Wing Jones(22)

When Aaron speaks, it’s in a low voice. “Michael was drinking that night too. He was in no state to drive either. Him and Marcus rock-paper-scissored for it.”

“That doesn’t make it any better.” The words are choking me. Most of the guys on the football team ignore me when they see me in the hall, but Michael would usually say hey. And now he’s gone and never coming back.

“I know,” says Aaron. Then he looks up at me. “How is he?” I know my mom called Aaron and Monica after we saw Marcus at the hospital on Friday and told them there was no change, he was still in a coma.

“He’s … hooked up to all these machines. They don’t know when he’ll wake up. Or what … state he’ll be in when he does.”

I don’t say if. I say when. Because it has to be when.

Aaron nods. “I tried to visit him a few days ago … but they wouldn’t let me in. Said family only.” He runs his hand over his short hair and sighs. “I wanted to come see you too, you and your mom, but I didn’t know what to say. I should have come.”

“How’s Monica?” I ask.

Aaron shrugs. “A wreck. She wasn’t in class most of last week, and then on Friday, when she finally showed up … she looked like a ghost. Wouldn’t talk to no one, went straight home after school. Tash said she hasn’t been eating or anything. I thought … I thought maybe she would have been by your place?”

“No,” I say, shorter and sharper than I intended. “I thought maybe she would have been by too.” I thought she’d want to see me like I want to see her.

“Well, we all know how her dad is. I doubt this has improved his opinion of Marcus.”

“Did you go to Michael’s funeral?” I ask, not wanting to hear any more about Monica and all her very valid reasons for not coming to the house. I definitely don’t want to hear that Marcus might have proven her nasty, racist dad right.

Aaron shakes his head. “I couldn’t, you know? Everyone there was thinking it was Marcus who killed him…”

“Marcus did kill him.” As I say the words, the reality of them sinks in and I feel bile rising in the back of my throat and tears crowding behind my eyes. “He killed him and that woman.”

Aaron looks away. Closes his eyes. Closes himself to what I’m saying. Even though it’s the truth. And we both know it. When he opens them again, he forces a smile.

“I almost forgot to tell you the good news. Oakie is out of the hospital.”

Oakie. The other guy in the car with Marcus and Michael. He was sitting in the backseat.

“I’m glad.” Then, before I can stop myself, I say the true thing, the horrible thing: “I wish it was Marcus, though.”

“Wing!” Aaron says. “You can’t say that! It’s a miracle Oakie wasn’t more hurt. As it is, his leg is so busted he’ll probably never play football again. He’s lost his shot at a scholarship.”

I pull my knees to my chest and look up at the sky. It’s a perfect autumn blue. Crisp and clear and bright as a robin’s egg. Who cares if Oakie can’t play football again? I’d trade Marcus being able to do pretty much anything, I’d trade me being able to do pretty much anything, if it meant he could come home.

Still. It wasn’t Oakie who crashed the car. He didn’t deserve to die. But neither does my brother. I don’t care what he did. He doesn’t deserve to die.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “All right? I’m sorry.”

I’m not expecting Aaron to put his arm around me and pull me toward him.

“You got nothing to be sorry for,” he says, his voice low and urgent. “You know that? You got nothing to be sorry for.”

I let my head drop to his shoulder, let my weight relax against him, and try to think of nothing but how blue the sky is and how good the sun feels on my face.

I end up missing all of English. History too. I can’t bring myself to go back into that building. I can’t bring myself to walk past Michael’s smiling face knowing he’ll never smile again.

When I get home, I let myself in quietly so Granny Dee doesn’t know I’ve cut class. The vacuum and the television are both blasting in the living room, so it’s easy for me to slip up the stairs and into the cloister of my bedroom.

I crawl into bed and will myself to sleep, craving the comfort of my dreams. My mom comes in at some point, and I tell her I don’t feel well, that I don’t want dinner. She puts her hand on my forehead and kisses the top of my head and lets me go back to sleep.

I’m dreaming of running when something jolts me awake. My digital clock is blinking red. 3:18 a.m. Next to my clock, my dragon is staring at me, unblinking. She leans forward, her neck long and graceful, and presses her nose to mine. It’s surprisingly cold, for a dragon. And smooth, like silk made solid.

She puts one wing around me, the heaviness of it enveloping me like a cloak, and pulls me toward the edge of the bed.

Then she flaps her wings once, making wind rush against my face. It feels the way the wind does in my dreams. I want to feel that wind.

I roll off the bed, moving like I’m still in a dream. Maybe I am. My lioness is under my bed, and she presses herself against my legs, moving me toward the door. Down the hall, through the kitchen out the front door, and then…