I’d been headed toward the dweeb and misfit section, but when Dylan called out to us, Nudge squealed and hurried over. She confidently squeezed herself between some girls who looked less than thrilled at her arrival.
That decided it.
“Cover me,” I said, sighing. “I’m going in.”
“Got your back,” said Iggy.
“Later, bye,” Gazzy said, making a U-turn to go eat with some kids his own age.
I couldn’t blame him. I, too, would rather eat with a bunch of nine-year-olds than have to bear witness to the popular girls slavering over Dylan.
“Max!” Dylan beckoned. “Sarah, could you scoot over a little, please?”
Sarah looked like she would rather eat a slug than make room for me, but then Dylan turned his Pied Piper smile on her and she melted. She even patted the bench next to her.
It was almost scary, the effect he had. Thank God I was completely immune to it.
I sat down and a sudden silence fell as the girls looked at my heavily laden lunch tray. Dylan seemed oblivious, and kept up his easy conversation with Nudge.
“You must be… hungry,” said one girl, whose name I think was Bethany.
I wasn’t about to go into bird-kid caloric requirements, so I just smiled and said, “I don’t have to watch my weight, thank goodness.” So bite me.
Nudge popped open her juice. “Last night on Project Makeover, did you guys see where Tabitha was wearing those capris that looked like fruit salad?” she asked, her eyes wide.
Eyes quickly turned to her and heads nodded.
“Those were the ugliest pants I’ve ever seen,” Sarah said solemnly.
I busied myself with my huge chunk of cafeteria meat loaf. Of that last exchange, I had understood the words “pants” and “fruit,” but I couldn’t see how they would go together. Then it hit me: Nudge really did fit into this world. I mean, okay, she’d told me that a thousand times. But seeing her like this, chatting with these other girls, normal girls—the only thing that didn’t fit here was… her wings.
“How’s your morning going?” Dylan asked me, ignoring the pop-culture bonanza surrounding us.
I swallowed, savoring the availability of lots o’ food. To those of you who may sneer at cafeteria fare, I say: Try Dumpster-diving for a month, and then let’s see how happy you are with Monday Meatball Medley or whatever.
“I’m at school,” I said pointedly, and got that smile again, the one that seemed to suck the air out of my lungs. “You seem to be doing well, though.” I slanted my eyes at the girls and then looked back at him.
He grinned. “Same old, same old.”
“Uh-huh. Being God’s gift to girls everywhere is just your cross to bear.”
Dylan nudged my knee with his. “You think I’m God’s gift?” He sounded horribly pleased, and I wanted to smack myself.
“No, but at least you do.” I smiled and took a sip of juice. Dylan smiled wider and I felt a tiny thrill run down my spine. I knew I was courting danger, but this kind of easy almost flirtation was rapidly becoming addictive.
“I couldn’t believe it when Terry said that orange was the new black,” Nudge chattered on next to me.
“I know!” said maybe-Melinda. “I mean, black is the new black, you know?”
Nudge stabbed the air with a french fry. “Exactly! Nothing needs to be the new black, because black will always, always be the new black!”
There was fervent agreement around the table. I had no idea what they were talking about. Black what?
“Actually, it seems to me that blind is the new black,” Iggy said, apparently deciding to shake things up.
“What?” a girl named Madison said.
“I mean, I can’t believe there are so many blind students! A whole school of them!”
Silence. Nudge pressed her lips together; it had been going so well.
I started working intently on my square of spice cake.
“Um…” said Bethany.
“I know why I’m blind. Let’s hear your stories!” Iggy waved his hand, “accidentally” flinging peas all over the people sitting closest to him. Nudge’s cheeks flushed, and she stared at me, like, Stop him.
Oh, yeah, that could happen. No prob.
He turned to Madison. “What about you? Were you born this way, or did something happen to you?”
The people around the table looked at one another in uncomfortable silence.
“I’m not blind,” said Madison.
Iggy pretended to look confused, then shook his head, the soul of compassionate understanding. “You’ve got to face up to it. You can’t let it hold you back,” he said gently. “Denial is not just a river in Egypt.”
“I’m really not blind,” Madison said, looking confused.
Nudge gritted her teeth and stared down at her food, mortified.
Yep, we spread joy and sunshine wherever we go.
9
I TICKED OFF bird kids on my fingers. “Gazzy has Science Club today. If he blows something up, I will personally take a belt to him. Nudge is walking home, unwilling to be seen with any of us. And Iggy has soccer.”
“I saw him on the field yesterday,” said Dylan. “He looked great.”
“He’s always been good at it,” I said. Somehow, Iggy’s blindness had forced all of his other senses to overcompensate. His navigational skills and coordination were sometimes even superior to the rest of the flock’s. “So can we fly home, or do we have to be normal some more?”
“Oh, I have something better planned, sugar drop,” Dylan said with a twinkle in his eye as he led me to the school’s parking lot.
“Call me that again and I will flay you alive,” I promised, but I followed him to a large red motorcycle. “What’s this?”
“I’m borrowing it,” Dylan said, swinging one leg over the saddle. He patted the seat behind him. “Hop on.”
I had been raised unburdened by the concept of “other people’s property,” so I hopped on. Dylan kicked the motorcycle into gear, and off we went.
I don’t know if you have ever been on a motorcycle (if your parents don’t know, please do not nod now), but I must say: If I didn’t have wings, and if motorcycles weren’t, essentially, extremely cool death traps, I would want to ride on one all the time. It’s about the closest approximation to flying there is. The wind whipping through your hair, the sense of freedom, the bugs slamming into your face—it’s flying, but on the ground, burning gasoline and making a lot of noise. What’s not to love?
We didn’t go straight home. I put my arms around Dylan’s waist, leaned my head against his back, and closed my eyes. He felt warm and solid. I didn’t have to do anything, for once—I just sat there. It was almost scary. Because I wasn’t totally in control of the situation.
I felt the motorcycle slow, and then come to a rolling stop. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes. “Where are we?” I asked.
Dylan climbed off the motorcycle and held it steady while I got off. He waved his hand at the view. We were on the coastal highway, with rocky cliffs on one side and the Oregon coast in front of us. The ocean looked gray-blue and choppy, and the air temperature had dropped about fifteen degrees. Seagulls wheeled above the waves, cawing, and I wanted to join them.
I moved to the railing, ready to jump off.
“Wait, Max.” Suddenly, Dylan’s dazzling smile was nowhere in sight. His face was solemn, his eyes a darker shade of teal. For a second I thought he’d spotted some kind of trouble far in the distance, across the cliffs. You could say Dylan didn’t just have the eyesight of a hawk—he had the eyes of the Hubble Space Telescope. His gift for seeing faraway things, especially in space, was a little mutant DNA bonus from the mad scientist-slash-genetic engineer who created him.