Winn

I always wanted to fly.

I wanted to soar through the skies like a superhero out of a comic or Peter Pan. I imagined draping a cape around my shoulders and spiraling through the air. I wanted to overlook the buildings below and be amazed at the sight. I wanted to feel the wind rustling my sleeves and whipping my hair in its wake. It would be fun. Flying would be fun. Who wouldn't want to fly? That question seemed ridiculous then.

That was until Mom took me to the Big Apple on one of her business trips.

I remember how she grinned as we rode up in the glass elevator. I pressed my cheeks against the glass for a quarter of the ride. I was the first of the lift, dragging Mom behind me as she shot nine others with an apologetic glance. I can see the view in my mind's eyes. The tips of gray-colored buildings, erected stick straight like the trees in our fellow Carolina. Beams of light overtook the cloud-covered day, dotting the building below with speckles of light. I felt like I was flying on the 86th floor. It was the closest I had ever come to flying.

Then, I looked down.

Mom explained "gravity" to me on the plane flight over. Six years into life, the thought wedged itself into the hole of my mind, bleeping out my amazement and darkening the scene into a gray overcast.

I could fall from here at the same speed as a rubber ball.

Even knowing a metal cage wrapped around the top and concrete that stood not far away, the pit of my stomach dropped. What if the glass cracked? I took a step back. What if the entire building crumbled? I retreated to the elevator where Mom stood, tentatively edging to the window. On the journey to the ground floor, I kept my eyes sealed.

Flying means something different now.

Flying is an abstract concept my brain tentacles can't grasp. Because flying can mean all sorts of things. There's the physical apparition that we only dream about. And ideas float around our heads, only visible to us. Then there's the kind where you aren't moving. You're standing still, maybe at the top of the world, realizing how small and fragile you are. But every time, you're still flying, you feel like your flying.

Fingers snap in front of my face, names blur, and all I can remember about her is that her cat died two weeks ago, she hates hotdogs, and she wants to be a vet. "Earth to Winn!" the girl exclaims, rolling her eyes. "As I was saying." She, Chloe, I believe, clears her throat. "Did you know that Ted got engaged to Mable? I mean, Aaron kind of deserved the kick to his ego."

I rub my brow, attempting to reel myself back in. Chloe's tale about Addy falling off a ladder and breaking her arm stays pinned in my mind. Snap. Where's my head right now?

"Catch y'all later!" I do a double thumbs up, moving tables as my seniority privileges allow.

My eyes flop over the crowd of mostly science sophomore and junior classes mixed with random bunches of other seniors and globs of freshmen dodging annoyed stares. Grinning, a fellow senior flags me down when we catch eyes, I raise my palm. "What's hopping, guys?"

There's a chorus of muffled replies that bounce off my eardrums. The same said Aaron mentioned at the gossip group slaps my palm. "Aye, we're all headed to the fair today. You wanna come?" Aaron asks, flashing a pearly smile.

I shrug, combing over my, for once, unpacked evening. "Yeah, sounds great. What time?" My eyes dash to every person at the table, readily putting names to the faces and pinning people with tidbits of info. Again, Ted is missing from this culmination of all-stars. Did he skip, or is he with Mable? God, the drama this year is enough to literally sink a dog-gone boat.

"Eh, around five?" Aaron glances around the table, the rest nodding in agreement.

"Winn?" I recognize the crisp voice. "Hi."

I turn, nodding, not missing two irritated eye rolls from my fellow seniors. Guys, she's not one of the fourteen-slash fifteen-year-old freshmen running around. Relax. Despite popular belief, some freshmen aren't completely clueless or God-awfully weird. Or maybe it's just an age thing since she's sixteen. "Natalie. Hey. What's hopping?"

Natalie lowers her head, whispering, "Nothing at the moment," as she sits beside me. She skims over today's crew, probably realizing she's the only freshman, not that many sit here. Maybe it's intimidation or the drop-off between sophomores willing to participate in sports. Either way, it's normally just Natalie and the baseball twins.

"You're not eating?" I question, turning to Natalie.

She quirks a brow. "You're not eating?" she repeats while pursing her lips. Snap. God, there are so many horrible ways puking, spitting blood, and not eating are correlated. For once, please don't jump to conclusions, Natalie, no matter how much I enjoy your conspiracy theories. "I'm not judging. Lunch has been... interesting since the Obama administration." She tilts her head. Her hair falls loosely to her right, framing her face. She tugs more pieces over while running her fingers through her chestnut locks, placing a shield between her and her athletic comrades.

I release a breath but muffle the voluntary sound by clearing my throat. "They really screwed us over." I chuckle. "Disappointing we can't have decent garlic bread."

Natalie snorts, her lips curving into a small smile. "I believe the buffalo pizza is worse."

"Really? I thought that was one of the better options," I say while gesturing to a slice on my neighbor's plate. "But the 'Asian' food is the worst. You can taste literal sugar on the rice."

"Because it is!" Aaron cuts in as Natalie opens her mouth. She presses her lips into a thin line and rests her head against her clasped hands. "The buffalo pizza hasn't been messed up yet. It isn't hard or soggy or cold." Aaron gestures with each word, almost knocking his cafeteria milk over.

Natalie peers across the room, directing her attention to the door, not bothering to comment as another person inserts their opinion. Only when one of the cheerleaders calls her name does she acknowledge the other humans.

"Nat! What do you think about that? The fruit isn't that bad." The junior grins, batting her eyelashes as she glances at Aaron. Well, I'm glad they hit it off.

Holding her jaw rigid, Natalie inhales, tightening her fists. "The fruit grows too ripe." She visibly swallows, eyes drifting from person to person. Her hands drop to her lap, and she squares her shoulders. "Humans haven't discovered how to operate a refrigerator after a century," she declares, voice steady.

A frown works its way onto my face as Natalie supports her stance about the correct operation of a refrigerator while simultaneously insulting Lacey's logic. Her eyes skirt past the people as she speaks, her voice wavering in an almost bored way. Still, a crinkle etches across her forehead, and her fingers lock and unlock under the table. Slowly, I tap her elbow. She stares at me from the corner of her eyes. I smile, offering my hand while she tilts her head, still speaking to nine heads. Blinking, she grabs my hand, mouthing "thank you" after finishing her rebuttal to Aaron's claim.

A wave of warmth passes through me. Not just because Natalie's hand is way warmer than mine but because a familiar feeling jolts through my system. It's a feeling never fails to distract me. Helping people in their darkest hours brightens my own depressingly black times. It's almost addicting in a way.

As we stand, heeding a teacher's call for group three to leave, Aaron blocks Natalie. "You should've joined the debate team," he says, voice straining, "They needed more members, and you're good."

The other eight tread to the exits, tossing their foam trays in the trash, miniature mushy grapes and three-ounce juice boxes rolling in heartedly.

"I have no interest in competing with supposed intelligence and grounds I have no regard for, Aaron." Natalie mimics his stance, crossing her arms across her chest as she quirks a brow. "Intelligence is a measure of how fast one can complete an academic task. Given ample time and attention, even the 'dumbest' lot could score high or higher than the 'smart' kid."

"I've never thought about it like that," Aaron admits, rubbing his neck. "Cool concept."

"Thank Winn." She eyes me, smiling lightly. "He managed to sway my opinion."

Aaron bites the inside of his cheek, scanning me like some kind of object he needs to bulldoze. Well, I guess we're not sorta friends then. As his eyes pass the space between Natalie and me, he audibly snorts. "Fantastic," he mutters in a sarcastic tone. Facing Natalie, still eyeing me, he forces a smile. "Do you want to race?"

"I already beat you," Natalie deadpans. "The likelihood you have improved in one week is zero to none."

"Then, a long-distance race?" Aaron tries.

Natalie glances at me as if she's trying to gauge my level of enjoyment or reaction. She seems to find whatever that something is and nods. "We both know you have no stamina. You're explosive in sprints, making you an excellent football player. Although, you need to work on your form," she pauses, checking her watch. "And yes, I did notice you limping yesterday. Shin splints or twisted ankle?"

"Shin splints. I've got them really bad on my left side." Aaron shakes his head in dismay. "Best get going." He beams at Natalie, dimples showing. "Have fun, Winn," he says, clapping my back.

I catch the door that leads to the science hallway, sweeping wide with my hand before returning to a flatter expression. "Are you going to the fair?"

"No. Why?" Natalie's eyebrows almost reach her hairline like ananimated character.

"Your lunch table is going." I shrug, tugging a loose thread from my tee. Her shoulders slump, and she exhales softly. Pausing, I step ahead of her. "You should come."

Natalie licks her lips, stopping beside the flight of stairs. "Should I?" She scratches the back of her neck, looking anywhere but my direction.

"Yeah. Of course. You're fun to be around," I say, placing my right foot against the lowest step, mentally preparing my left leg for the climb. "I'll text you the time if you want."

"I'm don't to–alright." Natalie nods, flicking her watch up. "I'll catch you later." She takes the stairs in twos, touching each step with the tip of her toe. I follow suit, like a monkey with a football, splitting with her in the English and math hallways.

What if there was monkey football? Monkeys football would be entertaining. I recoil at the random thought. Anytime else, maybe I would consider the random thought as inspiration for a song. But I know better than to claim the poofs of thoughts as tangible ideas.

I hive-five Mrs. Langley as I trek back to my fourth period. Her voice sounds off like a dampened bellow. I rub the base of my neck, sighing and shaking my head until the fog clears. "Um... yeah. I'm staying after to tutor," I say, grinning. "Wouldn't miss it."

Mrs. Langley smiles, adjusting her blonde bob with the flick of her finger. "I always appreciate the extra help."

Somehow, I manage to nod my head again and utter a farewell for now. There's a pound in my chest like something is pulling outward. I run my palm over my chest. Nothing. Nothing is protruding from the area. I swallow thickly, biting my lip. Closing my eyes, I let my brain remain hyper-focused on a monkey with a football. The thought successfully distracts me from the dull pinch within my body, my last three classes, and random phrases that sprew from my mouth.

Rubbing my eye with a paper towel from the bathroom dispenser, I cough into the material. Red dampens the cloth. There's a release in my chest. I cough again. The congested slash sort of can't breathe feeling disappears as if it was never really there. The third time's the charm.

My fingers glide along the top of my bald head. The sensation lingers. I can imagine how my hair used to reach the lobes of my ears and halfway down my neck, rarely trimmed with my haphazard home job with barber's scissors.

Using Dad's old hair supplies in December felt I was not only clipping away my stress ball, but a part of me saw someone him, his old self, in the mirror. I nicked my ear.

No one recognized me after we came off Christmas break. Actually, someone thought I was an exchange student.

My footsteps resonate through the hallway, past Mr. O'Conner's open door and Mr. Bevin's room lit by the chatter of other teachers scheming about some 2010 multiplayer video game.

Pastel floofs of grey, brown, and blue sprinkle the ceiling of Mrs. Langley's room, catching the evening light springing from the two cracked windows, the new, highly expensive binds drawn in a single quarter raised line. On the whiteboard, equations on the lower half sprawl the area along with various student drawings on the top half.

Before I reach my things, Mrs. Langley is at my side, taking short strides with me. She places her hand on my shoulder after hollering after the last sophomore. "You look like you've just seen a ghost," she starts. Her emerald eyes narrow in scrutiny. "Not that, that's a bad thing. C'mon, who wouldn't want to meet Casper?"

Snap. I forgot to reapply. God, where has my brain been?

I chuckle. "I'm putting on a pre-Halloween production," I joke.

Mrs. Langley grins, both her eyebrows raise to her forehead. "Joking aside, are you feeling well? You seem a bit, I don't know? Less energetic?"

Less energetic? What if the new treatment isn't working? But how could anything go wrong now? The pill is supposed to work. I got my DNA tested and everything. I even feel better than I have in weeks. Stop worrying. I pop my mouth back into place. "I guess I've been lacking in the snoozing department."

"Senior year is pretty stressful, Winn. Take care of yourself." Mrs. Langey smiles, handing me an eraser. "Mind changing the date? Help a short person out?"

"Yeah." I swallow a lump in the back of my throat. "I'm happy to help."

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Total Word Count: 20,014