The Girl Who Couldn't Fly, Page 2

back into the present reality. He was limping towards me. He seemed to be injured a lot.

  “I love this place.” I answered. “It’s so… peaceful.”

  “I get that.” He said. “This lake, it’s something special.”

  “Yeah.” I agreed. “The boathouse too. It used to be such a special place with a clear purpose. Now it’s decrepit and only here because no one even cares enough to destroy it. There’s beauty in that too.”

  “Huh. I never thought about that. This place was worth something once.” I could see the intrigue in Peter’s eyes as he spoke, but his voice trailed off as something, probably some animal, brushed against the wall of the barn and then scurried away after realizing it had crashed the wall open.  “Let’s start the ritual.” Peter suddenly spoke hurriedly.

  “Sure. Just follow my lead.” I agreed, handing him a bag of salt and a paper with instructions. The tip of the crescent light had just appeared upon the horizon. The dark phase of the moon was ending, and now was the perfect time to start the ritual.

  I walked slowly in a clockwise direction across the circle I had drawn, sprinkling salt on it’s edges as I did so. Peter copied me. We wandered around the circumference of the circle three times before standing in the center, intertwining our fingers and breathing, slowly and deliberately. Once the peace entered within us, we turned and faced opposite directions.

  I was looking towards the North, and Peter was facing the South. Our left hands were connected behind our backs. My right hand stretched downwards towards the ground with an open palm. Peter’s right arm stretched outwards, and he had to twist his wrist towards him so he could read the chant. We chanted to the North and the South, the Earth and the Fire. We asked them to protect us and thanked them to doing so. Then, we turned ninety degrees clockwise.

  Now I was facing East and Peter West. Our left hands remained intertwined behind our backs, but our right hands changed position. My right arm was now stretched straight above me pointing towards the sky. Peter’s was held tightly across his chest, pushing inwards. We chanted to the East and the West, the Air and the Water. We asked them to protect us and thanked them to doing so. After we finished, we walked towards the center of the circle.

  In the center of the circle, next to the table, we stood facing each other. We each rose our hands up high and pressed our palms together, fitting our fingers between each other. We drew closer together, raising our hands as high as physically possible. I felt each breath he took softly tickling my skin. Our bodies briskly brushed against each other. I felt my heart begin to pound and my palms begin to sweat. I chanted to the Keepers of Balance, those that hold the points between elements. I asked them to teach us about spirituality and mysticism. Following my chanting, Peter and I sat down, criss-cross, on opposite sides of the table.

  We reached across the small table I had built and once again let our fingers intertwine. I called upon the God, asking him to stay with us and gift us with some of his knowledge. I called upon the Goddess and asked her the same. Finally, Peter and I sat on opposite sides of the table, both facing outwards towards the lake.

  I drew in the dust images of a girl, images of myself. I drew myself physically pushing other people, faceless and nameless people, away from me. I drew myself hiding from people who sought to care about me. I also drew my father. Similarly, Peter drew whatever he sought to rid from his life. Then, softly and slowly, we blew the dirt we had drawn our images in away towards the lake, towards the crescent moon that was now almost entirely visible across the lake.

  We walked over to the edge of the lake, to the point where the water and the land became one, and we began to meditate, just as I had before Peter had arrived. We held hands as we meditated. I hadn’t written that in the instructions, but we both knew that it was right. We stared out across the lake and felt the peace flow through us. We felt the darkness that had been consuming us gracefully drifting away with the wind. The entire experience was simultaneously exhilarating and relaxing. I know that’s a contradiction, but it’s true. We sat there, at the foot of the lake and the old boathouse, for what must’ve been hours.

  “That was…” Peter eventually searched for words, but seemed to be at a total loss.

  “I know.” I smiled at him. “It’s one of my favorite rituals.”

  “We sh--should do more of this… this, uh, ritual stuff.” Peter said.

  “I’d love to.” I answered. “I know many rituals and am always learning more.”

  “That’s incredible.” Peter said. “I mean, um, how much you’ve dedicated to doing this, even though everyone mocks you for it. Just because you want to--you do it--and you’ve given so much to it.”

  Peter was getting at something that I thought about a lot. Unlike a lot of the people who become wicca--especially those who choose to shape their image in a darker fashion as I had--I had no reason to do so. I didn’t do it as a reaction to tragedy, or as some way to hide from reality. I did it because I wanted to. I was surprised Peter recognized that. Without even thinking about it, I leaned in and kissed the boy.

  It was a wonderful, passionate moment, the type of moment that I had thought myself to be a long way from experiencing. I never would have thought--not in my wildest dreams--that I would kiss Peter that night. I didn’t even think of him in a sexual manner. Still, it happened and it was an incredible experience. It lasted for what seemed like a minute before we both pulled away.

  “That was…” Once again, I had left Peter speechless.

  “Sorry.” I said, smiling once again. “That  just… sorta happened.”  

  “It’s fine.” Peter spoke quickly. “It’s more than fine. I just, just didn’t expect it.”

  “I didn’t either.” I responded. “Anyway, it’s getting late. We should go home.”

  “Yeah.” Peter agreed. “We’ll talk more in school monday.”

  With those words, Peter waved and headed out through the hole of dissolved wood that had once been a door to the boathouse. It was three long weeks after that night when Peter showed up at school again.

  When I saw him at school again, I quickly grew excited. I suddenly felt my entire body shaking in my deep-rooted desire to run towards him. I wanted to talk to him, to ask him what was wrong. The problem was, doing any of that required first making eye contact, and he seemed determined to avoid that at all cost.

  I went through class constantly tapping my pencil against my desk, multiple times being told to stop, but not even considering listening to the requests. At lunch, I went up to get more food three times, spending way too much money and eating more than a young girl ever should. Every time I got up, I would redirect my path to make sure I walked by Peter as pointedly as possible. Every time I walked by him, he would suddenly find something extremely interesting in his plate that seemed to require all his focus.

  After lunch, the rest of the school day only went worse. The frustration built up inside me as Peter continued to pretend as if he didn’t notice me at all, as if he hadn’t just disappeared for three weeks right after doing that ritual and kissing me. I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch something. I did punch something--the bathroom mirror, to be specific. It hurt like hell and bloodied my knuckles, but luckily that matched my whole gothic-wicca look.

  Once the school day ended, I decided I had had enough of all this idiocy. I wasn’t going to wait any longer and let Peter ignore me. I was going to--no matter what it may mean--I was going to talk to him. I would get a straight answer from the boy and I would figure out what the hell was going on. I needed to know if I finally had another wiccan to share my rituals with or not. I needed to know if that kiss had meant anything to him. I deserved to know that much at least, didn’t I?

  I followed Peter for a while as he walked home from school, waiting till he was alone. It wasn’t fair to approach him with his friends around, and I was afraid he wouldn’t answer me honestly if I did so. So, I waited patiently till the last of his friends faded away in a different direc
tion. I felt a bit like a stalker, but Peter had left me little choice. Once he was alone, I finally approached him.

  “Peter.” I started, unsure of how to continue. He slowly spun around and faced me.

  “What are you doing here?” He seemed to growl as he spoke.

  “I wanted to talk to you.” I responded, matching the aggression in his voice.

  “And why would you want that?” The way he said that seemed to physically hurt me. I cringed backwards. I could have sworn that, just for a second, I saw pain in Peter’s eyes as I did so.

  “You know why.” I said pointedly.

  “No, I really don’t.” His words continued to cut through me.

  “Then I guess we won’t be doing any more rituals together?” He snorted as I spoke.

  “You think I want to do any of that wiccan crap? The only thing sadder than your ritual that night was your kiss. You should really just get away from me.” As a wiccan, I believed that words contained immense power. However, in all my studies, I have never managed to create a physical sensation with only words. Still, Peter managed to create a force to push me away with his words so effortlessly. He was able to manifest an invisible knife and drive it into me with such meaningless, powerless words. I couldn’t hurt him with my words, but still the anger overtook me. It caused me to do