Feather Bound (8 page)

I started hitting the keypad.

I sent the text to Ade and prayed. Two minutes later, my phone vibrated.

Hyde and Anton's fight had moved further down the hallway. Their voices sounded more distant, and the door wasn't rattling anymore. Sucking in a breath, I opened the door just a crack. Ade came in fast and locked the door after her. A feather fluttered out from my skirt. The look on her face said it all, but I just didn't have time for words. I grabbed the feminine, asymmetrical trench coat from her hands.

“I need to get out of here,” I said, my eyes bulging and wet. “Please, let's get out of here!”

Ade didn't ask any questions. Picking up the feather, she shoved it into the jacket's inner pocket after I threw it on. I clamped my arms around myself.

“Ready?” she whispered. It was the most solemn I'd ever seen her since Mom's death.

“Yeah.”

She opened the door and we barged out. I made sure to pull on the hem so that the jacket pressed against my thighs, just in case any feathers leaked out. Hyde was nowhere to be found. Whether he'd been drawn and quartered, or just escorted out, I really couldn't care right now. We headed to the elevator–

“Hey!”

I'd made a wrong turn around a fashion photographer and bumped into Anton, his face bruised and cut courtesy of Hyde. My fingers lost their grip around the fabric, and I felt something slide down my thigh, but I couldn't think about it. I just had to go.

“Oh, it's you. Hyde's bitch, right?” My blood ran cold as Anton slithered next to me. Every muscle in my body tensed. “You find assholes hot, huh? Then how about–”

Ade kicked him in the shins with her two inch heel. He stumbled back. “Your party sucked ass,” she said and shoved me into the elevator. Once the doors closed, I clung to my trench coat, closed my eyes and buried my face in Ade's shoulder.

 

We were silent the entire ride back to Brooklyn. Ade looked as if she was expending the last of her willpower trying to keep herself from breaking. I, on the other hand, was already in pieces on the dirty cab floor.

We stopped in front of our dilapidated, narrow yellow house, a couple of narrow yellow houses down from a Chinese restaurant. I scooped up the pieces of myself and trudged out the door, waiting while Ade paid the driver.

I could see her out of the corner of my eyes. Her gaze travelled from my bloody face, down my water-logged hair to the stolen trench she knew hid the feathers pressed against my back. I looked like a mess and felt like one too.

“Dee,” she started, her voice shaking.

I shut the door behind me. “Just don't.”

“But–”

“Seriously, don't say anything. Please.” Tightening the jacket around myself, I forced my drying throat to swallow.

Dad was sleeping on the couch. An empty bottle rested on the floor beside him while his hand dangled over the armrest. I could have laughed.

“Deanna, what are you doing?” Ade followed me into the kitchen.

“I'll take care of it,” I muttered. Scissors could do it. Or a knife – that big one I always used to slice through chicken bone.

She watched me, wide-eyed, as I rummaged through the drawers for a sharp enough blade. As soon as I grabbed a butcher knife Ade's hand wrapped around my wrist. “What the hell are you thinking?”

I shoved her off. “I said I'll take care of it!”

When she wrestled it out of my grip, all the heat rushed to my head and I lunged at her. She threw the knife in the sink and held me back.

“Stop it!” I struggled against her, my eyes burning. “Please, Ade! Please!
I have to get rid of them
!”

It was the first time in a long time I'd seen my sister cry. It was wrong, unnatural. She pulled me into a desperate hug, gripping me as though I'd dissolve into nothing if she didn't. I did anyway.

“Please,” I coughed out, because I was choking on my own tears. “I need a knife. I need to get rid of them.” I longed for the kiss of a sharp edge, needing it so desperately that I knew I'd die without it. But who was I kidding? My life was already over.

“They go back in.” Ade's breath brushed against my neck. “I heard they go back in on their own. Just… just…” She shook her head. Then, pulling away from me, she gave me a smile that nearly made me forget she was hurting almost as much as I was. “It'll be OK. First we'll get you cleaned up. There are bandages and Band-Aids in the pantry. After that, just go to bed. You'll feel better in the morning. OK?” It was like she was trying to convince herself. But all I wanted was to cut the awfulness away.

“But I need a knife… just give me…”

Ade hugged me again and I fell silent. They go back in on their own. I had to believe it. I had to. I pressed my lips into a thin line, forcing myself to stay on my feet.

“You'd better be right,” I whispered. “Please be right.”

8

SELF-HELP

 

I need a knife.

I woke up thinking it. I was on my stomach, and I opened my eyes to find myself lying on a pile of my feathers. It was itchy, like sleeping on a pile of hay. I pushed myself to my knees, staring at each one, crushed and matted together from my sweat and heat. Instinctively I touched my back. Nothing. I lifted my shirt and checked my back in the mirror. The feathers were all gone from my back? They'd fallen off. Just like that.

So Ade was right. Sort of. But that didn't change anything.

It was like there was an open hole in my chest that nothing could fill. I trudged back to my bed, as limp as a corpse, and scooped all the feathers into my garbage bin, shuddering a bit at each touch. After flushing them down the toilet, it was back to bed.

Sunday passed in a blur, though probably because I spent the majority of it staring at my bedroom's awful blue wallpaper. Ade kept coming in and asking if I was OK. Then Dad came in the afternoon. He hadn't a clue what was going on, but he'd overcome his hangover just long enough to notice that he'd seen only one daughter all day. I said maybe two words to him.

Early Monday morning, I refused to go to work. Called in sick. Ade vouched. She went out for a while after that, and about an hour later dumped a pile of pamphlets on my bed.

“Don't worry. Dad didn't see me with these.”

“
So You're a Swan
,” I read, pushing one with my finger. “
Learning to Love Your Feathers
?”
I looked up at Ade, unamused. Her already self-conscious smile faltered just a bit.

“I went to the free clinic early today and got them.” Her eyes avoided mine.

Must have been really early. No way Ade would want someone thinking she was getting them for herself. I slid the second pamphlet closer. “You picked these up for me?”

“I just thought, you know.” She paused. “I mean, it might help. With all the…” When she paused again, I lay back down, throwing my bed sheets over my head. “Come on, Deanna!” Ade shook my arm. “You can't just check out of life. Come on, Dad's worried! Even Ericka's worried.”

My sheets flew off me in a second. I sat up and grabbed Ade's wrist. “You didn't tell her, did you?”

“Wha–? No, no, not about what happened!” It was odd seeing Ade panic, though her impression of a startled deer was quite good. “Dad called her and told her you weren't feeling well. So, I mean, of course she's worried.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right. Like nouveau riche Ericka Davis gives a shit about any of us anymore.”

Ade became very quiet. “Well, you know I give a shit, if that's worth anything.”

I remembered how tightly she'd hugged me last night; the tears streaming down her face as she cried almost as loudly as I had. Letting go of her, I stared at the mess of pamphlets on my bed and sighed. “I know. Thanks.” With a shaky hand, I took the pamphlet nearest me, flipping it open. “Oh hey, did you know that ‘almost three percent of the world's population are or will become swans during their lifetimes'? Huh. Maybe it's time I start picking lottery numbers for Dad.” I tried to let some sun slip into my voice for Ade's sake.

She nodded. “Yeah I read that part. Kinda surprising.”

“Why?”

She sat on the bed and shrugged. “Three percent. That's still, like, millions. Just never really seems like there are a lot of…”

Again with the pause. I cleared my throat. “You know, I'm somehow doubtful that swans are itching to reveal themselves to the general public. What with the whole ‘possibly losing your autonomy forever' part of their genetic make-up.”

You mean “our”, hissed that bitchy voice in my head.

“Actually, there are totally some celebs and other random famous people coming out as swans now. Like you know that one girl who was in
The Last Happening
? That shitty hipster actress who smirks a lot?”

“Mmm, Julia Something. Wait!” I gasped. “No way.”

“Uh-huh. And trust me, there are others. OK, granted, most of those are rumors. Still, I mean, at the very least that proves that the whole swan thing…” Pause. “I mean it's not really something to be ashamed of…” Yet another pause. “Not that I thought that
you
thought of it as something to be ashamed of. And I'm certainly not suggesting that it's normally something that people would think of as something to be ashamed of. Or that it
should
be – I'm totally not assuming or insinuating that by any stretch of the imagination...”

Well, at least she made me laugh. The sound of it seemed to loosen Ade's shoulders. “You're confusing,” I told her. “Also, just to note, this is starting to sound like that ridiculous conversation Winnie had with Kayla last month when she caught her making out with Shelly.”

“You gonna tell any of them? Your friends, I mean.”

What kind of a question was that? I liked my friends just fine, but this was not the kind of information you shared. Period. “No. Never. Dad and Ericka too. They can never know about this.”

Neither could Hyde. He'd sent me several hundred texts over the past twenty-four hours. In fact, Hyde was the reason why my phone lay in my dresser drawer, turned off. He could never know about this either. He already had too much on his plate what with the war he'd apparently decided to wage on the Reys. I didn't want him to have to worry about this too…

Worry?
I caught myself. No. He could never know because this wasn't any of his business.

Ade nodded. “It's between us then.” I noted the hint of pride in her voice while she picked up the
So You're a Swan
pamphlet and started reading. “What are Swan Feathers? How do you get them? How can you tell if you have them?”

“And now I feel like I'm learning about venereal diseases.”

“Hey, at least you don't have one of those, right? Bright side.”

She gave me a thumbs up. A beat of silence. Then we both cracked up. Ade spent the rest of the morning in my room. We went through all the pamphlets semi-seriously, and while I found them at least partially helpful, deep down I knew there was something I needed to know, something the pamphlets weren't telling me because they were so deadly concerned with sanitizing the blood and guts out of being a swan.

At my request, Ade brought in her half-busted laptop: an old hand-me-down from Ericka that always overheated in a matter of minutes. While Dad was watching TV, we took the opportunity to do some of our own research. There was no greater abyss of random knowledge than the internet, after all.

I clicked and clicked. “Man, I had no idea how many support forums there are dedicated to this stuff: ‘The Swan Lake.' ‘Be Down with Your Down.'”

Ade grimaced. “This shit is cheesier than the pamphlet.”

“‘Manifestation can happen at any time, though it typically doesn't appear for the first time in people under the age of ten or over the age of eighteen',” I read and glared, bitterly, when Ade couldn't hide her relieved little sigh. “Manifestation…” I frowned. So there was a name for what happened to me last night. “Freak show” worked just as well.

“‘But after that,'” Ade continued reading, “‘whether or not your feathers emerge is up to you!'”

“What?” I whispered. “‘Intense physical distress and often emotional distress.' Those are the triggers?”

“Hey, that's great! So basically if you just stay calm forever and never get hurt you'll never have to see those things again!” With a big smile, Ade shook me by the shoulder.

Right. Easy enough to do.

Pages and pages of anonymous, personal anecdotes ranging from benign tales to inappropriate tell-alls corroborated the theory. A mother at the funeral of her husband and only child. And this charming little story, as told by
princesssugarbitch2000,
whose boyfriend apparently blew his feathers before he could “blow his load”. Classy.

I think I get the idea
. We went back to surfing, hoping we'd chance upon another useful forum with maybe less of the load-blowing.

My hands froze over the keyboard.

“Don't,” warned Ade. She started to take the laptop away, but I pulled it back. I don't know why I clicked the link. Or why I didn't take the first line, “first you need to get them scared,” as my cue to get the hell out of there. Pictures of cattle prods and Tasers. I felt every muscle in my face as it contorted in horror. Naked men and women twisted in piles, feathers strewn about as if torn from a pillow.