Postcards for a Songbird
Page 21
I see him differently now, all the intricate parts that make Chief who he is—the strings that weave his story.
“Horse ranch dressing!” he yells at the TV.
“Dude ranch dressing,” I correct him, my roller skates in hand. “You’re kind of terrible at this game, Chief.”
He doesn’t get offended. The glory of the win isn’t why he plays. Chief just wants to spend time with me.
“Derby practice?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m meeting my friends at the high school.”
“Will Luca be there?” he asks in a mock-swoony voice.
I roll my eyes at him. I’m starting to think maybe that’s my gesture. Or maybe . . . it doesn’t matter.
“None of your business,” I say.
Luca convinced his parents that Catholic school isn’t for him and that if he enrolls in public school, he might actually go. They said yes, and he starts at South Hill High in a few weeks. I told him about Chloe and how she’s Anne Boleyn and Jay is Henry VIII and I’m still a nobody.
Luca said, “Nobodies to some are somebodies to others.”
Roller Derby starts next week. I’m nervous and scared, but Baby Girl promises she’ll be there to cheer me on. She quit her job at the carousel.
“Time for a new song,” she said.
Leia got her a job at Rosario’s Market, so now they get to spend more time together.
Chief had the cruiser returned to the driveway, and Olga’s back. He apologized and rehired her. She’s started cooking dinner for us. When she is in the kitchen, spatula in hand, Chief standing nearby with a cup of tea, it dawns on me that maybe we were a complete family all along.
A new puzzle appears on the screen, Vanna gesturing to the unknown letters. Chief sits relaxed on the couch, sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Remember when I said I thought something was going on next door?” Chief says. “Turns out I was right.”
I lace up my roller skates. “Really?”
“The house finally sold,” he says. He blows on the top of his tea. “That place has been vacant for so long, I was worried it would never sell.”
“Things change,” I say.
“Yes, they do.”
A contestant spins the wheel and guesses the letter T.
Pat says, “There are three Ts.” The audience claps.
“Wren?” Chief says in a serious tone.
“Yeah, Chief?”
But he softens. “Have fun.”
Luca and I sit at the bus stop to nowhere.
“How about Paris?” he says. “We could go see Monet’s house.”
“We don’t know how to speak French.”
“True. I do know how to do something French, though.”
He kisses me, and my insides melt.
“OK, Paris is out,” Luca says when our lips finally separate. “London?”
“What if we’re not back in time for homecoming? I’ve never been to a dance before.”
“And my parents throw a really good Christmas party. You can’t miss it.”
“And what if the Seahawks make it to the Super Bowl? Chief will make his tuna casserole. If we’re gone, he’ll have no one to help him not eat it.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“And then it’ll be spring,” I say.
“And the lilacs will bloom.”
“We can’t miss that.”
“No,” Luca says. “We can’t.”
We take a breath and sit back, waiting for a bus that will never come.
“I guess we’ll have to stay right here,” he says.
“Together.”
“Together.”
I lie on the ground in Lizzie’s room, my shamrock-green aura mingling with all the other colors of the forest. I was here all along. I just couldn’t see it.
My story starts with a single tree, painted on a wall, and it grows from there.
Aren’t memories just made-up stories that we tell ourselves, anyway? We dictate what we see and how we want to remember.
Sometimes that’s what we need to do to get by, to get through, to move on. To find what’s real.
But stories must come to an end.
“Hey, Songbird,” Lizzie says. “Time to paint me a new story.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Let me take a moment to acknowledge the people who help to make my life of creativity and imagination possible.
Jason Kirk, my editor extraordinaire: You always know what my work needs. Thank you for polishing and pruning my stories and for constantly saying, “Yes and . . .” even when I come to you with an idea to write a book about a girl named after a bird and her imaginary friend. You encourage me to be bold with my work. That is a gift and one I’m so grateful to receive.
A huge thank-you to Coco Williams. Not only do you check my text messages for teen accuracy, but without you I’m pretty sure my publishing career would not be nearly as bright. You are a light. Shine on.
Renee Nyen, my agent and friend: From what this book was to what it is now, you’ve been there for the journey. Wren and Wilder thank you and so do I.
Kyle Crane, my beloved: From your very logical ideas on solving my creative blocks, to the moments of quiet when you just let my mind be the whirling dervish that it is, and to all the spaces in between, I love you. I’m your biggest fan. Let’s keep traveling the world together.
To the people who light up my life—Drew, Hazel, Mom, Dad, Anna, Emmy, my friends and family near and far—thank you for painting the canvas of my life.
And again, to the readers, for whom this book is dedicated. It is for you. Always and forever. You are my sunshine.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2018 Kate Testerman Photography
Rebekah Crane is the author of several critically acclaimed young-adult novels, including The Infinite Pieces of Us, The Upside of Falling Down, The Odds of Loving Grover Cleveland, Aspen (currently being adapted by Life Out Loud Films), and Playing Nice. Crane is a former high school English teacher who found a passion for writing young-adult fiction while studying secondary English education at Ohio University.
After living and teaching in six different cities, Crane finally settled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains to write novels and work on screenplays. A yoga instructor and the mother of two girls, Crane spends many of her days tucked behind a laptop at 7,500 feet, where the altitude only enhances the writing experience. Visit www.rebekahcrane.com, follow her on Twitter, or like her on Facebook at authorrebekahcrane.