Dull Boy by Sarah Cross

ounce of strength that I have. I will myself higher, higher . . .
    A branch catches my sleeve and bends upward, scrapes the length of my arm until I rise past it and it snaps back down.
    And then I’m free; I’m past the tops of the tallest trees and into the crisp, cold air, doing my best to navigate by landmarks that I can see from above, by the patterns I’m learning.
    Catherine lives in a more rural part of town, where the houses range between neat but old and totally run-down. I land in a field and then check mailboxes until I find hers: 11605, the word Drake stenciled on the metal in faded white letters. There’s a rusty blue pickup truck propped on cinder blocks in the front yard. The tailgate is down and a few cats are curled up in the back. A black pickup truck sits parked in the driveway but the cats seem to avoid that one.
    Other than the occasional twitch of a feline tail, it’s totally still out here. A television flickers through the front window, the only light on in the house—and I can hear what sounds like sports announcing, the muffled roar of the crowd. But there’s no sign that anyone’s awake. Looks like I’m safe.
    Or not.
    I’m halfway around the house when a skinny thirty-something guy in jeans and no shirt comes out. He’s carrying a bulging garbage bag, muttering that the whole place smells like cat urine.
    Mr. Drake doesn’t notice me. He’s too busy wrestling with the bag of garbage, trying to cram it into a metal trash can—but the bag’s too fat to fit. He keeps trying to force it and getting pissed. Until finally it rips.
    Bottles, cans, and all sorts of refuse tumble out. Catherine’s dad kicks the trash can with his bare foot and almost trips over it—then starts kicking the individual pieces of garbage, cursing.
    In the middle of all this, a small black cat with a white patch over its eye tiptoes toward the mess and starts lapping at a crumpled food wrapper, speedy and nervous, like it knows it’s in trouble if it doesn’t get its fill and get out of there—but the cat’s not fast enough. Catherine’s dad’s foot shoots out and catches the cat under the ribs, sends it flying. “Damn cats!” he yells. He picks up a stray bottle and hurls it in the cat’s direction, then storms into the house.
    I count to sixty to make sure he’s not coming back, then pick my way across the yard, searching for the cat so I can check if it’s okay. No luck at first—but then I see it dart out from under a drainpipe. It runs along the back of the house and leaps at an open first-floor window.
    As if on cue, Catherine appears and plucks the cat out of the air, curls its body into a U , and cradles it against her chest. Kisses its nose.
    A weird smile spreads across my face. She caught that cat perfectly—almost like she knew it was going to be there. And she’s being nice to it. So I wonder:
    Does she have a psychic bond with cats?
    And, uh, if so . . . is night vision part of the equation?
    I squat down but it’s too late: two sets of glowing eyes lock onto me like freak-seeking missiles. Catherine uncurls the cat and lets it drop; vaults over the windowsill like a ninja. Nice!
    But, ah, I don’t have much time to admire her moves—seeing as how she’s coming toward me with a tonight-you-die look on her face. Scrambling backward like a crab, I experience a moment of agility envy. She’s in my face before I have a chance to say hello. Claws bright white in the moonlight.
    Catherine grabs my throat with one hand and shoves me back.
    “Stop!” she angry-whispers. “Just stop!”
    My skin tingles where one of her nails scraped my neck. I expected her to scream at me, to blow up like she did at school. So this . . .
    “All of you— stop !” Catherine’s voice is raw and on the verge of breaking. Her words explode like a burst of air, the sound just barely attached.
    All of you?
    Who? Darla and me?
    “I’m not here to spy on you,” I say, afraid she’ll stop listening if I