Flying by Carrie Jones

groan. “Too true, but only because you insisted on that marathon this summer before you would let me watch the movie versions with all the hot actors.”
    â€œ Star Trek: The Original Series, or TOS, as we call it. Good times … good times…” Lyle adjusts his coat and yanks up one of the laces on his shoe. His fingers move so quickly. I blink to force myself not to stare. “Always better than the J. J. Abrams versions.”
    â€œSo much less hot.”
    â€œExcuse me,” he counters. “Nimoy versus Quinto. Old Spock wins and you know it.”
    â€œYes, but Shatner versus Pine. Pine is so-o-o much hotter.”
    â€œShatner was hot in his day.” Lyle blinks hard.
    â€œYou are so wrong.”
    Seppie clears her throat. “You two are tangenting again.”
    â€œI prefer the word digressing, personally,” Lyle says.
    â€œWhatever.” Seppie starts the engine. Heat blasts out of the vents, for which I am grateful, and we drive home. “Mana. No parties for you tonight.”
    â€œBut it’s party night! Teacher in-service day tomorrow. No school. Those are the best parties.”
    â€œShe’s whining. Mana, you’re whining,” Lyle says. He pulls me over so that I can lean on his shoulder. Car headlights flash into the cab of the truck, illuminating his face, which seems a little funny from my angle. I’m kind of beneath his chin, and it’s so nice there that I might never move, at least not of my own free will.
    â€œI am not whining,” I mumble, but I am, and it’s because I’m completely freaked and I don’t want to be alone, thinking about what just happened. About Dakota and his tongue. The cranky man named China. How I could jump like that, like some sort of frog.
    â€œDelayed response.” Seppie turns on her high beams and zips down the road.
    â€œVery delayed response, indicative of her head trauma,” Lyle mocks.
    â€œI have no head trauma,” I say, and sit up straight, remembering. “Seppie, you’re supposed to be at Anna’s tonight, because tonight is—”
    â€œMy fantastic hookup night with the fantastic Tyler Carter, and if not him, then the equally fantastic point guard, Thomas,” she finishes. “Yes, I know.”
    A car approaches. She turns on the low beams. Lyle rubs at my arms, trying to warm me up, I guess. Seppie sighs hard.
    â€œSeppie is still going,” Lyle explains. “She’s just dropping us off first.”
    â€œUs?”
    â€œYou and me,” he says. “Damn, Seppie, your heater sucks.”
    â€œI know.” She turns onto Hardy Road, which is almost to our subdivision.
    I sit up straighter and put my hands in front of the heater vent. Then I say, pretty reluctantly, because I’m just trying to be polite, “You don’t have to come home with me.”
    Lyle taps my thigh with his fingers. “No big. I live, what, three houses away?”
    â€œBut you probably want to go hook up, too.”
    Seppie snorts. “When does Lyle not want to hook up? The key word here is want; notice that the word want is not the same as does .”
    He reaches behind my back and punches her in the arm. She swerves. “Jerk. Way to win over the ladies, assaulting them.”
    â€œIt works for all the neanderthals,” he deadpans, and we both groan and hit him. Seppie calls him a sexist, even though we both know he doesn’t mean it, and he pulls me back against him. “How is our little concussed one? Still seeing people disappear?”
    â€œNo,” I say. “Why is there no music?”
    â€œLoud music sucks for concussions.” Seppie turns again. “You saw people disappear?”
    I shrug. She’s reacting like this is a big deal, and we haven’t even told her about what I can do. What I did.
    â€œWe should probably take her to the hospital,” Seppie says.
    â€œI’ll ask her