Page 13 of Haunting Goats

I’m yanked away from his scent when I accidentally step on his expensive work boots. They’re not steel-toed, and I’m not a petite girl, so I expect an irrationally angry reaction. When I don’t receive one and instead am pulled onto both boots, him slowly letting my hands down and intertwining his fingers with mine, I feel petrified.

Once our eyes find each other, he begins to move. Step-by-step, Atticus holds me on top of his boots and we glide down the center of the street effortlessly. I watch as a scarce amount of varied vehicles drive by us. This feels insane and like a death wish waiting to happen. White knuckling Attie’s shirt, I grip on tightly because at this moment, I’m never letting go.

He doesn’t take his eyes off me, and I ponder what he’s thinking. How much of his thoughts are consumed by my size? “Fat ass,” “lazy,” and “Flounder” circle my mind like an infant’s colorful mobile.

I roll my eyes before blinking away tears.

“What’s going on, Lyr? You don’t like to dance?”

Of course he doesn’t know how much I love dancing. I love all forms of self-expression. When I was a little girl, I had wanted to be a ballerina. I thought they were the most beautiful people I had ever seen, and their dancing shoes immensely intrigued me. They always mesmerized me. I, too, wanted to be surrounded by sound, encased in a handmade wooden box, sprung in the middle, on display, and radiating main character energy.

I had informed my mother of my dream of being a ballerina. She spat out a response born of hatred and jealousy and divulged to me that I was, in fact, too fat to be one. I was smooth and speedy on rollerblades, though. It didn’t shock me when I ended up in hockey instead. I wasn’t too flabby or dumpy for that.

I roll my eyes and sniffle. “Of course I like dancing. I was just thinking. We’re good. Please continue.”

“No can do, Strawberry Girl. Time to go.”

CHAPTER 8

ATTICUS

I’m just about to walk through the locked door to pick up Lyric for our date when she collides with me. I grab hold of her wrists and hold them at chest level. Then I do the only thing worth doing and pull her to me, yanking her onto my sturdy work boots before moving, the two of us gliding together down the center of this botched street. It looks like one enormous spider’s web from all the cracks and rocky potholes.

I wish I had music. I consider pulling out my phone when I see the fleeting look on Lyric’s face. It’s been so long since I’ve bonded with people that I don’t know what to do. When I was in foster care, I aimed to stay disconnected. Growing attached to anyone only ended in the separation of once-tethered hearts. I want to hold Lyr’s. I want her to know that I possess the capacity to crush it, and that I won’t.

I abruptly stop moving, take her hand in mine, and start dashing down the street. I can feel the resistance in Lyric’s feet, but I tug a little harder and it sends her into a trajectory. The two of us lose our footing, nearly toppling over each other. The last time I did anything remotely close to this was when James and I stole bubblegum from the gas station. We were ten and our shenanigans reflected that.

This moment of running as if we can’t get away from ourselves fast enough has been the most exhilarating experience I’ve had since that terrified and guilty sprint out of the heavy glass door all those years ago. We skid to a stop and keel forward, huffing a big breath before breaking into a belly laugh. It’d be ironic to acknowledge how alive I feel considering our situation. Pairing laughter and joy with liveliness is absurd, to say the least, but my brain goes there, anyway.

I can see the lake from here.

“Get on my back,” I insist.

Lyr looks at me with pained and distrusting eyes. Everything she does and everything she is orbits around her weight. I don’t need her to tell me that to know it’s true. Even though no one else gives the impression of fostering it, it’s all she can seem to focus on.

I want to tell her she’s a spirit so we can move on from this nonsense already. Weight isn’t a thing in this dimension. Shit, gravity exists only because I allow it. I kneel down in front of her.

“Get on my back,” I repeat.

“I promise I won’t let anything happen to you. Do you trust me?”

“Uh, no.” She says abruptly and I immediately feel discouraged.

One thing I know about Lyr is that she’s a pain in my ass. Easily the most argumentative person on the planet. I’ve never stumbled upon anyone quite like her—she’s so unique, not in the way folklore and bestiaries consider a unicorn to be unique, but in the way a diagnosis is. The way she thinks she’s a burden, a vex, and an inconvenience leaves me senile.

She sighs. “I don’t know you well enough to trust you, but I’m willing to try,” she gives me a weak smile.

I peer up at her, feeling hopeful. I pat my back.

“Hop on, pretty girl,” I say, and she does.

She’s slow with it as if she’s stalling, but I hold on to all the patience I can and wait for my girl to get comfortable. As soon as I begin to stand, Lyr slaps at my head and bunches up my hair in her fists.

“Damn, girl. That’s still attached to my head, you know.” I chuckle.

Lyr relaxes her hold and apologizes.

“No need for apologies. Just wrap your arms around my chest and keep your legs around my waist. We’ll be there soon.” I say.