Paper Wings and Missing Things

Part 2

The day before Jacob told her his mom was selling the house, they had a fight.

They were sitting outside on the grass, their knees almost touching—Jacob's, long, pale, and scabbed, and hers, slender and dark-skinned. She lay back, for once not caring that the rough prickle of wet grass underneath was staining her back, and he stood up.

He frowned thoughtfully at the window, crumpling a handful of torn-up grass in his palm and letting it disperse into the breeze. With his shoulders rolled back and his spine rigidly straight, he looked like a puppet, glued to the ground. Anna blinked at him, feeling a shadow of annoyance roll over her, a vague sensation like a blocked sneeze. He had been strange and cold ever since she had arrived, and she was wondering how to break him from it.

It was a shame, especially because today promised to be the perfect day. It was summer, after all, and she was at home. The taste of strawberry popsicle still lingered on her tongue, and her whole body felt clean and perfect—her hair washed, her glasses clean, her nose clear of the pollen clinging to every breeze. Stretching out her arm, she could almost imagine plunging it into the sky and reaching for those wispy airplane-trail clouds.

Pulling a plum from one of the branches of the tree above them, he tossed the fruit to her. She caught it one-handed, feeling the thud vibrate against her chest, and said lazily, "It's too early to pick plums yet."

"No, they're ripe," he said coolly, dismissing her easily. "It's worse to wait too long."

The plum's skin was still taut and hard, but for a moment, it did taste sweet. After another tentative bite, Anna puckered her lips and made an exaggerated show of spitting it out. The aftertaste spoiled the cleanness of her mouth, turning her saliva sour. "Told you," she said, flicking the unfinished plum into the grass and watching its bright red core disappear.

He frowned. "Don't just waste it." He persisted in his lofty, superior air, and the sound grated against Anna—a mosquito to ruin a bloodless afternoon.

She lifted her palms. "It's too sour to eat."

"It's the perfect time to pick plums," he insisted. "Don't you remember the plums we had last year?"

"Yeah, and we picked them later," Anna said, raising one eyebrow, but fighting the urge to get defensive.

"Oh, you're just complaining because your tastebuds can't take it," Jacob said, waving one hand.

Anna rolled upright again. "Go on, then, try one! Of course, I'd hate to waste another unripe plum."

He pressed his lips into a thin, patronizing smile. "Look, if you're going to be nasty about it, I can do homework."

"What, math homework?" Anna said with a light scoff. She meant it to be casual, to clear the air between them, but Jacob's brow wrinkled.

"Just because you get perfect grades doesn't mean you have to rub it in everyone else's face," he mumbled, but he met her eyes unflinchingly.

She raised her eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"It's true," he said in an even lower voice, viciously tearing up another fistful of grass.

"Oh, so now it's my fault that I actually pay attention during class," Anna said, aware that her face was prickling with heat. "And yeah, because some people grab my test away before I even get a look at it and accidentally show everyone my grade—yeah, that's totally me rubbing it in their face. I just love to make everyone else feel bad."

"Why do you always take everything to the extreme? If you weren't so sensitive—" Jacob said, his voice rising again, but he stopped abruptly. In the tense silence, his breaths came quickly.

"You keep trying to pin everything back on me, don't you? It's always my fault! Not like you even listen to what I want anyway—you always try and take charge, then yell at me when I'm not totally fine with whatever you come up with. Just because I'm my own person doesn't mean you can try to use sensitive as a weak, pathetic insult."

"You're the one who's ordering me around half the time, trying to control everything! I try to compromise, but you're so ..." He stormed across the lawn, tugging one hand through his hair with a violent jerk.

"Stop it! You're such a liar," shouted Anna, fingers twisted around the branches. Almost involuntarily, she yanked a plum free and hurled it at him. "Stop turning this back on me!"

The plum thudded hollowly into the side of his head, and he faced her abruptly. From the hurt in his eyes, it was as if she had thrown a grenade instead of a plum. For a moment, his chest rose and fell as he struggled to regain control, then he turned away, fists twisting at the fabric of his shirt. "I'm sorry for being such a terrible friend," he hissed. "Maybe you'd be better off if I wasn't here."

"Maybe you need some time alone to cool off," she said, on her feet, already walking away from him. "Let me know when you're ready to be sensible again."

Behind her, she heard him choke on a sob, spluttering as it stuck in his throat. He made a sharp gasping sound, and a shoe hurtled past her and banged into the wooden fence.

She refused to turn her head, storming through the house and out to the front. Behind her, a second hollow bang came, the fence vibrating in its aftermath.

The next day when he came to her house, she had opened the door with a bright grin and a ready word of greeting. His face stopped her, and for a moment her heart sank, but she decided to improvise, easing him back to normal with an apology and unrestrained penitence. She wished, for a moment, she had something to give him—a card, a drawing of a bird, anything—but it was alright. He would forgive her.

He looked dizzy and pale in the sweltering afternoon. The shadows under his eyes and their slight redness twisted the sharpness of guilt into her stomach, especially when she noticed his hands shaking. But that was alright, because she would apologize first, she would say he had been right about everything—even if he hadn't—

The world stopped. Her world stopped, to be exact, banished by the words that tumbled out of Jacob's mouth before she could say anything. The kitchen clock deep within her house, the thump of her heart racing in her ears, the click of her front door closing before she even realized it—all of them signaled The End.

Pretty soon, there would be a red and white sentinel on the lawn and cars stopping every now and then with gimlet-eyed inspectors inside. Pretty soon every adventure smelled like disinfectant and wood polish, and instead of mountains they were navigating around piles of boxes. It might have been months before the house was finally sold, but it felt like seconds, and pretty soon, she was turning away before she had to acknowledge the car disappearing around the corner, the engine dying away into the distance.