* * *
Dom had flown too far, too fast. Again.
At least I brought a shirt this time, he thought.
The last time he flew, he'd wanted to see how fast he could go. He'd spread his wings and circled high over the skinny part of the bay that the locals called The River. He built build up speed, then shot like a cannon. He'd flown miles before he splashed down in the ocean at the southern end of the island, cold, shirtless, with just enough pocket change to take a city bus back home.
This time, he came prepared. He was glad he'd told his Dad he'd go biking with him. His Dad immediately came through with gear useful to a kid with 16 foot-transparent wings that sprouted from his back on command. Skin-tight spandex pants and shirt, and a little pouch where he could fold up a matching windbreaker and stash his house keys, cash and a cell phone. He'd cut two slits in the back of the shirt, so thin you'd never notice them, but just right so he could slip his wings through without ripping the kind of gaping holes that had been baffling his mother of late. He looked like a superhero. A really, really skinny superhero.
But landings. In the comics, everyone lands so gracefully. I land like God's using me as a skipping stone.
He must have flown eight miles tonight. His back ached his arms and elbows were scraped red and raw. So he sat for awhile, on the beach, staring at the ocean, picking at the sand. He made a small pile: Two clam shells, no clam; a stick that once held a popsicle, or maybe a corn dog; four cigarette butts; six flat stones, two round ones; one penny, the most money he'd ever made at the beach. Michelle said she found three dollars once, but Dom found that hard to believe.
Where are you, Michelle?
A golden retriever ran by, splashing, chased by a couple in sweats. Dom waved. It was late, too late for the bus, so he'd have to fly back home, no matter how much his back hurt. He stood and started the climb the the hill, to the rocky cliffs on his right, where he could more easily get some air.
Funny that I land here, Michelle. It had been almost a month now, when they walked here and watched the sun set and talked about life and friends and what the stars might have to say. And then it was time to go and she said she'd be leaving for awhile, and she couldn't say where or why but she was and then she kissed him, briefly but so softly on the lips and walked back to her car and Dom's mother shouted, so he rejoined his family on the beach as they packed up the blankets and towels and cooler for the drive back home. She was gone ...
Then she screamed. Screamed? No, that's here, now. Where?
Another scream.
He looked around frantically. Two silhouettes, at the top of the cliff, the tourist overlook, the one with the binoculars for a quarter. One cringed, arms over her face, by the railing, fending off what, in the moonlight, looked like a swarm of bees. The other figure looked like a vampire -- guiding the swarm like a conductor.
Cyril. What's he doing here?
Without thinking, he ran. Up the cliff, clamboring over rocks.
Cyril turned to look at him, his face, even paler in the moonlight, framed by his long black hair.
"Dom. So nice you could join us," he called.
What's with the evil genius voice, Cyril? Dom kept his thoughts to himself. He was on the trail now, the one that led up to the vista point, so he could run.
Oh great, Dom thought. Cyril had turned to face him and the swarm turned on him, a pale cloud of rocks and dust and shells and bottle tops and popsicle sticks and whatever other garbage Cyril could find.
Dom kept running. He closed his eyes.
I can't do this.
His jaw clenched. He could feel tears welling. He was breathing hard.
I can't do this.
He opened his eyes and saw the girl, leaning on the railing, staring at him in horror.
Not Michelle. Dammit. Tracy...from Calculus.
The swarm had almost reached him, and he nearly froze. The last time, he'd felt it's sting -- death by a million cuts. There was pain, and it never stopped.
"I can't do this!" he shouted out loud. But inside he knew.
I will do this.
Dom leaped. The wings blossomed from his back, great and ghostly. They carried him over the swarm. From the top of his arc, he glimpsed Tracy, on her knees, eyes wide in awe. He stopped for a moment, as Cyril tried to redirect the swarm.
Then, Dom dove, and in a moment, his outstretched slammed into Cyril's chest, knocking him to the ground. Dom stood over him, not sure what to do. Cyril smiled his most ingratiating grin.
"Well played, Dominic. See you in school." A cloud of dust burst in Dom's face. When he finished coughing, Cyril was gone.
"Who...who are you?" Tracy called. She doesn't recognize me.
"I just wanted to help," Dom said. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. I guess."
"Do you have a car?"
"Yes. Yes, I do." She was recovering, getting her bearings. Staring at him. Dom backed away and turned to the side. She walked toward him.
"Good. You can drive right? 'Cause I don't have a car here or anything."
"I'll be okay, now." She paused. "What are you?"
"I'm just a kid, you know? I just wanted to help."
They stared at each for a moment, Dom half in shadow, Tracy's pretty face cut and scraped from the swarm.
"You make a funny angel," she said, and smiled a little.
Angel? Angel?!
Dom had an overwhelming urge to run.
"I...I'm glad you're okay."
And he ran.
# # #
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