves us most, and he knows it.
Our family is a solar system of planets rocked off their orbits a little farther with each incident like the other night. We are moving
around each other in increasing chaos, haphazard and violent, all of us bracing for impact. And I don’t know how to break away from it, because there’s gravity here, in between us. There are good things that bind us to each other.
I take Mom’s hand.
I see a fractured system, delicate and damaged, that could collapse right under our feet.
She sees home.
Chapter Fifty-Two
IN THE DARKNESS INSIDE THE ARMOIRE, we come home to each other. Things are quiet tonight, but it is not calm. It is disquiet. The house feels ill at ease with itself, the walls more shadowed than usual. The winter wind is blowing hard outside, and we can hear the bones of the house creaking from the force.
My job tonight is to reassure—to distract. Our lantern burns, and we play all our games. Anywhere But Here and Shadows. Juniper asks for a story, and I tell her about a girl made of flowers. She had big bluebells for eyes, and instead of hair, she grew sunflowers, heavy and swollen with seeds, and their faces would follow the sun as the girl walked. Her fingers were the fuzzy leaves of a violet.
The girl made of flowers was beloved. She was somehow both soft and strong, and girls like that always find admirers. Her honeysuckle scent drew them in like worker bees, and she never minded. She’d share her blooms, plucking a rose from her wrist and a dahlia from her slender neck.
One day, the flower girl fell in love with a man who was like an oak tree. Solid and strong. He offered her shade, protection from the harsher elements. Most important, he let her be still. She sunk her roots deep into the earth by his side. She flourished, blooming even larger and more beautiful petals. But then the oak tree started to lose its leaves, and the girl gave him her flowers in their place. She gave and she gave, and he took them all, not seeing the way she wilted without them. She loved the oak tree too much to leave him, but she could grow her flowers just fast enough for him to pluck them from her. She could no longer share her beauty with the world, so consumed was she with keeping him happy.
After the girls are asleep, I swing open the armoire door and lift them to my bed. Campbell is almost too big for this, but I manage it, barely. I push Campbell’s books aside at the foot of my bed—collections of haunted house stories, her new obsession.
If These Wings Could Fly Page 18
