Some Wings Can't Fly

((Sorry for all the grammar mistakes, I need to go through and edit them.))

June 20th, 1922

"C'mon, Oliver! Don't you want to have a pretty girlfriend?" He nudges me playfully and I nod. I hope he doesn't realize how much I'm not paying attention. I don't know if I want a girlfriend. Girls can be friends, but Elliott seems to have a totally different meaning to it.

Elliott tries to teach me how to be what he calls 'Streetsmart,' but It sounds like a bunch of nonsense to me. Who would want to run around and break rules? Maybe Elliott, but certainly not me. I like it here.

I excuse myself from Elliott and walk down the hall to my room. When I was a child, father painted my name on my door. It was in a crisp blue paint, which has faded, but still looks neat. A blue sailboat floats across the top of the 'O,' a white sailor's hat tops the I and smiling clown pokes his head out from beneath the 'R.'

I always felt that the L and V looked lonely without a picture accompanying them, and a few months ago I drew some roses and violets over them. I thought it looked lovely, the red and purple decorating my door. I figured Father would be proud of my artwork. I think they looked better than the daffodils painted on Lacey's door, or the bright blue flowers on Ivy's door. But when father saw them, He took his white paint and painted right over my flowers until there was nothing left of them. I waited until he left to cry. I didn't want him to be more disappointed in me than he already was.

I turn the doorknob to my room slowly and open the door, only to find Ivy laying helplessly on my bed while Lacey looks through my closet.

"Lacey!" I exclaim, running toward her and pulling her away from my closet. I feel like punching her (which Elliott taught me to do,) but I refrain myself.

"Lacey, what are you doing?!" I ask her, trying to stay calm, but my voice exasperated.

She grins and holds up one of my nice pairs of pants. "If you let me keep this, I'll give you a dress of mine that's too small."

That's one thing I hate about myself. Lacey is a girl, as well as a year younger than me, and is both taller and stronger than me.

Of course, I want that dress so bad. I already own one of hers, one that I stole a couple months ago. I think Lacey knew, she was just entertained by the fact that I stole a dress, of all things from her.

I nod, and take a shirt from my closet as well. I hand it to her. "Don't you dare tell," I whisper to her. She gives me one of her charming smiles and dashes out of my room.

I sink onto my bed, and notice again that Ivy's there. Stupid Lacey, making me take care of Ivy. That's a girls job. Then again, I'm more of a girl then Lacey. That makes me happy in a sad sort of way. Ivy makes happy gurgling noises. I pick her up tenderly... nobody ever let me hold Ivy. I think they assumed that I didn't want to, and so I figured I didn't want to either.

Lacey returns with one of her church dresses and gives it to me. It looks like it reaches my feet, and lace lines every sleeve and hem. It's red and reminds me of christmas, as well as my grandmother, for reasons which I’m not sure of. I think it's like the lace curtains that used to hang in her parlor.

"Are you sure you don't want to keep this?" I ask politely. I hope she says she doesn't.

"Hell no, Oliver." She replies, and laughs at my stunned expression. She turns on her heels and walks out my room. I stare at her while she walks away. I'm surprised Elliott isn’t as fond of her as he is of me. I think she's what he wants me to become. It hurts to think that. I want Elliott to think I'm tough like him, but I want to wear pretty dresses and have tea parties with Lacey's old dolls. I wonder if everybody feels this and just doesn't want to tell anyone because being tough what they're expected to be.

Lacey pokes her head into my room again, this time grumbling and muttering something under her breath. She roughly picks up Ivy, who complains a little, but is surprisingly patient. She allows Lacey to hold her, staring at me with her large Olive eyes.

"You know, Lace, yo-" I start.

"Don't call me that," she hisses at me.

I nod my head at her. "I'll look after Ivy if you don't want to..." I look at the ground, ashamed.

Lacey contemplates this for a moment. I see she's tempted. When she's thinking, her eyes get this daydream look to them. She used to start chewing her hair, but that wasn't very feminine, so mother keeps it braided back. If she hadn't done that, Lacey's hair would have been all chewed away with the amount of thinking she does.

Now her eyes regain focus and she looks me in the eye. "I want to, Oliver. I really do. Anything to get this… thing off my hands…."

Ivy giggles. She's so carefree all the time. I wonder if I could be like that, one day. It’s surprising I ever was.

Lacey continues. "But father- I know you're what he doesn't want. He wants a son that's loyal and won't turn out like Elliott- or the path you're going now."

I know she's right. Dad doesn’t accept me now- but me looking after Ivy? He’ll banish me out of his house. I sigh and nod. Waving goodbye to Ivy.

I call after Lacey. She turns around.

“Is father still mad at me for the flowers?" To be honest, I hadn't really talked to him since last week, when he was still mad.

"Yes. That was a stupid thing to do." she replies

"Well I thought they looked nice.” I defend myself.

Lacey laughs again. God, I wish she would stop making me feel stupid. “They did.” she assures me.

I beam at her. She rolls her crystal blue eyes and walks away from my room for the millionth time.

June 22, 1922

I decide to go on a today. Mother asks if I want to walk with her, and I refuse for the first time ever. I just want to be alone. Mother reminds me that we have a dinner party tonight with Elliott's friends and their parents. Elliott doesn't want to do that, and I figure he'll run off with Johnathan and William, then expect me to come along. I figure I'll just walk the edge of town, which is only a mile or two south. I take 5 pounds in case I want to buy lunch, or maybe something else. I have a lot of money from my 13th birthday three months ago.

I wear a lavender shirt, which is the only shirt I really ever wear under my Will, and some loose black pants, the ones Lacey always wants to wear.

I start walking, following a small road that runs along a small creek. A couple horses and the occasional car come down the road. It's usually very quiet, but I think something rather important is going on in London. As I walk, the road gets progressively busier. It usually works this way. The closer I get to the city, the more people. Everybody wants to be by London. I prefer the country, with the dense forests and empty fields. I feel more free there. Nobody judges me there.

It's a warm day, a beautiful one as well. The sun is shining, which I rarely see here. A few clouds line the horizon, but that's about all. I start avoiding the road, and traveling through the creek instead. It's really quite pretty, even with cars going by. It's been raining all week long, so the creek's full, and almost more like a small river now.

I get to London , climbing onto the road where the stream gushes into a pipe. I climb onto the road, quickly walking towards the bustling market filled with vendors and people doing puppet shows or playing a musical instrument. I brush the bit of black hair that always hangs in my face away. Mother would try to grease it back when I was younger, but gave up when I was about ten.

I drift off in a daydream sort of place, remembering my mother before father wasn’t ever home. I’m snapped out of this by a growling voice.

“Hey! You! Kid! C’mere!” I turn around. A man’s shouting at me. He doesn’t look friendly at all. He’s wearing a large stained apron. I think he’s a butcher, and the blood smeared across his clothes doesn’t really help his impression.

He lumbers toward me, the little hair he has flapping behind him in the mild June wind. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to look at him, let alone talk to him. I casually turn around, walking away from the man. I purposely lose myself in the large crowd of Saturday shoppers. The crowd parts behind me, and I’m jostled side to side trying to hide myself.

He’s probably not looking for you anyway, Oliver. I tell myself. You didn’t do anything wrong.

“Hey!” someone whispers. I whip around. It sounds like it’s someone close by. “Hey!” I hear them say again, this time louder. I look down. Kneeled behind a trash bin are two boys, both wearing ragged clothes and sloppy smiles. The first pulls me behind them, into an alleyway. They both look me over. I feel awkward in my nice ironed clothes.

“Out of all people, I wouldn’t have expected you to do it.” The second boy remarks.

“Me? Did what?” I’m confused.

“It’s ok. We won’t tell.” The first kid looks really handsome. I blush thinking that. But it’s true. His blonde hair is stained with oil grease (It really suits him,) And he has these piercing green eyes that I feel are reading my mind. His friend, who I’m suddenly jealous of, looks- normal, I guess. He has a slightly large nose and plain brown eyes with- er- brown hair hidden by layers of grease. He looks like he’s trying to be like his friend, but got a little carried away in desperate attempts to apply oil grease to his hair.

“Oh, I’m James.” He adds. James. “That’s a nice name.” I say dreamily, but clear my throat.

James smiles. “That’s John, the one in the green shirt.”

I nod at John. “Nice to meet you.” I say curtly. John looks like he couldn’t care less about me.

“I’m actually glad you did it,” James pats me on the back. “That man deserved revenge.”

Well, as long as he’s impressed. I don’t even know what I did. Or who even did it.

"Yes, I suppose so…” I say. My voice trails off. His face is beautiful.

“You did do it, didn’t you?”

“My name’s Oliver.” I tell him. John sighs.

“Good job, Oliver." James smiles this sloppy playful grin. I'm blushing a lot right now, there's no doubt he doesn't notice. But he doesn't seem to pay any mind.

"Well-" I don't know what to say. I feel awkward around James. I've always been somewhat short, but still skinny, which is a terrible combination.

I'm saved by another boy who walks quickly into the alley.

"What's the matter?" James asks. He looks carefree, and his muscles are still relaxed. I can tell they get into trouble often.

"Dammit, James." He spits. I'm a little taken aback, but James doesn't seem to care, so I guess I won't care either. He tears a chunk of bread of of a loaf and tosses it to James. "Here ya go. I went through a lot of trouble to get it to you. The old man ended up chasing someone else, so I got off." He has a thick accent, maybe a little Scottish to it, but I can't tell. I've only ever heard the king's english.

James laughs. "This is Joseph."

"Who's the new kid?" Joseph asks.

"He stole some stuff from the butcher too." James replies. "His name's Oliver."

Joseph frowns. "Hey, you were the boy mister Hodgson chased?" He's skeptical, I can tell that. But his shaggy bangs hang in his eyes, so it's almost impossible to see what he thinks of me. "

I've always taken a liking to seeing people's mood just by looking at them. Mother once said I had a talent for being observant. I think I might, but I don't want to brag.

"Yes, I suppose." I make out an escape route with my mind in case the gang of boys start chasing me.

"Oh, you're one of them fancy kids. Reckon your pa owns some fancy big farmhouse somewhere." Joseph looks at me with this mix of anger and- I think- jealousy.

"Yeah." It sound weird when I say it. Too casual. I was having trouble not saying 'Yes, Sir, No, Sir, Sir' after every two words. At least we’ve gotten off the topic of me not stealing.

Joseph growls at me. He reminds me of a dog the way he does it. This low-pitched sound, but with this whiney aspect to it.

"Joseph!" James says, glaring at his friend. "What did I say about doing that? It scares the kid!"

Kid?!? Me, a kid? I’m offended by it.

"And how old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?" I try to sound authoritative. James just smirks.

"14, almost 15." He's way too proud of himself.

"He just turned 14. About a week ago. He thinks that makes him older than he actually is." Joseph whispers in my ear.

It doesn’t matter. I still think James is perfect.

"So where do you live?" I address the group. I'm just trying to break the ice. It’s still to awkward. All three boys look at me, uncertain at first, and then they look angry. No, not angry. Just annoyed. Except John, who's been sitting quietly on a crate for this whole conversation.

"Yeah, well I don't know if you pay any mind to other people's problems, rich kid, but most people can't even afford a decent one-room apartment. I sleep on the streets every other night and on nights I get a house it’s just a ridiculous shed in some person’s damned back yard!" He looks at me, his left eye twitching like some maniac, which I think he might be.

"Sorry," I mumble, looking at the ground. My shoes are scuffed up and dusty. I’m ashamed of myself, I am.

"I’m think going now." I try not to sound as ashamed as I really am. I spin around and walk away, lifting up my feet so as not to dirty my shoes any more. At the end of the alley, I turn back around. John is still glaring at me with utter hatred in his eyes. James looks at the ground with a mix of guilt and anger, an odd combination. Joseph just looks at me, like he’s just not sure what to think of me.

"Hey, you! Kid!" Kid. There it goes again. I sigh and turn around. “Yessir?” I ask politely. It’s the butcher, the one that chased me. I get a little scared, or very scared, depending on how you put it. “Do you need anything, sir?” I smooth back my hair in a desperate attempt to look acceptable.

“The money you stole from me, little bitch.” he says gruffly, grabbing me by the stiff purple colar of my button-up shirt.

“I didn’t do it, sir!” I exclaim desperately. I wonder what he’ll do to me if he doesn’t beleive me. I picture him selling Oliver meat at his shop, but I shake the scary idea out of my head. He wouldn’t do that, would he?

“Yeah, sure.” the man says with his intimidating voice. I cower against the wall. “Where the hell is it!” he growls at me. I wish Lacey were here. She’d know what to do, and probably be able to beat the man up. I couldn’t make a mark on him, even after the hours Elliott spent trying to teach me.

Maybe I should try screaming for help? I think about it. James might come, but I wouldn’t want to make a fool out of myself. I could let him put me in a pen with the pigs he’ll butcher and then be turned into Oliver stake. But I decide against it. He probably wouldn’t do it anyway. There’s no meat on my bones at all.

What would Elliott do? I think to myself. The answer’s pretty obvious, but should I try? I think back onto what he taught me. I had taken notes, which I kept on my desk. Elliott hated that so much. He said real men don’t take notes, but am I a real man? A boy, even?

I mentaly recite the rules. Rule one: Be confident about it. Weakness is for girls. I remember thinking of telling Elliott that I’d rather be a girl. That was before I knew it was bad to be a boy and want to be a girl, of course. That’s one of the things that no one ever tells you, you just… learn.

He made sure I knew rule two, making me recite it over and over; Make sure they’re not expecting it. They’ll take advantage of you if they know. he drilled that into me. I can recite it word for word still. Rule 3 was just how to punch.

Look intimidating, pull your arm all the way back before punching someone.

I clench my fist, narrow my eyebrows, and lift my arm quickly.

Punch them. Just do it. You have nothing to lose.

I throw my arm at the butcher, hitting him square in the face. He looks just as mean as usual, except he lets go of my neck.

I jump away as quick as I can, sprinting through the alley. Running is the only physical sport I’m actually allright at. I can dodge obstacles easily, and I can run at an average speed. The butcher on the other hand runs like the wild turkeys Elliott took me to shoot last summer. He kind of waddles, but quickly. Unlike the turkeys, he keeps stumbling and running into things.

My hand throbs with every motion. It’s started to swell up, and I have to look and see if the butcher looks hurt, because I might have punched the metal sewer pipe behind him. His nose is bleeding, just a little bit, though. A grey rat with scrawny, matted fur scurries in front of me. It carries a little bit of bread in its mouth. It’s weird to think that so many things are hungry here. I keep running, leaping over crates and boxes that were thrown aside by shop owners. When I reach the end of the alley, I’m close to the road that leads to my house. I look around hopelessly, trying to find somewhere to hide. I only see one place.

I see the butcher come out of the alley. He doesn’t see me yet. This is my only chance. I’m tiring out, and the man seems to have plenty of good spirit left. I swerve to my left and run into the creek, under the bridge.

I think I black out for a second when I hit the water. It’s freezing cold and muddy. I look down and see that my favorite outfit is as well as ruined, but that’s the least of my worries. I grab onto the side of the bridge and peer through concrete gaps. Mister Hogdson, I think the boys called him, is looking around, a confused expression on his round face. He grumbles something to himself and walks away. He didn't even try to get his money back. I sink back into the creek, shaking with cold and fear. I don’t know what just happened.

“Oliver, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” A blonde head peeks over the bridge. I’d recognize that beautiful face anywhere. James reaches his arm down and helps me up out of the water.

“Here, you forgot this.” he holds out my bag with his other hand. I grab it with my free hand and thank him

“While I’m here, I guess I’ll walk you home?” James asks. Was it just me, or did he look hopeful?

“Y-yes, that would be great- I mean- sure-” I even got flustered saying something as simple as that. I scold myself as I start walking with James. James and I both notice at the same time that we’re still holding hands, and jump away from each other quickly, both embarassed. We walk in silence for a couple minutes after that, and I’m thinking how cute James is when he blushes. I don’t know what James’s thinking about, but I hope it might be me. It probably wouldn’t be how cute I am, though.

“So- where do you live exactly? James questions me. This reminds me of John and I get a little tense.

“Big house about a mile that way.” I point in the direction of my house. James nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know the place. Your father’s mister Johnson?” James asks curiously.

“Er, yes. How did you know?” I inquire.

James looks thoughtfully at me. “You don’t look like his son.”

“My brother does, though.” I tell James. “They’ve got the same blue eyes and dirt-colored hair, and ridiculous attitude.”

James nods. “Your brother? The Elliott one?”

I’m taken aback. “How do you know this about me?” I ask in awe.

“People know him and his father. Terrible people they both are.” he tells me.

I look curiously at him. “Why?” I ask.

“Your father employs a lot of boys off the street.” James informs me.

“Where?” I ask. My father had a business?

“Nothing.” James quickly covers up, but it doesn’t work. James might be perfect, but he can’t tell a lie.

“James, please.” I beg.

“Terribly dangerous work. People say that some boys never come back. That mister Johnson just works them to hard and they just fall down dead.” James looks at me grimly.

“Where?” I ask for the second time. A gentle breeze is ruffling James’ hair, which frames his blank expression.

“We’re here.” He tells me in a monotone voice, his gaze fixed on my large house. He turns around to leave, but I grab his arm. “James?” I ask. He turns around. His face is wet with tears.

“I better be going.” He tells me, trying to keep his voice steady.

“James, no. Tell me what’s going on.” I lead him away from the road, toward a large willow tree that bends over. It’s a good place to talk. James doesn’t refuse.

James sinks down against the trunk of the tree. “I had a mate once,” he tells me. “About a year ago. When I was your age.” I listen to every word he says. He enunciates every word, and with proper grammar. “He lived on the streets, like me.” James continues. “He worked for your father. One day-” he pauses, his voice wavering. “He never came home, Oliver. I waited and waited and he never came back. I miss him like hell.”I’ve never been good at comforting people. I’m not sure how to help James. I want to know what my dad’s business is, but should I ask that now? I watch James as he shakes and takes shallow breaths.

“James?”I say. I need to tell him something.

He looks at me and wipes away the salty tears on his face. “Yeah?”

“Look. I don’t care about my father. I don’t care what he does. I’m never going to become like him. So don’t base who I am off of him.”

“But that’s just the thing, Oliver! You don’t care! And that’s the worst. You don’t care about the other boys that don’t have anywhere to go!” He’s being careful to say every word correctly. I can tell that he wants to say it right, just the way I would say it.

“I guess I do care,” I say. Truthfully I don’t, but I think I’d help James.

“You guess? Or are you telling me.” He inquires.

I look at the ground. A thin layer of grass sprouts across it. I watch an ant crawl across a blade of it. “I’m telling you-” I stop myself from adding ‘I guess.’

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you.” he spits. “I just met you. I can’t trust you. And you’re just another rotten wealthy child.” He jumps up and runs away from me. I don’t try to stop him, except mutter “I’m sorry.” When he’s out of my hearing range.

I trudge to my front door. My clothes are soaked through and muddy, and my tangled hair is the same way. I hear music and talking when I come to the door, which is odd. But then I remember that we’re having the dinner party. I try not to panic, but since most of my day has been panicking, I can’t help it. I pace between two trees. People will be occupying all of the first floor, and the only entrances are there. And then there’s James, who I won’t think about at the moment. Right now, I really have to worry abou-

“Hey, Oliver!” I spin around and find that Lacey has darted up behind me. “Where were you?” She looks at my outfit. “And why are you all dirty?”

“Long story.” I tell her. “How can I get to my bedroom without getting in through the house?”

Lacey pauses. “I usually keep this as my hiding place, but the tree below my bedroom window is easy to climb. The window is unlocked.” she dashes off without my response. I want to ask where she is going, but I suppose I’ll wait.

I walk around the perimeter of my house until I get to Lacey’s big oak tree. I’ve never thought about climbing trees, let alone try. It looks treacherous. I place my foot on the first limb.

After about twenty minutes, branch after branch, I make it to the top. I weakly pull myself into Lacey’s room. She has lace curtains, and almost everything in her room is lace, maybe to try representing her name? I think I like lace a lot. Lacey sure doesn’t. Of you looked into her closet, she’s ripped off lace from places people haven’t noticed. The underside of her bedspread used to have a lace cover sewed onto it, and Lacey happily tore it off and had me sew the parts of the fabric she ripped.

She always has me do her feminine chores. Sewing, cooking, cleaning. Well, they’re not exactly chores. Lacey thinks of them like that, but really, mother and father are preparing her for getting a husband.

I wonder if Lacey realizes that. That she’ll have to abandon her tomboy life. She’ll have to become a wife to some pretentious rich man who treats her like his best silverware that he shows off but only his maids take care of it.

I walk silently through the upstairs hallway until I reach my room. I push open the door. I make sure not to stare at my name writen on the door. I feel like I’ve learned so much tonight. I can’t think of why I would ever paint flowers over my name. Why I would take dresses from Lacey. Why I would ever, ever show anyone that I wanted to be a girl, even hint it. I’m so mad at myself right now. After slamming my door shut, I throw myself on my bed and cry. There were so many times that I wanted to cry for. My face is stained with tears, dirt, and muddy water, but my mind is clear. I stand up and take a peice of paper out of my desk. make a list of all the things I wished to cry for.