One (One Universe)

enough, not by a longshot.
    Eventually, the dust I’m kicking up rises past my waist. I hate it so much. Not because it’s making me cough, which it is, but because it breaks the fantasy that I’m flying.
    You can only kick up dust if you’re on the ground.
    My lungs start to really burn about a quarter mile from home, and that’s when I drop to the ground, pull my knees against my chest, bury my face in my hands, and weep with everything in me.
    I want Elias — kissing him was enough to tell me that, and I’m not stupid enough to deny it.
    I want to fly more than I want him. Way more.
    As unbelievable as it was, it wasn’t — could never be — it’s not flying on my own. If I fly with Elias, I can’t fling my arms out to the side and feel the nothingness speeding between the earth and me. Not unless he carries me.
    And no matter how good it felt to kiss Elias, to be so close to him that I felt his heart beating in my chest and the vibration of his speech against my skin, I don’t want to let him carry me until I know I can carry myself.
     
    I pound up the driveway, where my brothers are playing basketball even though it’s almost too dark to reasonably see the ball. Max nails a free-throw and does a victory dance. Michael has always been a little slower, less agile. That’s why they link arms when they speed across the water. They go so much faster together.
    I bend at the waist, digging my elbows into my knees, trying to hide that I’m gasping for breath. I stare at the dull gray coating of dust on my legs. I could drag a white line through it with my finger.
    Michael’s voice interrupts my panting. “Merrin, you okay?”
    Max is next to me in seconds, probably glad to abandon the game. “What happened to you? Was it a guy?”
    Their baby faces are so serious, staring down at me. I grimace when I feel a cramp start to form in my calf, and that just makes Michael look more outraged.
    “We’ll kick his ass, Mer. Just tell us who.” He’s still a little boy, spouting threats in his high-pitched, just-starting-to-crack-sometimes voice. I want to laugh — for his incorrect assumptions and for how sweet his concern for me is.
    Then a clear thought pierces my mind. Did the boys hear about what happened at SHS last year?
    “No, guys. No, uh…but thanks,” I say, trying to keep my face as serious as possible. “Long night. I’m going to bed.”
    The cerulean-and-magenta flashing of the TV from the living room lets me know that Mom and Dad are still up, but I don’t want them to see the dirt on my legs and the redness in my eyes. Don’t want them to think the wrong thing, not after what happened to that girl at Super. Not after what they knew, without asking, that I was afraid of.
    I yell into the living room, “Home, guys!” Then I hurry up the stairs, duck into the bathroom, and turn the shower on so they know not to bug me. I toss my clothes just inside my door, adding to the pile of dirty socks and wet washcloths, and glance at the hall clock on my way into the bathroom. Eight o’clock already.
    The shower has steamed up the bathroom, and I step in, inhaling the hot fog and blowing it out in a deep breath. I close my eyes, tip my head back just enough for the stream of water to tug my hair back, and feel the steam caress my face, my arms, my neck. This is what it’s like to be inside a cloud. It must be.
    I step backward and let the hot water pour over my face. It’s scalding hot, just the way I love it, but as much as I do, it’s still too hot for the skin on my eyelids and lips. I drop my head forward, and the water pounds my muscles until it turns from scalding to hot to tepid, and the change sends goosebumps rippling across my skin.
    When I get out, I look down at my body, at my ghostly white skin striped with red on either side of my neck and down to my belly and thighs from where the steaming water ran its course. Exhaustion hits me, envelops my body seemingly from nowhere, and I feel my legs tremble slightly.
    I reach for my white waffle-weave bathrobe and wrap it tight around my body. I head toward my room, but when I’m just about there, Dad calls up the stairs, “Mer Bear? Sweetie?”
    “Right here, Dad,” I say. His head cranes around the banister, and I swear I see his shoulders relax significantly when he sees me. Then he basically sprints up the stairs to stand beside me.
    “Everything okay, honey? Where’s the car?”
    Oh my God. I am even more out of it than I