style="font-size:15px;"> “Yeah, sometimes it seems like that. Look, lunch is almost over. I don’t know what’s going on. I woke up yesterday morning on the ceiling. It happened this morning, too. I don’t know why.”
“Well, are you feeling okay, otherwise?” she asks. Jez is a born mother — that’s all she ever asks anyone, if they’re feeling okay.
“Yeah.” I nod. “That’s the really weird part. I actually feel fantastic. I mean, I feel really, really great. I wake up on the ceiling, and it’s like the best sleep I’ve ever had in my life.”
“But how do you get up there?”
“How the heck do I know? I just wake up there. It’s been happening here at school, though, which is weirder.”
Jez actually laughs. “Weirder? What could be weirder than waking up on your ceiling, Gwen? Does your mom know?” As soon as she says it, she realizes how that sounds.
She shakes her head. “No, of course she doesn’t know, does she?”
I shrug. “What do you think? I’m not going to tell her I’ve been flying around my room at night. She’s already got enough to deal with.”
I bite my lip and look away. We don’t talk about that, Jez and I.
About what my mother has to deal with.
ELEVEN
Okay, so I know you’re going to make a big deal about that last sentence, and you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But I know you’ll be thinking about it, so I’m just going to deal with it now, and then it’ll be over.
My dad died seven years, one month, and eleven days ago, right before the twins were born. He was out one night during a freak storm, where things like cows and trees went missing. He went out to check on a neighbour, then we never saw him again.
We have a box with his stuff in it, stuff Mom calls “mementos,” but I don’t know what that is exactly since I’ve never seen inside. I’ve never even seen the box. It’s in her closet and she never brings it out.
Ever.
We never found his body, either.
We had a funeral.
The casket was empty.
Now you know.
TWELVE
Jez and I have gym class after lunch.
We share the class with the grade nine girls, which is quite awful, especially if we are playing dodgeball or something. They are so much bigger than us, and better shots. Unfortunately, our gym teacher, Mr. Short (who is actually very tall), really loves dodgeball. And he has this unnatural belief that every teenager loves dodgeball, too.
Who wouldn’t love being pelted with heavy rubber balls?
We walk into the gym in our shorts and sneakers. Yep. We’re playing dodgeball. Shelley Norman bangs into me with her shoulder and snickers.
“Get ready to pay, Golden.”
I’m in for it. I might as well paint a target on myself right now. Sure enough, every shot from Shelley is directed right at me. I get pretty banged up. I get a shot right in the head, but Mr. Short has his back turned and doesn’t notice.
Jez tries to protect me for a while, but Shelley is a wicked shot and keeps missing Jez and hitting me. I’m a magnet. Shelley can’t miss.
Eventually I just give up. Balls are bouncing off me in all directions. The other grade nine girls start to join in and the pack mentality really takes over.
I start to feel sad. But I start to feel a little angry, too. And with that little feeling of anger, I also get a tiny tingling in my foot. Then both my feet. My arm starts to float out to my side. Even though I don’t want to, I start yelling, “What’s wrong with you, Shelley Norman? Can’t you just leave me alone?!”
The grade nine girls back up a little. Balls bounce slowly to stillness and the class gets quiet. The girls know what’s coming. They’ve all seen my bad temper leak out before, and they’re smart enough to be wary. One of them even says, “It’s okay, Gwen, just calm down. We were just kidding around….”
But it’s too late. I’m yelling at the top of my lungs and I can’t turn it off. It’s like a light switch got stuck on. Mr. Short finally starts to pay attention and blows his whistle, and Jez takes the opportunity to start running me out of the gym and down the school hallway. She has her arms locked around my shoulders as we run. I’m yelling my head off, and scared students are jumping out of our way.
I must look pretty crazy. Crazier than normal.
Jez runs with me into the staff washroom, clinging onto me like a vice. I’ve never noticed how strong she is in the arms. As soon as she slams the door behind us and locks it, she lets me go. I bob gently up to the ceiling, all the fight gone out of me. I stop yelling and just float there, swirling around in the current like a lost balloon. Jez reaches up and grabs my shoelace then gently tugs me back down to Earth. I float slowly toward her, and she looks exactly like a little kid pulling a balloon down from the ceiling on a string.
When I bob eye-to-eye in front of her, she puts her arms around me and I whisper, “Don’t let me go, Jez. Just don’t let me go.”
“I won’t,” she whispers back. “I promise.”
THIRTEEN
But after a while, Jez’s arms get tired and she has to let me go. I bob back up to the ceiling.
It takes about half an hour for me to stop floating, so Jez and I just stay in the staff washroom chatting. It gets kind of normal having my best friend sitting on the floor of the teachers’ washroom with me up on the ceiling, talking about old times. It’s sort of like when you’re sick and miss a lot of school, and your friend comes over when you’re getting better, to talk and bring you back into the world.
We both notice that no one ever seems to use the staff washroom, because no one comes knocking. We also notice it’s a lot cleaner than the girls’ bathroom. We hear people walking around in the hallway outside, but no one seems to be looking for me. Maybe after yesterday’s experience in English, the teachers have decided to leave me alone if I start acting all crazy. Maybe they think it might be better that way, since no one wants to deal with crazy Gwennie Golden when she’s having one of her screaming fits.
No one except Jez.
I float around for a bit, then as we laugh and talk and Jez gets kind of used to me up on the ceiling, I slowly float back down to Earth.
After that little episode in gym class, though, I notice people avoid me more than usual. All afternoon, kids dart little glances at me, then look away. They all think I have anger issues, anyway. I’m not exactly the most level-headed kid in the school at the best of times. Now and then I do blow up at someone for no real reason. So even without me flying around the room, people usually say things like “It’s about her dad” when they’re talking about me.
But
