“They were no trick, El ie. You are different. We are different.”
“We are not. I don’t know how you did what you did, but there’s nothing different about either of us.”
I felt Michael stare at me, and I couldn’t keep my eyes averted any longer. Even though it was fairly dark, I could see the startling greenness of his eyes. I refused to let them unnerve me, so I met his gaze. He released my hand. Then, very deliberately, he walked to the edge of the cliff and looked out at the ocean.
“Michael, what are you doing?” I was fuming, but I didn’t want him to do anything crazy.
Twisting toward me, he asked, “Are you so sure that your flying is just part of a dream? That you are just a regular girl?”
When I didn’t answer, Michael turned back to the sea. He stood frozen for a moment, a black silhouette against the remnants of the simmering crimson sky. For a second, I thought he wanted a moment alone, to cool off. So I walked away from him, in the direction of the car, and then turned to see if he fol owed.
But Michael hadn’t fol owed me. He hadn’t even looked back at me. Instead, in that moment, he stretched out his arms and dove off the cliff.
I lunged for him, but I was too far away. Only the precipice stopped me. Frantic, I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled to the very edge. I scanned the cliff and beach below, but could make out nothing but the blue- gray rocks and the white sand. And then I screamed.
Within seconds, the shock subsided and the obvious occurred to me. I needed to go back down there to search the cliff side and beach for signs of Michael. He could be hurt, or worse, given the sixty-foot drop. The very thought of “worse” started me crying. I felt so guilty, as if my lack of faith in him had pushed him over.
But tears wouldn’t bring him back. So I wiped my face and struggled to my feet. Just as I was about to head down the path, I felt someone tap my shoulder. I turned around, thinking that some passerby had heard my screams. I welcomed the help. But I was wrong.
Chapter Twelve
It was Michael.
Michael. Alive. Unhurt.
I could have kil ed him.
“How could you do that to me?” I yel ed.
He had the audacity to smile. “Do what? Fly?”
“Trick me!”
I spun around, away from him and toward the car. Of course he had tricked me. The pieces al fit together. He had brought me to this secluded spot with this whole scheme mapped out to make me believe some crazy fantasy about our shared “difference,” whatever that was. And as a last-ditch attempt to convince me, he staged a “flight,” real y a premeditated jump into some cliff-side niche he obviously knew wel , fol owed by a
“magical” reappearance. Why he had gone to al the trouble, I didn’t know. Clearly, he didn’t need to resort to sleight of hand to get me.
“Boy, this sure isn’t going the way I’d hoped,” I heard him mutter to himself.
I kept walking.
“El ie, it was no trick. Surely you must know that the only way I’d survive a leap like that is by flying. I thought you needed to see the truth to believe what I’ve been tel ing you.”
I stood by the passenger car door, waiting for him to open the lock with his keys. I didn’t look at him or speak. I could see that any effort would be of no use; he was going to stick with his story regardless. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was sit alone in a car with him, but I had no choice. I wanted to go home.
He kept on trying to explain himself—“ourselves,” he kept repeating—on the ride. But I literal y couldn’t hear him. I clung to my anger at him as a way of blocking him out. Of blocking out whatever feelings I stil had for him and whatever truth might lie deep within his words.
I didn’t bother to say good-bye as I got out of the car. Instead, I ran to my front door and closed it behind me. The compulsion to race up the stairs to my bedroom and bury myself under my quilt was strong. I just wanted to forget—about the night, about Michael, about al the weirdness—and awaken to a fresh, new day. But my parents were waiting for me in the kitchen.
“Where have you been, El speth?” my dad asked in an alarmed voice I’d never heard from him before. And he used “El speth”—which he never, ever did.
“At the library.”
“Real y?” Now it was my mom’s turn to use a total y foreign, troubled tone.
“Real y.”
“Is there anything you want to tel us, El speth?” It was my dad’s turn again.
“No,” I answered. But as I uttered my denial, I remembered that I had told them that I’d be at the library after school with Ruth. And I never cal ed Ruth to tel her that I wouldn’t be there, that I’d be with Michael instead.
I knew what my mom would say before she said it. “Then why did Ruth cal here over two hours ago looking for you—from the library?”
I gave the only excuse that I could in the circumstances, even though it created its own host of problems. “I was at the library, Mom. But with Michael, not with Ruth. And then we left to get a cup of coffee.”
“The boy from the other night? The boy from Guatemala?” my mom asked.
“Yes.”
My parents exchanged a glance I couldn’t read.
