Chapter Fourteen
I sat up in my bed. The quilt slipped off my shoulders, but sun streamed through my bedroom windows and warmed me up. The clock flashed seven A .M. Only twenty minutes to get ready before my mom drove me to school, so I had to move fast. I was glad I didn’t have too much time to think.
Racing around, I washed my face and brushed my hair. I threw on some blush and mascara and pul ed my hair back in a ponytail. Jeans and a sweater would have to suffice, since I didn’t have the luxury of rifling through my closet for something more interesting. I could already hear my mom cal ing up to me.
Wheat toast with raspberry jam sat waiting for me on the kitchen table, along with a tal glass of orange juice. My mom hurried me along as she did every other morning; she liked to be in her office first thing. She didn’t mention the lie about the library, and I felt relieved that she didn’t seem upset anymore. We each grabbed our bags and headed for the front door.
Just before she pul ed the door open, I realized that I had left my English paper on the desk in my bedroom. I told her that I’d meet her in the car, and I ran upstairs to grab the paper. As I dashed back down the steps, I heard voices on the front porch. I opened the front door to see my mom chatting away—with Michael.
I stopped. Why was he here? I spotted the gift basket in his hands, and I surmised that this was a peace offering for his stunt—a way of buttering up my parents. Michael’s outfit—parent-friendly khakis and a rugby shirt—confirmed my suspicions, and made me wish I’d had more than twenty minutes to get myself ready.
My mom turned to me. “Look, dearest, your friend Michael brought us a present. Homemade breads.” To him, she probably sounded sweet, but I knew from the cold way she said “your friend” that the bread hadn’t won her over. She knew that it was I who had acted badly last night—not Michael
—but I’m sure she blamed him in part, for being a bad influence. My mom was way tougher than she looked, way tougher than my dad, in fact. “You must have been up al night making these. After al , you guys got back pretty late from the library.” The last dig was for both our benefits.
Michael didn’t look in my direction, but kept his focus on my mom. “Mrs. Faneuil, I have to confess that the present real y comes from my mother.
She said that I should deliver it to you with her regards.”
“How nice of her. Please pass along my thanks.” She paused. “And please tel her that we should get together soon. It’s been a long, long time.”
“I’l do that. In fact, she mentioned the same thing. That it’s been too long.”
Deftly, Michael turned the talk to our time together in Guatemala. I listened as they recal ed people and events on which I drew a complete blank.
He and I had talked about the gaps in my memory, so I didn’t feel uncomfortable with their conversation, even though it was stil troubling. My mom glanced at her watch abruptly and said we should al get going.
Final y, Michael seemed to remember me. He asked, “Mrs. Faneuil, do you mind if I take El ie to school?”
She paused for a split second that no one but me would have noticed. “No, that’s fine. Just be careful with our El ie.”
How embarrassing. “Oh, Mom—”
Michael interrupted me. “I promise, Mrs. Faneuil.”
My mom gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and watched as Michael opened the passenger door for me. I slid inside and waited for him, unsure what to say when he closed his door and we were alone.
Once he got in, he leaned over to give me a kiss. His audacity brought the right words to my lips. I wrenched away and said, “Nice move, Michael. Did you think that I’d forget to be mad about the stunt you pul ed yesterday just because you brought some bread for my mom?”
To my surprise, he smiled and said, “No, El ie, I didn’t think you’d forgive me just because my mom baked banana bread. You had every right to be angry with me; I know I scared you yesterday.”
“Good.” I sat back in my seat and crossed my arms in satisfaction. Feeling vindicated, I snuck a look at him to see how he was taking my victory.
To my irritation, he was stil smiling.
He put the key in the ignition and started the car. “However, I did think you’d forgive me because I kept my promise.”
I froze. The only promise Michael had made was to meet me this morning—and he made it in last night’s dream. I crossed my arms tightly across my chest. How could he know about that promise unless he could invade my dreams—or unless the dream itself was real? And if the dream was real, then so was the flying. And so were the visions. But I couldn’t al ow myself to play the thoughts out to their ultimate conclusion.
I said nothing as he pul ed out of my driveway and onto the street. We drove for several minutes without talking; my mind was whirring too fast for words. Could Michael real y be right?
Then, without averting his eyes from the road, he said, “I told you that the flying wasn’t a dream. It only seems that way.”
“So your flight at Ransom Beach was real? And the flying in the dream last night was real?” I whispered aloud the awful truth. They weren’t real y questions. Not anymore. But I was terribly confused. And afraid.
“Yes, El ie.” He reached over and held my hand. “We can fly. But I think it’s real y hard for our minds to accept that. So when we venture out into the night on our flights—when our bodies are compel ed to do what they are designed to do—our minds tel us that those flights are real y dreams.
Because to process them as actual flights would chal enge everything we have ever known.” He paused and looked at me. “Does that make any sense?”
“Sort of. But why was I able to wake up in bed this morning and not remember flying back from Ransom Beach last night, if the dreams are real?”
“Probably because your mind wasn’t ready to deal with the truth. And if you remembered flying back from Ransom Beach into your bedroom window and sliding into your cozy bed, it might have made your flying undeniably real.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with the truth now,” I whispered, half to myself.
Michael gripped my hand tighter. “I’l be here with you, helping you.”
I gripped his hand back. “Did you go through al this?”
“Yes. But then the truth dawned on me, and I could no longer pretend the flights were dreams.” He smiled. “Anyway, now I want them to be real.
And you wil too. You’l see.”
I felt sick to my stomach. This was al too much.
Michael saw the scared look on my face, and paused. He said, “I know it’s hard to accept right now but you and I share some extraordinary gifts.”
“I don’t know that I’d cal them ‘extraordinary.’ Or ‘gifts,’ for that matter. I think scary curses might be a better word for them.”
Michael laughed even though I wasn’t real y joking. Once he realized that I was serious, he quickly matched my mood. “Believe me, I know they can seem scary at first. But I’l be there to help you. At the beginning, I thought I was the only one with these powers, and it was real y lonely.”
A troubling thought occurred to me. “Is that why you sought me out? So you wouldn’t be alone in al this madness?”
“No, not at al .” We were almost at school, and he pul ed the car into a nearly empty parking lot adjacent to the school gym. He stopped the car, reached out for my hands, and said, “El ie, I sought you out because I was drawn to you on every level. Not just because I saw that you were like me.”
I took a good look into his green eyes, and he appeared sincere. I was relieved, but stil not total y trusting. We’d been on a rol er coaster since the moment we met.
“How did you know that you and I shared these”—I stumbled over the description—“gifts?”