Everton Miles Is Stranger Than Me Page 10

  I’m so engrossed (I’m reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn again) that I hardly notice when the library starts to get busy with after-school kids. I also don’t notice when a person stands in front of me and clears their throat. Twice.

  Finally I do notice and look up.

  Martin stands in front of me. “Hi, can I sit down?”

  I wave my hand at a chair, and he drops into it. He looks bigger, more substantial, but maybe it’s his huge winter coat. He pulls a bunch of paper out of his backpack, followed by our science textbook.

  “Planets this week. You should start reading. I can help.” He shoves the book at me, and I groan.

  “Thanks, Martin, but not today.” He looks crestfallen.

  “Okay, I tell you what. We’ll start tutoring next week. Really, Martin, I appreciate the help.”

  “Okay, next week.” He grins a little, then he clears his throat. He’s not finished.

  “What?”

  “I thought I should tell you, I actually came looking for you to tell you, and Jez said you’d be here. Mr. McGillies is in the hospital.” I don’t think my face changes at all, but my stomach drops at the name.

  “It’s mostly for tests,” he adds quickly. “I think he should be home by next week. I’m going to visit him tomorrow. Do you want to come?”

  “No, no thanks. Maybe some other time.” How could I possibly go and visit Mr. McGillies in the hospital, knowing what I know? But since we’re on the topic of Mr. McGillies, I see my chance to do a little probing.

  “Why do you do so much for him, Martin? Why do you care what happens to him?”

  Martin shrugs. “We’re friends. I used to play chess with him here on Saturdays when I was a kid. My mom would dump me at the library all day so she could go shopping or meet with her knitting group or whatever, and I’d get lonely sitting here for hours. Mr. McGillies was always here too, and one afternoon he taught me checkers, then after a while we started playing chess. For years I came to the library every weekend to lose at that chess table right there.” Martin points over at a table where two old men are intently bent over chess pieces.

  “Mr. McGillies is a fantastic chess player, bet you didn’t know that. I heard from one of the librarians that he was a national champion once when he was young. I really looked forward to our chess games, then we had to stop last summer because he got sick.”

  First Miss Moreau tells me Mr. McGillies was a famous artist and taught art classes to kids, and now Martin says he was a national chess champion?

  Martin looks a little sad then says, “I hope he gets to go back and sit in the bottle garden when the summer comes.” He doesn’t say, “If he lives that long.”

  But he’s thinking it. We both are.

  We change the subject and talk about school and Mr. Tupperman, then Martin gets out his phone and calls Jez (because I know her number) and Everton (because he knows Everton’s number). My friends, our friends, come and join us at the library for a while. Then we drift over to The Float Boat and talk and eat until Mrs. Forest gently tells us she’s going to bed. After that, we move on to Miles Motors down the street. The four of us sit in the mechanic shop window with a table and a candle and talk for hours. Martin and Everton are polite enough not to talk about Abilith and what happened out at the cabin, so my lying to Jez never comes up, although I feel bad about it. It’s clearer and clearer that I have to tell her the truth, soon. I will. First chance I get.

  But for tonight, we’re just four normal teenagers talking. It’s really late by the time Everton and Martin walk Jez and me home. I tease them that they have to get up for school, but I don’t.

  Hanging out with my oldest friend Jez, friending Everton, and re-friending Martin isn’t that hard.

  Therapy, though, that’s going to be much, much harder.

  Twenty-Eight

  I have to go to my first therapy session any minute.

  My mother and I have managed an uneasy truce. I apologize for breaking the teacup (although I hate to admit how long it takes me), and she is kind enough about it, although it was her favourite.

  “You have a bad temper, Gwendolyn, and so did your dad. I know you don’t want to talk about him, but you may actually find that it helps once you get to know Adam … Dr. Parks … a little.”

  So this morning before she leaves the house, I ask Mom what Dr. Adam Parks does with C2 for an hour every week. Her answer is not reassuring.

  “They colour pictures and form clay. They make crazy worlds out of trains and figures, or dance around the room to cool drum music.” I have no idea what my face does when she tells me this, but she bursts out laughing.

  “What?” Drum music?

  “Don’t worry, Gwen, I’m pretty sure he won’t be asking you to dance around.” Then she gets serious. “I know you don’t want to go. But lots of people go to therapy, families, kids, adults. You can say whatever you want, and I never have to know what you say to him, unless you want to tell me. This is about you Gwen, no one else, it’s a chance to tell someone how you feel about things.”

  I scowl. How dare she assume I feel anything at all?

  She takes my hand. “I’m sorry I can’t come with you, but I can’t take any more time off work. Will you be okay? Take Jez for moral support.”

  I nod. I shrug. I’m pleased that my mother has forgiven me for breaking the cup, and she isn’t giving me a hard time about getting suspended or the fact that she has to pay for the therapy (it’s not cheap), so I can’t get too mad at her. She squeezes my hand, and for a second I squeeze back, then she has to go to work.

  After school, Jez comes by my house, and we walk together to the clinic. I’ve decided that my body can show up since it has to, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be there.

  We walk along the busy streets. There are only a few weeks left before the winter holiday, and people drive through town with Christmas trees tied to their cars. Holiday music belts out from the stores, and when we pass the library, the people who run the homeless shelter are out front collecting for the poor. The grocery store parking lot is jammed.

  Jez chats away with her arm linked through mine. She tells me about the date she went on with the short boy from her math class, Prentice somebody. What a weird name, I think. We get closer and closer to the clinic, and I’m more and more nervous. Finally, I can’t stand it another second.

  “Look, Jez, there’s something I haven’t told you.” I look into my friend’s eyes, and I feel suddenly very sad that I haven’t told her about the Rogue. Odd that I chose to tell Everton the truth instead of her. Even Martin knows more than she does.

  “Is it about Everton?” she asks.

  “Kind of. It’s more about the Night Flyers around here, and something else. Something bad.” She looks bewildered.

  “What does that mean? Are you in trouble, Gwen?” Jez is so up-front, her face is so open. No more lies, so I just tell her. I tell her about Abilith, about Everton, about the bottle garden and Martin. I even tell her about Celestine. I tell her everything except what Abilith showed me. For some reason Everton is the only one I want to share that with. And as we walk along the slippery sidewalk, she just listens. She hears me out, until suddenly we find ourselves in front of the clinic.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I mumble. She sighs and looks at me with a flash of something, dis-appointment and sadness more than anger, I think. I’ve never seen that look on my best friend’s face before, and I hope I never do again. She’s quiet for a moment then speaks with the greatest dignity, like a queen.

  “That sounds horrifying, but I’m not going to pretend I’m not hurt. You used to tell me everything.” It’s the closest Jez has ever come to getting mad at me. She looks puzzled and sad. I mumble sorry again, then Jez gives me a hug, and that’s that. The truth is out. Most of it, anyway.

  “Do you want me to s
tay?” she asks, looking up at the clinic stairs. I know that she would. Despite everything, she’ll wait on hard, bum-rotting chairs if I ever need her to.

  I smile. “No. Thanks, though.” She heads down the street and tells me to call her when I get home. I register with the lady at the desk and then, before I can sit down, Dr. Adam Parks calls me into his office.

  I walk in, and there’s no drum music playing, or none that I can detect. I perch in an overstuffed armchair next to the door, and he sits on the other side of the round table, which I notice he’s cleared of blocks and snap-together toys. The only things on the table are a thick pad of paper and a few pens.

  “Well, this probably isn’t the way you were expecting to meet again, is it?” he says when we’re settled.

  “No.” Monosyllables. That’ll work. Here in body only.

  He pauses.

  “Gwendolyn, in here you can talk about anything, it doesn’t have to be about fighting at school. We can talk about music. Snow. Friends. Books. It’s up to you.”

  I must perk up at the word “books,” because next he says, “Books then?” He gets up and strides over to a bookcase against the wall, reaching high and low, and comes back with four books.

  The first two are romance stories I wouldn’t touch with a pool pole. He shows me the covers, then judges my look and says, “Okay, no. What about these?”

  He drops a book on the table. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

  Then he drops another. A Wrinkle in Time.

  I stare at the cover of Huckleberry Finn. How odd. I had a library copy of this book in my backpack the first time I came in here, but he didn’t see it. I haven’t stopped reading it since. The cover of this copy is interesting. It has a boy and a man on a raft, floating down a wide river at sunset. The cover of A Wrinkle in Time has a winged centaur creature flying around some very tall, icy mountains, which is also intriguing. This book has been on my mental “to-be-read” list for a while.

  Well played, Dr. Adam Parks.

  “I’ll start with Huckleberry Finn,” I say. He goes to his desk and puts on some soft music, which doesn’t appear to have any drums, it’s mostly guitar.

  “Why don’t you read for a few minutes, then we’ll talk about the book.” Then he sits and reads his own book, which is something about child psychology. It’s almost as thick as the Night Flyer’s Handbook. I open the first page of Huckleberry Finn. It has “Adam Parks” scrawled on it in youngish writing, like he couldn’t have been more than about ten when he wrote it.

  Then I start to read. I’ve already read this book cover-to-cover twice, but he doesn’t need to know that. Huck isn’t like anyone else. If he were around today, he’d be a ward of the state, living in foster homes without anyone who really understood him. Although I might.

  I’m at the part where Huck’s no-good dad is paddling across the water fully intending to kill him, a part that always worried me, when Dr. Adam Parks stands up and says, “Time’s up, Gwendolyn. Actually, it was up about five minutes ago. I didn’t want to stop you.”

  It’s so jarring to have to stop when you’re right in the middle of a great sentence that I finish reading the page before I look up. My face is flushed, and I think he can tell that my heart is pounding.

  “What’s going on with Huck?” he asks, taking a seat across the table.

  “He’s got a crazy dad.”

  “He does.” There’s a long silence, so I look up at the ceiling and listen to the gentle guitar music.

  “He’ll be okay, though,” I say after what seems like far too much silence. I want to wait Dr. Adam Parks out, but he’s good at sitting still. Better than me.

  “That’s an interesting thought. Does he seem like anyone you know?”

  For the strangest reason, Shelley Norman’s face flashes into my head.

  “Maybe?” I say this hopefully. I’ve never been that great in English class, and I’m not used to talking about books. To my relief, Dr. Adam Parks nods.

  “Books can remind us of people we know. I think that’s what makes a book a classic. We may even see ourselves.” This hits me hard. Huck floats downriver with Jim, just like Everton and I float over our town. Huck’s dad dies. Everton and I know what that’s like. He’s right. I do see someone I know in Huck.

  Then we really start to talk about books. About my favourites (the boy wizard books — I leave out Huckleberry Finn for now), about what scenes I like best (scenes of flying, not surprisingly, although I don’t tell him why, of course), and what I don’t like (the family scenes, when the boy wizard misses his parents). Dr. Adam Parks and I talk for what seems like a few minutes, but then I realize is over an hour.

  At some point he stands up and says we’ll have to continue the conversation next week. I put The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn on the table, and Dr. Adam Parks says, “Take it with you, Gwendolyn.”

  “I’ve already read it twice.”

  He raises an eyebrow and says, “Okay, take this one then.” He offers me A Wrinkle in Time, but that winged centaur on the cover has me weirded out.

  “Thanks, but I’m not really interested in a fantasy about flying creatures at the moment.”

  “Okay, no books this week.”

  “Thanks, Doctor,” I say.

  “It’s Adam. Just Adam. See you same time next week.” Then he shuts the door, and I run all the way home.

  Therapy session #1 survived.

  Twenty-Nine

  It’s Saturday night, and I’m in bed, flipping through the first few chapters of the Night Flyer’s Handbook. Those T. Bosch drawings call me, and I study them carefully. The Monster Meets Her End. The Misfortunes of the Night Flying Monster. I’ve carefully avoided the picture of the Rogue Spirit Flyer, Abilith, as described to T. Bosch, though.

  There’s a sudden, insistent tap, tap, tap! at my window.

  I jump.

  Get a grip on yourself! Abilith wouldn’t knock!

  I tiptoe carefully across the room and peek outside.

  It’s Everton. He’s wearing a lumberjack coat and a flap-eared hat, and he looks so hilarious floating there in workboots and a coat that I laugh. I open the window.

  “Everton, what are you doing?”

  “Come on, get your stuff on, you want to see this.” I’m standing in a flannel nightgown.

  “See what?”

  “It’s a full moon, and you want to see this. I want to take you to Mr. McGillies’s cabin.”

  “What? Are you crazy? No way!” I go to slam the window, and he stops me.

  “Gwendolyn, I promise it’s safe. But I asked Celestine to bring backup.” He looks over his shoulder, and Celestine and two Spirit Flyers float patiently beside the neighbour’s house. They look distant but mighty. Their whiteness is blinding, and each one carries feathers across their shoulders like hers, but theirs are bigger, brighter, and brilliant white. She really does look young next to her older brothers and sisters.

  Celestine raises her hand. I raise mine back.

  Greetings, Gwendolyn Golden.

  “It’s such a beautiful night, you don’t want to miss this. You’ll be totally safe. The Rogue is nowhere near us. I promise,” Everton says, and it’s all too irresistible.

  I’ve been dying to fly for weeks, but I’ve been too scared. I hesitate a moment longer, but the look on Everton’s face is so infectious that I can’t fight it. I close the window, throw on long johns, warm jeans, and a sweater, then I tiptoe downstairs and grab my down-filled jacket and my boots. I’m back upstairs and out the window in seconds.

  Everton’s right, it’s a gorgeous night. The moon is huge in a coal-black, eternal sky.

  We float past the Spirit Flyers, gracious and noble, large and bright. They fill me with warmth, and Celestine’s voice fills my head.

  Welcome to the wintery night, little golden sister. Yo
u are safe from the Rogue, do not fear. My brothers and sisters tell me that he is far, far from here. Come, fly.

  Everton and I take off over the sleeping, snowy town. The moon is so bright and huge overhead, making every snow-covered hill and tree flash with a million tiny stars of light. The Spirit Flyers are high above us almost out of sight, but I can feel them there. If I look hard enough, I think I can see them, starshot immortals keeping us safe, tracking us like satellites.

  We pick up speed at the outskirts of town, and I’m so joyful to be flying again. It feels so, so good, even if I am wearing a down-filled coat and winter boots. It’s nothing like flying in the summer. I have a brief thought that it would be an advantage to be a Night Flyer somewhere warm like Hawaii. It really would.

  Soon we see Mr. McGillies’s cabin in the distance, and I get a shiver of fear. Everton notices and comes closer to my side, and we fly quickly. As soon as I feel fear the Spirit Flyers drop into sight and my fears vanish.

  There’s no light on in the cabin for the first time I can remember.

  “Close your eyes,” Everton demands as we get closer. He takes my hand, and we descend slowly until my boots crunch on snow.

  “Open them.”

  I open my eyes and gasp. The moonlight reflects off the snow and ice-covered bottle garden. It looks like fairyland, and a breeze makes the bottle bushes gently ring.

  “The moon really makes it glow,” Everton says, pleased.

  It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. I can’t tear my eyes away.

  “Like it?”

  “How could I not like it? It’s beautiful.”

  We sit on one of the glass benches, and Everton pulls out a flask.

  He pours liquid into the lid. “It’s hot chocolate. I made it.” We sip hot chocolate and watch the moon cross the sky. We talk about school and about our friends. I tell him about therapy and Dr. Adam Parks, I even tell him about Huckleberry Finn. He tells me he went to therapy a few times after his parents died, but he hated the therapist, so he stopped going.