If These Wings Could Fly - Kyrie McCauley Page 0,15

Liam thing in a tiny box and not open it until later, if at all. Leighton alone doesn’t have time to think about a guy when she has an article due. She has a portfolio to round out if she wants to get into one of the top journalism schools in the country. Acceptance to college—and escape from this town—depends on that tried-and-true Leighton focus. No distractions.

But Leighton with Sofia is different. A little less intense. A little more seventeen. This Leighton opens the box, and peers inside. What is going on with Liam?

“Our lockers are on top of each other,” I explain.

“Dirty,” Sofia says.

I raise my eyebrows. I’ll turn this car around.

“Sorry. Go on,” Sofia says.

“So we started talking between classes, and we have lit together, and, I don’t know, he’s so smart. Did you know how smart he is?” I circle my desk while we talk. I walk over and crack the window. Now I hear the crows. The cawing is louder than I expected.

“It’s finally happened,” Sofia says. She sighs behind me.

“What has?” I ask over the sound of the birds.

“My little Layyyton has a guy!”

“I don’t!” I say.

“Only because you haven’t said yes, yet. Which you will.”

“I won’t.”

“Loooooovebirds,” Sofia serenades as she retreats to her own desk, her mission complete. Who needs instruments of torture to get information when you could just send in Sofia Roman? She could make anyone sing, even a raspy, mangy old—

There it is. An idea for my column blooms in my mind, taking shape quickly. I’m going to write about the crows. They don’t seem to be going anywhere, and their numbers have already been newsworthy. Our local news ran a segment on them last week. I could pick up where it left off, following the numbers, interviewing a bird expert. Maybe I can even figure out what the hell they’re doing here.

While I wait to pitch Mrs. Riley my column idea, I scan the news bulletin board that hangs on the wall. All things Auburn and anything potentially newsworthy goes up here. A pink flyer pinned to the corner of the board catches my eye. “Scholarship” is in bold letters across the top of the page.

Auburn Township Senior Scholarship Essay Contest. Shit. The scholarship is $5,000.

My dad wants me to go to state college. It’s where he would have been if he hadn’t lost his football scholarship. It’s where Mom would have been if she hadn’t decided to stay here with Dad when he proposed. But I hate it. Maybe I could have liked it if I’d found it organically, but they’ve been pushing this school since I was in diapers. I want to get out of rural Pennsylvania. I want to live in a city. And study journalism at one of the best schools for it: New York University.

We’ll never have the money for it. If I do get in, it’ll be on scholarships and loans. Which means every little bit of money I can put toward it will help.

I scan down the flyer. “Submit two thousand words answering the following prompt: What does Auburn born, Auburn proud mean to you?”

Chapter Twelve

IN SCHOOL WE ARE TAUGHT TO begin our papers with a thesis statement.

I like the logic of it. The structure. I write one sentence, and every word thereafter must support that claim. I never could get lost in poetry, the way it can’t seem to follow rules. Mom likes that about it. The sentence fragments and the way it shrugs off proper grammar like an ill-fitting coat. The way words are felt, until that’s all that’s left. No reason. No logic. Not even self-preservation. Mom’s thesis statement became, “My life has meaning because he is in it.” And now every move she makes supports that claim.

I refuse to write in feelings. Journalists seek the truth. They use proper grammar and sentence structure and some goddamn facts.

But tonight, when I sit down to do my homework for lit class, I don’t begin with a thesis statement for my Tess paper. I begin with one for me: I will leave Auburn and go to college.

Now everything I do must support that claim.

Like writing the winning essay for Auburn’s scholarship contest.

Chapter Thirteen

AT HALF PAST THREE IN THE morning, the door to my bedroom creaks, and I’m wide awake the same instant, blood coursing hard into my heart as fear floods my veins.

It was a nightmare. It wasn’t real. His gun isn’t out. The girls are safe. Mom is okay. I try