Flying

by Carrie Jones

  DEVELOPMENTS AT WORK. HAD TO GO IN EARLY. I’M SO SORRY. THERE’S A BAGEL IN THE FRIDGE. I MADE CHOCOLATE-DIPPED PRETZELS FOR YOUR FUNDRAISER. LOVE YOU!!! SEE YOU AT THE GAME.

  XOXO

  LOVE,

  MOM

  She drew a big heart on the side, too. Sometimes, she is just too sweet. Sometimes, like when she’s yelling at me about how I tend to put the wet towels on top of the rest of the laundry, she is just annoying.

  I open the fridge to pull out the bagel. My report card falls off the door. Yes, it is up there, stuck with a magnet of a Scottish Highland cow thing. Yes, that is geeky. That is my mother. I take the magnet and the report card and anchor it again. There.

  When everything is back just the way it’s supposed to be, I thrust the bagel in my mouth and chew. After I shuffle out of the kitchen and up the stairs into my room, I pretty much just stand there for an extra second and gawk at the piles of clothes that are strewn all around my floor. I have to get ready for school and I don’t want to because it’s going to be just another boring stressful day in the otherwise boring stressful life of me. The getting-ready process goes quickly and before I know it I’m back in the kitchen where I seize the Hello Kitty pretzel container. There is a cute penguin sticker on there now, amid all the happy kitties, which Mom must have put there. Lyle says she spoils me. September, my other best friend, says Mom babies me. I can’t say that most of the time I mind. Shoving my bag over my shoulder, I head out.

  September has parked her truck in the driveway and is waiting.

  “Hurry,” she yells. She is tall and long. She’s one of my bases for cheering, and even though her arms are about as thick as those pretzel sticks, she is super strong, like a farm girl, which she is not. Her mom is a doctor. Her dad is a nurse. They own no mammals or poultry. They do have a fish, Mr. Awesome.

  I pull in a big breath. The cold, gray winter sky bleaks me down despite Hello Kitty, chocolate-dipped pretzels, and the new penguin sticker. I’m tired again today. For a second I wonder if I could pretend to be sick, but it’s game day, so I hike my bag higher on my shoulder and balance the pretzel container in my hand.

  “Mana! Hurry!” September yells again. The sun glints off her skin. Kids use to call us Oreo when we were little because Seppie is so dark and I am so undark. I used to pray at night that I could resemble her instead of a ghost. That was before I understood about racism and how when some idiots gape at Seppie they don’t see someone beautiful and funny and brilliant; they see “other.” Idiots. Sometimes people think about me that way, too.

  I rush down the cobblestone path to our driveway and haul myself up into her truck. Yes, she has a huge, gas-guzzling, black pickup truck. Do not ask me why.

  “We’re not that late,” I say, slamming my bag down next to my feet. “You always get so stressed about being two minutes late. You don’t always have to be the orderly and perfect student.”

  “Yes, yes I do.” She shakes her head. Her pigtails flail about and then she reverses out of my driveway like Satan is after us.

  She pulls into the Stephensons’ driveway, which is barely worth driving over to since our houses are so close, and we wait. She honks. “Where is he?”

  Lyle, all Gap clothes and smiles, comes barreling out of the house, slamming the door behind him. “Sorry! Sorry! I was engrossed in something.”

  “I am so going to kill you if you make me get a tardy. Three tardies equal detention. Detention equals poor academic record. Poor academic record means bad college. My fine self is not going to a bad college because you were climbing a tree.” Seppie executes a perfect K-turn while Lyle buckles up. His face is all smooth, squeaky clean like he just scrubbed at it with a wet facecloth. He always appears that way, and he smells that way, too, like mint-scented soap, the same kind my dad uses.

  When I was super little, my dad taught me to hunt and to wash my hands after hunting, after being in public places, after touching raw meat or going to the bathroom. He’s that kind of guy—the kind that can kill a deer but still worry about germs. Lyle is not like that. I can’t imagine him ever killing anything. And germs? He eats Skittles he finds on the sidewalk.

  A gash from shaving mars Lyle’s cheek just to the right of his nose. He has a new cut every morning, I swear. I want to put little Band-Aids on them.

  “We aren’t really going to be late, right?” His shaggy brown hair flops over his eyes. Lyle nods at Seppie, then lifts one eyebrow over his dark brown eyes and asks me, “She will kill me one day, won’t she?”

  “Probably.”

  “What if we just left without you?” Seppie asks. “Did you even think about that?”

  Lyle doesn’t answer. Just for the record, Seppie and I are both cheerleaders, which Lyle helps with, too, actually. He’s an overachiever. Running is his big thing, but he helps cheer at competitions and important games because we need him for the ridiculous stunts where a good amount of upper-body strength is involved. A lot of kids in my school do multiple sports. I do not, but I am an underachiever. Seppie and Lyle are all about getting into Ivy League colleges. It’s one of our essential differences. They worry about college; I do not. They get amazing grades; I get by. They will have scholarships; I will have loans. Lyle has claimed the window side, so I’m smashed between the two of them in the truck cab.

  “My feet are freezing,” I say as Seppie swerves around a pothole. Her elbow knocks into me, so I smoosh closer to Lyle.

  “You should wear socks,” she says. Like she knows. “It’s almost winter. It’s getting cold.”

  “Seppie, have you ever worn a sock in your life?” Lyle asks, stretching out his long legs, which he can do because he’s not stuck sitting in the middle. “You are the Sockless Wonder. That would be your superhero name: the Sockless Wonder, whose excessive foot odor thwarts all foes.”

  “Shut up. You’d be Geek Boy. Cheerleader by day; Doctor Who watcher by night. Unable to match a single outfit even if his mama picks them out for him the night before. Permanently attached to his little online game. What’s the name of it? Lounge Lizards Take on the—”

  “Unfair!”

  They keep bickering. We drive through our subdivision and out onto Back River Road, with all its curves and supermarkets. I turn up the music. I close my eyes and try not to think about Lyle’s leg pushing against mine, or the test I have today that I totally forgot about, or Lyle’s minty smell, or why I am thinking about Lyle this way. Lyle of playing Doctor Who in the woods when we were seven, Lyle of the gaming fixation, Lyle of the newly developed chest muscles, Lyle of the—

  Lyle’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “And then I professed my undying love to her and Mana just stared at me and said, ‘But I only love khaki-wearing koala bears who are into drumming and rolling up their sleeves to show off their forearms, Lyle. You would never do. You are far too manly-macho.’”

  I open my eyes, blinking away all these random thoughts of Lyle and me growing up together, and sputter, “What?”

  He starts laughing and punches me in the arm. We pass a school bus on the right—totally illegal, totally Seppie.

  “She’s really out of it.” Seppie turns off Back River Road and onto the highway. “What is up with you today?”

  I shrug. My shoulders bump against them. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”

  “What, were you out late partying?” Lyle asks. “Partying on a Sunday night?”

  “Funny.” I punch him. He punches me back. “I’m just tired.”

  “Do you want some of my coffee?” He picks up his metal no-spill thermos.

  Seppie snarks at him. “You know she can’t have caffeine. It makes her wild. You’re just tormenting her because you know she loves the smell.”

  “I don’t actually remember ever having caffeine,” I say, whiffing in the warm, nutty scent. “Is that hazelnut? Wow. That smells good. I mean, that smells really good. I grab it and take a micro sip. It’s warm and sugary and nutty.

  “Well, you’re not starti
ng now.” Seppie reaches across me, takes the thermos, gulps, and says, “Yep. Hazelnut.”

  “And you call me cruel?” Lyle snatches back his thermos and turns his attention to me. I swallow hard, which is ridiculous. My pulse rate seems to be getting higher. I lick the coffee off my lips as Lyle asks, “Why didn’t you sleep well? Are you getting sick?”

  He puts his hand on my forehead. It feels nice, like all the tension is just oozing out of me and into his hands. We slow down, pull off the highway, and head toward the school parking lot.

  “No fever,” he announces, and then goes into nerdy speech. “I declare this specimen devoid of fever.”

  “No fevers. I just had more nightmares.” I stretch up. Lyle moves his hand away and I want to snatch his wrist and pull it back to my forehead. I kind of miss it. Seppie turns into the school parking lot and pulls the visor down to check out her reflection in the mirror instead of actually trying to find a parking space or anything like that.

  I rub at my forehead. All the tension is back. And I swear I feel sweaty, like I’ve just run a marathon. “I don’t want to go to school.”

  “Does anyone?” Lyle asks.

  Seppie clears her throat.

  Lyle goes, in a too-high, fake Seppie voice, “School is a magical place to find potential mates, enjoy learning, and practice my social networking skills that don’t involve the actual Internet.”

  We all start laughing. The truck hits a frost heave in the parking lot. Lyle bashes his head against the ceiling because of the bump. This makes us laugh more, for some reason. By the time we get to school, my bed feels a long way away.

  Lyle helps me out of the truck. It’s pretty high, and he and Seppie always take care of me because I’m shorter—and the whole flyer thing. “You seem better.”

  His hands linger on my waist for an extra second and I so do not know what to think. “I feel better, except I think the coffee made my pulse rate go up.”

  “The magical power of coffee. I don’t think you’re actually allergic. You’re probably just hypersensitive to it or something,” he says.

  “Mm-hmm,” I say. “Right.”

  “What? Do you want me to say it’s the magical power of friends that makes you feel better?” He smiles and lets me go.

  But the truth is, that is it. It is the magical power of friends. I stand there, full of energy, so much energy suddenly, and jump into the air, possibly performing my highest back tuck ever.

  “Whoa … that was almost—unnatural,” Seppie says, eyeing me.

  “I feel so hyper!” I giggle, hugging her.

  “And this,” she says, “is why your mom probably never wants you to have coffee. You didn’t drink any, did you? You were just pretending, right?”

  “Right!” I shout a little too loudly.

  She cocks her head and speed walks toward the school, yanking me along. “You are the worst liar ever.”

  “I don’t think it even counted as a sip,” I say. “Just a taste. And now I’m all hyper. Coffee is wonderful!”

  We make it into the building just as the first bell rings, and Seppie bolts off, Lyle following after her. They have to go to first period in the language wing, which is pretty far away. I watch them go and try not to feel all alone. Hyper and lonely is an unusual combination. I close my eyes and try to will myself to calm down. I already want more coffee. Maybe the real reason my health food nut of a mom doesn’t want me to have coffee is she knows that I’d be addicted after one tiny sip.

  CHAPTER 2

  I need an entirely new body. This becomes obvious to me at cheerleading practice, when even doing a squat jump feels like a big deal to my sleep-deprived muscles. No wonder my mom doesn’t want me to have coffee if this is what it feels like after you come crashing down from the caffeine high.

  School was basically hellacious all day. I managed to get through Latin and SAT Prep class and Computer Science before practice this afternoon, but it has all made my stress levels so high. It’s unfair to put my three hardest and most boring classes after lunch. Still, that’s no excuse for how tired I feel after our tumbling drills. It’s weird. It’s like ever since my mom got that random crank call, my body has just not been able to catch up with sleep.

  “Are you still tired?” Seppie asks. She stands there without breaking a sweat, which is because she’s not much of a tumbler. Her drill is doing cartwheels across the mat. My drills are back tucks and back layouts, front layouts and twists. Doing one tumbling run is fine, but doing them over and over for an hour kills my shins and jars the tiny bones on the outsides of my ankles.

  “More stressed.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t go up so high.” She grasps my shoulders and does a tiny rub. “Loosen up! You’re so tight! Did you fail your computer science test?”

  “Yes. I mean—possibly. I got a D, but then he’ll let me make it up at lunch, but I’ll probably still fail.” I sigh dramatically for effect. “I am a failure.”

  I make a giant F shape with my fingers and put it on my forehead for extra emphasis.

  “You are not a failure; you just suck at computer science.”

  “And Latin.”

  Seppie wiggles her lip, which she always does when she is trying to decide if she should lie. “And maybe a little at Latin. But you’re so good at other things…”

  Mrs. Bray, our coach, eyes us. She’s always worried everyone is gay. She’s pretty homophobic, but she doesn’t tell Seppie to stop rubbing the knots out of my shoulders. Instead, she says, “It’s Mana’s height that makes her runs exceptional, and those muscles. That’s lift. It’s Olympic caliber. We’re so lucky you never went off into the gymnastics world.”

  “Mana doesn’t like competitions,” Seppie answers for me. I don’t. I mean, obviously, I’m a cheerleader and I want my team to win, but I feel so badly for the other team when they lose. I hate making people lose. She drops her hands, and another cheerleader, Kristen Bean, does a series of back handsprings. It’s almost my turn again.

  “Lucky for us!” Mrs. Bray smiles at me. “Will Lyle be here for the game? I’d like to practice the stunts for regionals during halftime.”

  “He texted he would be here,” I answer.

  As soon as Mrs. Bray turns away, Seppie says, “She thinks you’re a thing.”

  “A thing?”

  “A couple. You and Lyle.”

  “Oh…”

  “Do you want to be a couple?” She stares into my eyes. “Oh my God! You do … don’t you?”

  I try to answer. “D-Dakota? He has nice forearms.”

  “You’re stuttering!” She starts laughing. “And I asked about Lyle. And you know it.”

  “Mana! Your turn!” Mrs. Bray yells, and I am saved from answering Seppie by having to do another tumbling pass full of back tucks and twists. I am actually grateful, and at the end, Mrs. Bray enthuses, “Solid landing! Solid! Girls, we should pay attention to how Mana lands. Beautiful, Mana! Tight!”

  And then we move on to jump drills, which are so labor intensive and cardio heavy that nobody can talk. You use a basic eight count, where you set a high V, hold it, start jump, get the height of the jump, land, hold the land, stand, and then hold the final standing position. Girls are sweating by the time we have finished our jumps in sets of five, which include T jumps, tucks, right hurdlers, left hurdlers, pikes, toe touches, doubles, and then doing it all in reverse.

  The away team arrives for the game and heckles us, which is normal. A couple girls manage to give them the finger when Mrs. Bray is not paying attention. It is pretty much an additional hour of hell before we’re allowed to go shower and change for the game.

  “Cheering is hard,” I moan.

  Seppie’s hands go to her hips. “You love it.”

  “I do?”

  “You know you do. You kick ass at it. You could totally be a professional if you wanted,” she says as we walk into the locker room off the gymnasium. “Have you decided yet what you want to do when you must be gainfully
employed?”

  “Gainfully employed?”

  “Well, I’m not going to say ‘when you’re a grown-up,’ because that makes us sound five.”

  “True.” I think for a second, press my hand into my heart, and say brilliantly, “Not be a cheerleader.”

  “No. Really.” Seppie the Sarcastic yanks off her T-shirt and throws it in her locker.

  The thing is, I have no idea. Seppie and Lyle have their whole lives planned out, days organized in lists on their phones, and I forget that I even have tests. “Save the world?” I kid.

  “Lofty goal,” she teases back, and leaves me for the shower.

  “Fine! How about a penguin refuge? Like a shelter! I could save penguins for a living!”

  “This,” she calls after me, “is why you and Lyle are soul mates. Savior complexes. I have no clue why I love you two martyrs.”

  “But you do?”

  “I do!”

  * * *

  The game itself is a no-brainer. First Seppie, Lyle (who arrives just in time and still wearing cross-country clothes—he hates cheer uniforms; says they’re not manly enough), the rest of the squad, and I raise our pom-poms and hold banners as they announce the players. Dakota is drumming, looking like the male model he probably should be. He points a drumstick at me. I try not to swoon in a fangirl way. Then we cheer along the sidelines during the plays. We are a peppy kind of squad, so we cheer a lot. This is supposed to be a good thing, but some people always have a hate on for cheerleaders. Sometimes, they start young.

  To prove my point, some arrogant little brat kid sitting in the bleachers yells, “Will you just shut up?” He has pretty massive cojones for someone who is like, oh, I don’t know, in first grade. “I’m trying to watch the damn game.”

  “D-E-F—E-N-S-E. It spells defense,” we keep cheering, because if you stopped cheering every time someone heckled you, there would be no cheers. Although, to be fair, that is probably the hecklers’ goal. “Defense. Let’s play defense. Woo!”