But Johnny is persistent, and now, with our senior year looming ahead of us, I can’t help but think they’re right. It’s nice to be wanted, but what’s really hard is not knowing what you want.
“Let me check my schedule with the shelter,” I finally say, giving the most noncommittal non-answer I can manage.
Hanging out with Johnny feels like the highway to normal town, which is just what I need. But thinking back to Saturday, when I came face-to-face with Dakota, her grinning, and me typing my number into her phone, I can’t help but wonder: maybe what I need isn’t always what I want.
5
After school, Ches and Matt drop me off at the shelter, where Dr. Bryner is shouting at the printer.
“Work! You have one job! One job! I don’t get to wake up in the morning and not do my job.” She smacks the thing with an open palm and the paper feeder falls off.
The bell above the door jingles as the door shuts behind me.
“Faith!” Dr. Bryner says, her expression a cross between embarrassment and relief. “I . . . am having a disagreement with our printer, as you can see.”
I laugh quietly to myself as I dump my bag under the front desk.
“Laugh all you want,” she says. “Mark my words. There will come a day when a considerably younger person walks in on you abusing a piece of office equipment.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. “Let me take a look.” I read the error message and open the top of the printer and yank a crumpled piece of paper out. “Just a jam,” I say.
“I tried to—” she starts. “You want to know what? Never mind. I’m a happily married woman with a PhD. I win. Do you hear that, printer? I. Win.” Taking a deep breath, Dr. Bryner turns back to me, her face serene now. “Could you please hang up these Missing flyers that came in today and then join me in the back?”
“Sure thing,” I say. “Hey, I forgot to ask this weekend, but whatever happened with that dog who came in on Friday? The one that was all rigid.”
She lets out a sigh. “Not much. Vitals were fine. The weekend crew kept him on fluids, but he was no worse and no better, so Dr. Gerard from the university came to pick him up today. It was like he was catatonic. We took a picture to keep on file in case any Missing Pet flyers that match come across our desk.”
“So what will happen to him?” I ask, unsure I want an answer.
“Well, I’m sure Dr. Gerard will run a more extensive panel of tests and bloodwork, but if they can’t do anything . . . they can’t do anything.”
She doesn’t have to say another word. I know just what she means.
As I shuffle through the papers, I’m absolutely stunned by how many pets went missing over the weekend. And it’s not even a holiday! Holidays are a little crazy. People forget to lock a gate or fireworks startle a dog enough to run or a cat to dash out the door or a distant family member unaccustomed to pets leaves the front door ajar. This would be a lot for a holiday weekend.
I take the stapler and begin to work on taking down old flyers of pets whose fate is unknown to me and replacing them with new ones. It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel like all the weight of the world is resting on your chest and the only news is bad news and you’re not sure when it was, but surely there had to be a time when things weren’t so bleak, a time when you could leave your front door unlocked, just like every person over the age of forty has sworn to be true.
About halfway through the missing pet boards, my phone vibrates in my back pocket.
The moment I see who it is, my heart nearly pounds out of my chest. I clutch my phone against my breastbone, trying to remind my body how to breathe normally.
“Hi, Dakota,” I say as nonchalantly as possible.
“Hi!” she says. “I didn’t think you’d pick up. Aren’t you in school or whatever?”
I glance at the clock on the wall. “Uh, no. But I am at the shelter. Just about to go check on Bumble.”
“Sorry,” she says. “Actually, double sorry. I’m just bad at talking on the phone in general and I totally blanked on school hours. It’s been a little while since . . . Margaret helps us get on track for GEDs.”
“Oh, right.” Suddenly, I feel very, very childish. Dakota is basically an adult. I mean, she is because she’s eighteen, but as far as I know, she lives on her own and does adult things, like buy cars and washing machines.
“Anyway,” she says. “I was thinking you could come over and check out my place—for Bumble, obviously—and then I could bring you by the new showrunner’s office and a few of our set locations. Ya know, give you the grand tour.”
It’s a good thing she can’t see my face, because I’d need someone to lift my jaw off the ground. I can’t believe she actually called back. It’s for Bumble, sure, but I’d convinced myself that our whole interaction was some kind of hallucination. “Well, sure. Of course. Yeah, I would love that.”
“This Saturday,” she says.
Oh God. I have to wait five whole days.
“I’ll text you details,” she says. Someone shouts for her in the background. “Be right there!” she calls. “Faith?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m really looking forward to seeing you again.”
“I can’t wait,” I say. “To see you again. And for the text.” I pull the phone away from my ear and silently scream.
“Cool,” she says. “Give Bumble some love for me.”
I hang up and do a quick little celebratory dance, letting my feet skim the floor a little longer than is natural.
6
The week moves just about as fast as Miss Ella, which is not fast at all. It helps that I’ve been busy with the shelter. I beg Matt and Ches to hang out on Friday night, thinking we could see a movie and then spend the night at Matt’s.
I decide to walk to Matt’s and take mostly alleyways, letting myself take a few shortcuts by flying over a fence or two. I haven’t really let myself fly. Most of the flying I’ve done since coming home from the Harbinger Foundation has been an exaggerated leap or jump or brief soaring before tumbling back to the ground.
It’s so unusual for my body to instinctually know how to do something, and yet I don’t quite know how to control it. It’s like currents of electricity constantly buzzing beneath the surface of my skin, and anytime my mood changes or I’m startled, the currents react too.
Just before I cross the block to Matt’s street, I double back to an alleyway and give myself a running start, pushing myself off as hard as I can.
I soar, my arms spanning out like wings as I spin through the air. The crisp autumn air runs through my veins and I let out a shriek as I tilt my body forward and down, tumbling back to the ground below. I stand up and shake the gravel off my jeans.
“Maybe I’ll even land on my feet next time,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my shoulder, which took the brunt of my landing.
At Matt’s house, his mom, Mrs. Delgado, answers the front door. Mrs. Delgado is the kind of mom you only see on TV. She’s always in her apron with something cooking in the oven, inviting anyone with a heartbeat to stay for dinner. Today is no different. The short woman with round hips, narrow shoulders, and shoulder-length, wavy curls stands in the entryway in jeans and a blouse with a yellow apron. “Faith!” she croons, reaching for my hair and smoothing it for me. “Did you walk through a wind tunnel to get here?”