Time to Fly

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  “Phone home,” I repeat, crossing my fingers.

  “Phone home!” the parrot squawks back. “Pretty girl! Time to fly!”

  Yes! It’s him. Thrilled, I turn to see if Gran and Mom noticed. But they’ve gone inside already. Oh well. I’d better go inside too and get ready for school.

  At the breakfast table, Mom and Gran inform me that I am not going to school today.

  I put down my toast. “How can you just decide these things without asking me?” I demand.

  Gran’s eyebrow shoots up and she gives me that warning look. She really dislikes mouthi ness. “Sorry,” I mumble. I’m not mad at her.

  “We have lots to do,” Mom explains. “Gran will call your school and have your records sent out to the Beverly Hills School District, and you and I can start packing.”

  Very pleasantly and calmly, I explain back to her, “Even if I was leaving—which I’m not—I’d want to go to school to say good-bye to all my friends. Which I’m not going to do, because I am not leaving.”

  “Oh, Zoe, you can’t be serious,” Mom says, pouring herself more coffee.

  It’s as if she doesn’t believe me. I feel my anger flare up again. “I’ve never been more serious in my life,” I tell her, slowly and emphatically.

  She looks a little taken aback, but just says, “There’s no need to be so dramatic.”

  Even Gran has to laugh at that comment coming from an actress. Then she says, “I think you should stay home too, Zoe. We need a chance to talk and make plans. How about it?” She’s obviously trying to smooth the conversation over before it blows up into a fight.

  Late as usual, Maggie comes flying down the stairs just in time to hear this. “Can I stay home too?” she asks.

  “No,” Gran replies.

  “No fair! Why not?”

  “Do the words math makeup test ring a bell?” Gran says firmly.

  Maggie glowers at me. “Lucky dog.”

  “Maggie, I actually want to go to school today.” I can’t wait to tell everyone about the parrots, and see if Brenna has any pictures, and discuss my parrot Web site idea with Sunita, and—

  “Here.” Maggie jams her baseball cap on my head. “Stuff your hair up, and you can go as me. Maybe you can ace my math test.”

  “No way.” I toss the hat back at her like a Frisbee. She plunks it back on her head, slings her backpack over her shoulder, and grabs a piece of toast. She folds it like a taco to hold some scrambled eggs and begins stuffing it in her mouth as she heads for the door.

  “Do you see what she’s doing?” I ask Gran indignantly.

  Gran sighs. “At least it’s real food for a change.”

  “Have fun playing hooky,” Maggie calls with her mouth full.

  “Have fun taking your math test,” I shout back as the front door slams.

  “They’re so cute,” Mom says to Gran. “They remind me of the way Joanne and I used to fight, back when the MacKenzie sisters ruled the neighborhood.” She smiles, but her eyes are sad.

  Suddenly I feel a tiny bit sorry for being so mean to my mom. Joanne was Maggie’s mother—and Mom’s sister. I’ve never really thought about what it must have been like for Mom to lose a sister. She doesn’t talk about it.

  Maggie’s the nearest thing I’ve ever had to a sister. I look out the front window at her standing at the bus stop, gabbing with David. I think about her stubborn, upturned nose covered with freckles, and about how we can squabble all the time and still stay close, just the way siblings do.

  It would feel horrible to lose her.

  Mom invites me to stay at the table and have a cup of tea with her, but I have nothing to say that I haven’t already said. “Um, gotta take a shower,” I mutter as I leave the kitchen. She doesn’t comment on the fact that I was already dressed for school.

  For a while I just stand in the shower thinking, letting the hot water pour down on me. Then I wash my hair, even though it’s not really dirty. I get out and blow-dry it, even though I usually just let it air dry. After that I try on three different outfits before choosing one to wear.

  Anything to delay going down to face my mother.

  When I finally do get downstairs, Mom’s on the phone. She whispers at me, “It’s my agent. I’ll be off in just a minute, honey.”

  Who is she kidding? This is not going to be a five-minute call.

  Sitting at the kitchen counter, I scan through the classified ads for “Pets, Lost & Found,” hoping nobody’s looking for a lost parrot. I don’t want E.T. to be lost, I want him to be abandoned. So I can adopt him. I cross my fingers as I read.

  “Lost parrot.” I bite my nail and read on. An Amazon. Good—that’s much bigger than E.T. I read on down the column. Everything else is a cat or a dog.

  “No lost blue-crowned conures,” I inform Gran, who’s at the sink washing the breakfast pans. “Looks like E.T. will need a new home after all.”

  Gran shakes her head. “You may not be able to catch him, Zoe.”

  What Gran doesn’t understand is that E.T. likes me. I’m sure I can find a way to catch him.

  “Here, wipe the bacon grease off the stove, please.” Gran tosses me a soapy sponge.

  I wipe down the stovetop and counter, and then hand the sponge back to Gran. Mom’s still on the phone. I can sort of hear her muffled conversation through the closed door. I wonder what Gran thinks about this whole L.A. business?

  I take a deep breath. “Gran, do you think I should go with my mom to Los Angeles?” I’m not sure what I want her answer to be.

  She doesn’t answer right away, which tells me she’s not sure, either. Somehow it reassures me to know I’m not the only one feeling uncertain. Finally she says, “What I think about it isn’t as important as what you think. How do you feel about moving?”

  “Not good,” I state. “It’s not that I don’t want to be with Mom. And a new place could be kind of interesting, I guess. But I don’t want to leave you and Maggie and Dr. Mac’s Place. And I refuse to leave Sneakers.”

  “It’s never easy to leave people you love.” Gran looks at me sympathetically. “On the other hand, living three thousand miles from your mother can’t be easy for you, either.”

  “But Gran, do you really think living in L.A. will be better for me than living here in Ambler?”

  “It’s not a question of which city is better to live in, Zoe. The question is, where will you be happier?”

  “How should I know?” I snort. Do I look like a clairvoyant? Biting my lip, I remind myself that I’m not mad at Gran. “All I know is, Mom wants me to leave behind everything I love here. And she even wants to pull me out of school and force me to go to a big new school with barely six more weeks left in the school year. I don’t want to do that!”

  “Fine,” Gran says. “Then that’s what you need to tell her.”

  Gran always makes everything sound so simple, but it’s never simple when I actually try to do it. “Can’t you tell her?” I mumble.

  A long, silent pause. Gran wrings out her dish-cloth and sets it on the counter. Finally she turns and looks straight at me. For the first time since I’ve known her, her bright, clear blue eyes look clouded.

  “Zoe, if I try to tell Rose what she should or shouldn’t do, it won’t help your case, believe me. I made that mistake long ago, and I learned my lesson. This is something only you can do. You need to talk with her and tell her exactly how you feel. Just remember, she loves you very much and truly does want the best for you.”

  “Could have fooled me.” Sullenly I scuff my toe on the linoleum.

  “Sometimes people do make bad decisions, Zoe, even though they may be trying to do the right thing. And sometimes”—Gran reaches for my hand—“what seems like a bad decision is actually a good one. Think about it: A year ago you wanted to go with Rose to California instead of moving in with me—perfectly understandable. You couldn’t see why your mother would leave you with a grandmother who was a complete stranger to you. But looking back, don’t yo
u think your mother made the right decision when she sent you here?”

  As usual, Gran’s logic is undeniable. I give a tiny nod.

  Gran ruffles my hair, then folds me into a hug. “Honey, your mother and I don’t always see eye-to-eye. But there’s one thing we agree on: we both want you to be happy. So you need to search your heart, figure out what you truly want, and then speak up.” Gran lifts my chin. Her eyes are clear again, such a light, piercing blue. She smiles at me. “That’s my prescription.”

  “OK, Dr. Mac, I’ll try to follow it.” Try being the operative word. Based on past experience, my hopes for success are not high.

  The other line rings, and Gran picks up the kitchen phone. “This is Dr. MacKenzie.”

  Immediately her face takes on a serious expression. Must be a patient with an emergency. I start to leave the room, but she signals for me to wait. After a few minutes she thanks the caller and hangs up.

  “That was the sheriff,” she tells me. “He called to say they found an abandoned trailer in a ditch—with dead parrots inside it.”

  “How awful! What happened?”

  “The police think the parrots were smuggled up from Mexico, and the driver was heading to New York to sell them—until he ran off the road. He was probably driving nonstop and hadn’t slept for days. The trailer has been lying in the ditch for at least a week, but it’s on a back road and nobody saw it until a farmer reported it.”

  As the information sinks in, I look up at Gran in horror. “Smuggled! Are you kidding?”

  “I wish I were, Zoe. I hate to say it, but parrot smuggling is big business. Since nearly all wild parrots are endangered, most countries have very strict rules about exporting and importing exotic birds. As a result, a large black market has developed in smuggled birds.”

  “But Gran, there are parrot breeders right here in the U.S.! Why would anyone want to smuggle in birds illegally?”

  “Money—what else. A smuggler can buy a wild bird from a poacher in Mexico for maybe ten dollars, and then sell it here for fifty times that amount. So it’s a highly profitable trade.”

  I shake my head, trying to make sense of this. “But if the parrots are so valuable, why would the trucker just abandon them?”

  Gran shrugs. “He may not have had a choice. If the trailer came open in the crash, the birds may have just flown away on their own. Or maybe he knew he was going to go on the lam, so he took pity on the birds and let them loose.”

  “A smuggler, taking pity on the birds?” I say skeptically.

  “The truck driver was probably not the smuggler,” Gran explains. “Most likely he was just hired by the smuggling operation. If he had a wreck, he’d be in serious trouble—not only with the police, once they found what he was hauling, but also with whoever hired him.”

  “And the dead birds that the police found in the trailer—they died in the crash?”

  “Could be,” Gran says. “Or they might have been dead already, even before the accident. From what I know, a lot of birds die in smuggling operations, just from poor care and rough handling.”

  “But that’s—that’s beyond cruel! How can anyone just let animals suffer and die like that?”

  Gran looks sadly at me. “Exotic animal smugglers are hardened criminals, Zoe. They see the parrots as a money-making commodity, like corn or coffee beans, not as living creatures. It’s a terrible thing. And it’s why so many countries now regulate trade in exotic birds. But unfortunately, there are always people willing to break the law if there’s enough money at stake.”

  That’s one piece of the puzzle that still doesn’t quite fit. Obviously this whole underground bird trade is driven by dollars, but where does all that money come from? The answer slowly dawns on me: the customer, the person at the end of the line who buys the parrot. “Gran, who would buy an illegal bird?”

  “Many people don’t know the birds are smuggled when they buy them,” Gran points out. “That’s why parrot organizations and veterinarians urge people to buy a parrot only from a reputable pet store or breeder. But some people are so eager to have an exotic bird that they don’t do their research. Or if the price is right, they’re willing to look the other way.”

  Well, I guess now we know where our parrot flock came from. These really are wild birds, straight from the jungle. At least they’ll have good survival instincts, even if this region is a totally strange environment to them.

  “Can they track down the driver?” I ask Gran. “Maybe the police could convince him to turn in the smugglers in exchange for a light sentence.”

  “Well, they’re trying to track him down,” she says, “but the truck was a rental, so they may never find him.”

  Since Mom’s still on the phone, I ask Gran, “Can I use the computer? I want to see what’s on the Internet about parrot smuggling.”

  Gran checks her watch. “Mind if I look over your shoulder?”

  Together we head into Gran’s office. I key in parrot smuggling, and a long list of sites pops up. I click on one, and Gran and I read silently together.

  As I read, I grow sadder—and angrier—by the minute. According to the Web site, more than 25,000 wild parrots are smuggled across the Texas border into the United States each year. The birds are sold in the U.S. for hundreds or even thousands of dollars at pet stores, flea markets, and exotic pet shows. Around 40 million dollars’ worth of parrots are believed to be smuggled through Texas each year!

  Gran lets out a low whistle. “You can see why some crooks think it’s worth the risk.”

  “And look at this,” I say, scrolling down. “It says that thousands and thousands of birds die from suffocation, starvation, or rough treatment while they’re being smuggled in.” I turn to Gran. “I just can’t stand the thought of all those poor birds suffering. There must be something we can do about this!”

  Gran blinks, then gives me a sad, almost wistful smile.

  “What?” I say, puzzled.

  “Oh, you suddenly reminded me of another girl I used to know.”

  “Somebody who used to work with you at the clinic?”

  “Well, yes, actually.” Gran gets a misty expression. “Your mother.”

  “I remind you of Mom?”

  But before I can ask her about that, Mom herself charges into the office with a pad and pen in her hand, the cordless phone clutched between her ear and shoulder. “Ma, what’s your fax number?”

  Gran gestures at the fax machine sitting in a corner, buried under folders and books. “Sorry, Rose, it’s broken. Hasn’t worked in months.”

  “Ma, how can you run a business without a fax?” Mom shakes her head in exasperation. “There must be a copy shop around here where you can fax it to,” she tells the caller. “I’ll get a number and call you right back.” She clicks off the phone and starts to leave, then turns to me. “Zoe, I’m going to run into Ambler. The producer needs to fax me some script changes for next week’s taping.” Then she adds hesitantly, “Want to come? We could stop for ice cream.”

  Gran looks at me, and I squirm. I know I should go with Mom. Here’s my chance to tell her how I really feel, like Gran said. The only problem is, I don’t know how I really feel. So how can I tell Mom what I want, if I’m not even sure myself?

  “I—I’m kind of busy right now, Mom. I’m, uh, doing some research on parrots. It’s really important. But thanks anyway. Maybe we can, um, discuss our plans when you get back,” I finish lamely.

  “OK, sounds good.” She throws me one of her chipper smiles and heads out the door.

  Gran stands up and stretches. “Well, Zoe, patients start arriving in about ten minutes, so I’ll be off too.” I can tell she’s disappointed in me for not joining Mom.

  Well, I can live with that. I mean, after everything I’ve just learned about smuggled parrots, their well-being somehow seems more important right now than my own problems. After all, it’s a life-and-death matter for the parrots.

  Turning to the computer, I go back to the search engin
e and key in feral parrots. “Feral” means an animal that’s escaped and is living wild. I learned that when Maggie, Sunita, David, Brenna, and I discovered a huge pack of feral cats living in an abandoned boxcar last fall.

  The first site I visit tells all about the Monk parakeets in Chicago. The people who are studying them make a big point of saying there’s no evidence of the birds causing crop damage in the U.S. That’s good to know. I’ll have to tell Mr. Cowan.

  Then I read about the parrots in San Francisco. Apparently there’s not one but two flocks there. I hop from site to site with growing excitement. There are parrot flocks in Texas, in Rhode Island, in Florida, and even—my heart starts pounding—in Southern California! In fact, I stumble across a major Web site, the California Parrot Project, devoted to “researching parrots in the wilds of California’s suburban jungles.” Who knew?!

  The people working on the California Parrot Project seem to be mostly scientists and professional researchers. For years they’ve been studying the feral parrot flocks, which they call “naturalized,” so they know a lot about parrots living wild in city neighborhoods. My mind starts spinning with ideas. If I were living in Southern California, I could volunteer with this organization and help the wild parrots out there. And I could share what I learn with Maggie and Gran and everyone at Dr. Mac’s Place, so they could help the parrots here in Ambler…

  I shut down the computer and race downstairs, looking for Gran. Oops, she’s busy with patients. Drat, I can’t even tell Maggie or my friends—they’re all at school. I’m bursting to talk to someone about all my parrot ideas! I even want to tell Mom, but she’s not back yet. How about Mr. Cowan? I have to tell him about the sheriff’s call anyway, and I know he’ll be interested to hear what I’ve learned about parrots living wild in the U.S. Plus, we need to put out more fruit. I wonder if parrots like grapes? I grab some from the fridge and head out the back door.

  “Pretty girl!”

  I close the back door behind me quickly, before Socrates escapes, and step onto the deck. “E.T.!” I whisper excitedly. “Where’ve you been?”