Fly Away (Firefly Lane 2)

Marah felt people staring at her and Pax as they walked through the small Portland airport.

She liked that so-called normal people were offended by Pax’s goth look and the safety pins in his ears and the tattoo on his neck and collarbone. They didn’t see the beauty of the scrollwork around the tattooed words or the ironic humor.

Marah boarded the plane, took her seat in the back, and connected her seat belt.

She stared into the window, seeing a shadowy reflection of her pale face: heavily lined brown eyes, purplish lips, and spiked pink hair.

A ping sounded through the aircraft and they were off, rocketing down the runway, rising into the cloudless sky.

She closed her eyes. Memories tapped on her consciousness like the raven from Pax’s favorite poem. Tap. Tap. Tap.

She didn’t want to remember the past, not ever. For years she had buried all of it—the diagnosis, the cancer, the goodbyes, the funeral, and the long gray months that followed—but it was all coming up again, clawing its way to the surface.

She closed her eyes and saw herself as she’d been on the last ordinary day: a fifteen-year-old girl on her way to school.

“Surely you don’t think you’re wearing that to school?” Mom said, coming into the kitchen.

Across the breakfast table, the twins went suddenly silent and stared at Marah like a pair of bobbleheads.

“Uh-oh,” Wills said.

Lucas nodded so fast his mop of hair shimmied.

“There’s nothing wrong with my clothes. ” Marah got up from the table. “This is fashion, Mom. ” She let her gaze sweep her mom’s outfit—cheap, pilly flannel pajamas, tired hair, out-of-date slippers—and frowned. “You should trust me on this. ”

“Your outfit is perfect for Pioneer Square at midnight with your pimp. Unfortunately, it’s a Tuesday morning in November and you’re a sophomore in high school, not a guest on Jerry Springer. Let me be more specific: that jean skirt is so short I can see your underwear—pink with flowers—and the T-shirt clearly came from the toddler department. You are not showing your stomach at school. ”

Marah stomped her foot in frustration. This was exactly what she wanted Tyler to see her in today. He would look at her and think cool instead of young.

Mom reached for the chair in front of her and clutched it as if she were an old, old lady. With a sigh, she sat down. Then she picked up her coffee cup—the one that said WORLD’S BEST MOM—and held it in both of her hands, as if she needed to be warmed. “I don’t feel good enough to fight with you today, Marah. Please. ”

“So don’t. ”

“Exactly. I’m not fighting. You are not going to high school looking like Britney Spears on crack. Or showing your crack. Period. The cool thing is that I’m your mother. That makes me the CEO of this house. Or the warden. Point is, my house, my rules. Change your clothes or face the consequences. Consequences, I might add, which begin with being late for school and losing your precious new phone, and go downhill from there. ” Mom put down her coffee cup.

“You’re trying to ruin my life. ”

“Ah, you have uncovered my master plan. Rats. ” Mom leaned over and ruffled Wills’s mop of hair. “You guys are still little. I won’t ruin your lives for years. No need to worry. ”

“We know that, Mommy,” Wills said earnestly.

“Marah’s face is all red,” Lucas observed, then went back to building a Cheerios tower.

“The Ryan family school bus leaves in ten minutes,” Mom said. She placed her palms on the table and pushed slowly to her feet.

I don’t feel good enough to fight with you today.

That had been state’s evidence #1. Not that Marah had collected it or even cared. She’d gone on doing what she did—working it at school, being popular, making sure that everyone who was anyone wanted to be her friend. Until that first family meeting.

“I had a doctor’s appointment today,” Mom said. “There’s nothing for you to worry about, but I’m sick. ”

Marah could hear the boys talking, asking stupid questions, not getting it. Lucas—the mama’s boy—ran up and hugged Mom.

Dad herded the boys out of the room. As he passed Marah, he looked down at her and there were tears in his eyes and she felt her knees give out. There was only one reason he would cry.

She looked at her mother and saw her in detail—the pale, pale skin, the dark circles under her eyes, the chapped, colorless lips. It was as if her mom had been dunked in bleach and come out as this colorless version of herself. Sick. “It’s cancer, isn’t it?”

“Yes. ”