Everton Miles Is Stranger Than Me Page 9

  How am I going to do nothing for two weeks? After a few days, I can’t stand the boredom.

  At the end of my first week, I go outside to take Cassie for a walk and step into a pile of snow. When did that happen? I have a momentary panic that I’ve done a Rip Van Winkle and slept for weeks or something, but a quick check of the calendar says it’s December 4th. Normal enough date for snow, I guess. I walk and wonder why schools suspend people for protecting themselves. Shelley clearly started it, and I wasn’t fighting back. I was just trying not to get killed.

  What was I supposed to do? Let her annihilate me?

  I drag my feet through the snow, and Cassie ambles along beside me. When I get back to my house, two people are standing at the doorstep.

  One is Martin with an armload of paper.

  The other is Everton.

  Martin raises his hand when he sees me, but Everton doesn’t budge. I guess my mother and the twins are out, or why would they both be shivering in the snow on the doorstep?

  Martin calls out, “Hi, Gwen!”

  “Hey,” I say. “I’m really not in the mood for company.” That sounds ruder than I intended.

  “Well, here’s your science homework. I went around to your other teachers and got their work for the week, too. You might as well not fall too far behind, right?”

  “Thanks, Martin.” I take the huge pile of papers from him.

  “I can tutor you anytime. You didn’t call.” He says this with a quick look at Everton, who still hasn’t said anything. “You should. Call. I can help.”

  Cassie licks his hand, and he has no more to say, so he says goodbye and then walks down the snowy street with his hands jammed in his coat.

  “Can I help you?” I ask Everton, who is like a tall, dark brick in the wall.

  “Do you want to go for a drive?”

  “You can drive?” I ask, surprised. “Where to?”

  He rubs his shoulders against the wall he’s been holding up.

  “A place I like.”

  I hesitate for a second.

  “What about … Abilith,” I say, dropping my voice.

  “Celestine and a friend.” Everton points over his shoulder. I notice two shimmers of golden light on the roof that grow and shrink. For a second the shimmers turn into Celestine and another Spirit Flyer who looks very solemn and frankly a bit angry, like he’d rather not be here.

  “Hi, Celestine,” I say feeling very, very strange about talking to a Spirit Flyer chaperone at my front door. But the thought of getting out of my house and doing something with another human does appeal.

  Hello, little golden sister. The Rogue is being hunted across the galaxy by my brothers and sisters. I will know if he is near. And I shall protect you.

  “Thank you, Celestine,” I say in my most polite voice. Part of me wants to point out that the last time I thought she was protecting me, I got swept away by the Rogue. But to be fair, I’m still not sure she was there that night. She’s very obviously here now, plus there’s the angry-looking Spirit Flyer, too.

  “Okay, Everton, let’s go.”

  I take Cassie into the house and feed her. I leave a note for my mom that I’m with Everton on a drive and won’t be late (I don’t mention Celestine, although I briefly consider it). If she wants to keep in constant contact with me, she should get me a phone. Everton stands slumped on the mat at the front door with his hands jammed in his pockets until I’m ready.

  He leads me through the snow to the sidewalk and to his “car,” which is a car only in name. It looks like a tin can on wheels. I’ve never seen this kind of car before.

  “What is this?” I ask, backing away.

  “My car. It’s really old. My brother keeps it running. It passed the safety inspection. Barely.” He grins.

  “If you’re old enough to drive, why are you in grade ten?” I ask to avoid getting in the car for as long as possible.

  He shrugs. “I failed grade five.” He grins again, and I think, Fine, Everton. Whatever. I climb in and slam the door as hard as I can. It doesn’t fall off — a good start.

  “Does it have heat?”

  He laughs and starts the engine, and we drive along the snowy streets to the edge of town. The car does have heat, and soon it’s pretty cozy. It feels fantastic to be going somewhere and to know that Spirit Flyers will watch out for me somewhere in the heavens above. I fiddle with the radio until I find music and watch the headlights catch the snowbanks at the edge of the road. Everton hasn’t said much. It’s a cold early evening. Soon it’ll be dark.

  “Where are we going?” I ask after a little while, but he just smiles at me.

  “You’ll see. Mr. McGillies isn’t getting better,” he says, his eyes on the road. I nod.

  “Thanks for telling me.” I can’t think about Mr. McGillies right now. The image of my dad’s feet flying up into the Shade pops into my head. I stare out the window.

  “And I broke up with Shelley, she thinks because of you. I probably mentioned you once too often.” He looks over at me for a second.

  “That was stupid,” I say. “But it probably explains why she tried to kill me in gym class. I can thank you for my suspension in that case.”

  Everton smiles, and I grimly smile back.

  We drive along slowly. Everton is a good driver, and I feel pretty comfortable in his tin-can-on-wheels. We don’t talk much, and after about an hour we turn off the highway into a parking lot with a sign that that says, “SCENIC LOOKOUT.”

  I can see why he likes this spot.

  We park at the edge of the enormous lake. Beside us is the black water. The ice at the shore has formed into hills and pointed mountains that look like an alien landscape. The stars are bright up in the dark sky. I see a flutter of white feathers. Celestine shows herself for a second, perched like a statue on a nearby bank of snow, and then she vanishes to a gentle golden glimmer. A second golden glimmer lands beside her.

  Off in the distance is the big city like a necklace of pearls, all lit up and glowing along the shore.

  It’s incredibly beautiful.

  “The city looks a little like Mr. McGillies’s bottle garden,” I say, and Everton nods. We watch the far-off city for a long time. Everton keeps the car running and the heater on for a while, and we talk. I realize that I’ve missed talking to humans this week. Cassie hardly counts, and as much as I love Jez, she did all the talking and I did all the lying.

  At first Everton talks about his life in the city.

  “I’ve never met another Night Flyer even close to my age before,” he says. This surprises me.

  “Really? I’m the first?” He nods.

  “It was pretty lonely in the city, actually, just me and thousands of other teenagers, and I was the only Night Flyer. I wanted to fly so badly all the time, but Emerson wouldn’t let me. It’s not like here. There are people everywhere in the city. There was nowhere safe to fly. You’re lucky.”

  It just never occurred to me that there might be a reason I was lucky to live in a small town. I do have to be careful when I fly, but so far no one’s ever seen me.

  “I think it’s one of the reasons I fought so much in school. I got kicked out of high school for fighting.”

  “YOU were suspended?”

  He nods. “At first, yes. Then when I couldn’t stop fighting, I got expelled. Out. Gone forever.”

  “They can do that?” I ask, a little shocked.

  “Yep, I just moved from one school to the next until I ran out of schools. I couldn’t stop fighting. It’s actually pretty hard to stop once you start. That’s why we’re here in your lovely town. Well, one of the reasons.” He plays with the radio for a minute, but he can’t find the station he wants, so he leaves it and goes on.

  “I haven’t fought with anyone here so far. It’s a new record for me. But maybe you’ll be t
he fighter for the Night Flying community for a while?” He says this with such good humour that I smile and shake my head.

  “It’s not my fault! Shelley started it!”

  “I’m sure she did. There’s quite a bit about her you don’t know.”

  “Like what?”

  “I guess you’re going to find out sooner or later. After your fight and the school got a little more involved in her family’s business, the principal called Children’s Aid. Shelley’s living at a group home for a while until they find a foster home.”

  “What’s wrong with her family?”

  “Her dad beats her up. Stuff like that.” I see Shelley’s face and frown. No wonder she’s always so mean.

  Then we talk more about the city, and after a while I talk about me. I tell him about C2, I tell him a little about Martin (everything except the Worst Kiss Ever), and then I feel so calm that I tell him more.

  “The Rogue showed me my dad.”

  I wasn’t expecting to blurt this out. I look straight ahead at the fairy lights of the city, over at the snowbank glimmer that is Celestine and friend, and I know I can’t stop now.

  Drip.

  A tear leaks onto my cheek. Then another.

  Drip.

  “He did?” Everton asks gently. He reaches into the back seat, cracks a bottle of water out of a case, and hands it to me.

  “Thanks.” I take a sip.

  “So. What’s he like? Abilith?”

  I think about this. It’s hard to focus on his face, on his manner. It’s tough to answer.

  “He’s scary, but appealing in a weird way. I can’t really describe him. I saw him in two ways, as a black figure with golden eyes and wings, and as a normal-looking man with weird green eyes. He looked a little like Mr. Tupperman.”

  Drip.

  “And what did he show you?” he asks as gently as ever. I swallow hard. This isn’t going to be easy. I take a deep breath and just say it.

  Drip.

  “He showed me … my dad. In a storm. He went out to make sure a neighbour was okay.” I can barely say the next part. “It was Mr. McGillies. Dad found Mr. McGillies, and they struggled back to the cabin.” I hang my head, and both eyes are leaking now.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  “Then the Shade came. I saw the moment my dad died.” My voice is so tiny, I’m not sure Everton hears that last part. But he must have, because he leans back in his seat and whispers solemnly, “No.”

  Then my faucet opens all the way. I start to really cry, and it’s like every time I’ve cried in my life was just a practice for this performance.

  But Everton doesn’t stop me. I’m crying so hard that snot runs down my face (something that Jez would never allow if she were here), and I have no idea how long I cry. Everton sits and listens. After a while, he reaches into the back seat, pulls out a box of tissue from a big package (he must have just shopped at the bulk store or something), and opens it for me. I blow my nose, and eventually the faucet stops, and I’m exhausted and hiccupping.

  I lean my head back against the seat.

  I have no secrets from this boy now. He’s seen me at my very worst, with my faucet full and broken and snot all over my face. And yet he’s still here, warm and breathing and looking at me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me to (hic) stop? Why did you let me (hic) cry so hard?”

  He leans sideways against the window, shifting in his seat a little, and considers me.

  “You never asked me about my family, Gwen. Have you seen any parents at Miles Motors?” I take this in. No. No, I haven’t. Everton lives with his brother.

  He drops his voice and looks out the car window. The hair on the back of my neck starts to prickle. I don’t think I want to hear what he’s going to say.

  “One night when I was in grade five, my parents were driving home from the Midsummer Party. They never liked to fly into the city because of all the people.” Everton stops, then he whispers the next words. “A drunk driver hit them, somewhere near this spot. Killed them instantly. Emerson was old enough to take care of me, and he’s been my legal guardian ever since.” Everton takes a moment to look out the window. “That’s right around the time I started fighting at school.”

  He looks solemn but calm, and this time I don’t think What charm.

  No. The words that come to mind this time are I’m so sorry.

  I don’t know what to say, but words maybe aren’t important right now. We don’t talk much on the drive home. We listen to music and I quietly watch the snow-covered hills. It starts to snow, and the windshield wipers squeal as they clear away the fast-falling flakes.

  It’s warm in the car, and once in a while I catch the shimmer of a Spirit Flyer in the snowbanks, following us high above.

  I fall asleep, the deepest sleep I’ve had in a while. When we get to my house, a strong pair of arms helps me upstairs, and Everton’s whisper brushes my cheek. “Goodnight, sweet Gwendolyn Golden.”

  But maybe that last part was just a dream.

  Twenty-Seven

  Every night for the rest of my suspension, I stand at my window, longing to zoom over the trees. But even with Celestine and her friends nearby, I’m still too afraid to try. Instead, in the daytime I get out of the house as much as I can and walk.

  On Tuesday of the second week, I get home after a whole day sitting in the window and sipping tea at The Float Boat. My mother is waiting for me, and as soon as I get in the door she hands me a letter. I snap it open. She’s already read it, since the seal is broken. My name is very clearly on the envelope, but there’s no point fighting about this. It’s done, and there’s a fight coming anyway. I can tell by the look on her face.

  The letter is from the school board.

  To the parent/guardian of Gwendolyn Imogen Golden,

  As advised by Mr. Morton Skinty, principal of Bass Creek High School, your child/ward has been caught fighting with another student on school property. The school board requires as a condition of return to school that your child/ward begins TWO sessions of therapy with a board-appointed and trained child psychologist at your expense. The first session must be completed before your child/ward returns to school….

  There’s more, but I skip to the bottom, which lists the phone numbers of the local child psychologist, and there’s only one: Dr. Adam Parks.

  I drop the letter onto the kitchen table and stare out the back door. Cassie takes one look at me and clears out into the living room. I cross my arms, and I can’t bring myself to look at my mother, but when I do turn around, her face is unreadable. She does a good job trying not to look triumphant, or gleeful, or even compassionate. But I’m furious.

  And this starts the biggest, loudest fight my mother and I have ever had.

  We aren’t very good at it.

  “I’M NOT GOING!”

  “You have to go if you want to go back to school.” As soon as she says this, my mother realizes she has made a tactical error. I laugh at her.

  “AS IF I CARE ABOUT GOING BACK TO SCHOOL!”

  We carry on like this for a while until my mother says, “Gwen, you have to go. You have no choice. I can see that you’re afraid of Dr. Parks for some reason. You don’t want to talk about your dad?”

  That’s the last straw for me. In slow motion, I pick up a teacup from the table and smash it at my feet without taking my eyes off my mother. She swallows but doesn’t look away. This is the first time china has been smashed in our house, as far as I know. I’ve crossed a line, and I’m not all that sure how to get back.

  I grab my coat and storm out the front door. It feels good to slam it behind me, but it’s an empty gesture, the cup smashing and the door slamming.

  I’ve lost. I have to go to see Dr. Adam Parks.

  Angry tears blind me for a while, and that night I stay out as long as I can. I walk all a
round town. It’s snowy and cold, but it doesn’t drive me indoors. I drift past The Float Boat and then past Miles Motors. Both places are lit up, friends are inside, and I could go and talk to them.

  I could. But I don’t.

  Eventually I end up back at home. I sneak up to my room, but my mom calls out hello as I close my bedroom door. I don’t answer her.

  Instead I sit and read Your First Flight: A Night Flyer’s Handbook (The Complete & Unabridged Version, Newly Updated!) until the sky gets pink and clear in the east. I start at the beginning, and by the time I fall asleep I’ve read more than three hundred pages. I finish the first five chapters: History and Hysteria (Prehistory to 1454), The Burning Time (Our Darkest Hour, 16th century), The Grand Council of Night Flyers (1718–1789), Night Flyers in the Early Industrial Age (1800–1880), and Colonial Flyers From Pole to Pole (1885–1913). I can’t say I understand much of it, but the pictures help, and I fall asleep with a lot of history swirling around in my head. This is my history, this is my tribe, if I choose this life for all time at the Midsummer Party.

  Do I want to be a Night Flyer forever?

  It’s a choice I have to make, and I don’t want to.

  That’s one thing you can do when you’re suspended from the activities of normal life; your timeline isn’t like anyone else’s. You can stay up until 5:00 a.m. reading about your alternate life, your legendary self, the possibilities for your future, and no one cares.

  The next day, when I go down to the kitchen after Mom and the twins have left for the day, there’s a note on the calendar.

  My first appointment with Dr. Adam Parks is on Friday, my last day of suspension. My eyes fill with angry tears again, but there’s nothing I can do. I slam around the kitchen and make myself lunch, I take Cassie for a quick walk, and then I head back to the library, where I lose myself in an afternoon of reading.