Read Online Flying by Carrie Jones - Free Book Online

garage.
    â€œCrap,” he says, and turns to gape at me with terrified eyes.
    I stare past him and see it: Mom’s car.

 
    CHAPTER 4
    â€œMom!” I yell for her without really thinking about it. My mom’s car is here and that means … that means …
    Rushing into the garage, I yank open the door of our dark blue Subaru station wagon, the perfect mom-mobile. Her purse still sits on the passenger’s seat. The keys dangle from the ignition, but there is no mousy woman there, no small, smiling Mom.
    Whirling around, I bash into Lyle. “She was here.”
    â€œMana, it’s—” Lyle catches me by the shoulders, but I push him away and rush back into the kitchen. “You’re jumping to conclusions. Slow down.”
    I zigzag around the splattered orange juice puddle soaking into the floorboards and slam the refrigerator door shut. “She might have been here when it happened. She might still be here.”
    I step on a broken teacup; its scattered blue pattern is like sea glass that has been battered by rocks and sea.
    â€œLook at that,” I say to poor Lyle, who is still open-mouthed, standing right where I pushed him. I have never pushed anyone before in my life. “Look! This whole place is a mess. And Dakota flew. Did you see him fly? You saw that, right? Still think I’m hallucinating from my concussed brain?”
    â€œOkay. Hold on. Let’s be rational.” He puts his hands out in front of him like a politician. Lyle is not a politician, and I know he’s only acting this way to try to calm me down. It has the opposite effect.
    I point at Lyle’s face. “I will kill him for doing this to our house. I do not even care about his acid-tongue issue.”
    For a second there is silence. Then a wind picks up outside. Lyle hauls in a breath so deep that his whole body moves with it, and then he says, “You’re … you’re kind of angry.”
    â€œLyle.” I stop ranting and really stare at him. He is trying so hard to be his composed, normal self. His hands are still up in the air, waiting for me to take them. I do. I force my voice to be calmer, more steady, and ask, “Where is my mother?”
    One of his shoulders moves up just a tiny bit. He tightens his hold on my hands, his face concerned. He gropes for an answer and offers, “Maybe she’s at a neighbor’s?”
    â€œIf she was at a neighbor’s, she would have contacted me. This is the woman who expects updates hourly if I’m not at home or at a game or at school.” I let go of him and yell for her again. “Mom!”
    Nothing answers. Nothing except the thuds of Lyle’s feet following me into the kitchen and … another noise?
    I motion for him to be still. His foot squishes into a pile of super-spicy hummus. He stops.
    â€œDo you hear that?” I whisper.
    He doesn’t answer, just moves in front of me. His voice is a quiet command. “Stay back.”
    Right.
    I step beside him.
    â€œYou never listen,” he mutters. “If we were in World of Warcraft, you would be in the prison at Render’s Valley for insubordination.”
    He glares at me in a way that I would normally classify as geek cute, but that’s not why my stomach crashes into itself and the hairs on my arms stand up. It’s the noise, a heavy banging from my mom’s bedroom … a banging that is coming closer. Terror shuts my throat. Lyle’s muscles tense.
    â€œWhat is it?” I whisper as I stare across the living room at my mom’s bedroom door. Nothing. But whenever we watch scary movies, Lyle always shouts at the actors to look up, so I do. Something moves on the ceiling, creeping out of Mom’s bedroom and into view. I yank his shirt. “Lyle … Lyle … Look up.”
    His voice is like a machine—a dead, robot machine. “See it.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    He