Postcards for a Songbird

by Crane, Rebekah

  But then Luca put his hand in mine and said, “Come with me,” and now everything is different.

  “I’m looking for a research paper about woodpeckers,” I say to the librarian. “I believe it’s called When Instinct Goes Wrong: An Investigation of Woodpeckers and Their Relationship with Wood.”

  The librarian types on her computer and then says, “It’s been checked out.”

  “It has?”

  She nods. “And it looks like it should have been returned weeks ago.” She gives me an apologetic look. “I hate to say it, but usually when books go missing for this long, we don’t get them back.”

  “So it’s lost?”

  “Most likely. But if you want to give me your email address, I can email you if it turns up.”

  “That’s OK,” I say. “I guess all secrets eventually come out.”

  The night is quiet again. I woke up and everything hurt today. But not how I thought it would. It hurts to breathe and move and be, because I’m more alive today than I was yesterday.

  With my bedroom window open, I sit on the sill, feeling the ache everywhere and hoping it stays. Chief wouldn’t like me sitting so close to the edge, but he’s not home to tell me otherwise.

  Me: Someone took a secret of mine

  Wilder: What are u going to do?

  Me: IDK what are my options?

  Wilder: You could go search for it

  Me: I have Driver’s Ed and my dad’s on graveyard shift all week

  Wilder: You could wait for it to be returned

  Me: There’s no guarantee it will be

  Me: And I think I’ve been waiting too much lately

  The scrapes on my hands ache. Wilder paces his bedroom. I watch him move in and out of the window frame. There one minute, gone the next. But I’m also watching my driveway. Like maybe Luca will show up at any second—backpack on, soaring on his skateboard—to call me down again.

  But the night remains quiet.

  Me: I have an idea but it’s kind of crazy

  Wilder: What?

  Me: I could just let my secret go

  Wilder: Could u really do that?

  Me: Maybe

  Wilder: But what about the person who took it?

  Wilder: They know the truth about u

  Me: The truth changes all the time

  Me: They can have my secret

  Wilder: Doesn’t that scare u?

  Me: Secrets only have power when they’re secrets

  Me: But once u let them go . . .

  Wilder disappears from the window. The light in his room is still on. My phone goes dark. Minutes pass. Somewhere in the distant night a car honks its horn. The longer Wilder is missing, the more I start to panic, thinking he’s fainted or collapsed. Or gone.

  Me: Wilder?

  Wilder: I’m here

  Wilder: I just feel a little faded today

  My panic settles.

  Me: OK I only have one more question

  Wilder: What?

  Me: What if I really am cursed?

  The pause echoes in the night as I wait for Wilder’s response to appear on my phone. He doesn’t come back to the window.

  Wilder: I think the better question is

  Wilder: What if ur not?

  With that, his bedroom light goes out.

  22

  A VACANT ROOM

  Baby Girl has definitively decided that by the time she goes to Spokane Community College in a month, she will know who she is. The countdown is on. She’s on a scavenger hunt for herself. And today we are searching for clues in Target.

  “Anything a person could want is in this store. I’ve got to be hiding in here somewhere. Let’s look in the bathroom section.”

  “What are we looking for exactly?”

  “Me.”

  “How will you know when we’ve found . . . you?”

  “Shakespeare once said, ‘To be or not to be me. In the end, we are what we buy.’”

  “That’s not how Hamlet goes.”

  “Who said anything about Hamlet? Come on.”

  I wish my heart was into helping her, but I’m consumed with Luca. His eyes. His lips. His hands. And I’m not sure the past should occupy our house as much as it currently does. It might need to move out soon to make room for the present.

  Luca hasn’t come back to Driver’s Ed. I waited, pulling his usual desk extra close to mine, waiting for the moment he would coast through the door and take up the air with his scent.

  But he hasn’t showed all week. Frustration settled around me. Where was he? Did he decide to give up? To stop coming? Just like that? Like he does with high school.

  He wants me to believe I’m strong, but what about him? If he’s willing to quit, why should I be any different?

  I shouldn’t let doubt creep up on me like the cold chill of a familiar ghost. But the more I replay the night, the harder it becomes to fight the uncertainty of reality. Maybe I made it all up. Maybe it was all a trick of hands and shadows and moonlight. Maybe it was easier than I thought for Luca to let me go.

  “This is all plastic junk.” Baby Girl can’t find anything in Target that gives her a clue as to who she is. “‘We are merely machines for soul-sucking corporations who use our labor and shit on our individuality.’ Carl Jung said that. Let’s go to Starbucks.”

  But Starbucks only makes it worse.

  I’m so consumed with my own problems that it isn’t until we’re about to order that I see complete panic on Baby Girl’s face.

  “What is it?”

  Paralyzed, Baby Girl looks at me. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “What do you mean? Drink coffee? Just get decaf.”

  “Order coffee.”

  “You’ve ordered coffee before. What do you like?”

  “That’s the problem,” she says. “I’ve never ordered for myself. I order what I think I should get. I ask myself, ‘What would a pothead order?’ A Caramel Cocoa Cluster Frappuccino with extra whipped cream, of course. Or a theater geek? A double Americano with a side of angst, and don’t get me started on Samuel Beckett or how Lin-Manuel Miranda has single-handedly revived Broadway. A serious book nerd? Endless black coffee, preferably burnt, and served in a mug with cats on it. But me? The real me? I have no idea. I think I need to sit down.”

  Baby Girl practically falls into a chair, defeated.

  “If I can’t pick a coffee drink, how will I ever pick a major? And if I can’t pick a major, I’ll never graduate college, and if I never graduate, I won’t get a job, and if I don’t have a job, I have to live at home for the rest of my life. In my mother’s basement.”

  “Plenty of people don’t go to college.” I sit down across from her.

  “That’s not the point,” she says. “Life is a bunch of stacked dominos, Wren. If I don’t find out who I am soon, they’re going to start falling, and I won’t be able to stop it.” She puts her head down on the table. “Why is this so hard?”

  I think what Baby Girl really wants to know is what could have been so wrong with her that someone, her dad, felt the need to change how she looked on the outside with his fists and hands.

  “He didn’t show up,” she says. “Every month, my dad and I meet at the same stupid Denny’s and order the same stupid meal and have the same stupid conversation, and at the end he gives me the same stupid wad of cash and we leave. That’s the routine. And every time I tell myself that I won’t do it again next month. I don’t care about his money. Then the date rolls around, and there I am, sitting in the same filthy booth, waiting for him.” Baby Girl looks at me with this completely cracked stare that opens a wound in her soul. It radiates to the surface of her brown eyes. “I was supposed to leave first. I was supposed to disappoint him. Not the other way around. I was supposed to push over the first domino. But I never had the guts to do it. Why did he get the guts and I didn’t? He’s officially taken everything from me. What do I do now?”

  When I painted the first tree on Lizzie’s bl
ank wall, she sat on her floor and watched me with this look of complete awe on her face. “All it takes is a brushstroke, Songbird, and an artist opens a new world. You have magic in your hands, and you don’t even realize it. Paint me a world to believe in. One brushstroke at a time.”

  So I say to Baby Girl, “Let’s just paint a brushstroke today and see what happens.”

  I order a taster of every drink Starbucks has to offer, much to the chagrin of the barista, who pouts and huffs. But this is life or falling dominos. So we begin to paint Baby Girl, one brushstroke at a time.

  And I do my best not to think about Luca, how he’s knocked me over like a domino and there’s no going back.

  Chloe and Jordan Hoffer, another popular junior girl, walk in the door. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen Chloe, and she gives me a deer-in-headlights look before ignoring the eye contact and talking to Jordan, who, half listening and texting, is completely oblivious to my existence.

  Baby Girl is deep into the little cups on the table, so she doesn’t feel the awkward energy in the room. But to me it’s heavy and thick. And it smells of the past. Of strawberry lip gloss and late-night popcorn.

  The truth is that no one is pure evil. But remembering the good parts of a person makes it hurt more, because that’s when hope shows up.

  Hope that love was written somewhere in my story line with Chloe.

  Hope is the reason Baby Girl sat in a filthy booth at Denny’s, waiting for a man who might love her.

  Baby Girl is halfway through her nearly thirty drinks. So far she’s liked the chai-tea latte and strawberry smoothie.

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” I say.

  “Brilliant. I’m so buzzed right now, my heart might explode. Can that happen?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Good.” She takes down a skinny mocha in one gulp. “I’d hate to die before I truly know myself.”

  After a few minutes I’m forced out of hiding in the bathroom, only to find Chloe waiting outside the door. She pulls me into the corner, all inconspicuous-like.

  “You’re hanging out with Baby Girl now?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “She’s weird, Wren.”

  “So what?”

  “So, she shaved her head.”

  “I like it.”

  Chloe groans. “I can’t save you from everything all the time.”

  “If this is you trying to save me, remind me not to hire you as a lifeguard.”

  “You’re committing social suicide.”

  “You can’t commit social suicide when you aren’t social to begin with,” I say. “And I’m not the one headed to the guillotine.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “All I’m saying is Anne Boleyn’s last words were, ‘Turns out he wasn’t worth it.’”

  “You just don’t understand,” Chloe says.

  “Then explain it to me.” But what I’m really thinking is, Give me hope that love exists here.

  “You’ve never dated anyone, Wren. Jay needs me. I’m sorry if that makes you mad.”

  I start to walk away. “Forget it.”

  Chloe is just like her mom, all backhanded apologies and contradictions. Rehashing this with Chloe is like picking broken pieces of a relationship out of a garbage can that stinks of old bananas.

  “I was always second best,” she blurts out. “And I got sick of it, OK? You and Lizzie lived in your own little world, and there was never enough room for me. Well, now you know what it feels like. I finally found someone who puts me first. There isn’t room for you in my life right now. That’s just how it goes with love. Sometimes you have to kick people out to make room for something better. You did it to me, and now I’m doing it to you.”

  “Chloe!” Jordan hollers to her. “Let’s go!”

  She leaves me standing by the bathroom, and before she walks out the door, I see Jordan ask, “Who’s that?”

  And Chloe says, “Nobody.”

  I’m left to wonder if Chloe was actually telling the truth. Did I kick her out to save enough room for Lizzie? Did I do that with everyone?

  I return to the table. When Baby Girl notices my quietness, she asks, “What’s wrong?”

  “Can you be my sister for a second?”

  Baby Girl sits up straight in the seat, just how Lizzie would, this twinkle in her eye that reflects the sun, even here in Starbucks. She really imitates other people well. I hope she manages to find herself, because when she does, she’s sure to shine. “How can I help?”

  I tell her about Chloe and Jay and what Chloe just said to me.

  “Is this all my fault?” I ask.

  Baby Girl thinks and then says, “I can’t answer that, but Chloe has one thing all wrong. You don’t kick people out in the name of love.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Wren, I’ve spent the past six years visiting a man who’s a complete asshole, and eating lukewarm Moons Over My Hammy once a month. Why? Because love makes you build a bigger house, even when the tenants are a complete mess.”

  “Who said that?”

  “I did.”

  I think Baby Girl just painted a brushstroke.

  “Just so you know, Lizzie wouldn’t have said it like that. I think only you could have done that.”

  Baby Girl smiles genuinely, but it’s fleeting.

  “I still don’t know what I like best.” She gestures to all the empty cups.

  “Maybe you’re just not a coffee person.”

  “Maybe.”

  It breaks my heart to see Baby Girl’s sadness.

  “Maybe we should try something else,” I say.

  “Like what?”

  “How do you feel about sandwiches?”

  23

  THE MORE, THE MERRIER

  But Luca’s not at Rosario’s Market either. I’m starting to think maybe I made him up. We find Leia, and Baby Girl acknowledges her.

  Leia says, “I’m going to kill Luca. That asshole didn’t show up for his shift, so I had to spend the past three hours slicing deli meat that’s been injected with nitrates, put through a meat grinder, congealed in a refrigerator, and sold to the public as ‘natural.’”

  I know Leia’s real, so Luca must be real. And this realization hurts even more.

  Being real sucks sometimes.

  “There’s nothing natural about meat that comes vacuum sealed in plastic,” Leia says.

  She’s a new level of fiery today.

  “‘The world is a vacuum-sealed plastic container,’” Baby Girl proclaims loudly. “Einstein said that. Or maybe it was Newton. Or Jesus.”

  “I know you,” Leia says to Baby Girl. “Love your hair. Or lack thereof.”

  “If that’s the truth, can you point me in the direction of myself? I’m lost in this grocery store somewhere. Wren thought I might be hiding in the sandwiches, but it sounds like sandwiches are just hiding nitrates.”

  “You’re weird,” Leia says. “I dig weird.” Today, her pin pronounces, WE ARE ALL TEMPORARILY NOT DIRT.

  “She’s on a lot of caffeine right now,” I say.

  Baby Girl runs a hand over her skin. “I think I might be electric.”

  “Can I touch your head?” Leia asks.

  “Sure.” Baby Girl bends down so Leia can reach.

  She runs a hand over Baby Girl’s shaved head. “Cool.”

  “Did you feel it?”

  “What?”

  “The electricity. Maybe I’m really a robot who thinks she’s human and I’m really just wasting my time trying to find myself because my insides are just a bunch of wires and plugs.”

  “Go easy on yourself. All humans are robots,” Leia scoffs. “Just a cog in the propaganda machine. Why do you think we started drinking cow’s milk in the first place? Because the American government put tons of money into an advertising campaign to help dairy farmers, that’s why. But if everyone took a second to really think about it, we’d realize we’re grown people drinking cows’ breast mi
lk.”

  “That’s gross.”

  “Tell me about it. Patchouli?” Leia takes the bottle from her pocket.

  “Sure.” Baby Girl dabs some on her hands.

  “So Luca isn’t here?” I say. “You haven’t seen him?”

  “No. And if he gets fired for missing his shift, I’m going to kick his ass.” Leia cracks her knuckles. “What’s going on with you two anyway?”

  “Nothing,” I say too quickly. Lies come easier than the truth most days, and by the look on Leia’s face, she doesn’t believe me. But she lets it go.

  “One of the roller girls is having a party this weekend. Want to come?” she asks. “I can introduce you to the team.”

  “A party?” I say. “I’ve never actually been to one of those.”

  “They’re usually pretty fun.”

  “Can I come?” Baby Girl asks. “I don’t have anything going on this weekend.”

  “Sure,” Leia says. “The more, the merrier.” She is the opposite of Chloe. Open. Constantly making room. Even if the world is a vacuum-sealed plastic container, she makes the best of the space she’s got. “Give me your phone.”

  Baby Girl and Leia exchange numbers.

  “I’ll pick you both up on Saturday.”

  Baby Girl and I leave the grocery store.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t find yourself today,” I say.

  “That’s not completely true.”

  “Did you decide which coffee you like best?” I ask, hopeful.

  “No,” Baby Girl says, looking over her shoulder at Leia. “But I’m thinking I might be gay.”

  24

  TAKE TWO

  Chief is at work Saturday night, Olga is sitting on our couch watching reruns of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and as I wait for Leia I’m doing crunches and push-ups—the kind my PE teacher makes us do in gym class.

  “What you doing?” Olga asks.

  “Working out.”

  “You never work out before.”

  A thin layer of sweat has formed on my skin. “You’re messing up my counting.”

  Olga dismisses me. I switch to push-ups when my abs can’t take the crunches anymore. But when I can barely squeak out two before falling on my face, she laughs.