feeling? But he sounded stupid asking, and she sounded annoyed answering, and he can feel this other weird conversation running underneath, in a language he can’t quite grasp. It’s something about magic, their age, her lack of friends, the curve of their emotions, the crash of the plane, and whatever she’s writing down.
When the scribbling stops, she says, “I see all your skeptical looks.”
He tries to look innocent. “What?”
“There’s no point to them. The reality is that I’m capable of seeing things that grown-ups can’t. Which means I’ll be able to see what’s inside you before anyone else does.”
The air in the room compresses, as if the electricity of the secret conversation and the real one have aligned for a moment.
The real Edward—not the one who’s always trying to deliver the “correct” line of dialogue—says, “You’re going to be disappointed when I turn out to be a normal kid.”
“It’s too late for that,” she says. “You’ll never be a normal kid.”
This sounds true, and he feels a ping of relief.
“I’m not normal either,” she says, as if answering a question he hadn’t asked.
“Great,” he says, and the wave of enthusiasm in his voice makes him blush.
She returns to the notebook, and Edward is aware that he’s breathing easier. His chest has loosened. When the clock reads ten, he gathers his crutches and hitches to the bathroom.
They are in their bed and sleeping bag, respectively, when Shay says, “I wonder how long they’re going to let you sleep here. I heard a lady in the grocery store asking my mom about it. It makes the grown-ups uncomfortable because we’re not quite teenagers and not quite kids. They might try to end it soon. They’re going to want everyone to go back to behaving”—she makes air quotes with her fingers—“in an acceptable way.”
Edward stares at her. “How do people in town know where I’m sleeping?”
“Gossip. Osmosis. Who knows?” She must notice the look on his face then, because she says, “Oh, don’t worry. You can keep sleeping here for as long as you like. I’ll fight them off. I’m good at that. I can be deeply annoying.”
----
—
An oversized envelope arrives in the mail. It’s at least two inches thick. Lacey carries it to the sofa in the living room and sinks down beside Edward on the couch. She peels off the outside of the envelope, and the paper falls heavily to the floor. She pulls out a large blue binder.
“What’s that?” Edward asks, at the same time processing the title on the front: Personal Effects of Flight #2977 Passengers.
“Oh dear,” Lacey says.
There is a cover letter. It says that if they identify any effects belonging to the Adler family, they will send the items to them. Lacey flips the binder open to the middle, to a photograph of a gold charm bracelet with a description typed beneath it. There is a charm in the shape of the Eiffel Tower and another of a teddy bear.
“I don’t understand,” Edward says. “These things survived the crash? That many things?”
Lacey nods.
“They didn’t melt? Or explode?”
She taps the binder with her finger. “Do you want to look through it?”
Edward’s ears click, a staccato drumroll. “No, thank you. Not now.”
Later, he hears his aunt and uncle arguing in the kitchen. John is angry that Lacey opened the book in front of him.
“Jesus,” John says. “Our job is to protect him. Do you see how depressed he is? Dr. Mike says we need to be very, very careful.”
Lacey’s voice sharpens. “I don’t want to lie to him. I think he should be able to see the information, so he can make sense of it himself.”
Edward’s parents used to argue regularly, but this sounds different, sadder and more desperate, like John and Lacey are on the side of a mountain and underprepared in terms of both fitness and supplies. They sound keenly aware that one or both of them might lose their grip and fall at any second.
His uncle
When the scribbling stops, she says, “I see all your skeptical looks.”
He tries to look innocent. “What?”
“There’s no point to them. The reality is that I’m capable of seeing things that grown-ups can’t. Which means I’ll be able to see what’s inside you before anyone else does.”
The air in the room compresses, as if the electricity of the secret conversation and the real one have aligned for a moment.
The real Edward—not the one who’s always trying to deliver the “correct” line of dialogue—says, “You’re going to be disappointed when I turn out to be a normal kid.”
“It’s too late for that,” she says. “You’ll never be a normal kid.”
This sounds true, and he feels a ping of relief.
“I’m not normal either,” she says, as if answering a question he hadn’t asked.
“Great,” he says, and the wave of enthusiasm in his voice makes him blush.
She returns to the notebook, and Edward is aware that he’s breathing easier. His chest has loosened. When the clock reads ten, he gathers his crutches and hitches to the bathroom.
They are in their bed and sleeping bag, respectively, when Shay says, “I wonder how long they’re going to let you sleep here. I heard a lady in the grocery store asking my mom about it. It makes the grown-ups uncomfortable because we’re not quite teenagers and not quite kids. They might try to end it soon. They’re going to want everyone to go back to behaving”—she makes air quotes with her fingers—“in an acceptable way.”
Edward stares at her. “How do people in town know where I’m sleeping?”
“Gossip. Osmosis. Who knows?” She must notice the look on his face then, because she says, “Oh, don’t worry. You can keep sleeping here for as long as you like. I’ll fight them off. I’m good at that. I can be deeply annoying.”
----
—
An oversized envelope arrives in the mail. It’s at least two inches thick. Lacey carries it to the sofa in the living room and sinks down beside Edward on the couch. She peels off the outside of the envelope, and the paper falls heavily to the floor. She pulls out a large blue binder.
“What’s that?” Edward asks, at the same time processing the title on the front: Personal Effects of Flight #2977 Passengers.
“Oh dear,” Lacey says.
There is a cover letter. It says that if they identify any effects belonging to the Adler family, they will send the items to them. Lacey flips the binder open to the middle, to a photograph of a gold charm bracelet with a description typed beneath it. There is a charm in the shape of the Eiffel Tower and another of a teddy bear.
“I don’t understand,” Edward says. “These things survived the crash? That many things?”
Lacey nods.
“They didn’t melt? Or explode?”
She taps the binder with her finger. “Do you want to look through it?”
Edward’s ears click, a staccato drumroll. “No, thank you. Not now.”
Later, he hears his aunt and uncle arguing in the kitchen. John is angry that Lacey opened the book in front of him.
“Jesus,” John says. “Our job is to protect him. Do you see how depressed he is? Dr. Mike says we need to be very, very careful.”
Lacey’s voice sharpens. “I don’t want to lie to him. I think he should be able to see the information, so he can make sense of it himself.”
Edward’s parents used to argue regularly, but this sounds different, sadder and more desperate, like John and Lacey are on the side of a mountain and underprepared in terms of both fitness and supplies. They sound keenly aware that one or both of them might lose their grip and fall at any second.
His uncle
Similar Books
