Flying

  “You can hear me.” He laughs and claps his hands together.

  “Lucky freaking me.” I tuck down as he gets close, lift, and I am up in the air, executing a perfect freaking Arabian double front, the most impossible of girls’ gymnastics moves. I land behind him. The moment I stick my feet, the locker doors fall over and smash on top of most of Dakota’s body so that only his arm and hand stick out. I quad twist out of there, stunned.

  “How did I…? What did I…?” I cannot even speak, I am so freaked out by how good I am at gymnastics. I have never even tried those moves before. And I went so high. Plus, Dakota is smooshed beneath the lockers, and that is totally freak-out worthy.

  China stands there for just a second, examining Dakota’s hand and the lockers. He must have been hiding behind them. Another second passes and then he’s yanking Dakota out, twisting him facedown on the floor, face in the jockstrap, arms behind him. I cannot believe I was considering him as a potential boyfriend. I shudder.

  China orders, “Give me that cell phone.”

  “What?”

  “The cell phone. On the floor. Give it to me.”

  “Now isn’t really a good time to check Facebook,” I quip, but I shuffle over and grab it. Then I just sort of stand there holding it, because the guy now has both hands around Dakota-who-is-no-longer-a-love-interest’s throat. I swallow hard. “This is too weird. This afternoon I was failing my computer science test and now it’s all Attack of Dakota the Acid-Tongued Douchebag.”

  He ignores my delightful commentary and just orders me to “Open it up. Press Star and throw it at me. Do not miss.”

  “Throw it at you?”

  “Yes! Now!”

  I open it up. I press the Star key, and throw. It smashes into his back, and then comes this noise, a horrible shrill noise like five thousand mosquitoes. Then—poof!—they are gone. Just gone.

  Holy crap.

  Holy …

  Holy …

  I think that I swear aloud, whipping my head around, searching, searching for them, trying to figure out what happened. A little green fluid rests on the floor. Staggering against the wall, I replay the last few minutes in my head. Seriously. How did I do that? Jump like that? Leap?

  I have to try again. I attempt to think of a stunt harder than the Arabian double front. And I come up with a piked double with a full twist. It’s a men’s Olympic gymnastics move. I should not attempt it.

  I attempt it, launching up without even a lead-in tumbling run for power. My feet slam a hole in the ceiling because I go so high, but I do it, and land it. Perfectly.

  I think I swear again, a really good swear this time, but I’m not sure, because right then Lyle and Sheriff’s Deputy Troy Bagley rush in. Bagley looks as though he has maybe run down the hallway and it’s not going well because he has had one too many donuts, because he’s covered in sweat, all red-faced, and his hand is on his gun.

  “Freeze,” he yells. “Hands where I can see them!”

  Which does he want me to do? I pick freeze and have second thoughts, so then I put my hands up. I freeze again.

  Lyle makes big eyes, and judging from the way his hands have clenched into fists, gives the impression that he is super stressed or maybe angry or maybe both.

  “Where are they?” Bagley demands. He waits a second. He holsters his gun. “What the hell happened in here?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, which is totally true.

  “We heard voices,” Lyle says. “And you didn’t follow me.”

  I shrug, but keep my hands in the air, which is pretty awkward. A little voice in my head says, Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.

  This voice, fortunately, is female, and my own.

  Bagley waddles over to me. He is staring me up and down, not in a dirty way but in an annoyed, I-know-you’re-lying cop way. My stomach folds in half somehow, or at least it feels that way, like it does a back tuck all by itself.

  I gawk at Lyle, pleading for him to help me. He does not get it and says, “I mean, I really thought I heard yelling in here.”

  Bagley nods. “Me too.”

  “They’re not in here,” I say, and I drop my hands to my sides. For a second I want to tell them that Dakota Dunham had this freak lizard acid-tongue thing going on and that they Star Trekked out of the locker room and vanished, but Deputy Bagley is a pretty old-boy, I-eat-donuts kind of cop, and I do not want to go to the hospital for a psych evaluation. So I just add, “I swear. I would be all over them if they were.”

  Bagley eyes me as if I have no fighting skills at all, which I can understand, because I kind of don’t. “Where else could they go?”

  “The boys’ locker rooms?”

  He nods. “I’ll check there. This guy, can you describe him?”

  “Tall. Leather jacket. Sunglasses. Dark movie-star hair. White with a tan.”

  “And he was taking a student?”

  I focus on Lyle. “Dakota Dunham. The drummer. For pep band.”

  “You’re sure?” Bagley asks in a fast staccato way, already heading toward the door.

  “Yes.”

  He yanks the door open and says, “You sure you didn’t see Dakota in here? Maybe have a little altercation? Lovers’ spat?”

  I cross my arms in front of my uniform. “No. Why?”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “There’s pepper spray on the floor and your leg is bleeding. Every single row of lockers is knocked down.”

  I touch my leg. Blood comes back on my fingers. Lyle sucks in a breath and comes all the way into the locker room, yanking some paper towels out of the holder and pressing them on my leg as I stare at Deputy Bagley and Deputy Bagley stares at me.

  “Well?” he says, putting his hand on his hip by his billy club.

  “I thought they were hiding in here, and I pulled out Seppie’s pepper spray from her bag and bashed into the bench,” I lie. “It started a chain reaction with the lockers.”

  “And the hole in the ceiling?” he asks.

  “I was clumsy.”

  He doesn’t believe me. I can tell. His hand flexes and then latches into his belt. “You? Clumsy?”

  “I was scared,” I say.

  “And the mess? The hole?”

  “It was there when I got here,” I say, trying to make my voice all cheerleader sweet and little-girl helpless, which totally works on guys like Deputy Bagley, usually, even if I am sort of changing my story. “Tell me if you find them, please. Okay? And hurry?”

  He nods and says, “Obviously.”

  “And I am not a couple with Dakota!” I add, and try not to shudder at the thought, which would have been a fine thought before the whole racist, acid-tongue stuff.

  “Mm-hmm. I’ll be back to question you.” Deputy Bagley raises his hands up in the air like he has heard it all before, and then he’s out the door, leaving just Lyle and me in the locker room. Lyle bends down and wipes the blood from my leg with his hand. I resist the urge to sink my fingers into his hair and stroke his head like he’s some kind of puppy dog. Wow, there is something wrong with me. Maybe I’m in shock?

  “You want to tell me what happened?” he asks, calm again, normal Lyle.

  “You would not believe it.” I stagger away and sit on the bench.

  “Try me.”

  I would tell him, but I think I actually am in shock. And how could he possibly believe me? I don’t even know if I believe me. “There are blood spots on my shoe. There is a gash in the side of my calf. I don’t even know how I got it. Oh, my God. I sound so pouty. Plus, I’m covered in baby powder!”

  Lyle throws me his most intense facial expression, which I think he has modeled after one of the guys on Game of Thrones. “What happened to Dakota?”

  I throw my hands up in the air. “I’m not sure.”

  “Mana…” He gives me this look, this absolute Lyle look that’s a cross between a boy you lust after smiling at you and your grandfather telling you that in his day people didn’t evade the truth. “Did he hurt you? I will kill
him if he hurt you. You can tell me. We can go get Deputy Bagley right now.”

  “No! Why would you even think that?”

  “You’re bleeding, and there are obvious signs of a fight.” His voice softens. He is so calm and stable, so forward moving. “Please tell me.”

  My voice comes out tiny and weak. “You won’t believe me.”

  “Try me.” He pushes the paper towels back on my leg, which is now starting to hurt. “I mean, something obviously happened. Lockers are everywhere, there’s a hole in the ceiling, you’re all cut up … Seppie’s pepper spray is on the floor. And I swear I heard yelling.”

  “We should pick that up.” I motion to the mess.

  “You’re changing the subject—”

  “I know, but—”

  “And you’re shaking.” He waits. He gently wipes at my leg. “You might need stitches.”

  “I do not need stitches.” My voice softens. He is helping me. He does this to animals at the wildlife refuge, too, for his summer job, so I shouldn’t think too much of this, right? It’s just his nature to care. He probably feels the same way for me as he does for an injured moose.

  “You’re just afraid of hospitals.”

  “I am not afraid of hospitals.” I quake though, even as I say it. Most of my nightmares involve hospital-type rooms with creepy, big-eyed doctors.

  “Right. Like the time you broke your ankle when you missed the mat, learning your back tucks, and we had to pry your fingers off because you were hanging on to the edge of the car door, and then you still wouldn’t go and we had to carry you into the emergency room and you kicked me.”

  I glare at the floor. Sometimes having best friends stinks because, well, they just know too much. “That was seventh grade. I cannot be responsible for events that occurred before puberty.”

  Lyle’s hand with the paper towels eases the dirt away from my leg while his other hand maintains pressure. “Okay. No hospitals if you tell me what’s going on.”

  My eyes meet his eyes. “Fine.”

  Outside, the basketball teams smash through the corridor back to the courts. I haul in a breath and say, “They disappeared. There was this fight. Before that, Dakota was tied up. Sunglasses Guy didn’t want me to get the pepper spray. Then I let Dakota free, which was stupid, I now realize, because Dakota had this weird tongue thing and it sprayed acid. He pretty much knocked down all the lockers while I ran on top. And, oh, the most awesome thing of all of this was I was doing these ridiculous gymnastics moves. They were amazing and the sunglasses guy made me throw his cell phone at him, and when I did, they both just disappeared.”

  Lyle’s mouth sharpens into a straight line. His hands stop moving. “Mana…”

  “What?”

  “Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I think you have a concussion.” He puts his face an inch away from mine and stares hard into my eyes.

  “What are you doing?” I lean away.

  He follows me and says, “Seeing if your pupils are the same size.”

  “I don’t have a concussion!” I stand up and storm away. Pain scissors down my leg.

  Lyle runs after me and wraps his arm around my waist, which feels much sexier than it should. “Yes, you do. That guy obviously whacked you in the head. You should sit down. You might pass out.”

  “I am not going to pass out.”

  “I think you are.”

  “Lyle, cut it out!”

  He pulls me toward the bench. “Sit down, Mana.”

  “Dakota disappeared. I swear. It was like some sort of sci-fi movie. It was insane, but that’s what happened, and I don’t need to sit down!” I yell as he shoves me back down again.

  “Watch.” I make myself break out of his grip normally and calmly, standing up slowly and waving off his arms. “Watch what I can do.”

  No tumbling run again. Just a launch, and I’m up into a quad twist, a men’s gymnastics move that is level ten or beyond, really, and smack—my feet punch another hole in the ceiling during the last rotation. Poor Deputy Bagley. That’s going to be hard to explain in his report. Then I’m down, sticking the landing, staring into Lyle’s astonished face.

  “What the hell?” He grabs my hands in his. I like how his fingers feel.

  “I know, right?”

  “Holy … Wow, that’s hot,” he blurts.

  “I know, right? Wait. Really? You think it’s hot?” I blurt right back.

  Just then, the locker-room door opens and Mrs. Bray, our cheering coach, barges inside. Her face is all twisted up with rage. Her pudgy hands go to her waist. “The game is back on. You should both be out there right now. And what in heaven’s name are you doing in the girls’ locker room, Lyle? Oh! The lockers! Oh, heavens! Are those holes in the ceiling?”

  Lyle backs away from me and holds up his bloody hands, trying to calm Mrs. Bray down. “Mana got hurt.”

  Mrs. Bray gasps and turns white. She and blood do not get along. One time I came down funky from a twist and knocked Seppie’s nose with my shin, and it started bleeding all over the mat. Mrs. Bray passed out.

  “Oh, don’t pass out, Mrs. Bray,” I say, rushing toward her.

  But of course she doesn’t listen. No way. Because that would be what would happen on a good day, and today is definitely not that.

  CHAPTER 3

  It takes almost an entire quarter to revive Mrs. Bray, find Deputy Bagley—who tells me we need to make an appointment to talk—and for things to straighten out again. The game continues on, with Thomas being his superstar-point- guard self and making Seppie swoon silently. We crush Central. All is good.

  But it’s not, because I keep remembering what I saw and what I did.

  “It’s time to start…”

  How can someone spit acid?

  “A new tradition…”

  Or vanish?

  “The Knights are back…”

  I mean, Dakota and that guy vanished—just—poof!—gone. And I leaped around like I was in Cirque du Soleil.

  “And we’re on a mission.”

  Lyle peeks over at me, even though we are supposed to be staring straight ahead like good little cheerleaders.

  “The time has come. What more can we say?”

  I wink at him to show I am not concussed.

  “West High. Falcons. We’ll blow…”

  We all blow a kiss. I blow mine at him. His face actually flushes.

  “… you away!”

  Right at the buzzer, Thomas sinks a three-pointer from way outside the curving red line. The moment we’re all done yelling and applauding for the boys and their collective glory, we head to the locker rooms to change. Seppie jerks me aside, bringing me over by the rows of sinks, and gets all demanding. She yanks her braids out of the elastic that was holding them all into one thick ponytail and grunts at me. “What is going on?”

  I shrug. I do not want to get into it with Seppie, because Seppie is the sort of person who never believed in Santa, not even when she was two. She’s the sort of person who doesn’t believe in true love. She believes in endorphin rushes and hormonal surges. She is not the type of person who is going to believe in disappearing men, or boys with acid-tongue spitting abilities.

  So I answer her the only way I can. “Nothing.”

  “Okay, right.” She starts anger-bopping her head at me. Her nails scratch lightly into my upper arm. “You don’t have a big gash in your leg. You and Lyle weren’t hanging out alone together in the locker room. And Mrs. Bray did not pass out.”

  “Random stuff.” I pull my arm away and check out my reflection in the mirror. I’m pale, way too pale, and there are ugly splotches under my eyes.

  “Don’t you ignore me, Mana.” She shoves her face right above mine. Her jaw rests on the top of my head, and when she talks, it moves against my hair. “You were off in the cheers, like, a beat behind, and so was Lyle.”

  “That has to be one of the seven deadly sins, right there. P
ure evidence of brain trauma,” I quip.

  “Shut up. For a cheerleader it is. You’re never off.”

  “Lyle thinks I have a concussion,” I admit, because sometimes it’s better to give a nugget of truth instead of just denying everything.

  “Do you?”

  It would be better to pretend I did, better than trying to explain, so I sigh and say, “Okay, maybe.”

  She steers me to the bench and sits me down.

  “Do not change your clothes,” she orders. “I’m getting Lyle and we’re getting out of here.”

  My hand touches my too-fast heart. “Out of here sounds good.”

  She thumbs-ups at me, all in-charge doctor’s daughter. She scoots past the fund-raising food table, where the leftover moms of freshmen who don’t have cars are tidying up and waiting for their kids. Our chocolate-covered pretzels are still there; most of them sold, of course. Who can resist a chocolate-covered pretzel? Not my mom. Usually she eats any that don’t sell. There are a few pretzels slanted and leaning against the rim of the container. They seem abandoned, unwanted, and yummy.

  “Hey!” I yell after Seppie. “Did you see my mom anywhere?”

  She thinks for a second and says, “No. Weird.”

  If she only knew the things I could tell her about weird.

  * * *

  People are always trying to protect me. I think it’s because I am the flyer. I get thrown around, flipped in twisting tosses, held up in the air, grasped and cradled when I dismount. Seppie and Lyle are my bases, my foundation; they catch me, refuse to let me crash to the mat. They keep me safe when we stunt, and they sometimes get carried away and do it with our lives, which is usually annoying, but tonight … tonight I just let it happen.

  Seppie feeds me Advil in the car. Lyle checks my leg gash and my pupils. He takes my pulse.

  “It’s a bit high, but I think she’s good to go.” He makes this funny motion with his hand. “Of course, I’m a cheerleader, Jim. Not a doctor.”

  “Star Trek references now … nice,” I mutter. “Next, you’ll just have a little plaque on your forehead with a constantly running red digital readout that says GEEK ALERT.”

  “Hey. I wouldn’t talk,” Lyle says, eyes flashing with happiness. “You got the reference.”