Above Us Only Sky by Michele Young-Stone Page A

with a gale-force wind blowing out of the east. My nightgown clung to my breasts and legs, ballooning out behind me. The concrete felt good on the bottoms of my feet. I thought I saw the ghost of the girl, but I was squinting my eyes, wishing I had Wheaton’s gift of sight, wishing that I understood my destiny. Did I even have one or was everything random? I had the distinct feeling that Freddie was probably telling his parents that he hardly knew me, that I wasn’t worth their time or trouble. I remember thinking that my grandparents would hate my thick dark hair, my combat boots and black eyeliner. I wouldn’t be the girl they hoped to see. My eyes were green with an orange starburst. My mother’s were brown. My father’s were a beautiful bright blue. Where did I come from? Who wanted to claim me? I think that if Wheaton had been home on the night of May 15, 1989, I would’ve gone to him. I would’ve told him my insecurities, and he would’ve said, “You have to have faith, Prudence. Wait and see what happens because something is going to happen.”
    But Wheaton wasn’t there.
    I did not jump. I know that I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that.
    The salty spray and driving wind slicked my hair back. I licked the spray from my lips. Dear Prudence, let me see you smile . I started crying again, but the wind whisked away my tears. Did Freddie care about me? Did Veronica? Would I ever be whole again? I don’t remember if I pulled my nightgown overhead or if it tore free. I remember the darkness, whitecaps on the water, an eggplant sky. I was perched on the ledge. I was careful, wiggling my toes. I remember thinking that I wouldn’t fall because the wind was blowing against me, blowing me back toward the safety of the pier’s walkway. It was nice up there. I was naked, licked clean by salt. My invisible wings expanding, growing, spreading, how they did that first time in the audiovisual room. Not heavy but pulsing. I wasn’t going to jump. I’ll admit that I did want to fly. I recall the wind spinning me up, tornado fashion, hurling me like a speck, and for a second, I thought I would drop safely, disappointingly to the pier, but my wings caught the wind. I ascended—for a second or more. For two seconds. Maybe three. I thought I would fly away. But these wings I carried were only ghost wings. I plummeted, dropped forty feet, my heels striking the water’s surface. I submerged into the bottomless deep.
    For a little bit, all was dark, murky, like that whole night. Below the surface, I awoke to luminescent jellyfish with tentacles like fingers, holding, caressing me. All around, there was luminescent plankton like stars. An octopus pulsed past. The jelly tentacles clung to me, the surf like boiling stew. Anemones and silver fish ripped past, then brighter fish, orange and green zip lines, the waves like puppet masters, maneuvering my arms and legs, lifting me up and dropping me down. I swallowed the sea and it likewise me. The puppet master left me pressed against a barnacle-­covered piling. My body was limp, my strings cut. The barnacles scraped and sliced my skin, glowing now like the jellyfish. Then I saw the winged girl swimming toward me. She was real. I could see her. I had told Wheaton that she was mine. She belonged to me. Maybe I was dead. With black hair floating and wings enormous, she came. I reached for her hand and caught it. She grabbed back. Her fingers were rough, striated, how I remembered my father’s hands. She was holding tight, pulling me away from the piling, but I didn’t want to go. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were green with orange starbursts. Like mine. I knew her. That’s the last I remember.

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    Prudence
    O n the night that I tumbled off the pier, I thought I had died. When I saw the ghostly girl beneath the waves, I thought I was in another world. But I did not die. My savior was a homeless man curled up under one