They played soccer in the empty lot down the street, knee deep in sweet grass and drowning in golden light, until they kicked the ball over the fence of the most feared resident of Gardam Street. They left it there, perched in the over grown weeds that surround the house and threatened to overtake the sagging porch.
They snuck out after dark, meeting in the street in front of the empty lot with flashlights and reckless hearts. Skye slipped under the chain link fence expertly, and Jeffrey followed a bit more clumsily with a distinct feeling that she had done this before. The got the ball from the shadows but got caught up in the moonlight and the dance of too tall weeds swaying and the lazy spinning waltz of stars overhead. They got the ball but got caught up in each other's stumbling words and stifled giggles that grew into outright laughter. Before they knew it, they were turning in circles right in time with the stars, their heads tilted back to catch comets on their tongues like snowflakes, and they were falling back in tall grass none too quietly, and definitely not with anything that resembled stealth. When the backdoor opened with a creak, they panicked and ran, bare feet quick through clover and flower bed, lanky limbs quick to fold in on themselves as them tumbled into the dirt and under the fence. They got hung up just once, when the belt loop of Jeffrey's pants got caught on the chain link and he had to kick them off to get free.
They ran the rest of the way home with Jeffrey in just boxer shorts, his pants torn at the waist and clutched in one hand. They stood in the front yard, doubled over to catch their breaths and his eyes twinkled like a thousand mischievous stars.
"I swear to every planetary body above Jeffrey Tifton," she said between gulps of air, "if you don't put your pants on…"
Inside, Skye told the whole story to Jane, who listened with eyes wide and laughing, talking excitedly about parallels and mockingbirds and tree knots and nonsense. Skye looked up at Jeffrey as she recanted the part where his pants got caught, and her eyes were gleaming like she was queen of the gypsies, a rebel heart, a cornerstone on the sidewalk of mischief. He laughed, cheeks blossoming pink, and her heart, usually roaring, purred. She was a lion heart and he was holding flaming hoops insisting that all wild things can be broken.
Skye wondered if it would be a crime to shoot down a boy that meant no harm.
…
Rosalind cornered Skye in the kitchen late that night, told her everything.
"She is being bullied?"
Rosalind nodded with sad eyes looking at Skye over the brim of her coffee cup.
Skye's eyes burned dark blue, fearsome enough to send the sun skittering, running scared across the sky. It was a familiar look, something like fury, something like well-intentioned stubbornness, and something that reminded Rosalind of broken glass, hurt and somehow more dangerous because of it. Skye's fists balled at her side, and Rosalind put a hand on her shoulder.
"You can't beat up a six year old."
"Wanna bet?" It came out in a growl.
"Skye."
"Fine."
…
Batty thought about the first thing she had ever killed. A flower on the vine is somehow so much prettier than the same folded, paper thin flower wilting on your nightstand.
The second thing. A firefly that she tried so very hard to hold onto and instead accidentally crushed, its small firefly sun spilling out onto her palm. She still swore that on the darkest nights, her palm glowed.
The third.
The walk home from her meeting with the boy up the street got her thinking about how nice it would be to become invisible. She looked down to where her scraped knee caps ought to be but in the dark, she could not see a thing.
Perhaps she had thought herself into a ghost.
…
The first bit is an allusion to To Kill a Mockingbird which I adore.