Free Even If the Sky Falls by Mia Garcia Page B

just once, and it would come over every day after that. On occasion it would let me pet it out of the kindness of its heart. You like Shakespeare, yes?”
    â€œHey.” I wag my finger at him. “It’s my turn.”
    â€œDo your worst.”
    I make a show of thinking over my options. “Let’s see, politics, world news . . .”
    He waits patiently, watching me count the options onmy fingers like a first grader until I decide. “Favorite food.”
    He scratches his chin in deep thought. “Now, I know I should say something N’awlins based, I really should, but it’s actually pizza. Chicago style. Can’t help it.” He points to me, my turn to answer the question.
    â€œMashed potatoes. It’s the only thing I know how to cook, but I do a pretty good job.”
    We bounce off more questions, the surface of our lives echoing off the walls, not caring who if anyone could hear us anymore; the cathedral seemed empty but there were plenty of corners to hide in. My laughter feels strange as we continue—this odd thing traveling out of me—effortlessly given up to the night. In a way, I almost don’t recognize it when it echoes back to me.
    There is a moment of quiet, and I roll onto my back to stare at the stained-glass saints and Jesus depicting several scenes from the Bible my bad Catholic self can’t identify; my wings crunch under my weight, and I shift until I am comfortable. The quiet is only interrupted by moments of incredulity from Miles’s responses to my questions.
    â€œWhat do you mean you haven’t seen The Princess Bride ?” I pop up from where I was lying on my pew and drape my hand over the backrest to slap him on the shoulder.
    Miles holds his hands up. “Don’t hurt me, it won’t change the fact that I haven’t seen it.”
    â€œInconceivable,” I reply.
    â€œNot really, just not a lot of time for movies.”
    â€œInconceivable!”
    â€œYou keep using that word,” Miles says, and I wait for him to complete the line as surely this is a jest. But he doesn’t.
    I finish it for him, “I don’t think it means what you think it means.”
    â€œI’m pretty sure I do know what it means.”
    â€œWhoa, you don’t even get the reference.” I shake my head—how could there be a person on earth who hasn’t seen that film? They must have shown it fifty times on TV during the summer Adam left. I knew it by heart. “Do you have a favorite film then? Oh God, it’s Scarface , isn’t it? Why is it always Scarface ?”
    â€œIt is not Scarface .” He hops up on the bench, walking along its length. I watch him, high above me. “Okay, so growing up we all want to be like our parents at one point, right?”
    â€œRight. My mom had these amazing bangs when I was nine, so I totally grabbed a pair of scissors and—” I mimic cutting my own hair.
    He stretches his long legs, hopping over on my pew and sitting on top of the backrest. “I bet you looked amazing.”
    â€œI thought I did.”
    â€œHow did your mom take it?”
    She grounded me. And Adam, who was supposed to be watching over me but was playing video games instead. “Not well.”
    For a moment I fear bringing up that memory will cause the others to tumble through. I am ready to shove them back by force if necessary.
    Miles leans down, grabbing a long strand of hair that’s come loose from my ponytail, and I forget all about the threat of the past. “You were saying about wanting to be like our parents . . .”
    He drops the strand and hops down beside me. “My dad was, is, a huge Eddie Murphy fan. So I wanted to be a huge Eddie Murphy fan too. Watched all his films religiously, even the bad ones.”
    â€œSo,” I interrupt, “it’s Coming to America or Trading Places. ”
    Miles narrows his eyes, looking me up and down as if