Free Freefly by Michele Tallarita

the empty carton back to Jiminy, gasping.
    He crushes it in his fist and shoves it in his pocket, then puts his ear against the door.  “Here he comes.  Try harder, alright?”
    I nod, but even now my vision blackens, and my temples throb.  I will not last much longer.
     
    Damien
    The morning after my terrifying GLOBE interview, I awaken in my chair in my room, my cheek flat against the cool surface of my desk.  I jolt upright and look around for Sammie, though naturally she is not in my empty bedroom, nor flying outside beneath the cloudy sky.  Why did I think she would be?
    I stand and reach one hand over my head, stretching the crick out of my neck.  After returning from the test prep center yesterday, I went straight to my room and planted myself by the window, scanning the night sky as anxiety scrambled my thoughts.  My future:  gone.  Sammie:  also gone, and in grave danger if she returns.  Still, I desperately wish she had.  It’s illogical, because the last thing I want is for Michael Thorne, whoever he is, to lay hands on her.  But I want to see her.  Which is also illogical:  How could someone like her could care for someone like me?  Thorne was right; I am nothing like the strong, athletic, popular person I make myself out to be when I am with her.  I am the opposite.
    I don’t bother showering, because I’m not sure I can get myself to go to school.  This will be my first absent day since the third grade.  But what’s the point, if I have no future?  Sure, I love science, but I can read my books here and spare myself a Butt beating. 
    I walk quietly down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the lamp hanging from the ceiling drowns the room in yellow light, bright and happy compared to the dull, cloudy day.  Dad goes to work early on Wednesdays, to do some management stuff, but Mom is sitting at the kitchen table, holding the comics section of the newspaper close to her face.  When I enter the room, she looks up and smiles.
    “We didn’t catch you last night.  How’d your interview go?” she says.
    I stare at the floor and walk toward the toaster.  “Not very well.”
    “Aw, sweetie.”  Her tone goes all mushy.  “I’m sure it went better than you think.”
    “I highly doubt that.”
    “Well, your father and I love you.”
    I smile grimly.  “Thanks.”
    I pluck a silvery packet of Pop Tarts out of the cupboard and slide the pastries into the toaster.  While I wait for them to bake, I can’t keep my eyes from wandering out the window, which looks out onto our backyard as well as the neighbors’ backyard directly across from us.  In between two houses across the way, there is a man in a black suit walking by.  Even from afar, I recognize him.  Michael Thorne.  He disappears around the front of the neighbors’ house.  I grasp the edge of the counter, suddenly trembling.  What is Thorne doing walking around my neighborhood?  Will he come to my house?  Will he kill me or my family?
    “Damien, what are you doing?”
    I jerk my head toward my mother. 
    She stares at me, smiling curiously.  “Your Pop Tarts popped and you’re just standing there like a statue.”
    I whip toward the toaster.  My Pop Tarts jut out, their edges brown.  I turn back to my mother.  At this point her smile has faded. 
    “Are you okay, Damien?”
    “I think I’m feeling sick.”
    She rises from the table and walks over to me, then puts her hand on my forehead.  “You do feel a little clammy.”
    I cough, for effect.
    “Well, that’s that,” she says.  “Go on upstairs and lie down.  You overwork yourself, dear.  You’ve got to relax a little.”
    I walk up the first part of the stairs, then bolt the rest of the way.  I sprint into my parents’ bedroom and gaze out their window, which faces the backyard.  I can’t see Thorne anywhere.  I fly down the hallway to my room, fling open the door (I don’t remember closing it), and promptly have a