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LOST BOYWhen they first found her body, they thought it was an animal. The fox hair embedded in her bloody scalp and tufts of sheep's wool clinging to her clothes put the entire neighborhood on watch for some sort of malicious beast. They were wrong. They wouldn't believe me. From when the balls of my feet could feel the sand-paper shingles of the roof through the leathery soles of my boots, I knew, but they wouldn't believe me. They will never believe me. They will always be wrong. That is how they are.
I knew that something like this would happen. You can't expect the whole nest to get it right. It's a wonder some of them make it at all, you know? Despite my expectations, it pains me every time, and I still have to tell thelittle ones. They say I make it look easy, they don't know the half of it.
The authorities pulled one of us in for questioning while someone was hosing the blood off of the sidewalk. That's why I don't hang around when it happens. A pair of ankles in a tree or the top of a hat over the crest of a roof can make a big mess with the police and slow everyone down. It's best not to get too sentimental about these things. Keep it to yourself, save it for later. I've passed the point of letting the occasional fall weigh me down. If you can't draw up enough joy, you won't even be able to pick your feet up for more than a few meters. It's a matter of survival for us. You learn to brush it off.
The police officer who questioned him thought that the kid pushed her off the roof or something. She fell, they had that right. He asked if the kid knew her or heard of any suicide threats or maybe a call out. We've practiced this, it's one of the games. Grown ups just don't know how to smile right. This kid, he flashes the officer a great gap-toothed smile, genuine as can be, and he tells him he was just passing through and thought he saw something in the tree. He said that the officer put a hand on his shoulder and told him, "Son, I don't know where you're from, but give it a year or two, and you could get yourself shot for being in someone else's tree, like that." We're not from around here, and they won't see us again, if I can help it.
The fox fur wasn't from an animal attack. She was proud of that trinket, her pelt. She'd caught the fox herself, I heard her boast, once, when it was trying to get to her flock. She'd left the pelt back home, when we took off, but I guess the wear of it had caused some of the fur to hold to her hair. You never can get rid of some things, like the smell of citrus, long after you've washed the oils from your hands. Some things cling to you like that and just don't let you go.
We're free, where we come from. We don't have parents telling us when to go to bed or get up or go out. Parents just bear down on you. When one of us does go down, like she did, it's usually the parents. Most have moved or we don't pass them on our route, but when we do, that's the heaviest. My parents don't hold me down like others' do. Mine propel me on, even. Spite can be uplifting, you know. Empowering.
I didn't stick around once I saw that she was down, permanently. Most of the kids stay by me. I'm the most experienced, I guess. Sometimes they wander off, once they've had some practice. That's what this kid they interviewed did. I never was one to discourage individualism. When you're free, no one's responsible to you or for you. You're just you. I lead these kids up to find others, but they never had to come. Sure, I threaten to kill them, if they don't, but the truth is, they have to want it, or they'd never survive the first leap.
I followed my shadow across the suburban green lawns to the house in front of which she'd fallen. She was always a rebel, one of the most passionate in our contempt for the authorities, the grown ups. I tip-toed over the hedges and made note of the "Greystone Wolves honour Student" bumper sticker pasted to the back of one of two mini vans that lay dormant in the driveway. That's what brings them down, hardest: replacements. She died of jealousy. It's not even the adults' fault that they fall.
I knew another girl like this, once. They can be overly sentimental, these girls. They're harder to bring seeking, sometimes, because they can't handle when others fall. After the police-tape was cleared, a few vans set up in front of the house. This made one of the girls cry. I should have known she'd be so soft. Despite their tears, girls like the one who fell are good to bring seeking because the new children don't trust us as much as they do the girls. Everyone wants a mother or someone soft to call "Darling." They think they do, anyway. That's why I put up with the tears. I do everything for increasing freedom.
I used to know a girl like that. I used to know a girl who almost brought me down. This girl who fell today, she's just another girl. They're all just other girls. I won't let anyone bring me down like that again. It's not going to be my blood they're washing off the sidewalk. My body won't ever have to be taken to be buried or burnt or whatever they do. I can smile my way through anything, through the pain of death, through the tears of those who are in my care. I can always escape, and that's what I'm doing for others. I'm setting them free of their cages where they, like circus bears, are made to dance while the grown ups turn them into copies of themselves. This is why the fox pelt will mean nothing to me when we go home. I can fly beyond the furthest reaches of any storm clouds. I can flash the blackest night a grin and fly straight on 'til morning.
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