Loving the Clouds

Chapter 5

A boy with grey eyes and brown hair. A boy whose house is only a couple strides away. A boy who stands in the rain. A boy who has one friend, one cousin, one aunt and one uncle. A boy who wept in a thunder storm. A boy who has an affinity for math. A boy who you could forget.

The puzzle that is Everett Weston is a tough one. Each day, each week, a new piece is added. Some pieces are small, the size of a fingernail per say. Others are large, with jagged edges and fraying seams. They don't seem to fit properly, always twists and turns in places where twists and turns should not be. Always as I am about to finish, another jagged edge is added, and I must start anew. A challenge. But alas, I've been told many times I am a stubborn child. And I wouldn't want to disappoint.

It is a cold Friday, two days after the storm, that I am handed another puzzle piece.

It is when the peeling yellow bus screeches away from our stop that it happens. The usual routine would have me waiting a few moments, fiddling with my phone or abstractly playing with the rips in my bag, as he walks on ahead. I do not like to talk to people I do not know very much, and so it had started this way. Before, I had never questioned it, or bothered to defy it. But of course, that was before.

Rather, I walk on forward. Matching pace with the boy beside me, we are shoulder to shoulder. Hazy puffs of breath exhaled from his lips, I had to try not to stare. He looked different today. His sweater was covered in a black jacket, a hood replacing the toque, and boots replacing the runners. His eyes were cast down and it looked to me like he was studying the sidewalk. But I guessed it was more then that.

I clear my throat. "Hi."

"Hey," his voice is low today, and he does not look up.

I sigh, ditching subtly, "Are you alright, Everett?"

And suddenly, he pauses. His face turns up from the ground and looks me in the eye, narrowing. My skin prickles anxiously as his cloud grey eyes peer into mine, searching for something. I do not know what to do. I let him look.

And then he smiles.

I will admit, it is not a full grin, but it is radiant nonetheless. It is a crooked smile, as his lips twitch up at the corners, but it is not in his mouth that I see the smile. It is in his eyes. Streaks of white twinkle in the blue-grey depths, like stars amidst a midnight background. They dance in the twin orbs to a tune only they know. Yes, it is not a full smile, but it is a honest one. My heart does backflips so loud, I fear he can hear it.

"Did I say something wrong?" I stumble, wary of the sudden change.

It was almost as if he was not aware he had done it for it dimmed just as quickly.

"No, not at all, little bird," he sighs, giving me a sidelong glance, "It has been a long time since I have heard my name like that."

I frown as we resume our walking. "Like what?"

He catches my eye, "Like it means something."

I fall silent. Another puzzle piece with no fit. Damn, that boy is a mystery that I will never be able to solve. He is as much abstract as a water colour painting. Not that I have much experience with painting, I am more of a writer myself. But besides the point, I am intrigued.

"Everett," I say.

"Yes, Robin?"

"Do you believe in magic?"

"Magic," he hums, processing the idea, "Like dragons and wizards and witches?"

I shrug, my toe kicking a pebble off the sidewalk, "Yeah, exactly like that."

He thinks on the idea. I can just about see the gears grinding in his head. That is another thing I've noticed about him. He does not give you what you want to hear, but what you need to hear. He thinks about it, and then either rejects or accepts it. There is no in between. I admire that.

"No," he says simply, "I do not."

"And why is that."

"Magic was a concept create by wise people to give us something to believe in," he explains, the words rolling off his tongue as smoothly as if he was asking what was for dinner, "That's all it is."

"Then why did you ask me if I believed I could fly?" My brows knit in confusion.

He pauses.

"You must also understand the difference between belief and faith," he glances up the driveway of his house, "Goodbye, Robin."

"Goodbye Everett," I whisper to a back that has already been turned.

I am left with more questions then I had started with.