me.
But then my wings catch and open. My body wrenches down like a skydiver’s when the parachute finally deploys. I wobble awkwardly in the air, trying to get my balance.
My wings strain to bear my weight, but they hold me. I sweep out and away from Inspiration Point, carried by the wind.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. I suddenly feel so incredibly light, relieved that I’m not going to die, high on adrenaline and the pure thrill of feeling the cold air holding me, lifting me. It’s the best feeling of my life, bar none. “I’m flying!”
Of course, I’m not flying so much as coasting over the treetops like a hang glider or a freakishly large flying squirrel. I think the birds in the area are dying laughing watching me try not to crash. So I’m not a natural, not some beautiful angelic being winging my way heavenward. But I haven’t died yet, which I consider a plus.
I push down with my wings once, trying to go higher. Instead I swoop farther downward over the trees until my feet nearly brush the top branches. I try to remember a single thing I’ve learned in all those hours in aerodynamics class, but I can’t translate any of that stuff about planes — lift, thrust, drag — to what my wings are doing in this moment. Flying in real life isn’t a mathematical equation. Anytime I try to change direction I overdo it and careen around wildly in the air and my life flashes before my eyes before I get it all under control again. The best I can do for now is to flap every now and then and angle my wings to keep me in the air.
I come to the lake. As I pass over it, my reflection is a blur of shining white on the dark moon-touched surface. For a moment I see myself as the pelican skimming the water. I sweep down and feel the lake’s coolness ripple through my fingers. I’m dancing with the sparkles of the moon. I laugh.
Chapter 14
The Jumping Tree
My seventeenth birthday is June 20. That morning I wake up to a completely empty house. Mom’s back in California for the week, working. Jeffrey’s been pretty much AWOL the entire week. He just passed Driver’s Ed and got his day license (when he learned that in Wyoming, fifteen-year-olds can legally drive during the day, he was even more over California), and I haven’t seen much of him since — he’s too busy cruising around Jackson in his new car, compliments of my dad. My only clue that he’s still alive is the growing pile of dishes accumulating in the sink.
For the first time that I can remember there won’t be a party on my birthday. No cake. No presents. Mom gave me a gift before she went off to California, a sunshine yellow sundress that rustles against my calves when I walk. I love the dress, but standing in my bedroom looking at it on the hanger, such a sweet, perfect dress for a birthday party or a date or a night out, I’m instantly depressed. I go downstairs and sit at the kitchen counter munching Cheerios, feeling even sadder that there’s no banana to slice up into my cereal, and turn on our small kitchen television to watch the news.
The reporter’s talking about what a dry season it’s been in Jackson Hole this year.
We only got two-thirds the normal amount of snowfall, she says, and the spring runoff has been pretty low. The reservoir is way down. She stands in front of the lake and motions to the low water level. You can clearly see where the water usually comes to, the color of the rocks lighter once it hits the regular waterline.
“This year’s drought may not affect us much now,” she says, staring with solemn eyes into the camera, “but as the summer progresses, the land will get drier and drier. Fires are likely to start earlier in the year, and the fires are likely to be more destructive.”
Last night I tried to fly again, this time carrying a duffel bag. I couldn’t find a better equivalent of a human being. I filled it with a bunch of cans of soup and a couple of gallons of water, along with some blankets and padding, lugged it into the backyard, and tried to take off with it. No such luck. It probably weighed half of what Christian did, if that. And I could not for the life of me get off the ground with it. All the focus that goes into making myself light so that my wings can lift me is worthless when I try to pick up something heavy. I’m too weak.
Now, as I stare at the television, which is running footage of the Jackson area’s previous forest fires, my skin prickles like the reporter is speaking directly to me. I get the message. Try harder. The fire’s coming soon. I have to be ready.
I spend the morning painting my toenails and watching daytime TV. I should get out, I tell myself, but I can’t think of anywhere to go that won’t make me feel even more pathetically lonely.
Around noon there’s a knock on the door. I don’t expect to see Tucker Avery standing on my doorstep. But here he is, holding a shoe box under his arm. The sun’s falling directly across him.
I open the door. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He presses his lips together to keep from smiling. “Just get up?”
I realize I’m wearing a very dopey pair of pink plaid pajamas with the word PRINCESS embroidered across the left breast. Not my idea, these pj’s, but they’re warm and comfy. I take a step back, into the frame of the door.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
He holds out the box. “Wendy wanted me to give this to you,” he says. “Today.”
I gingerly take the shoe box out of his hand. “There’s not a snake in here, is there?”
He grins. “I guess you’ll find out.”
I start to turn back into the house. Tucker doesn’t move. I glance at him anxiously.
He’s waiting for something.
“What, you want a tip?” I ask.
“Sure.”
