She glanced toward the edge, noting, it seemed, that she was nowhere near it, and therefore, not in any danger of being pushed. My baseless threat appeared to anger her more than anything, and with a huff, she bent and picked up one of my books and then held it in front of her. “I should have known these were your books the minute I saw them,” she said, her gaze going to the title of the one she was holding. Roman Aqueducts and Water Supply. Her expression registered dramatic disgust. “Boring books.” She lowered the pitch of her voice, doing a mocking impersonation. “I’m Tuck. I read boring books so I can get more boring. Boring, boring, boring.” I watched, my mouth falling open as I radiated rage and disbelief, and though I wouldn’t have admitted it, a small bit of curiosity. I was never quite sure what Emily was going to do from one moment to the next. She picked up another book, A Soil Owner’s Manual, and held it up to her face, pretending to read, crossing her eyes, taking a few steps one way and then the next in a drunken sort of stagger. “Oh good,” she said. “A book about dirt. I just got even more boring. Just what I was going for. Maybe I can join the Boring Olympics or start a business where I help people who can’t sleep.”

“Boring is better than stupid,” I retorted.

Her mouth set. Her blue eyes sparked fire. Yes, I knew her well enough to know that that was her button. She had trouble in school. Her parents were always on her case about her grades. She was behind in almost everything, except her beloved music class. She picked up one of the hand weights I’d brought up here so I could strengthen my mind and my body, the same way my grandfather had done all those years ago, or so the story went.

“I’m Tuck,” she said, using that same mocking pitch. “I lift weights so I can get even…” she paused to move her eyes over my body “…scrawnier than I already am.” She lowered the weight, crossing her eyes again and pretending to struggle as she lifted it, doing it again, huffing, moving her arm faster as she grunted in a parody of me, attempting to workout. Part of me wanted to laugh at the ridiculous show she was putting on, but the larger part was still raging mad and hugely offended. And so, when she jerked her arm backward and the weight slipped out of her hand, flying over her shoulder and sailing off the edge of the loft, I let out a bark of laughter that died a quick death as the sound of breaking glass exploded from below.

Oh God.

The Thunderbird.