Skye Falling

by Mia Mckenzie

  “No,” Viva says.

  “Alana?”

  She shakes her head, no.

  “Serena?”

  “No. But the fact that you just named tres mujeres who might have said it is maybe telling?”

  “Really, Viva?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “What? What are you just saying?”

  “ ‘Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.’ Viktor Frankl said that.”

  “Who?” I must be tipsy now because I do not remember this Viktor nigga at all.

  “It doesn’t matter. The point is, you can just react to what Tasha said, like you’re doing right now, or you can take some time to think about it.”

  “There’s nothing to think about,” I tell her. “Tasha’s just wrong.”

  She sighs. “Bueno, Skye. Whatever.” And she walks away.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text: Spelling bee! U coming???

  11

  The good news is, I’m not drunk. The bad news is, I’m not sober, either. I’d say I’m a little past buzzed but not all the way to tipsy. I’m bipsy. Which sounds too cute to be bad, right? Considering I’m cute and bipsy, I decide there’s really no reason for me to miss the bee.

  When I get to West Philly Montessori, the competition is already under way. The auditorium smells exactly like the school auditoriums of my childhood—like sweat and bologna. It causes a wave of nausea to roll through my bourbon-ated belly. I breathe out through my mouth, swallow hard, and say out loud to myself, “You’re not drunk, you’re just bipsy, so act normal, girl.”

  The auditorium is packed with students, staff, and parents. The stage is set up with maybe twenty folding chairs, half of which are filled by kids. I assume these are the ones who haven’t been knocked out of the competition already. Vicky is one of them. She sees me and smiles. I smile back, trying to look as non-bipsy as possible.

  “Brandon,” says the only adult on the stage, the moderator.

  A chubby kid stands up.

  “Your word is ‘vaporize.’ ”

  I’m looking around for an empty seat when I spot Faye in the third row. I haven’t seen much of her since that first day I kicked it with Vicky, when I watched Faye mediate between their neighbors. Whenever I drop Vicky off after we hang, Faye waves from the front door, but she never tries to talk to me and never invites me inside. Which: whatever. I don’t even care.

  There’s an empty seat beside her. There are also plenty of other seats, all of them beside strangers who have nothing against me. But, in my current bipsy state, I don’t want any of those seats. I want that one. So, instead of doing the easy, not-weird thing, I squeeze by a few people sitting at the end of the row and sit down right beside Faye.

  “Vaporize,” the chubby kid says, looking nervous. “May I have the definition?”

  At first, Faye doesn’t notice me. She’s paying attention to Brandon. But as I settle back she glances over. She’s smiling at first, but then, when she sees it’s me, her smile falters, only to recover a second later. “Hello, Skye.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Faye. Wow. I didn’t even realize that was you sitting there. Hello.”

  “Vicky didn’t mention you were coming.”

  “Is it a problem?”

  She hesitates. Then: “No. It’s fine.”

  “Vaporize,” Brandon says. “V-a-p-e-r-i-z-e. Vaporize.”

  “No, I’m sorry, that’s incorrect,” the moderator says.

  For a second, the kid looks like he’s going to cry. Then he takes a deep breath, like he’s grounding himself, and walks off the stage to the sound of pity applause.

  I feel eyes on me and realize two of the people I squeezed by on the way to my seat are looking at me. Now I’m super paranoid that they can tell I’ve been drinking. When I glance over, one of them, a man, looks away. The other one, a woman, keeps staring until the man nudges her and she turns her attention back to the stage.

  “Vicky,” the moderator says.

  Vicky stands up.

  “Your word is ‘aviation.’ ”

  “Aviation,” says Vicky. “A-v-i-a-t-i-o-n. Aviation.”

  “Correct.”

  There’s a round of applause, with me and Faye clapping the loudest. The man sitting next to me yells “Yes!” and it’s then that I realize he must be Vicky’s father. I look down the row and, sure enough, there’s Vicky’s stepsister at the end. I didn’t notice her before but now I recognize her from the fancy hot dog shop. The woman sitting between the stepsister and the father must be Vicky’s stepmother. Now it’s my turn to stare, and then smile awkwardly when they catch me staring, and look away.

  “Angel,” says the moderator. “Your word is ‘disingenuous.’ ”

  “Disingenuous,” Angel says. “May I have the definition?”

  “Not straightforward or candid.”

  “D-i-s-i-n-g-e-n-u-o-u-s. Disingenuous.”

  “Correct.”

  “Shit,” I say, a little louder than I mean to.

  A few parents turn to look disapprovingly in my direction.

  Faye peers at me. “What’s the matter with you?”

  I peer back at her. “What’s the matter with you?”

  She stares at me for a long moment. I try to look normal as I stare back at her. It’s hard because my eyelids feel heavy. To keep them open, I raise my eyebrows.

  “Are you drunk?” Faye whispers.

  “Ummmmm, I don’t know if I’d use the word ‘drunk,’ ” I say, raising my eyebrows a little bit higher. “More like bipsy.”

  She takes a deep breath. “Why would you show up drunk to a spelling bee?”

  “Not drunk. Bipsy.”

  She blinks at me. “What the hell is ‘bipsy’?”

  Someone shushes us from the row behind. Which: Rude much? Jesus.

  Faye glares at me for another couple of seconds before turning her attention back to the stage.

  Ten minutes later, there are only two kids left in the bee. That Angel brat. And Vicky!

  “Angel, your word is ‘interrogative.’ ”

  “May I have the definition?”

  “Relating to verbs that ask for a reply.”

  Angel closes her eyes. “Interrogative. I-n-t-e-r-r-o-g-a-t-i-v-e. Interrogative.”

  “That’s correct,” says the moderator.

  The audience applauds. Angel pumps the air with her fist, then sits back down.

  “Vicky, your word is ‘reflection.’ ”

  “Reflection,” Vicky says. “R-e-f-l-e-c-t-i-o-n. Reflection.”

  Are you really that lacking in self-reflection? I hear Tasha ask. Still?

  I close my eyes and think about freshman year of college, about coming back to my dorm room after class every day and before even taking off my shoes, checking my voicemail to see if Tasha had called. I remember how abandoned I felt when there was no message, how sad, how angry. I feel that sadness and anger rising up in my belly now, swirling around with the bourbon. But then my brain stutters in this weird way, almost like a skipping record. Suddenly, I see myself standing in my dorm room, the wall phone to my ear, listening to a message from Tasha. When the message ends, instead of calling her back, I make a mark on a little chalkboard I have hung up by the phone.

  I don’t recall having a chalkboard in my room. At first. But the more I sit there thinking about it, the more clear the memory becomes. The marks were for keeping track of Tasha’s calls. Once she’d left me five messages, I’d call her back. But not before.

  The sound of a sharp intake of breath pulls me back to the present.

  “What happened?” I ask Faye.

  She gives me a look like, really? and then turns back
to the stage without answering.

  I see Vicky take her seat. She’s frowning but she’s not leaving the stage, so I figure she missed a word but isn’t out of the game yet. If I remember right—and it’s very possible I don’t—when it’s down to two people and one person misses a word, the other person has to spell two words right in a row to win.

  “Angel,” the moderator says, “your word is ‘hallucinations.’ ”

  Angel takes a deep breath. “Hallucinations. H-a-l-l-u-c-i-n-a-t-i-o-n-s. Hallucinations.”

  “Correct.”

  “Boo!” I call out, before I can stop myself.

  “Skye!” Faye scolds as every single person in the auditorium turns to stare at me. Two people, who I guess are Angel’s parents, shoot me particularly angry looks.

  “Parents,” calls the moderator, “please refrain from booing the seventh-graders!”

  “I’m not technically a parent!” I call back.

  The moderator shakes his head and turns back to Angel. “If you spell this next word correctly,” he says, “you’ll be West Philadelphia Montessori All-Grade Spelling Champ and move on to represent us in the citywide bee.”

  Angel nods, looking nervous.

  “Your word is ‘grotesque.’ ”

  I see Vicky roll her eyes and I know she’s thinking what an easy word this is.

  Angel closes her eyes, all dramatic. “Grotesque. G-r-o-t-e-s-q-u-e. Grotesque.”

  “That’s correct!”

  There’s a big round of applause and Angel’s parents stand up and cheer. Vicky and Angel shake hands. The moderator presents Angel with a trophy, silver-plated and maybe twelve inches tall. Angel beams, while Vicky stands there holding a second-place certificate, sporting a smile I think is fake because she’s showing all of her teeth and she never usually smiles like that. The moderator announces the date of the citywide bee, tells us all to come out and support Angel and the school, and then thanks us all for coming.

  People start getting up and moving into the aisles. As soon as Vicky’s dad and stepmother are out of the way, I beeline it out of our row, before Faye can say anything to me. I’m moving so fast that I trip over my own feet and almost take an L right in the middle of the auditorium. I’m bipsy, but not bipsy enough to allow myself to fall down in a room full of middle-schoolers. I HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN ABOUT THE PEACOCK EPISODE. I have to engage every muscle in my upper body—muscles I’m pretty sure I haven’t used since that one time I tried yoga—to keep from hitting the floor face-first, but I somehow manage it. I straighten up and catch Vicky just as she’s coming off the stage.

  “You were amazing,” I tell her.

  “I lost.”

  “Yeah, but barely. And that Angel kid got all the easy words.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asks. “You’re all sweaty.”

  “It’s hot in here,” I say, wiping my brow.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “It is. A little bit.”

  “It’s cold in here,” she says. “Everybody’s wearing sweaters.”

  “I run hot, okay?”

  “Oh,” she says, “because of menopause or something?”

  WOOOOOOOOOW.

  Faye comes over, followed by Vicky’s father, stepmother, and stepsister.

  “Great job, baby girl,” her father says, reaching out and hugging her.

  Vicky just stands there, her arms at her sides, looking annoyed.

  When he releases her, he extends his hand to me. He looks like Vicky, or, I guess, she looks like him. Her russet-colored eyes and heart-shaped lips are his. He’s tall and thin, with wire-rimmed glasses and a no-fade line-up, graying at his temples. He’s wearing khakis, a pink golf shirt, and loafers. He has sort of a Barack Obama vibe but without the big ears or the swagger. “You must be Skye. I’m Kenny. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “Charmed,” I say, like I’m suddenly a floozie masquerading as a socialite in a Marilyn Monroe movie.

  “We would have met a long time ago if it had been up to me,” he says.

  I don’t know what he means by that. I remember Faye saying that Cynthia probably would’ve even kept the egg donor thing a secret from her husband if she could have, so maybe this is some kind of shade toward his dead ex-wife. Which: Really, Barack No-Bama? Gross.

  Beside Kenny, his wife clears her throat.

  “Oh,” he says, like he legit forgot she was there. “This is my wife, Charlotte. And my stepdaughter, Sabrina.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Sabrina says.

  I almost remind her that we’ve met before, but then I think maybe she doesn’t want her parents to know she helped Vicky find me. Also, we didn’t technically meet, she mostly just hovered nearby while I blew chunks.

  “So, you’re the egg donor,” Charlotte says. “How fascinating.”

  Kenny frowns at her. “Char.”

  Char is very thin, with eyes I’d describe as “light” without having any particular color to them. She looks older than Kenny. “Well, it is fascinating,” she insists. “Isn’t it? I’ve never met an egg donor.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” I ask.

  “Well,” she says, thinking about it, “I guess you’re right. I should say I’ve never personally known one. Unless my friends are keeping secrets from me.”

  “They probably are,” Vicky says. “Because you’re such a judgmental witch.”

  OH SHIIIIIIIT.

  “Vicky!” her father exclaims. “I told you not to talk to your stepmother like that!”

  Charlotte gives Faye a wounded look, as if she’s the one who called her a judgmental witch. “Is this what she’s learning under your roof?”

  “Vicky,” Faye says, gently placing a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Say goodbye to your friends, so we can go.”

  Vicky shoots looks of thinly veiled hatred at her father and stepmother and walks off down the aisle, Sabrina following behind her.

  “You told me her behavior was improving, Faye,” Kenny says. “It doesn’t look like it.”

  “You know Cynthia was the one who got Vicky interested in spelling bees,” Faye says. “She’s probably feeling bad right now on a lot of levels, so let’s give her a break.”

  “Maybe you’re giving her too many breaks.”

  “Meaning what, Kenny?”

  “Meaning you’re too easy on her,” he says.

  “Her mother died.”

  “That was two years ago! Look: We all miss Cynthia—”

  Faye smirks. “Really, Kenny? We all do?”

  “—but Vicky needs to get back on track.”

  “She will. In her own time.”

  “What if her own time is too late?” he asks. “What if she gets so far off track that in a few years she’s where you were at sixteen? I’m not going to let that happen.”

  “Where were you at sixteen?” I ask.

  They both ignore me. Which is rude, frankly.

  Kenny shakes his head. “She’s out of control. I never should have let you take her.”

  “She was out of control before I took her,” Faye says. “Neither of you could handle it, which is why she’s with me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Fine,” Faye says. “Then why don’t you tell everyone why you actually sent her to live with me.”

  Kenny’s eye twitches.

  “What are you talking about?” Charlotte asks. She looks at her husband. “Kenneth? What is she talking about?”

  Kenny laughs and shakes his head. “I have no idea,” he says. He grabs his wife’s arm. “Let’s go, Char.”

  They walk together toward the exit just as Vicky and Sabrina are coming back up the aisle. Kenny kneels down to say something to Vicky. Whatever it is, she looks annoyed by it. I see her glance in our d
irection, maybe at Faye, then turn back to her father and shrug. Kenny stands up straight, grabs Charlotte’s arm again, and they leave as Vicky and Sabrina continue toward us up the aisle.

  “Aunt Faye, can Sabrina sleep over?”

  “Sure.”

  Vicky looks at me. “Are you coming back to our house?”

  “No,” Faye says before I can answer. “She’s not.”

  Oh. Okay, then.

  Vicky looks like she’s about to protest.

  “I have some work to get done this afternoon,” I tell her. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Wait for me in the car,” Faye says.

  The girls leave and now it’s just Faye and me.

  “Skye,” she says, her voice measured. “I’m going to make this short, because my patience is already running thin today. If you can’t act responsibly around Vicky, I can’t allow you to see her.”

  Which is totally fair.

  “Jesus, Faye,” I say. “Why are you being so dramatic?”

  She frowns. “You booed a child at a spelling bee.”

  Which is true.

  “I got a little overzealous. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  “It is to me.”

  Which is reasonable.

  “It’s not like I’m falling down drunk or something.”

  “You did almost fall down.”

  Oh, she saw that? Wow.

  “Falling down and almost falling down are two very different things,” I tell her. Which is technically true. But also stupid.

  Faye looks like she’s about to scream. “Just don’t drink at all before a school function,” she says, exasperated. “Is that really so much to ask?”

  It’s really not. And I know I should just tell her that I forgot the bee was today and then I didn’t want to let Vicky down. That I’ve been the kid who was let down and I know how much that shit sucks. That I won’t be that person, even if I’m not really Vicky’s parent. I know I should say all of that, but then I remember how Faye hasn’t even invited me into her goddamn house and, instead of saying any of that, I say, “Okay, Faye. Whatever.”

  She sighs, shakes her head, and walks away from me.

  Which is understandable.