Jonah and I were never the same after I kicked his dog. He floated away from Austin and me. We never pushed him out, but we never made a point to include him either.
We all finished fourth grade and started fifth. Looking back, I can't help but think that all of my classmates were in shock from the disappearances and violence.
We were little zombies going through the motions.
In fifth grade, the end of the whole mess started with three words.
"I'm a magician."
It was a strange thing to hear at that time. All the talk then was about Harry Potter. Everyone at recess was either a witch or a wizard. No one was a magician except for Jonah.
I can remember my new group of friends gathering under the cherry tree at recess and dividing up into houses.
"I'm in Slytherin!"
"I'm in Ravenclaw!"
"I'M IN GRYFFINDOR!"
No one ever picked Hufflepuff.
"I'm a magician," Jonah would whisper.
We would all roll our eyes and pick up the sticks and twigs we would use as wands. Jonah would look at all of us with this strange half-smile on his face and always say the same thing in that quiet way he had.
"Those aren't real wands."
We would roll our eyes again and take off on our imaginary Nimbus 2000's.
It always took a few minutes to get our imaginations roaring at full speed, but when they kicked on we found ourselves in another world.
A world without teachers or rules or homework. A world where we could fly and cast spells and play Quidditch. We would lift off and the air would howl in our ears as it only can when you're flying on a broom with your best friends.
Higher and higher we would fly, playing Quidditch while dueling at the same time. Shouts of "Expelliarmus" mixed with "Look out for the Bludgers" and "There's the Golden Snitch. GRAB IT" would fill the playground as we flew. Racing faster and faster over the playground until we were sweating and panting from the effort, we fought, we played, we imagined.
Inevitably we would hear our teachers calling for us and we would drift back down from the heights of our imaginations. Our wands would once again become sticks from the cherry tree. Our brooms would become air. Our spells would become empty words that fell useless to the dust at our feet.
And we would see Jonah, leaning against the trunk of the cherry tree, smiling that half-smile of his as we headed back inside to the dreary chalkboards and subjects that made up our school time existence.
Around Christmas time, on a random Friday, something terrible happened to two kids in my class.
"Does your mom ever talk to herself?" Jesse asked me at lunch that day. He was one of my new friends. He always chose Ravenclaw.
I frowned. "No. My mom died last year."
"Oh," Jesse said. "Sorry."
"It's okay."
"My mom talks to herself," Jesse said. "I woke up last night and she was in my closet with the door shut. I could hear her talking."
"That's weird," Austin said through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
Jonah just snorted.
Jesse didn't seem to notice. "She keeps asking me if I believe in souls."
"Weird," Austin said again.
