If These Wings Could Fly - Kyrie McCauley Page 0,40
can make those words worth their weight on the page. I hope that one day I can tell the stories that deserve to be brought into the light.
But as much as I hate saying nothing, it’s the only way I know how to keep them safe.
For now.
But I won’t be quiet forever.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
AFTER SCHOOL, I TAKE OUT MY frustration with literature in the place where I think best: the newsroom. Sofia is sitting at my desk, and when we make eye contact, it’s like she reads my mind with one little glance.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Just a long day. Lit exam.” I drop my research files onto my desk and dig for the scrap of paper I threw into my bag with the name and number of an ornithologist at a nearby college. “Move your butt, I have work to do.”
Sofia doesn’t move, so I sit on her lap.
“Very mature,” Sofia says, sputtering as the messy knot of my hair flies into her face. “Just like real journalists.”
“Real journalists do their work in the office, Sof. They don’t just hang out talking and making googly eyes over crushes.”
“I refuse to believe that’s true. Swear to me we will never be too grown-up for googly eyes or crushes. Who are you calling?”
I’m already dialing, but I cover the mouthpiece with my hand. “A bird expert.”
Sofia pushes me up and sneaks out from my chair. I collapse back into it as the number I’ve dialed starts ringing.
There’s no answer, so I start to leave a message, but Sofia comes running back over to my desk, waving a sheet of paper and jumping up and down. I glare at her and stumble through the end of my message.
“Sofia!” I yell after I drop the phone down. “That message was incoherent. What is so important?”
“Winter formal announcement,” she says, and drops the flyer onto my desk. A dance. She interrupted my phone call because of a dance.
“I wasn’t gonna go,” I tell her. The winter formal always falls on New Year’s Eve—our district’s attempt to slow down drinking and driving, as though flasks and molly and vodka bottles stashed under passenger seats don’t exist.
“It’s eighties themed, Leighton. It’s going to be amazing. Besides, Liam’s gonna ask you,” she says. She puts her hand on her hip and tilts her head. “And you will say yes.”
“Sofia . . .” I don’t argue with her. It’s pointless. “I’m hoping to set up an interview with the ornithologist this afternoon. Will you come along? We can practice our interview skills together.”
“Yeah, yeah. You just need a ride.”
Now I tilt my head. “Pleeeease?” I mimic the face Juniper makes when she’s pouting. That girl has an A+ pout.
My phone rings. “Oh, good, it’s him! Will you take me?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks—”
“With one condition.”
So close.
“If Liam does ask, just say yes.” And this time, she doesn’t say it in a pushy way. She says it like she’s offering me the last donut in the box. Like, here, take this, you clearly need it.
“Fine,” I say, and grab the phone before it stops ringing.
I set up an interview in an hour and tell Sofia I’ll meet her at her car.
I lift the winter formal flyer from my desk. Part of me is glad Sofia pushed the issue. It’s the part of me that now secretly hopes Liam does ask me, so I can be selfish and seventeen and say yes.
Under the dance flyer is another bright pink slip. It’s the township essay contest. I feel like this damn flyer is everywhere I turn, mocking me. I tried to write the essay after the last Friday night football game. I couldn’t do it.
Auburn Proud, it demands.
But I’m not.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
ON MONDAY MORNING, I WAKE UP to the smell of coffee, and find Mom on the corner of my bed, two mugs in hand. It’s still dark outside.
I sit up quickly, listening for some sound from the rest of the house, but it’s quiet.
“Mom?”
She hands me a cup of coffee.
“Everything is fine,” she says, and sips her coffee. She crosses my room to a little corkboard that hangs over my desk. She unpins one of the many college brochures and brings it back to the bed.
“So. This is the one?” she asks. New York University.
“How did you know?”
“I know everything,” she says, and shoves her shoulder gently against mine.
We sip coffee quietly for a few more minutes. I know what Dad has always expected of me. He said I can’t rely on any kind of talent