Free Cycler by Lauren McLaughlin

swishes by and fades around Main Street’s gentle curve.
    In twenty quiet minutes, with only the sound of rustling trees to keep me company, I am at the mouth of Cherry Street—Ramie’s street. I head into its dark embrace. Ramie’s house is only a hundred yards in, and when I get there, a rotting wooden plaque greets me with “Boulieaux” formed in seashells. Midway up her sloping front lawn, an enormous maple extends its branches from the edge of Cherry Street to the porch roof, which creates a convenient platform beneath Ramie’s bedroom window.
    I crunch through the frozen grass to a splintery wooden swing that dangles from the maple tree. Stepping on it, I shinny up the rope and straddle the branch that will deliver me to the porch roof. The branch sags and creaks with my weight as I scoot outward. Halfway to the porch roof, I stop and look down. Below me is the hard, frozen ground. Above, the dark shapes of naked branches rustle and play peekaboo with the half-moon.
    I am outside.
    I am cold and frightened, and the knobby branch digs angry knuckles into the bony sections of my ass. I have never felt any of these sensations before. At least not with my own skin. In my three years of life, I have felt nothing but soft sheets, plush carpeting and central heating. Sure, Jill’s been cold and uncomfortable plenty of times, but I never bothered to dwell on those things. Now that I’m experiencing it all with my own body, I feel electric. I want to jump. I want to swim. I want to run. I want to break something. I want to fly.
    I grab the rough branch in front of me and scoot outward. When I get to the tip of the branch, it sags just below the porch roof. Grabbing the edge of the roof, I pull myself and the springy branch upward, then slide belly-first onto the rough vinyl tiles. After lying still for a few seconds to ensure that the roof can hold my weight, I turn onto my back and wait for signs that someone has heard me. There is no sound except a weak wind through the bare branches of the maple tree. Slowly, quietly, I get to my feet. Just a few strides to the left, at the corner of the house, is Ramie’s bedroom window.
    I won’t lie. The slim remains of common sense command me to run, to stop this imbecilic mission and go back to the safety of soft sheets and plush carpeting. But common sense is the ninety-eight-pound weakling in this contest.
    I walk toe-heel to the edge of the roof, where Ramie’s bedroom window sits shiny and black, then press my forehead against the cold surface and make a visor with my hands. As my eyes adjust, a shape emerges, vague and cubelike. It’s Ramie’s bed and on it is Ramie. As the darkness retrains my eyes, I make out which end is the head and which is the foot of the bed. It’s a mere three feet from this window, three feet from my hands. My breath fogs the window and I wipe it clean. I make out the tangle of Ramie’s dark hair emerging like a wild bush from the pale comforter. She’s lying on her back with her face turned to the window. The half-moon’s light catches the sharp curve of her jaw, then fades to shadow where I know her lips are. Her big eyes are closed and a stray tangle of dark hair lies across her nose.
    I am seeing Ramie’s face for the very first time with my own eyes.
    There is movement in my nether regions.
    I want to pry open her window and slither into her bed like a snake. But I’m not that far gone. Not yet. I unbutton my jeans. The cold air is a quick dampener but my desire revives quickly. I keep unbuttoning and when I reach in, something happens inside Ramie’s room.
    She’s rolling away from me! Instinctively, my right hand emerges from my jeans and raps on the window. Ramie starts and turns back to me. I catch a brief glimpse of the shining paleness of her face and that’s when it happens.
    I peel myself from the window, press my back against the sliver of roof between it and the edge—and miss!
    It’s not a long way to the ground. But