Chapter Three

 

Brian’s face is tomato-red from the heat. This is the second day he has walked home from the bus by himself, and I don’t like it at all. Normally, I wouldn’t give it a second thought, but I did almost get killed on the same road this morning. Zia is where you’re supposed to die of boredom, not from government vans running innocent people off the road. I put my paranoia on hold, at least until after dinner when I can sort out the day.

Brian chatters about his day, proclaiming the new IMAX show at Space Camp, “Epic!” He feeds his hamster, Ophelia, describing the lunch they served the Space Campers as “bologna on cardboard with mayonnaise and sawdust chips.” Sounds like the menu hasn’t improved since last year.

From the kitchen, Mom cheerfully threatens us with a healthy dinner. Brian and I exchange a wary glance. The possibilities are endless and all disgusting—salads full of hairy weeds or fish with a mysterious gooey garnish that looks suspiciously like pond scum. We would have died a healthy death by now if it wasn’t for the snack stash and the emergency green chile cheeseburgers.

“Did you go to the store? Did they have our stuff?” Brian whispers.

Boy, did they. I nod, remembering the Mysterious Handsome Stranger. “Two kinds of jerky and some cat tails.”

“Mmm, a trifecta!” He grins. “That’s my word for the week. From horse racing when someone picks first, second, and third place correctly. Three similarly awesome things. Or similarly awful.”

Mom skips the hairy salad and breaks out the whole wheat pizza crust instead. She whips up fresh sauce with tomatoes and herbs from the garden, and we each pile our favorite ingredients on our sections of the pizza. Mom spreads a little sauce on her part, and crumbles bits of good-for-you nasty tofu, some peppers, sliced olives, and a few molecules of cheese. Mine, however, has ground beef, onions, peppers, and a small mountain of mozzarella. Brian, the diplomat, puts a little bit of everything on his section, and Mom slides it into the oven. Soon the seductive smell of fresh pizza winds through the house, chasing away the last echoes of the thunderbolt in my head.

After dinner and a round of dominoes, I hang the nightgown in Mom’s room and drape the leather jacket across the back of my desk chair. Somehow it doesn’t belong in a closet. It feels even softer and smoother than before. I touch the sleek lining and run my finger along the spine of the hawk feather underneath. It’s weird—my heart races, but not from fear. I have to see if it will happen again.

You can do this. I take a deep breath, bracing myself, and slip my hand over the edge of the pocket to run my fingertips down the length of the feather.

Doo nt’e da. Nothing. The Apache word is a wisp of air on my lips.

No lightning, no dizzying darkness, no nausea. So that dizzy spell by the car was just the heat after all. I let out my breath and carefully draw the feather from its nest. It really is beautiful—fragile and strong at the same time. The Déjà Vu dream catchers and other souvenirs use dyed turkey feathers mostly, but this is the real thing. And from a hawk, which is weird. Wrapped ceremonial feathers like this are usually eagle feathers. A tingle of static tickles my hand as I lay it on my headboard. A nighthawk for a Night Hawk.

I plug my phone into the charger and finish getting ready for bed. I ignore Mom’s organic tooth gel and squeeze out a blob of super-strong, nuclear-whitening toothpaste, the kind Brian calls Blisterine. He’s blaring Mozart tonight—Mozart for math homework. I set aside the stress-free, happy berry-flavored stuff for him.

At 11:30, my phone buzzes: Lorena. Finally! But as I look at the glowing phone, I decide not to tell her about what happened when I first touched the feather until we can actually talk. It’s too complicated for texting, and she will get all New-Agey weird on me and say something that’s exactly what I’m already thinking. I definitely won’t tell her about someone watching me, either. The more I think about it, the dumber it sounds. Why would anyone be spying on me and my so-called life?

I press the inbox button on my stone-age phone.

L: Hey V!! Back from Coronado Island finally, water was freezing. My hair looks like a freak show. We cruised around n went to in/out burg. Double-double and fries yummm

V: Poor Lori, OMG your life sucks.

L: Going to Sea World tomorrow. How’s work?

V: Well, I got run over on the way in today, but other than that

L: WTF? Are you ok?

V: Yeah, just a scrape.

L: U need a BF to drive you around. Any hot tourists?

V: One today at PW. Tall, gorgeous, def not from around here!!

L: U never know. Are u going to learn the cards this year?

V: Never lol Hey but I got my palm read. One of Mom’s friends, the jewelry lady

L: FINALLY. What did she say?

V: The usual. I have adventures and true love coming. A secret talent.

L: I bet! Hahaha

V: My talent is hiding junk food from Mom. Keeping Brian normal.

L: Tell Brian to wait for me, no hooking up with those space camp chicks ;-D

V: Hooking up? LOL they’re not even in 4th grade. Don’t be corrupting my bro!!

L: U know i <3 Brian. He’s my best boyfriend, my BBF. Anything good come in?

V: Cool leather jacket Mom let me have

L: Nice! Girly or biker?

V: Biker, duh. Sending u a pic. There was a hawk feather in the lining, how cool is that?

L: LOVE! Kinda steampunk. A real feather?

V: yep

L: Hawk for a Hawk. It’s a sign. (And there it is.)

V: Yeah right

L: Hawks are spirit messengers. Spirits trying to tell you something

V: Telling me California has infected your brain AGAIN

L: OMG guess what, Dad’s gonna let me get my license while I’m here!!!

V: Awesome. I prob have to wait til I’m 30.

L: Mom calling, gotta go. Ttyl xoxo

V: nite xoxo

Lorena is my best friend, but talking to her when she’s in California with her dad is depressing. She’s all happy and bubbly, and I’m all… alone. She will come home with a tan and beachy highlights in her hair, which is wild and curly like Mom’s. She will do all kinds of fun stuff with her dad. She will have new clothes, a new laptop, new jokes and sayings from friends I don’t know, the latest iPhone, and now her driver’s license. Meanwhile, I will be exactly the same.

Mom says I can’t get my license because of the high insurance rates here in New Mexico, and I have to wait until I’m eighteen. I know, it’s just another year, but it’s not just the license. It’s everything technology related. Mom likes to stay off the grid, so the Night Hawks are like the Amish of social media.

My phone is definitely not smart; it’s more like a dumb-phone—talk, text, and pics only. Brian has a dumb-phone, too, and even though Duke University gave him a brand-new tablet for his genius-boy classes, it has restricted internet with access to only the Duke server and links to a few sites he uses for school. Mom’s one concession to the 21st century is her laptop, which is pretty much for Déjà Vu business only.

I don’t know why my basically cool mom insists on living as off-the-grid as possible. I guess after Dad, she likes being able to retreat from the world—which is great for her, but sucks for me. My miniscule online life depends on Lori’s smartphone and computer, so without her I’m basically doomed to social oblivion. Not that I actually have a social life, but a computer and a driver’s license would definitely help.

Dad would have taught me to drive. He always pushed me to try things and not be afraid. When we were stationed in New Jersey, he taught me to ride a real bike, a two-wheeler. I was barely six.

I close my eyes, remembering my kindergarten fingers clutching the handlebars and the dark, gravelly asphalt passing below. His big, warm hand gripped my back, and his smooth, deep voice breathed calm into my terrified ear. “Look up, Vivi. Look where you’re going. I won’t let you fall, I promise. Look up.”

I pedaled as hard as I could and broke free. I was flying! But a patch of sand snatched my bike out from under me, and the next thing I knew, my hands were digging into the asphalt. My front wheel was still spinning as I sat up, a burning trickle of dark blood oozing from where a sharp clam shell had sliced my knee. When Dad got to me seconds later, I looked up at him with a lump in my throat.

“I was flying,” I told him, as the lump swallowed me up and disappointment pushed hot tears down my cheeks.

“You sure were!” He crouched and opened my tiny hand in his strong, calloused palm. “Looks like you got a little road rash too.” His dark eyes twinkled. “Congratulations! You’re not really a bike rider until you get some road rash. Hold it—you have a pretty good cut there.” He rolled up his red bandana and tied it around my knee, then tipped up my chin in his hand, examining my face.

“Any broken bones? All your toes still there?” He wiggled the end of my sneaker and held up his hand, waving two fingers. “How many fingers do I have?”

I giggled. “Six?”

Dad laughed, helping me up. “Okay, road warrior, get that bike up. We need to head home.”

I wrestled the bike upright. “Hop on,” he said cheerfully, but I hesitated. My hands stung, and my knee throbbed. I looked up at him. His bronze face was as patient as a tree. I climbed on again and was relieved to feel his arm around me as I pressed slowly on the pedals. His voice was soft in my ear.

“Vivi, you know what to do. Watch out for the sand traps this time.” I pushed out from under his arm and rode home, not quite flying, but by the time I made it down the block to our house, I was smiling again.

I rub my knees, still tender from today’s spill on Valley Road. Dad would have taught me to drive as soon as I could see over the dashboard. He would have been patient, but he wouldn’t have let me chicken out. He would have taught me to be safe. He would have shown me how to navigate around the sand traps.

Dad was a Navy Corpsman, a career sailor and medic. He used to joke that whenever there’s trouble, they send in the Marines—and then they send the corpsmen in to save the Marines. I always wondered what was up with those Marines, and whenever he left, I would cry and think, Why can’t they save themselves? He missed three of my birthdays and almost didn’t get home in time when Brian was born. When his helicopter went down, my world collapsed into a tiny, suffocating tunnel of pain. For years afterward, I tried desperately to find him in Dreamland. Sometimes when I called him I thought I heard his voice, but he was always just out of reach.

I don’t miss him every waking minute of the day. Not anymore. At first, I missed him so much I could hardly breathe. I did everything I could think of to keep him near me. He didn’t want me to ever cut my hair, so I didn’t, even though you’re supposed to when someone dies. He stepped outside at dawn to greet every new day, so I began to do it too. His old iPod goes with me everywhere, because the classic rock, vintage heavy metal, and Native American flute somehow feels like it holds his heartbeat. After a while, I slowly got used to him being gone.

I look over at the leather jacket, still hanging across the back of my chair. Mom said he had one like it, and for a moment I pretend it’s his, even though I know there’s no way. Feather or no feather, letting myself think like this just digs up old pain… but still.

I peel back the covers, turn off the lamp, and slide into my cool sheets. I drift off, spinning lightly into sleep. My room fades completely

Always, the first thing I see in Dreamland is the crystal-clear veil of a million stars. The smell of the pines is clean and sharp. The air is brisk, but the warmth of my blanket curls around my legs and settles across my shoulders as I feel the ground become solid beneath my feet. The sounds of the night mountains wash over me. The wind hisses gently through the towering trees, lifting my hair and sending lavender fireflies skipping down my shoulders, out to the twilight edges of my dream world where a night hawk spirals down from the smiling, silver moon. A broad swoosh of feathers sweeps a tendril of cigar smoke around me as soft footsteps come close, and a gentle voice says,

-I’m so glad I found you. I knew we could do this, Vivi.

-Dad?

The trees shimmer with a new, silvery glow that seems to outline each and every pine needle as his warm, familiar hand envelopes mine.

-Walk with me.

 

 

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