The Boy Who Couldn't Fly Straight: A Gay Teen Coming of Age Paranormal Adventure about Witches, Murder, and Gay Teen Love (Book 1, The Broom Closet Stories)

by Jeff Jacobson

  “I’m right here, Charlie,” said a voice that he recognized. He was standing on his hands in the middle of the floor with his legs pointing toward the ceiling, looking up at a woman with long dark hair, wide cheekbones, and large familiar eyes.

  “You have the best nostrils in the world,” he told her.

  Before he could do anything else, he began to hear something. Or sense something. It was as if the sound of everything on the planet began to reverberate in his skin cells. Everything had a smell, a color, a voice, and it all insisted that he pay attention to it. To all of it. He saw an Asian family in a small wooden boat with fishing nets, then a brick-sized container of plastic wrap, followed by blades of grass, the Grand Duke of Luxembourg, a flock of geese in northern Canada, and every single Ford Mustang ever produced. He heard a cacophony of music, like an orchestra warming up. He smelled orange soda, dog manure, dust, and the kind of perfume worn by old ladies.

  “It’s too much, I can’t hear, I can’t, it’s too much!” he yelled, still standing on his hands, his wonderful Aunt Beverly with the kind and lovely nostrils holding his ankles.

  “Breathe, Charlie, you’re all right. You’re all right,” she said.

  His gut filled with heat, and before he could stop himself, he vomited the entire contents of his stomach up his throat and out his mouth and nose onto his aunt’s shoes. The last thing he saw was a little yellow chick, walking among the contents of his retching. It peeped at him and then winked. In a very human-sounding voice it said, “The chicken does come before the egg.”

  And then, nothing.

  CHAPTER 47

  You’re Getting Sleepy

  IN THE DREAM, CHARLIE SAT with his legs hanging over the back of a pickup truck as it barreled and bounced down a dirt road. On either side of him small children also sat with their legs hanging over the edge. More children were scattered throughout the truck bed behind him. They were all blond fair-skinned kids singing a beautiful kid song, something about trees and the future and blue sky.

  The long line of grass and weeds that divided the two small lanes of the dirt road mesmerized Charlie. It appeared as if the line of grass sprang up right between his feet as the truck rolled over it. The sun glared high and hot in the sky. He knew they were somewhere near Clarkston.

  “But what about them, mister? What about them?” asked a young voice in his ear. He looked over his shoulder to see a small boy, probably no more than six years old, standing behind him with one hand on his shoulder for balance. He was pointing past Charlie to the road behind them.

  Charlie had the sudden urge to take all the kids and cover them up with a large blanket, to protect them somehow, then yell to whoever was driving the truck to drive faster. He didn’t know what the kid was pointing to, but he didn’t want to find out.

  In spite of his fear he finally turned around and looked. Four large German shepherds were running along the dirt lane toward the truck. The distance between them and the truck was quickly vanishing. Behind them, another line of four dogs rounded the bend and gave chase. All eight dogs ran with their tongues hanging from their mouths at the exact same angle. Before Charlie could register what was happening, another line of four dogs appeared behind the second, and then another, making sixteen dogs in total chasing after the truck. They made no noise as they ran, and Charlie couldn’t tell if every dog was a simple facsimile or if each one was unique.

  “It’ll be tonight. After nine o’clock. A heart attack. He might not make it. You’d better tell someone,” said the same boy in his ear. He didn’t understand what the boy meant.

  When Charlie looked back at the road, the German shepherds were now only a few feet from the truck. One of the middle dogs in the first line ran up to the tailgate and opened its mouth.

  Unable to stop himself, Charlie stuck his foot out toward the dog’s muzzle, until it was a mere inch from the sharp teeth.

  “After nine o’clock, mister. A heart attack. Tell someone,” said the boy.

  The dog clamped down on Charlie’s foot. His screams resounded in the thin hot air of the summer day …

  … and bounced off the walls of his bedroom.

  “Charlie. Charlie, wake up! It’s okay. You’re okay. Charlie, you’re having a bad dream,” someone was saying to him. A hand shook his foot.

  He yanked his leg up toward his chest, trying to free his foot from the jaws of the German shepherd.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that he wasn’t sitting in the back of a pickup truck. He was in his room. In bed. In Beverly and Randall’s house (his house, his mind corrected). Raindrops were beating against the windowpane. Beverly stood at the foot of his bed, a cautious smile on her face.

  “Hi. It’s me, Charlie. Your Aunt Beverly. You’re okay.”

  “Wha- … what happened? How did I …?” he tried to ask. His throat was parched. He reached for the water bottle on his nightstand. He saw his hand shake as his arm brushed up against the bottle and knocked it toward the floor. Beverly was at his side in an instant, catching it and placing it into his hands.

  “Thanks,” he squeaked. His mouth felt like it was full of sand. He twisted the lid off the bottle and took a sip of the cool water before leaning back against his headboard with a sigh.

  “You’re popped, honey. You did it. You’re home and safe now.”

  “What? How can … it worked?”

  “It sure did. Sorry, my friend, but no breakfast in bed. Looks like you’ll have a long list of chores ahead of you.”

  Then, with pride and solemnity filling her voice, she said, “You’re one of us now, Charlie. Welcome to your legacy.”

  He tried to recall what happened. All he could remember was sitting in the warehouse, and seeing Malcolm. Some kids asked some questions, and then Malcolm started mumbling stuff. And then what? What happened after that? He remembered feeling nauseous, and a strange floating sensation. That was all.

  “Are you sure? I don’t really remember anything.”

  “Positive.”

  “How long have I been in bed?”

  “About eleven hours. It’s just past one right now on Monday afternoon. We got home after two this morning. You went straight to sleep.”

  “I had a dream. A bad dream.”

  Beverly sat on the end of his bed. “Tell me.”

  “I was in a truck with all these little blond-haired kids who were singing. One of them pointed, and I saw a bunch of German shepherds running at us. As they got closer, this one kid said … uh, wait, I can’t remember … what did he say? Oh God, it was important.” He closed his eyes.

  “Take your time, kiddo. Just try to …”

  “He said something about a heart attack. Tonight after nine o’clock. Somebody, some man, was going to have a heart attack. The kid told me I had to tell someone. Oh God, the kid said the guy might not make it. Who is it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it was just a dream.”

  “No, I don’t think so. It felt different.”

  A gust of wind blew hard against the trees outside, and a branch struck the side of the house. Charlie jumped as if the limb had hit him. He looked outside. Raindrops spattered against the windowpane. He flinched expecting his face to get wet.

  That was strange. It was as if he could feel the drops through the glass. Each one. Wait, he could feel them. Tiny droplets of silver light, round marbles of liquid smacking themselves again and again against the window, against the wooden shingles along the roof. He could feel each wet trajectory, the grain in each shingle as it was struck, the tiny ping every time a drop hit the pane.

  He looked away from the window, but the strange sensation didn’t leave. It was as if he could see out the window without using his eyes, could sense what was happening out there. Three crows sat perched on the branches of a nearby Douglas fir tree, and they were pecking at needles near their claws. Douglas fir? How did he know it was a Douglas fir? Or that the Latin name for Douglas fir was Pseudotsuga menziesii? A woman in a raincoat walked
her dog on the sidewalk, and Charlie could feel how each of her toes pressed against the front of her boots, how the dog’s paws padded on the wet cement. He knew the woman carried twenty-three dollars in her purse as well as a canister of mace and a pack of cherry-flavored bubblegum. The dog’s collar tag said, “My name is Lucy. Please call this number if found.”

  The tag on the back of Beverly’s shirt said Linda, size medium. Her toenails were painted a warm brown-red, and she had a tiny cut on her left shin from gardening.

  He began to panic, throwing his arms over his head. “I can, I can hear everything. I can see it all. I can’t block it out, I can’t …”

  Beverly grabbed his wrists. “Breathe, Charlie, take some deep breaths with me. Come on, breathe.”

  He opened his eyes and saw her face, inches from his own. Her mouth moved, and while he couldn’t make out her whispered Words, he could feel them settling into his skin. Her eyes were calming, their liquid brown pouring outward toward him, their color helping to block out the rest of the sensations trying to invade his mind.

  “There you go. Just breathe. Like that. It’ll help you relax.”

  She reached for the bottle of water. “Have a sip,” she said. He drank, and the anxiety seemed to melt away even more.

  “Are you … are you making me tired?” he asked, for her eyes seemed large, incredibly large, their soft brown pulling at him, holding his attention.

  “I’m helping you sleep. Resting will make it get easier, Charlie. It’ll get easier, I promise. In a few days’ time, it’ll all calm down.”

  “Do you … can you hear it like that? All the time?”

  “No, nowhere near as strong as you can. It’s as loud for you right now as it’ll ever be. It’s at its worst. It’ll only get better from here on out.”

  “Was it like this for you when you got popped?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I know that that woman on the street has twenty-three dollars in her purse. How could I know that? And the raindrops! What about the guy with the heart attack? What is that?”

  “Shh, shh. Lay back. You won’t be awake for much longer,” she said.

  He did as he was told and could feel himself melting back into his bed.

  “I’m worried about the guy in the dream. The one who might be having a heart attack tonight.” His tongue felt thick and sloppy.

  “Honey, you might have to let it go. I don’t know if there’s much we can do without knowing who, or where …”

  “But, but …”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll make some inquiries, and we’ll see if we can’t come up with something. Maybe when you go back to sleep you’ll have another dream that will help.”

  He nodded, his head heavy on his pillow.

  “Try to get some rest, okay?”

  “But I jes slep fer eleven hours. Who sleeps fer that long? I jes don’t …” His words were beginning to slur. He sounded like an actor playing someone drunk on TV. And not a very good actor.

  “New witches do, that’s who. Your job is to rest now. It is the thing that helps the most.”

  “Is Randall here?”

  “Yes, and he knows to keep a safe distance from you.”

  “Cuth I’m dangeruth?”

  Beverly smiled. “A little, yes. But I am watching out for you. Rita and Jeremy are downstairs, ready to help too. This is what we do. We watch out for you.”

  Charlie tried hard to keep his eyes open, but they burned and itched too much. He didn’t like putting Randall at risk. And he didn’t like this sense of utter chaos. And … how could he be dangerous?

  “Anyway, Randall is cheering you on. From a distance, okay?”

  “Okay. Will you tell him hi from me?”

  “Will do. Goodnight for now.”

  “Behurly, thankth, uh, for every …”

  He was asleep before he could finish the sentence.

  CHAPTER 48

  The Best Day Ever

  TOM KRULL SHIFTED ON his chair. He had been sitting in the booth for nearly four hours, and his butt ached. They were short three agents today, which meant longer lines, grumpier passengers, less breaks. It didn’t matter that their contract stated clearly that no agent would be required to perform customs duty longer than two hours straight without a break. He could force the issue and leave his booth for a while, but it would just mean that the passenger line would get longer and his work would be that much more awful. People hated getting off international flights only to stand in long lines. He grew tired of hearing their complaints. Besides, his coworkers would blame him for it. The break room would be intolerable for weeks to come.

  So he sat and fidgeted. He looked at face after face, passport after passport, asking the same questions over and over again.

  “What brings you to Canada?”

  “Where will you be staying?”

  “You here for business then?”

  “How much money are you carrying?”

  Canada. The land of the free, the land of the polite. The land of political correctness. He agreed with it, most of the time. The Canadians who came through his lines were courteous. Respectful. The Americans? Not so much. He hated their entitlement, their indignation at having their very important plans slowed down by a customs agent who wanted to know their business.

  It was a common if unspoken practice to pull more Americans out of line than any other nationality. Not to cause real trouble. Just to slow them down a bit. Help them cool their jets while they sat in the immigration office waiting for one of the agents to ask them more questions. He figured he was doing his part to keep Canada friendly by reminding the Americans to be nice. And also reminding them that they weren’t in charge up here.

  “Next in line!” he called, keeping his voice neutral, commanding.

  A tall woman walked toward him. She did not look like most of the other passengers. Fresh-faced, not tired. Quite beautiful, actually. Soft red hair pulled back in a chignon, wearing a smart powder-blue suit, and man, what a pair of legs showing in that skirt. Her smile was sweet and clean, like a bowl of washed apples sitting in sunlight.

  That was strange. Since when did he start comparing women’s smiles to bowls of fruit?

  He cleared his throat and wiggled his head, remembering that he had a job to do. He tried to ignore his sore rear end.

  The woman arrived at his booth and stood less than a foot from the counter.

  He shifted in his seat again for he felt heat in his chest. He felt it lower in his body too. His face flushed. The woman reminded him of somebody, but he could not place who it was. Someone he had met? Someone in a movie?

  She smiled, and he could almost hear the soft skin of her lips expanding. He saw the surprise of her white teeth, strong and feminine. They reminded him of the square mints his grandmother used to keep in a candy dish on the table near her front door.

  More heat. His breathing quickened. He shifted again, trying to make more room in his regulation uniform trousers.

  “Passport, please,” he managed to say, his eight years on the job at Vancouver International Airport helping him to maintain focus.

  “Hello, Tom,” the tall woman said to him.

  His name, just like that, sent to him like a gift, right from her mouth, right into his ears.

  For some strange reason, he wanted to cry then, just a little. He wanted to lay his head down in this woman’s lap and cry, for his name sounded so beautiful on her lips, like the right kind of homecoming or a welcome he had always wanted. She would stroke his hair, and he would weep, and she would say, “Tom. Hello, Tom,” all night until he cried himself empty. Until she bent forward and pressed her mouth to his, until …

  He shivered then sat up straight. He found the frown he used when he needed to slow a passenger down. He could feel the crease between his eyebrows grow.

  “Stern face,” his ex-girlfriend Sheila had called it. “You’re doing stern face at me, Tom. Knock it off.”

  “Tom,” the tall w
oman said again, and her face was smooth, so smooth, the skin fresher than most women’s past a certain age. It seemed spreadable to him, a creamy spread of skin reddened at the cheeks. He looked away from her lips to her eyes.

  “Hello,” his mouth said. His mind began to spin for there were specks of light in her eyes, yellow and white specks against the background of soft green. How did her eyes do that? How did those tiny lights swirl together like that?

  He thought of weeping again. He thought of that early evening over ten years ago sitting on a log up at Savary Island. The day had been dry. He had seen two female belted kingfishers perched on the branch of a bigleaf maple earlier in the day and several harbor seals just off the shore. He and his friends had built a campfire before the sun had set. He sat next to Laura, who had lifted her shirt to him a few hours earlier. He had lain nestled between her breasts for some time. Together their fingers had played beneath each other’s waistbands. It had been his first time, and it had been gentle and slow, not the fumbled rush he feared it would be. When they kissed later, she told him it had been good.

  That day had been his best ever. He didn’t like to think about it too much because it reminded him that all the days since then had been less days, worse days, nothing like that weekend on Savary, with beer, and his friends, those female kingfishers flushed with red, brighter than the male of the species, with Laura and her freckled chest, her grape-flavored lip gloss that had gotten all over him. He had licked some of it off his arm later that night when he was alone, knowing that he should taste as much of this day as he could. Because it wouldn’t last.

  “Tom,” repeated the woman, her voice personal, his name like something she was sharing only with him. “I didn’t bring my passport today. Isn’t that funny?” she said, her smile growing.

  His breathing was nearly a rush now. He wanted to stand up, to leave this booth and the intimacy he felt with this woman, because it was too much. But he knew he wouldn’t stand. This woman tasted too good in his mind to leave.