Falling From the Sky (20 page)

“Do you think people can hear the plane crashing when they’re going down?” I nudge my head against Micah’s shoulder like a cat brushing up against someone’s leg.

He stretches his arm around me and strokes my hair. I literally feel like his pet now.

“I don’t know. Why?” He still doesn’t look my way.

“I couldn’t hear anything. When I was hitting him, it was like the whole world was silenced,” I say.

The lights of the opposing cars bounce along the highway as my eyes grow heavier. Micah’s fingers drift through my hair and along the back of my neck.

“I don’t know, babe,” he says. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up when we get to the house.”

I don’t hear anything he says after that, if he says anything at all. I bury my face into his shoulder and close my eyes.

My adrenaline usually pumps when I’m angry, but I feel intoxicated when Micah wakes me up. My eyes don’t want to peel themselves open. The dizziness makes me want to crash right into Micah’s bed without even changing out of my clothes. Micah guides me down the dark hallway, and a burst of light attacks my eyes when he turns on his lamp. I fumble around to empty my pockets and untie my shoes in my half-sleep.

“I used to like this shirt.” Micah studies himself in the mirror, readjusting the collar and sleeves, turning from side to side as if trying to find his best look.

If I wasn’t awake before, I am now.

“It looks good on you,” I say. “I can’t pull off button up shirts and have sex appeal.”

He gives me a cheap excuse for a smile but can’t stop looking at the mirror. I step out of my shoes and walk across the carpet to him. I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him close to me, feeling his shoulder blades press into my chest.

“I’m going to burn it,” he says, jerking at the top button.

I let go of him and pull his shoulder back, making him face me. “No, you’re not. You’re not going to change because of what Zach said.”

“I look like a queer,” Micah says. He looks at the carpet and reaches for another button on his shirt.

I pull his hands back and unfasten the next button myself. “No, you don’t. Stop saying shit like that.”

My hands shake as I feel my way down his shirt and unfasten the buttons. He has no idea how amazing he looks in this shirt…or out of it. I slip my hands into his open shirt and feel the warmth of his back against my palms.

“Aren’t you worried?” he asks, interrupting my attempt to lean in and kiss his neck.

“About what?” I ask.

Micah pushes me away to make me look at him now. “Zach Perry, what he’ll say.”

Of course I’m worried. I’m terrified. I break a sweat just thinking of that moment Monday morning when I walk into the gym, and everyone laughs and points at me. I keep playing out the talks that Coach will give me, and I’ve wondered how long it will take for Aaron to request a transfer to another dorm room. I might as well just be kicked out of camp. On top of it all, they’ll call my mom and tell her that I’m being dismissed for inappropriate homosexual behavior.

“Nah. I don’t give a damn about what Perry says,” I say. I try to sound confident.

“You’re a sucky liar,” Micah whispers. Then he leans in and kisses me.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

An eerie silence fills the gym. No bouncing basketballs. No squeaking tennis shoes. Not even the swish of a net.

I can see it already. Everyone standing on the waxed floor holding signs that read ‘McCoy’s a queer!’ in protest. It’d be convenient to throw up right here and get out of practice, but then they’d still have to see me puking my guts out all over the floor.

My heart thumps as the paranoia sets in. I round the corner and walk through the door. Half of the basketball guys and most of the baseball guys sit in the stands. A few rustle their feet, but everyone is silent for the most part. There are no protest signs either. Terrence waves to me and motions me up five rows to where he sits. My tennis shoes thud against the steps of the bleachers. It reminds me of how awkwardly quiet everyone is, even for a Monday morning. Coach Bennett stands with the baseball coach, both whispering back and forth behind clip boards so no one can read their lips.

I’m careful to ease my bag down gently before sitting next to Terrence.

“What’s going on?” I whisper in the quietest whisper that’s ever come out of my mouth. I’m not even sure if I said it aloud or just lipped the words.

He gets my drift anyway and shrugs. He glances around the bleachers and then looks at the time on his cell phone. 8:44. There shouldn’t be any late arrivals. No one is ever late to practice. Terrence opens up a blank text message on his phone and types out something before handing it to me to read:
Notice who ain’t here? Something happened with Perry.

I jerk my head up and surf through the crowd again. How could I overlook that? He was the one who was going to out me. Maybe he did. Maybe he’s in Bennett’s office hiding out, like a witness protection program. Maybe we’re about to have a big, long lecture about homosexuality and not forcing it on others. Zach probably said I made a move on him to make me look like I’m not only sexually confused but a sexually confused pervert at that.

Coach Bennett places his clipboard on the sideline bench and paces the court. No one even breathes, not that I can hear anyway. I touch my own wrist to make sure I still have a pulse. I’ll probably be slitting this same wrist in a few minutes, so I savor the moment.

“As some of you may already know, there was an incident this weekend with a few Dunson Hills camp members,” Coach Bennett says. “We tolerate a lot here. We’ve been teenage boys before, believe it or not. We know you party at night, stay out past curfew, and ignore the ‘no booze, no bras’ rule. But there is a line of tolerance, and once it’s been crossed, something has to be done.”

This is it. I clutch the edge of the seat under me. I’m about to be outted by my summer coach, and Zach Perry is going to prance out onto the court and take a vote on whether I should be dismissed from camp.

“Saturday night, a few of our guys were picked up by the law on their way back to Bear Creek,” the baseball coach announces.

Don’t smile, Ridge. Don’t fucking smile. My teeth dig into my bottom lip. I can’t even focus. My adrenaline surges, and my nerves wither away upon hearing those words. This is better than any gossip I’ve heard at camp all summer.

My ears tune in to the baseball coach talking about the embarrassment and negative criticism the camp has received after three of its members were taken in on underage drinking charges as well as one DUI. The short version of the story explains that they were on their way back to Bear Creek when they were pulled over because the driver, a.k.a. the arrogant Zach Perry, was swerving on and off the road.

Coach Bennett follows up with a lecture about how we don’t want a DUI or underage drinking charges on our records – juvie or not – and that stupid decisions can lead to losing scholarships and hurting our futures in every aspect.

Nowhere in any lecture do they mention homosexuality, Micah Youngblood, or that I was on a date Saturday night. I shouldn’t be so happy to see Zach dismissed. I should probably be a little sympathetic. But I’m thrilled to see him gone. I really don’t care if they lock him up in a juvenile detention center until he’s twenty-one. He’s gone, and I can’t wait to tell Micah.

“You’re lucky they didn’t ask about all those bruises you gave him. Drinking, fighting…he still could’ve tossed your name out there,” Micah says from across his bedroom.

I lean back and log in to his Xbox with the controller next to me.

“But he didn’t,” I remind him. “He might’ve been too drunk to really remember everything.”

“I bet he sobered up when he saw those blue lights.” Micah laughs and collapses onto the bed next to me. “You’re home free for the rest of the summer.”

A dreamcatcher hangs against the lampshade next to the bed. It’s trimmed in blue with a painted picture of a bear in the center. The feathers are blue with white tips. It’s never been in here before, and I know it’s the one Micah made for me. So far it’s working. It chased away the nightmare of Zach Perry.

We’ve made it to level seventeen on
Zombie Sanctuary 3
, and Micah was right over a month ago when he said it was a good thing we started playing so early in the summer. My zombie skills have improved, but I’m still a better human. But really, I actually love playing Xbox again, and that’s a big enough accomplishment in itself.

“Three horses left,” Micah reminds me.

I hate the thought. We’ve managed to drag out the horse dates all summer, and I’m glad because I needed a reason to keep him around longer. Not that I really need a reason now. I think I’m pretty much welcome to see him any time I want, with or without a horse to go along with it.

“Don’t remind me,” I say.

He gives me a pathetic smile. “Are you free Thursday night?”

I nod my head. “Yeah but I have practice Friday morning and a game Saturday.”

“I know that,” he says. I don’t know why I explain. He knows my schedule better than I do.

“We have the horse with yellow flowers Thursday night, but I won’t have you out late. Then the mohawk horse will be Friday night, but you’ll be rested for your game Saturday.”

I take his word for it. He’s the one who always sets an alarm to get me up for practice and games. He allows enough time for me to lie around doing nothing, finally get in the shower, eat breakfast, and still make it to the gym ten minutes early.

“One more level before bed?” he asks.

I raise my controller and click on level eighteen.

Thursday night gets here too quickly for my liking. I love spending time with Micah, but it’s just another reminder that we’re down one more horse and summer is almost over. Micah waits at the front entrance of
Lauren’s Dance Studio
. I glance back to make sure my car is hidden in the side parking lot even though I know Samantha won’t ever know I was here. Aside from pep rallies and ball games, I’ve seen her perform once, and that was at the grand opening of a sporting goods store that all athletes had to attend. She’d be livid if she knew I was here for Abby and Jade’s dance recital.

“I paid your way in,” Micah says, pushing through the door.

“You didn’t have to,” I say.

He turns back to me and shrugs, giving me a half-smile. “I invited you.”

He leads me down a long hallway crowded with parents and grandparents. I catch a few glimpses into other studios and mini-auditoriums. The building rains glitter. It’s everywhere – on the walls, on the floors, and sticking to my black Markham Wildcats T-shirt. Micah either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

He takes a program from the girl at the door of Studio C1 and grabs my arm, dragging me over to where Zoey saved seats for us. Kyle the Ripper lounges in the back corner of the room with his camcorder, and Micah’s mom is on the opposite side of his sister. I’ve seen this woman a total of once, and it feels incredibly awkward, especially since it’s common knowledge in his family that I’ve replaced Taylor in Micah’s world.

Micah doesn’t do anything to hide it either. If anything, he does the exact opposite, like how he strokes my forearm to see if I’ll let him hold my hand here. His less-than-subtle hints are pretty routine these days. I grip the ends of the armrests on both sides of me in hopes that Micah will catch the hint and realize this isn’t the time or place for his public displays of affection.

Zoey steals a glance at us. She’s been watching us from the corner of her eye. She always has this concerned yet emotionally dead stare painted on her face whenever Micah does this. I think she’s trying to read me, to see my reactions and figure out how I feel about her baby brother. It’s the same look she had on the ferris wheel.

The lights above us dim with perfect timing because I’m almost convinced that Zoey is beginning to hate me. Micah pulls away from my arm and flips through his program. I wonder if he can really see it in this dark room or if he’s just looking for a casual way to accept my lack of responsiveness to his PDA attempts.

The stage lights cast a glow over the stage, making the sleek black flooring appear green, like grass. White lights fall against the glittery cardboard trees that serve as a backdrop. The trees glisten like they’ve been hit with direct sunlight.

Micah fidgets with his program, rustling the paper between his hands. Giggles echo in the rafters, and a stampede of little footsteps sound as harsh as thunder against the floor backstage. A girl about Zoey’s age walks onto the stage with a microphone. Between “thank you for coming” and “we really hope you enjoy the show,” I grab Micah’s arm to silence his paper rustling. He uses this moment to his advantage and locks his fingers in between mine. I wonder if the program was just a pawn to sucker me into being publicly his for the night. It doesn’t matter now. I’ve surrendered.

A slew of five-year-olds dressed like yellow flowers string themselves across the stage, all of them with eager eyes scanning the crowd for whoever is here to watch them. Jade remains still, but Abby waves an excited gesture to our section, which Zoey and Micah return. Abby plays with her skirt, which is supposed to represent the flower’s petals, and twists from side to side while the other girls stay still, waiting for the music to start. But Abby always seems to march to the beat of her own drum, even when there’s no music.

The dance instructor hurries past the front row and into the pit below the stage where the audience can’t see her but the girls on stage can. The girls all exchange coy glances when the music thumps from the speakers. It takes a few seconds before any of them jump into the choreography, and it only takes about two more seconds for Micah to crack up beside me.

The dance routine is nothing like the stuff Samantha does, obviously, since the girls are only five. I’d think the step of stomping “left foot, left foot, right foot” would be simple enough. But not for Abby, who steadily stomps “right foot, right foot, left foot.” Jade shoots her a mean glare, and the girl next to Abby attempts to help her in getting the correct foot stomping, but Abby ignores everything around her, stomping out of step with her tongue tip smile.