A gust of chilling wind sweeps through the Delgados’ backyard. Ches sniffs and pulls the long sleeve of her flannel shirt over her fist to wipe her nose. It’s late September and in a matter of a few weeks, we Minnesotans are clinging to our last memories of summer as we find ourselves hunkering down for winter hibernation.
“I mean, look at all this.” She motions around to Matt’s playground set, his tree house, and this whole neighborhood, which is one of the newest developments in all of Glenwood. “I love Matt. I love him so much. But sometimes things are so easy for him. Christ, Faith. His parents got him a car for his sixteenth birthday. Not even a used one, and with a big red bow just like the car commercials.”
I laugh. “And then Matt traded the car out for the color he actually wanted.” Maybe that sounds spoiled of him, but there was never a moment when Matt wasn’t grateful. He’s just never been scared to ask for exactly what he wanted. I remember him saying, Why should they spend all that money and not get the right color?
She shakes her head, laughing now too. “Trust me, we’ve all gotten plenty of use out of that car.”
It’s true. Matt even let Ches use it as a make-out spot when she had instant chemistry with a girl at an away football game I got stuck covering for the paper last fall.
“But at the end of the day, Faith, I don’t have anyone footing my bill. I gotta make it on financial aid and scholarships or I won’t make it at all.”
The screen door leading to the house swings open with a squeak. The light from the kitchen glows behind Matt, turning him into a silhouette. “Permission to come aboard?” he asks.
I look to Ches and she nods, so I say, “Get your ass out here, Delgado.”
Matt takes the swing next to Ches and the rusted playground equipment creaks. This thing was definitely not built to sustain the weight of three fully grown teenagers.
“Break beneath my fat ass!” Matt yells at the swing set. “I dare you!”
The three of us titter with laughter until silence wins out and all eyes are on Matt. “I know why schoolwork is important to you,” he says. The chains of his swing twist above him as he turns to Ches. “I’m sorry. I was being a dope. Just texting some guy. No big.”
She kicks at the dirt beneath her with the toe of her boot. “It’s cool,” she says. “Maybe we should call it a night with the studying!”
Matt shrieks with delight and then claps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry.”
Ches shoves his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”
Matt stands and offers his arm to Ches, while I slide the short length down the slide and then loop my arm through his other arm. We walk, the three of us a human shield, completely invincible to the cruel, dark world around us. Flying isn’t what makes me special. This is. This connection with the people I love most is what I’ll fight for to the day I die. This is what fuels me. Not some greedy foundation or Peter Stanchek or anyone else.
Inside, we pile up in Matt’s oversize beanbags with cheddar popcorn and a jar of mini dill pickles (Ches’s favorite) to watch Halloween III (her choice) as she explains all the “nuances” and behind-the-scenes drama of the Halloween franchise.
Afterward, we live up to our promise to play light as a feather, stiff as a board with her.
“I’ll do the lifting,” says Matt. “But I’m not down with being in, like, some kind of state and opening myself to”—he throws his hands around, like we’re in the midst of some serious spirits—“whatever is out there.”
Ches looks to me, and I begin to stutter. “O-oh, Ches, come on. You know I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
She twists her hands together in a desperate sort of way. “Pleeeeeeease.”
I push the beanbag out of the way and lie down. “Fine. Fine.”
Ches lights a few candles she retrieved from Mrs. Delgado’s pantry. “For ambience,” she explains. “Faith, cross your arms over your chest.”
Matt exhales loudly. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Okay,” says Ches. “Take two fingers on each hand and slide them under . . . right here,” she says, sliding two fingers under my hips and two more under my arm.
Matt does the same.
“We’re going to start chanting, ‘Light as a feather, stiff as a board,’ but it’s less about the chant and more about concentration,” she says.
“What about me?” I ask. “Do I chant?”
Ches rocks back on her knees. “Hmm.” I’ve stumped her. “Well, I guess you can, but for you it’s more about relaxing your body and opening yourself up to cosmic energy. So I guess just do whatever you’re comfortable with.”
I nod and close my eyes.
“Ready?” Ches asks.
“Let the demonic possession in my childhood bedroom begin,” Matt says.
“Light as a feather, stiff as a board,” they chant, rocky at first and then finding their rhythm in unison. “Light as a feather, stiff as a board, light as a feather, stiff as a board.”
I chant along with them quietly, like when the music is so loud that you just sing along because no one can hear you, and if no one can hear you, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.
And then I start to feel it. I’m still firmly planted on the floor, but I feel the temptation to take flight quaking in my bones. Energy thrums from the tips of my fingers to the tips of my toes, and I have to really focus in on the weight of my body, grounding myself.
“Light as a feather, stiff as—”
“It’s not working,” says Ches, breaking the chant.
Heaviness returns to my body as quickly as flipping a switch. My eyes shoot open.
It was working, I almost say.
“Damn it,” she says. “I just . . . I can’t do anything right! Why can’t this one thing that I love so damn much just work for me?”
“Let’s try it again,” I say. I cross my arms over my chest. “Come on.” I grin up at her. “For science.”
“You heard her,” says Matt.
The three of us reassume our positions.
“Light as a feather, stiff as a board, light as a feather, stiff as a board, light as a feather, stiff as a board.”
My voice joins theirs, but this time I’m more confident. Louder. All three of us are.
With my eyes closed, I let out a deeply held sigh. My mind quiets as I let my body take over. The electricity rippling through me flickers and flickers until something in me sparks and I begin to float. No, I begin to fly.
It’s an inch. And then two. And then three. This is the most control I’ve felt over my body in months.
“HOLY. SHIT,” Matt says.
It takes everything I’ve got not to open my eyes and not to fly right out the window. I wish I could share this one thing with them, and even though no one explicitly told me not to, there’s no easy way to tell my friends that a) superpowers are real, and b) I have one. It’s not like we know every little thing about each other, but this secret feels huge enough to span an ocean.
Ches gasps. “Oh my goddess. Faith, are you okay?” I can hear the elation in her voice, even though she’s trying to remain in control of the situation.