In the Arms of Stone Angels - By Jordan Dane Page 0,4

heard that boy is still locked away in a mental hospital outside Shawano.” Mom kept her face down and shoveled her fork like she was being timed. And her talking about White Bird, and referring to him as “that boy,” had forced me to listen, especially when she said, “They say he never came out of it.”

I stopped scribbling. Cold.

Parents always had “they” to back them up. And “they” were always right. Kids had squat. It was hard to compete with “they.” I wanted to roll my eyes because I knew that would piss her off, but I got to thinking about White Bird and what “still” meant.

“Still? You mean he’s been there since…” I couldn’t finish. All this time, after I had moved away and taken my miserable butt to North Carolina, White Bird had been locked away. Knowing that twisted my gut into a knot. I felt worse than I ever did before.

And that was saying something.

“Yes. That’s why you were never asked to testify. His case never went to trial because of his…condition,” Mom explained.

I had been so wrapped in my own misery that I had missed the obvious. Mom was right. And I’d never asked about going to court, to say what had happened. I should have known. I should have thought about what that meant for him, but I never did.

“Why didn’t you…” Tell me! Tell me! Tell me! I wanted to scream, but instead I turned to look out at the parking lot and said, “Never mind.”

All I wanted to do was lash out at Mom and blame her for my frustration. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I also knew she’d let me get away with it.

White Bird had never gotten his day in court. Where had he gone? Was he still inside his head, unable to find his way out of a dark maze? Or had he clicked off like a light switch, never to return? What had happened that night to cause such trauma?

“He never says anything. That boy just sits and stares at nothing.” Mom looked up from her salad, making sure I got the point. “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me when I tell you some kid isn’t right in the head.”

Mom always knew how to throw cold water on me. Plus her timing sucked. And although she didn’t come right out and say it, her eyes were filled with the message “I told you so.” I resented her smugness, her certainty that being an adult always made her right, but I didn’t have much going for my side of the argument. With White Bird branded as a crazed lunatic, that was one point for Mom.

Zip for me.

“I’m not afraid of him,” I said as I chewed my thumbnail and stared out the window into the bright sunlight from behind my shades. If it were dark and the stars were out, I’d never let me get away with lying.

“Well, you should be, young lady.”

White Bird had given me plenty of reason to be afraid. And what had happened two years ago would always be with me. I still had trouble sleeping through the night. In many of my dreams, I was the one he stabbed. I watched him do it, over and over. And each time I felt the pain like it was real. I tried to get away, but I couldn’t move. Everything slowed to a crawl like I was sinking into quicksand and heavy mud oozed down my throat so I couldn’t scream.

I’d never told my mom about my nightmares. I had screwed up so much already, guess I never wanted her to know that I couldn’t handle it. And since I was sneaking out of the house at night, she never heard me cry in my sleep. But every time I had those bad dreams, I thought about White Bird and how we first met.

It calmed me to remember a time when things were simpler, but inside I ached with regret for not being a better friend to him.

It was hard for me to imagine being thirteen after everything that had happened, but that was how old I was when I’d first met White Bird three years ago. I used to spend hours away from home, mostly walking through old graveyards and reading headstones or playing along the creek that backed up to our house in Shawano. I only tolerated Facebook and wasn’t into the latest video on YouTube or chatting up virtual strangers. I