Gravity: Daeshin’s Return

Gravity:

Daeshin’s Return

By Lorisa Pulotu

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Publisher’s Place

Copyright 2016 Lorisa Pulotu

Cover Art by Wallace Brazzeal

This digital edition November 2016 © Publisher’s Place

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter One: Unexpected Snow

Yale!

Evie’s voice pierces my dream and I open one eye to the odd brightness.

It’s Christmas! You coming? Three hard knocks on my door and I’m awake.

Yeah, I mumble, rolling out of bed.

My clock says seven thirty. It’s too bright for seven thirty.

I step to the window and twist the shade, momentarily blinded by the light outside. I stand paralyzed, stunned by our back yard; it looks foreign in the newly fallen––

"Snow?" I whisper.

Living in the central valley of California, snow is the last thing I expect to see outside, but there it is covering the grass and dusting the top of our trampoline. I know my mom will be thrilled. A year ago she drove my dad’s truck one hour east, filled it with snow, and drove it back to give us a white Christmas. She can be crazy that way.

In the hall and down the steps, my feet turn cold and I wish I’d grabbed the socks from under my bed, yet a strange smell keeps me going. Cloves? Oranges? Cinnamon? No, it’s none of these usual Christmassy smells; it’s something else.

The aroma bristles against my nose as I step from the hallway into the living room where Christmas tree lights dance against the far wall in splotches of color. I hear my mom singing Sinatra, and Evie joins her in the chorus. My dad’s sitting by the tree, handing out presents. He tosses a bright red one to Taylor, who’s jumping up and down beside him. Corbin’s sneaking treats from Evie’s stocking. And Sage is taking goofy pictures of Sophie who’s wearing a pointed elf hat while curtsying in her new dress.

A real party.

What do you know, Yale has decided to grace us with his presence, Evie says, bouncing from the couch to the doorway, her dark wavy hair uncombed, her bathrobe unfurled, her lilt catching the last line of the song on her way over. How can you sleep in? It’s Christmas!

Evie, I say, plugging my nose. "Is that you––It is you! I can taste your perfume."

What can I say, Santa loves me!

Or hates you, I say.

You Scrooge, move! She clasps a handful of her muddled curls into a band, pushes me out of the way of the mirror so she can gaze at the dangling amethysts falling in two teardrops from her ears. Even though Evie is six months older than I am, I’m a foot taller and ten times stronger. Contemptuously, I block her view. Move . . . or I’ll squirt you with my perfume, she says.

I languish to an easy chair. Sophie skips across the room toward me, wearing not only her elf hat and princess dress, but shiny silver heels that clop against the wooden floor. Santa didn’t forget you, Yale––like Evie said, she says, plunking down on the arm of the chair with a look of longing in her eyes as she watches Evie revel in her reflection. But, he did forget to give me some real earrings, she points to Evie. I wish I had my ears pierced. Santa just gave me the fake kind. She doffs the elf hat and pushes back two wisps of her white blonde hair, showing me the plastic pink ovals covering her earlobes. Doesn’t he know, I’m eight?

"Eh, Santa was right, you don’t want holes in your ears, I say. Look what they’ve done to Evie; half of her brain cells have already escaped."

Evie smacks my arm. You’re so full of it, Yale!

Yes, full of the Christmas spirit, I say. Sophie laughs as I tickle her off the arm rest.

He’s up! Corbin says, hopping over a pile of discarded boxes and a trail of wasted paper to get to me. He’s wearing shorts and a hoodie, striped socks and fluffy slippers that say Ho, Ho, Ho, across the top. In one hand he totes a shiny gold package, and the other, a half eaten candy cane. He fakes right to Evie, then left to me. This is for Yale, not you Evie. You still have some coal to sort through.

I laugh.

Ha-ha, Yale! Just because you’re bigger than me, and Corbin’s older, doesn’t make either of you smarter.

Yeah, good thing intelligence for you is broken into four easy categories that can be color coordinated and dry cleaned, Corbin says, brushing his honey brown hair away from his eyes. He flashes Evie all of his teeth as she marches to the other side of the room. She flops herself on the couch next to Sage who’s describing dormitory mice to my wide-eyed mother.

Who’s this from? I ask Corbin. I take the present and pop off the bow. Peeling back the paper, I toss it aside to reveal a book. What is this? A diary? I flip through the blank pages.

Corbin hoots out loud. Oh, man! Worse than a lump of coal!

Hey, quit teasing, Son. That’s from me. My mom shuffles over with camera in hand. Merry Christmas, Yale. She kisses me on the cheek.

Merry Christmas, Mom, I say with a smirk. I thought diaries were for girls.

Corbin, no bunny ears! She snaps a picture of the two of us, the flash illuminating the back wall. They certainly are not. Your father kept a diary when he was your age. It’s something you’ll want for later on.

My dad’s eyes roll over as he raises several fingers over his receding hairline to avoid eye contact with anyone in the room.

Right, Frank? she adds.

He dips his head further into Taylor’s model car instructions, folding out the side sections like a map. Taylor moves in beside him and the two of them start pulling out components, popping open bags, and arranging the parts.

My mom shakes her head. One day, you boys will want to read about your life.

Or you may, I say under my breath. I knew what she was up too. I knew her all too well. Revealed secrets, confidential passages, unveiled gossip . . . it was like trying to keep candy from a baby.

Corbin wraps an arm over my shoulder. You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat.

A cat with nine lives, I say.

Hang on, that’s perfect! My mom fiddles with the camera, unaware of our silent exchange. "Stay right there, Corbin." Click. Ahh, look at you two boys. She holds up the screen for our appraisal.

Like two turtle doves, Evie croons from across the room.

Better than a pigeon in a pear tree, Corbin says back.

"It’s partridge," she corrects.

Partridge, pigeon . . . they both squawk, he points out.

Evie sticks out her tongue and turns back to the tree. There’s more presents under here, she announces.

After thirty minutes of unwrapping gifts and emptying shiny Christmas bags, there are only a few presents left. Evie hands one to my dad and we gather around him. This one’s from Sage and I, she says.

He unties the bow, rips the packaging, and slides out the envelope inside. Are you serious? he says, slipping the two tickets from the sleeve. Silently, he reads them. Season passes to the Lakers! He explodes with excitement. How did you get these? Malleable lines of skepticism fold along his forehead. "Sage?"

Dad, just because I’m a college student, doesn’t mean I’m dirt poor, Sage says.

You mean dirt cheap, Corbin breathes out.

That would be you, Corbin, Evie ripostes with an oily expression.

Very funny. I’m saving my money.

You mean that piggy bank with the whopping twenty bucks.

Corbin mashes up his nose, making four loud grunts.

Did you see where the seats are? Sage asks, climbing over the couch, her slippery pj’s making a hissing sound that matches her snake-like grin. Revenge is sweet. I know it when I see it. My dad’s present last year had her and Evie fuming for a month. I had to admit, fake back stage passes to their favorite concert was cold-hearted and cruel, especially when they were supposed to get me a signed T-shirt!

First row! My dad stands up and kisses the tickets. How did you manage that?

Let me see, Sophie says, jumping toward the tickets.

Can I go with you to the first game? Taylor asks, putting down his model car, a shiny red sticker still adhered to his thumb. He stands on his tippy toes to get a look.

"When is the first game, Dad?" I ask with a hint of suspicion.

December twenty-eighth starts their regular season. Hey, that’s next week.

My dad’s a fanatic. And I can’t take much more. Annoyed, I grab the tickets and inspect them. Dad, I spot the catch and shake my head. You’ve been duped.

What? Instantly, he looks like a boy whose lunch money was stolen and he’s stuck with a soggy PB and J.

These tickets were for last December.

Let me see that! he says. He inspects the tickets. Front. Back. Sick! he says with a grunt. He flips the tickets across the room like a pair of playing cards. You think you’re so funny, he says to Sage and Evie who are rolling on the floor in malicious delight.

I want ‘em! Sophie cries, running across the room with her clippity cloppity heels.

Does that mean I can’t go to the game? Taylor says bleakly.

No, my dad says. It means I’ll take back all your sister’s presents to pay for season tickets. My dad clasps a silver box from under the tree and clips it under his arm. Found one!

Dad! Evie pleads with her same saintly smile she uses to charm herself out of everything.

Don’t give in, Dad, Corbin says.

My dad flattens himself on his chair, props up his sock covered feet, and tips his head back in contemplation. Let’s just see what happens. He throws the package across the room and Evie catches it. She tears off the paper and rips it open before Sage has time to blink.

Gift certificates . . . Red Lobster . . . they’re good still, Evie says checking all the particulars. But, why four people? You don’t expect Sage and I to take Corbin and Yale on a charity date do you?

Nope, my dad says, locking his fingers behind his head in relaxation. Thought you might want to go with the Laverty twins.

The tables have turned.

What! Evie wails, her jaw dropping a mile, her once olive complexion turning hot with chagrin. "Dad!"

I figured since you and Sage were available tomorrow night, it would be perfect. Plus, I hear the Laverty twins are in town for Christmas. He smiles the sweet smile of vengeance.

Are you serious? Sage grumbles.

Haven’t you and Evie had a crush on the Laverty twins since you were like . . . four? Corbin seizes the opportune moment and Evie slashes her way over, Sage right behind her.

Hold it! My mom stops them with her camera. I want a photo before you kill him. She aims and clicks. Corbin! Turn around.

Corbin swings his backside toward the camera and Evie spanks him.

Ouch! he pops back.

All right you two, let’s get a decent photo. My mom starts directing traffic. Move in Sage. Evie. Come on, Yale. Stop that Corbin. Wait. Hold still.

"Ho, boy, my dad puffs out. Your mother’s got a camera and is not afraid to use it."

You too, Franklin. Grab Sophie and Taylor. Yale stand by your sister. My mom inspects our little jamboree. Taylor trade places with Sophie. Corbin stand up straight. Okay. That’s perfect. She places the camera on the shelf, pushes a few buttons to set the timer, then rushes in beside my dad.

Nothing happens.

Don’t move! she threatens. She stalks back, fidgets with the camera until the red light starts blinking. She races back to her spot. Everybody say, Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas! we shout.

The illumination flashes and I see the shadow of Evie’s hand extending over Corbin’s head.

Ouch! he says, rubbing his hair into a static puff. Proof! You’ve got proof, Mom. She’s always had it out for me.

The group scatters before retakes and my mom starts sending people to their rooms for ruining the Christmas spirit. After she’s finished grousing over multiple infractions in the photo, she hands me the camera. At least your dad was smiling, she says flatly.

In the photo, Sage is frowning, Sophie is curtsying, my dad is all dimples, my mom is turned toward Evie, who is disfigured and blurry, her hand slamming Corbin––the martyr––and Taylor and I are on the outskirts without a clue.

Her miracle family––my mom referred to us on occasions, other occasions.

Children weren’t something that came easily for my parents––not that we were conniving, devious fiends––other than Evie. We just didn’t come. Her first three pregnancies resulted in Sage, Corbin, and Evie, each of them a miracle of sorts. Then after three miscarriages, the doctors told my mom, no more.

That’s where I come in. I was adopted when I was one. A head full of dark hair and bright blue eyes that never blinked, was the way I came. I don’t remember life before that, but funny enough I remember that day, the house, the smells, the sounds, an exorbitant amount of talking, and a small girl with dark curls and amber eyes who got right up in my face. These are my memories.

I know one detail about my life before that, I was found by a river. And that was all.

Let me see, Sophie says, squishing next to me on the couch.

You’re right here, I point her out.

Princess Sophie, she says with a grin.

In the photo, Sophie and Taylor stand out like two lit bulbs, their feathery blonde hair giving them an angelic look next to our older motley crew. They were adopted seven years after me. Biologically they’re brother and sister, and you can tell; they both have the same small build, the same round eyes, and the same slanted smile; but other than looks, they’re nothing alike. Taylor is timorous and shy, and Sophie, well . . . she isn’t. She loves anything that sparkles, affixes to her toenails, clips to her hair, dangles on her wrist, or comes in her shoe size.

‘We’re the Wallace family, the whole Wallace family’––my mom would tell anyone who would listen, the mailman, the cashier at the bank, the butcher, every one of my elementary teachers––‘some of us just took a different route to get here, that’s all.’

This was my Mom’s favorite story.

Sophie laughs and points to Evie in the photo. She looks like the boogie man.

At least she’s not the abominable snowman. Remember last year. Hey–– I remember something. I yell out so everyone can hear. It snowed outside!

Running through snow in tennis shoes isn’t easy. White fluff turns to slush under our feet. We slip, we slide, subsequently, snow finds its way through every tiny opening in our shoes, turning our socks into mops. None of us own a pair of snow boots. After all, it never snows in this part of California. Almost never.

After building the biggest snowman we can in the yard, Evie, Taylor, and I decide to brave the cold and walk down Kearny Street to Jefferson, venturing on to Foothills Park where most of the neighborhood has gathered with make-shift sleds of sliced cardboard, plastic bags, and old shower curtains.

Taylor and I stop to watch one group of boys squash themselves inside a kiddie pool. They look like a can of sardines awaiting dispatch. Half way down the hill, the pool rips in half, sending boys torpedoing out.

"Ssss . . . that’s pathetic. It’s Jared, Taylor’s friend from school. He walks up and puts a hand on Taylor’s shoulder he being a head taller. Those guys need a real sled," he says with a haughty laugh.

Who has a real–– I’m about to ask when Taylor interrupts.

Where’d you get that real sled, Jared? Taylor asks in awe.

Jared puffs out his chest and tugs on the rope in his hand, a shiny red sled slides out from behind him. My grandma sent it from Utah, but I didn’t think I was gonna use it today. Jared stands the sled straight up and the front end reaches his shoulder.

Wow! Taylor says earnestly. You gonna try it out?

Sure, he says. He watches a couple of boys slide out of control and down the hill. Their jury-rigged sled goes one way, the two of them the another. Jared swallows his confidence. I mean, somebody’s got to show ‘em how a real sled works, right?

Right! I say, patting his shoulder.

Evie finds a group of her high school friends. She’s gabbing and laughing––likely talking about her latest crush or her coolest fingernail polish––anyway it doesn’t matter, she’s too busy to notice the three of us climbing the opposite hill, and that’s all that matters. Once we reach the top, a line of boys cheer and gather round the next victim to slide down. The naive boy takes his seat on his cardboard box and two bystanders lash him to it. They push him over the edge. Twenty seconds later, he’s face down, the sled hinged over him.

"Ugh! Jared and Taylor echo. That’s gotta hurt!"

It’s your turn, I say with gusto.

The boys look incredulous. But . . . but what if we run into those trees? Taylor points out uncomfortably.

You won’t, I say taking Jared’s sled and shaking out the ropes. It’s got reins. You can steer this baby. I prop it up so everyone can see.

Whoa! Boys come running from everywhere. Where did you get that sled? They gather around the three of us, mouths dropped, eyes wide.

It’s Jared’s, I say with a smile.

Yeah . . . Jared stands by his trophy. It’s mine.

I nearly have Jared and Taylor on the sled and over the edge when a familiar, admonishing voice travels over the hillside.

YALE! It’s Evie, our second mother. She’s caught us red handed. What are you doing?

Don’t worry, Mom, I have it all under control, I say.

I hold the sled until the two boys are situated, each of them holding a section of the rope.

Wait! I’m coming up! she yells back.

Hurry, I whisper. You can make one clean run before she stops us. The insubordination makes it all the more fun. With the boys secured on, I tilt the sled from the back and point it over the edge. From this angle, the hill looks twice as steep. Whoa . . . I falter, but quickly change the intonation of my voice. I mean, wow! You guys are gonna love it.

Are you sure about–– Taylor starts, but I cut in.

Whatever you do, hold on, I say. I push them over the edge.

The smooth plastic of Jared’s sled forms a perfect line over the crest and down the hillside. Two pairs of hands swing to the sides of the sled as it speeds up. Faster. Faster. The boys pass everyone else on the hill making a straight line to the parking lot.

Slow down! I holler. I grit my teeth as the sled hits the angle of the sidewalk and stops only a few feet from going under a car. "Whhh––" I let out a breath of relief.

That was crazy! Evie hollers, stomping the rest of the way up the hill. She stands with her feet wide apart, bracing herself against the angle. You could’ve pushed them all the way home at that rate!

Oh, come on, I say, letting my shoulders relax. Lighten up, Evie. They’re fine. Let them have some fun. It’s Christmas. I wave to the two boys climbing up the hill with the magic red sled. I’m next!

Yeah, lighten up. Whatever! Evie says. If you kill yourself, Yale, you’re on your own. I’m not carrying you back home. She grumbles something else, but I’m not listening.

The boys hand me the sled. Don’t worry yourself into a conniption, I say, planting both feet in the snow. I sit down, grab the reins, and silently count to three.

Go Yale! I hear the boys howl behind me.

I push off and the sled whistles down the hill, the perfect sound of snow meeting sled. I gather in my feet and hang on, a surge of adrenaline pumping through my veins. I’m floating. I’m sailing. No! I’m flying down the mountain! Countless times I’d dreamt of flying, but this is as close as I’ve come to simulating it in real life. It’s awesome! Thrilling! Terrifying! And most important, dangerous!

Frigid air pushes past me, making my eyes water and run. My stomach muscles are scrunched so tight I can hardly breathe. My hands are frozen. My nose stings. My skin blisters.

I love it!

I curve over a small angle and the sled jumps. I let out a shout of success as I land without crashing.

The sled never stops. I pass trees, people, crowds who cheer me on. I make it to the sidewalk and come to a perfect stop just before the street. I roll off the sled and stand up with my fist in the air. That was incredible! I whoop and holler.

Evie’s glare races down the hillside to where I celebrate, but it doesn’t stop my revelry.

I’m coming up! I yell at the two boys who raise their fists along with every other boy on the hill. We are united! We are one! And soon, we have a line long enough that if we were selling tickets, we’d be rich!

Time passes and our skills improve. Each flight down proves our audacity, our fearlessness. Before long, we’re bored of the hill we’ve mastered. We seek a new challenge.

There–– I tell the boys. Lets take the sled over there.

Beyond the limits of the park is another hill, a monumental hill. More twists and turns. More rocks and trees. More danger and excitement. More fun!

At first Taylor is unsure. But nobody’s sledding over there.

We’ll be the first, I say, bolstering him up.

Evie, who’s sitting on a nearby rock, delivers her opinion. That’s suicide, Yale!

I try to ignore her but her skepticism is getting on my nerves. Then maybe you should just go? I say.

Yeah, maybe we should all go . . . home! I’m freezing! She chatters her teeth like a chipmunk.

Yeah, maybe we should go, Taylor agrees, his lips turning into a thin blue line. I’m cold too, Yale.

I grab Jared’s sled and take a hold of Taylor’s hand. Okay, Evie, you win, I consent. But, only if you let me take Taylor down one more time.

Somewhat appeased, Evie goes one way and we go another.

Trudging through the untouched snow of the outskirts of the park, we march to the monster hill, a line of patrons following close behind. Along the fringe runs an old barbed wire fence and a line of broken trees. Part of the fence is broken and we cross through to the other side, to the open field.

There, I say. Let’s go there.

Rising above the next prominence is the grandiose of grandiose hills and ten minutes later our band reaches its powdered ridge. Here, the snow is thick and crystal-like, our feet covered to the ankle. We take a moment to congratulate ourselves on such a find and do a quick reconnaissance.

This side looks good, one boy claims. Not too many rocks.

And only one tree, but it’s way down at the bottom, another adds.

Yale, are you sure you want to go down this hill? Taylor’s murmurs in a low voice. It looks dangerous.

I scan the hillside. Look, Taylor. They’re right. This is the perfect spot. No trees except that one. No rocks. Just pure white goodness. It sounds like a cheesy commercial, but my confidence has him nodding.

Okay, if you say so.

With both feet wedged in the snow, I hold the sled. Taylor climbs on board between my legs. I’ll hang on to you, I tell him. I grab the rope and secure one line in both hands. Ready? I say with the right amount of charge.

Like a troop of warriors, boys line the way, awaiting the signal. Jared gives me the thumbs up and I kick my feet backward shoving us over the edge.

The ten minute trip up was worth it; ten minutes of slogging up the hill and ninety seconds of adrenaline going down.

A shiver of wind blows past us. A rush of white whips beneath us. A flash of red zips by and we’re gone, although something about the motion feels different. The sled is tearing down the hill, but the sound is wrong. Instead of the quiet shhh we heard before, the sound beneath us swells louder and louder and louder.

Yale! Taylor screams.

I lash my arms around him like a seatbelt, because the wind is too strong and Taylor’s too light. Hang on! I yell out. I grip onto the rope and twist it around my hand.

When the sled begins to vibrate, I know we’re in trouble because the vibrations begin to lift us off the ground. There is a weightlessness followed by a heavy blow which grows stronger every second and that’s when we hit something else in the snow laden path. An angle.

Like a freight train that has jumped its track, the sled veers left. I grab the reins and pull back, but the reins don’t work that way. Gravity is king. And the only thing I can do is keep us on the sled. I’ve managed to lean my body and steer away from the trees on the other side when we hit another hook in the snow.

I predict from the change in direction that we’ll go right, but instead we make a one hundred and eighty degree turn, sending us down the hill backward. I loosen my foot and drag it along, but the snow is so thick it rips off my shoe leaving it spinning behind us.

Next, I use my heel, but it’s no use going the wrong way. I reach out with one hand, both hands, but the snow’s not our ally at this point, its smooth surface carving a frenzied path behind us.

I hear a faint scream inside my head, unsure at this point if it’s my own voice or Taylor’s. All I know is, once we rocket off the next bump, it’s inevitable, we’re going to crash.

The last thing I hear before we hit is the sound of a familiar voice, maybe an angel––and that’s never good!

TURN AROUND, YALE! TURN AROUND!

But it’s too late. With a crushing thud we pound into something that stops us flat.

Breathing . . . I’m breathing.

I open my mouth to inhale and my lungs sting. I exhale. My lips are dry and cracked. In the darkness I remember a face. Taylor’s face. Taylor, I burble.

Images of what happened light up like spots in my mind. I reach out and feel the crumpled heap in front of me and know it’s my brother. I open my eyes and rub them with the ice on the ends of each finger until I can see.

Taylor, I rouse him again. Taylor, are you dead?

I check for his pulse, my mind scraping up the details of CPR from my health class. Two breaths, two fingers from the sternum, straighten elbows, fifteen compressions . . . or is it thirty-two more breaths. I move closer, lower my ear over his mouth to see if he’s breathing, when he moves.

Taylor!

He rolls over and uncovers his face.

Taylor! I cry. I grab his shoulder and gently pull him in.

Yale . . . did we . . . did we hit the tree? he asks, peeking over my shoulder.

I swallow the hot saliva in my mouth, before it runs out. I turn around. Behind us is the mighty trunk of a huge tree. The only tree at the bottom of the hill. The only trunk with a twelve inch gash!

I twist back and expect the pain to mount. For it will . . . I’ve hit the tree first. Yes, we hit the tree, I say in shock.

We hit a tree? Taylor echoes.

I hold him still and stroke his head. Are you hurt? I ask.

At first he’s quiet and then he answers. Not really.

"I guess . . . I guess you didn’t really hit the tree, you hit . . . me," I say.

Carefully I reach for my head. They say if a cut is deep enough you won’t feel it. I expect to feel the depth of a laceration and the warmth of blood, but find only hair wet with snow.

Maybe we hit something else . . . I gaze past the tree to see if anything softened our blow, but there’s only the tree, the two of us, and Evie, who’s storming up the hill with a horrific expression.

Yale! Taylor! Call NINE-ONE-ONE! Someone call NINE-ONE-ONE! She’s yelling at the top of her lungs, but only now can I hear her. Help! Help! She runs over and falls to her knees. You hit––oh my gosh––you hit the tree! I can’t believe I let you go again. Yale! I can’t believe you hit the tree! She runs her hands over the back of Taylor’s head, then mine. You’re hurt. You’re hurt! Oh no! She looks harder. The back of your head, let me see the back of your head, Yale!

I reach up again to make sure it’s still there. Evie’s scaring me. I think . . . I think I’m okay, Evie.

Turn around Yale! She’s adamant. Seeing is believing; it’s just the kind of person she is. I bow my head and she runs her fingers through my hair. Does it hurt? Yale, does it hurt?

I’m not sure what to say. I . . .

Sirens. Sirens? Had someone really called the police.

Evie, I think I’m okay, I whisper. I roll off the sled and try to stand up.

Had I absorbed the impact into my back and legs? Was I paralyzed from the waist down? I get to all fours and climb upward with Evie’s help. I stand on shaky legs, but I stand. I’m stiff, but shake it off easily.

Taylor, are your legs okay? I ask him.

I think so? He walks back and forth, testing them out. I think you broke my fall.

I must have, I say out loud. But who broke mine? I think to myself.

The boys racing from the top of the hill all arrive at once. They surround us in amazement.

Taylor, Jared says, out of breath. Are you okay?

Dude, one of the other boys says; That was wicked. I thought you were both goners.A crowd of people approach from below and I hear the proficient voice of a police officer. Move back everyone. Move back. Is someone hurt here?

Officer, Evie starts to explain. My brothers crashed into that tree right there. They . . . they . . . She stutters while looking for the right words to come, but chokes. They really did! I just thought–– she stops. I mean . . . I guess they’re okay.

Let me take a look. The officer steps over to the damaged tree. Wow! Looks like you hit the tree, all right. He walks over to me. Were you the driver? he asks.

I nod.

I imagine we all need a lesson or two about the dangers of driving in snow, even if it’s on a sled, he replies.

A dull laugh escapes Evie’s lips. You know kids these days, they do the dumbest things. She looks at me.

Are you sure you’re not hurt? The officer says. He checks me. He checks Taylor. I’d say you were two of the luckiest kids I’ve seen. Sledding accidents can be serious. Even fatal.

I bob my head side to side. I guess we’re both lucky.

Down the hillside, flashing lights approach. Well, an ambulance just arrived if you want a second opinion, the officer says.

I think we’re just . . . a little shocked, that’s all, I assure him.

The officer steps closer, looks me in the eye, then whips out his radio to report the false alarm in numeric code. All right then. Perhaps you should sled somewhere without trees. He picks up the sled and hands it to me. Merry Christmas. With a half cut smile, he heads back over the hill.

Somehow it doesn’t feel like Christmas anymore.

Let’s go home, Evie hisses.

I hand the sled to Jared. Sorry, I say, pointing to the dent in the tough red plastic. I hand him the end of the rope which is now frayed.

It’s okay, he says propping up the sled like an erected monument.

Evie, Taylor, and I, start the long walk back to Foothills park, the only sound the crunching and sloshing sound of our feet. I have one shoe: I didn’t even bother looking for the other one. I figure if frostbite is the worst thing that happens to me, I’ll be in good shape.

In the parking lot, I see the illumination of two police cars and an ambulance, but Evie takes us the other way. Several people crest the top of the hill, but Evie avoids them too.

Crunch. Slosh. Crunch. Slosh. We make it past the park, past the parking lot, and find our way from Jefferson to Kearny Street.

The afternoon air is wintry and crisp; most of the billows from the earlier storm have blown away leaving the air colder without them. Even the sun, which dances across the stark sky, offers no warmth. I push my hands into my pockets and realize not one spot left in my body feels remotely warm. Everything is cold. Even Evie.

She isn’t talking to me. She’s mad––as if we’d tricked her. But we hadn’t.

After a few blocks I stop trying to apologize––the sound of my voice making my head hurt, either that or the cold air has seeped through my ears and frozen the little brains I have left.

I drag myself through the snow and shrug my shoulders one at a time to cover my ears. Even though they offer no relief, I shrug them again, but this time I test them out.

I rotate them. They feel normal. I twist my back. It feels fine. I stretch my legs. They’re unharmed. I extend my arms. They’re whole. My head is intact. My ears are attached. And as far as I can tell, my toes are still connected to my feet. The only thing that’s wrong with me, is that I’m without a right shoe.

I’m undamaged. Unbroken. Fine.

Yet, there’s nothing fine about it. What happened isn’t normal! It’s just not.

And then I realize, it’s not the first time something like this has happened.

Ten months earlier it all started . . . with a dream.

Chapter Two: One Kiss Too Many

It was February thirteenth, the morning of my seventeenth birthday. Daybreak came quickly––too quickly. I was still under the covers, although my thoughts were not on gifts, nor cards, nor parties, but on a dream, the reoccurring one I’d had all week.

I let my eyes slide shut and tried to return to what had kept me asleep so long, when I saw a flash of green. I tried to follow it in my head, but it was too fast. Then the same song started low and constant . . . a soft voice humming . . .

Then many voices joined in, chanting . . . Yale . . . Yale . . . Happy birthday, dear, Yale . . .

My eyes flew open and I was startled by a dim, triangular light that scrolled across my ceiling.

Happy birthday to you . . . Evie and Taylor pushed open the door to my room where they were singing loudly. Evie skipped to my bed and bounced on the edge.

Happy birthday, dear, Yale . . . Look what I got you at a garage sale. She ended the song in a sonorous downbeat, throwing me a package wrapped in Christmas paper.

I sat up and wiped across my eyes. Christmas trees? I pointed to the paper.

Just open it, Evie said, with a condescending nod.

I ripped down the center of the package and raised the transparent box. Where did you get these? I’ve wanted these headphones for like a year! I opened the end of the box and slipped out the pliable case cradling the headphones, when I noticed a small crack on the ear piece. They’ve been . . . used, I said, eyeing Evie.

I know, she said. I told you I got them . . . last summer. They work perfectly though.

"Last summer? Why didn’t you give them to me for Christmas then?"

I wasn’t done using them. Her mouth ruptured into a grin. Besides, there already worn in. Here, I’ll plug ‘um into your pod. She reaches for my desk and I stop her.

I think I know how they work, Evie . . . or have you been using my pod too.

Why would I use yours? she said evading my question. I only borrow things I need. She dove over my arm and snatched my pod charger. Like this! She gamboled out of the room and down the hall before I could stop her.

She’s got some of my stuff too, Taylor said.

Typical, I said under my breath.

Taylor stepped forward, carefully extending the mixing bowl he carted in his hands. I made you breakfast, he said. Cold cereal brimmed the top of the bowl, milk sloshing onto the carpet. Whoops–– He soaked it up with his sock. It’s your favorite.

Um, thanks. I sat up and fluffed the pillow behind me; I took the bowl and scooped a spoonful into my mouth.

Thought you’d like a lot, since you’re seventeen today, he said, pleased with himself.

I think he gave you the whole box, my mom said appearing in the doorway. You’ll have to hurry and eat, birthday boy, Parker’s on his way.

What time is it?

You have fifteen minutes, she said. She leaned away from Sophie who runs from the hallway, out of breath, and clearly ruffled.

I didn’t get to sing to Yale, she grumbled. I wanted to wake him up first.

It’s okay Sophie, you can sing to him tonight, my mom assured. And, just so you don’t feel left out, I’ll let you wake him up tomorrow. Yale seems to have forgotten how to use his alarm clock.

It’s not my alarm clock, I told her in justification. It’s all these weird dreams I keep having.

Maybe you should try something different for a midnight snack. My mom points to the chip bag and opened salsa still on the bedside table.

"Hm–sorry," I simpered as she turned for the hallway.

Here, Sophie marched up and placed a stuffed purple monkey beside me on the pillow, it’s lips smeared with lipstick. Happy birthday.

Thanks . . . Sophie, I said, but, I thought Mr. Bananas was your favorite?

He is, she beamed, then sternly added. You can give him back to me tomorrow.

I leaned over to the monkey. A sleeping buddy, just what I need.

Evie pulled out of the drive way and Parker pulled in.

She’s in a hurry, Parker noticed.

I hopped into the car, a notebook between my teeth, my left shoe halfway on. She’s still avoiding me after this morning, I replied, dropping the notebook and my backpack near my feet.

What did she do for your birthday? Parker said.

Gave me a present she’d already been using herself for six months.

Hah–– Parker laughed. What’s this? He reached over and ripped a small piece of paper from my jacket and handed it to me. "Give me a hug, it’s my birthday? He handed me the paper. Are you sure this isn’t why she’s avoiding you?"

I took the paper and crushed it with my fist. Evie! I growled. I know where she eats lunch.

Hey, at least not everyone’s out to get you. Parker handed me an envelope. Happy birthday, Dude.

The smile returned to my face as I tore open the flap and fanned out the cash inside. Money, just what I need.

My dad pitched in, too.

I quickly calculated all the money I’d saved since Christmas. That makes . . . almost four hundred dollars.

Money for the RTN camp, Parker said.

Parker and I were on the high school basketball team, and the Reid and Thomas Nield camp was the most competitive camp in the Western United States. But the camp’s not for another ten months, I laughed out loud. This money is for a car.

Parker pulled onto the road and exhaled long and loud. Well, I’ve started saving for the RTN camp. I’m planning on going no matter if I have to walk to get there.

Which brings me back to my point. A car will get us there. I looked out the window and shook my head. But, what I really need is a job. It was true, I had experience with agricultural environments––actually that wasn’t something I got paid to do, mowing the lawn was a job I inherited from Corbin. But, February didn’t hold much promise for job security in that department. Are they hiring at the movie theatre? I asked Parker.

I haven’t heard, Parker said. I doubt it. Plus, I only get minimum wage.

Pulling into the parking lot of West Mount High School, I watched a dozen kids park their shiny new cars. I’m probably the only seventeen year old without a car.

Hey, you can buy my car, Parker said. It runs great.

No thanks, I said. I’m your best friend, Park. I know the condition of your car.

We’ll it runs, he said smugly.

A snazzy red beamer snagged the parking space next to us and Analise Talbot and her gang of confidantes, Shawnee Watts, Beth Thomas, and Taylee James, hopped out of the car.

Now that’s a car! Parker proclaimed. He stepped out of the car and slammed the door. Are we taking that Friday night? He asked Analise.

No, Parker, she said, swinging around a bright green bag. What we’re driving is a surprise. She threw me a gum-chewing smile. My stomach dropped. I’d almost forgotten about Friday night. Girls choice. Valentine’s dance. Group date. Happy birthday, Yale! She woke me from my stupor.

I looked at Parker.

Don’t look at me, I just got here. He raised both hands in the air.

Analise bobbed her head to the side, her shimmering blonde hair swinging over her shoulder. This is for the birthday Boy, she said, her left hand cocking out a small wrapped box. Happy Birthday.

Friday! Friday! Friday! This was why I wasn’t looking forward to Friday. I was still discovering balloons in my room after Analise completely filled it up. I was still unearthing little surprises inside my drawers, inside my shoes, inside my pockets, worse, inside my underwear. Red foiled hearts, candied peanut clusters, mini chocolate bars. The implications were troubling. And now this wrapped package in my hand.

Thanks, I croaked. What else could I say? I don’t take gifts from strangers. I was stuck with the package and ten minutes later it sat under my jacket in first period.

Class, silent reading till the bell, Mrs. Plainer announced.

After a grueling Monday morning test in history, she wanted us to read? My brain was frazzled. I took out my book and opened it up to cover my jacket, my curiosity getting the best of me. Reaching beneath the jacket, I carefully peeled back the paper and unearthed the birthday present inside.

A–– I stopped myself from saying it out loud, but my eyes were screaming it. A GIANT CHOCOLATE KISS! I almost smashed it with my jacket as I smoldered its bright foiled shell. Luckily, everyone else was busy reading. I balled the jacket around the kiss and scooped it under my arm just as the bell rang.

Hey, Yale! What’s up birthday boy? Scott Rhodes––Big Scott, we called him, the tallest boy on the varsity basketball team––approached me in the hallway and I almost lost the kiss giving him a high five. Practice today? he asked.

I nodded. Hope you brought a cake, I razzed him.

Hope you brought the ice cream, he razzed me back.

We walked down the hallway where Taylee waited for him. I can see you coming for a mile, she said tossing him a volleyball.

He lobbed it back. What’ve you girls got planned for Friday night, he asked in a hopeful tone. Volleyball?

No, she said, slapping the ball with her palm. No sports. We’re dressing up, right Yale? She tipped her head toward me.

Taylee had asked Scott to the Valentines dance. And the two of them were in Analise’s group, my group. Another ‘perfect’ reminder.

Right, I said with as much enthusiasm as a plain tomato sandwich. I carried the kiss to my locker, opened it up, and threw it inside.

At lunch I couldn’t find Evie. I’d planned to do something real criminal, like steal her chips or stuff her cupcake in her face, but she must’ve seen it coming and eaten somewhere else. Having said that, halfway through my roast beef sandwich, I heard her voice, and the voices of ten other senior girls, singing their own rendition of happy birthday from across the lunchroom.

I decided after that, the best tactic was to keep away from my sister, and anyone else who knew it was my birthday.

And for the rest of the day no one else mentioned it––until Science.

Happy birthday, Yale, said a girl standing next to me in line along the back wall where we waited to be split into groups. It is your birthday, right? She pointed to the board where my name was written in upper case florescent blue. I forgot our Science teacher, Mr. Poppleton, knew everyone’s birthday.

Birthday boy! Birthday boy! Cade Mathews chanted. He was a brawny senior with yellow tipped hair, a greasy smile, and an irksome finger that always seemed to be pointing my way. How many spankings did you get this morning? A group of boys broke out in laughter as he hopped around the room trying to spank his own butt.

All right everyone settle down . . . settle down, Mr. Poppleton spoke over the outburst. Class business first, group assignments, second. He clasped a pair of homemade candles, the same candles used for our science experiments, and swung them in the air. I believe we have a birthday. Yale Wallace how old are you today fifteen . . . sixteen?

Seventeen, Sir, I answered.

Seventeen, huh. His eyes found me. I remember when I was seventeen . . . He motioned for me to come to the front of the room. Her name was Shirley—I think—the only girl brave enough to accept a date with me and my old Chevy. That thing backfired like my grandpa after eating chili peppers.

Laughter peppered the room as the swarthy-faced teacher lit one candle and tipped it to light the second. I kept my eyes on the tiny flame as the class sang Happy Birthday, Mr. Poppleton ending the song in a lofty vibrato finale.

Marvelous, Mr. Poppleton cheered, his eyes large and curiously loaded with colors through the thick lenses that arched over his nose. He slid one candle before me. One wish is for now . . . he hummed, his voice soft and melodic. And one wish is for later.

He hummed again and out of nowhere a flash of something skipped through my mind. The dream? The song? I remembered something green. I tried to hold on to it.

There’s only so much wax, Mr. Poppleton said, the lines above his forehead rising.

I shook my head and gaped around, the vision disappearing. Oh, right. I said. The tiny flame flickered in front of me and with one short breath, I blew it out.

Mr Poppleton tipped the next candle in front of me. Everyone got two wishes. Mr. Poppleton's tradition. What do you see in your future, Mr. Wallace?

Again I hesitated, déjà vu clouding my thoughts, but then it surfaced. A wish. A real wish. It wasn’t hard to conjure up after all. One waft and the flame went dark, gray smoke billowing from the tip and vanishing.

After the usual applause, I made my way to the back of the room, but I didn’t hear the next set of instructions, my thoughts still muddled in the wish.

Yale Wallace, Dave Sanders, Avis Atwood. Mr. Poppleton aimed his pencil at the second row and I woke up. I carried my books over and sat down at the first table.

Once everyone was seated, Mr. Poppleton handed each table a stack of papers. This will be your group for the rest of the semester. You will be accountable for all labs––no table swapping, Mr. Mathews, he said with his back turned. This is an outline for your final project which you will begin working on today. For the remainder of the hour you will work through page one as a group, discussing the questions as systematically and methodically as your brains can manage. Procrastination is not an option, Ladies and Gentlemen. Go to work.

He whistled his way back to his desk and I turned to the two people sitting next to me.

Hi, I’m Dave, the boy on the end said.

I knew Dave Sanders. He was the wide-eyed, matted brown haired boy with all the answers in my second period. He slipped on his glasses and pushed his chair closer to the girl who sat between us.

I’m Avis, the girl said, turning to me.

And, I’m Yale, I said.

We know, Dave said with a rising grin that took over his whole face. You’re the birthday boy, remember.

Great! I thought. Now, he’s the class clown.