Landing Read Free Page B

night Farewell, Colorado takes
to the cold and holds it close, even in early October. The afternoon, however,
is still freakishly warm, so I take the bike for a spin. It’s only ever sat
forlornly in the garage since I came to live with my half-brothers almost three
months ago.
    I’ve never actually ridden a
motorcycle before, but this is not a problem. My body adjusts intuitively to
the bike, relaxing into the turns over the rutted concrete, tensing and
loosening to maintain balance. My hair—still making its way to my
shoulders—dances around my face. The growl of the motorcycle beats against my
sensitive eardrums but my thoughts need a little jarring. I still think of Ryan
every morning when I wake up without his arm draped over me. Funny how an arm
can be such a precious thing.
    Pine and fir trees blur together in
my peripheral vision, turning the forest around me into a matted green
backdrop. How odd—how outright wrong—to see so many trees still stubbornly
clinging to their greens. In Connecticut, where I was from until I wasn’t, the
trees will all be shrugging off their greens for something a little more
dangerous: bloody reds, citrusy oranges, heavy, buttery yellows.
    Karen will have to hire the
neighbor’s kid to rake up all the brittle brown corpses in the yard unless he’s
gone off to college. I push the thought away, but there is another behind it:
the Find Maya t-shirt my adoptive mother was wearing at the press
conference when she and my adoptive father, Henry, begged for my safe return.
    It’s still better this way ,
I think to myself, because what other choice do I have? I can’t go back. Not
now. Not ever. Well…there was a secret jaunt to Ryan’s grave last month, but
that was a one-time deal prompted by Gabe who can be compelled to willful
recklessness when his emotions get the better of him.
    When I return to the old, well-worn
house that is now my home, Tarren is outside, waiting and angry. This anger is
actually a compilation of three angers in one—the usual, everyday anger that he
wears like a second skin, the disappointment about the mission yesterday, and
now me on the bike.
    I decide to make a grand entrance
for the hell of it. I rev the engine loud, speed up the driveway, and cut a
turn so deep that my knee almost touches the ground. Gravel sprays around me.
    Tarren, of course, is not amused.
With his firm jaw, well-etched cheekbones, and long-lashed eyes, he would be
handsome if he didn’t try so damn hard to look unpleasant all the time. Even
his aura is spiky—shivering up and down all day unless he’s running, shooting,
or dampening it to hide his emotions from me. Tarren’s got a lot reasons for
his anger, but I don’t feel sorry for him at all. Not for the long scar that
traces his jaw or the many others he so fervently hides.
    “That’s not yours,” he says when I
cut the engine.
    Right, this was Tammy’s bike. I’m
about to launch into a peevish defense until I see the vapors of pained red
ringing Tarren’s aura even though he’s trying to keep himself in check.
Memories of his dead twin sister always puts red into Tarren’s aura.
    Quantum Queen of Tact .
    We look at each other. I try to
muster an apology and fail. Not for Tarren.
    “Can we practice some more
fighting?” I offer instead.
    ***
    In the backyard, beneath crab
grass, dead pine needles, and old shell casings, we start achingly slow. I
follow Tarren’s body, pantomiming his kicks as he demonstrates the movements
over and over. He harps on my foot placement, heel turn, the bend of my elbow,
and every other little thing. Then we turn face to face and, again in slow
motion, mimic the moves against each other. Tarren has great patience for this
sort of thing. He seems to find some form of religious bliss in adhering to
each exact detail of the taekwondo movements.
    I would rather train with Gabe, who
fights much looser than his brother, mixing all the arts they have
learned—taekwondo, judo, MMA and