Last night, I snuck out to meet him. Since it was a cold night, instead of walking through the neighborhood, he picked me up and we decided to drive in his truck. We blasted the heater and rolled the windows down and listened to music, and finally we pulled over on a dark street and made out in the car. We made out so much, my whole body was burning up, and the windows were frosted with breath. I finally pulled away from him and sat up a moment. I was trying to remind myself of where I was, and I turned to the glass and drew a heart in it with my finger. That’s when he asked, “Do you want to come over?”
His mom was sleeping when we got there. In the low light I could see that the house, which looked so perfect on the outside, was different indoors. Every surface was piled high with fading housekeeping magazines, abandoned library books, scattered crafts. A half-finished needlepoint sampler with a scene from summer. A pile of cutout snowflakes and their paper scraps for the winter. Sky wanted to go quickly to his bedroom, but I lingered. I wanted to see everything, as if the house were full of clues to him. Then, in a cabinet crowded with delicate china, I saw that there were soccer trophies and a framed photo of Sky. He was younger, maybe twelve. He was in his uniform, grinning with a ball in his hands. There was something about seeing him like that—the same boy I loved looking out at me as a kid who smiled for the camera. I wanted to pull him out of the picture and protect him from everything between then and now.
“I didn’t know you played soccer,” I whispered. “Are all of those trophies yours?”
“Yeah,” he said, shifting, like he didn’t want to be there. “That was my past life.”
Then he took my hand and pulled me through the maze back to his bedroom. I wanted to know more, but he started kissing me. He started kissing me hard, and hungry, and for some reason it scared me. But I tried to go with it. Because I was in his house. Because I could feel the moths that needed a light beating hard, and I wanted to keep glowing for him.
Soon he had my shirt off, and he had his hands up my skirt, and everything felt confusing. I wanted him to love me. I wanted to be a light. So I told my brain to be quiet. I told my brain to just go somewhere else. And I went. I went somewhere I didn’t mean to go. I went back to May, when we were kids.
I remembered the night I asked her, “If we are fairies, why can’t we fly?”
I was scared that somehow the seventh generation inheritance missed me. That I wasn’t a real fairy and she’d find out. More than anything, I didn’t want her to be disappointed in me.
“Only the oldest child inherits the flight gene,” she told me. “But that doesn’t mean you aren’t a fairy.”
“But you can fly?” I asked hopefully.
“Yeah,” she said.
I was so excited. “Can I see you?”
“No one can see my wings, or it breaks them.”
“Oh,” I said, trying not to show her I was devastated. “When do you use them then?”
“At night. When I know everyone is sleeping and no one can see me.”
“Can I just see you once?”
“You don’t want my wings to break, do you?”
“No,” I said.
But still, I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help how badly I wanted to see her wings. If I saw them, I would know for sure I was part of the magic.
Some nights, I used to beg her to let me sleep in the top bunk with her. I’d climb up the ladder and curl in next to her. After she fell asleep, I’d stare up at the ceiling, looking for patterns in the splotches of paint—a dragon, and the cave he’d set fire to by accident, trapped in his own flames. The princess who would come to rescue him. I’d tell myself stories and try to keep my eyes open all night, so that if May went out on a flight, I wouldn’t miss it. I thought that maybe if I just saw by accident, it wouldn’t count. But eventually, sleep would take over. I’d open my eyes again at dawn, and she would be turning under the blankets.
“Did you fly tonight?” I’d whisper.
“Mmm-hmm,” she’d murmur.
And I’d imagine her adventures.
I was staring up at Sky’s ceiling now, trying to find pictures in the walls the way I used to do, when he asked me, “Laurel?”
I tried to shake myself out of it. “Yeah?”
“Where did you go?”
“Nowhere. I’m here.”
“You left me.”
“No, I … I didn’t mean to…” I started crying. I couldn’t help it.
“Laurel, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” I said, trying to wipe the tears away.
I had that same feeling that I did when I was a kid. She was a real fairy, and I was faking it. I knew that eventually, Sky would find out.
“You can’t always do this,” he said. “You can’t just disappear on me.”
“I’m sorry.”
I pulled him closer and tried to keep kissing. Sky’s hands were hot on me. I wanted to like it, but the world was spinning. I tried to focus on his face, but I couldn’t. I was going backward through a tunnel. I was seeing magic carpets, riding on one with Aladdin. I was seeing May, her lips turning dark with lipstick. May leaving the movie theater in Paul’s car. I saw her look back at me, and all of a sudden her smile that had looked so bright seemed scared.
“We don’t have to have sex if you don’t want to,” Sky said.
“Okay.”
“But you have to talk to me.”
“I—I don’t know what to say.” I wondered again how he knew May. I couldn’t help it anymore. After a moment, I asked, “Sky? What was your old school?”
“Sandia.”
My heart stopped for a beat, or maybe three. It was true. “So you went with May.”
“Yeah,” he said.
I imagined him seeing her, turning a corner in the hallway. She would be wearing her pink sweater, cut to show her collarbone, her hair flowing behind her. She would have taken his breath away. I wonder if when he sees me coming around a corner, sometimes he thinks for a moment he sees her there.
“I bet everyone loved her,” I said.
Sky was quiet.
“Right?” I asked softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “Do you want me to take you home?”
“All right,” I said. “I guess.”