If These Wings Could Fly - Kyrie McCauley Page 0,46

I go to the mall and try on the most ridiculous dresses we can find. Sofia looks amazing in all of them, no matter how awful the color looks on a mannequin. I feel pale and washed out in every color I try on, my undecided reddish-blonde hair somehow clashing either way. It seems like the most popular colors are all some variant of neon—which is perfect for Sofia and an eighties-themed dance, but not so great on me.

Then Sofia slips me something dark under the dressing room stall. The dress dips low in the front and lower in the back, and the skirt flares just the right amount. It has pockets. It is shiny and black and perfect. I feel a drumbeat of excitement. Normal things. Normal high school things like a dance, and a dress, and a date.

I check the price tag, and let out a long, low whistle.

“Let me see it!” Sofia yells from the other side of the door. “Don’t you dare take it off until I’ve seen it.”

I unlatch the door and let it swing wide.

Sofia raises her eyebrows at me. “Girl.”

I purse my lips to the side. “I can’t buy both, Sofia.”

“Ugh, Leighton. This dress is perfect for you. And isn’t there another way to—”

“Maybe, but maybe not. And she needs this now, Sof.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Let’s go.”

Sofia can’t choose and gets two dresses in two fantastic bright colors.

We walk back into the sporting goods store we entered the mall through, and there it is again. On special clearance because it’s gonna be cold soon anyway. One gorgeous, Tiffany Blue girl’s bike. My saved-up Christmas and birthday cash from Nana might have gotten me that dress, or a few textbooks next year—or it can get this bike. Some of the things I’ve missed out on in the last few years have been hard to let go of. And lately I can’t seem to say no to the time I’ve been spending with Liam. But this choice isn’t difficult at all.

When we pull up outside my house, Sofia helps me prop the bike up in the front yard.

“Well, go get her,” she says.

I pull Campbell away from the TV and cover her eyes with my hands.

“Leighton . . .” she whines just the once, and lets me lead her outside.

When I move my hands, Campbell is silent.

I nudge her forward. “Well?”

She runs her fingers over the handlebars. She presses softly into the seat. Finally, she looks up.

“Thank you, Leighton.”

She wraps her arms around me in a very un-Campbell-like show of affection.

“No problem, babe,” I say. “Now go get a ride in. It’s freezing out, so your days with this thing are numbered until spring.”

I say bye to Sofia and head inside. When Campbell comes in an hour later, she finds me in the armoire. Not hiding, but searching. For a dress.

Everything is old and doesn’t fit right.

Campbell holds out a bag, the dress store’s name on the side.

“Sofia says that if you don’t wear this to the dance, she can’t be your best friend anymore.”

Chapter Thirty-One

THE REST OF THE WEEKEND PASSES like a dream. Someone else’s dream, because I should know better. I spend Saturday night curled on my bed with the girls. They read while I fight with Portrait of an Old Crow some more. A quiet calm has taken over the house, and I bask in the normalcy. When you live in chaos, boring is a retreat. The mundane is magnificent.

By Sunday, I’m a fool.

He gets home from a weekend construction job early, the work cut short by a downpour. We spend the gray afternoon in our rooms, but eventually we have to come down for dinner.

“I’ve got a great idea,” Dad says as he puts Mom’s lasagna in the center of the table. “Let’s have a game night. We used to have game nights all the time.”

That’s true. We did. At our grandparents’ house.

It was different.

But Campbell and I share a look, and she shrugs. It might just be the eye of the hurricane, but that doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate a glimpse of the sun. And there’s always that voice in the back of my mind that says, You never know. It’s been a good week. Maybe this time it will last.

I wish that there were a voice narrating my life, just so that every time I dared to think All is well, some booming voice would say, “All was not well.” It would remind me, on nights like