The Meaning of Birds

by Jaye Robin Brown

  Mom pulls the car in front of school. I fight the river raging inside of me. It’s time to swim upstream, battle the current as I walk past hands, hearts, hugs, to my locker. Without Vivi.

  I’m stitching it together. Holding the parts of me tight as I put one foot in front, repeat. Making my way, not making eye contact. Holding my chin up. Then.

  “Sick dyke deserved it anyway.”

  I galvanize. “What?”

  A boy laughs by his locker, a timid girl planted under his arm, and challenges me with a jut of his chin.

  The river turns solid. A tsunami of exploding grief leaps out of me and my god it feels good to rage. Samantha’s face pops briefly into my mental vision but I blink her away. She left me. Vivi left me. I’m not thinking anymore. I’m forehead to forehead and knee to groin and boot on hand before someone grabs me by the hood and pulls me off the guy, who’s left whimpering and confused as to what he’d unleashed with his comment.

  In the office, the throb of my collided skull is alive. The most alive I’ve been in a week. The truth is I’d like to take down the school, brick by brick, if I could. I want to send lava hurtling through the hallways. It’s better than caving in to the abyss that threatens to swallow me whole. I will not be grief’s bitch.

  “Jessica Perez.” Vice Principal Williams sounds confused as he rolls the syllables over his tongue. It’s not a name he’s had to say before. I’d worked for all of high school to keep it that way, doodling my way through when things got sticky.

  “That’s me.” My voice is gruff, tough, a timbre to fell the tallest tree.

  “Fighting isn’t tolerated at this school. I understand you’ve had some distress but if this happens again you’ll be suspended.” With manicured nails, he pulls a glossy black pen from a coat pocket and scrawls onto a pad of pink paper. “A pass, after you stop by Mrs. Swaley’s office.”

  I groan to myself. Swaley is the head tripper. She’s not genuine like Samantha. She doesn’t really care about helping. She’s a smiler and faux friend, worming her way in, trying to get you to talk and spill all the secrets so she can lap them up like milk and purr her way home to her husband and boast about how wonderful it is to be helping young people on the daily. I let the paper glide into the nearest trash can. The tardy is better than Swaley. The reality is, I would give almost anything to punch the shit out of someone, anyone, anything again.

  Instead I’m faced with the static of whisper and the heat of stare. All eyes turn as I push down a too-narrow path between rows of desks to get to the back of my English class. Never before have I been so grateful for the somnolent drone of Mr. Alistair’s voice and the intense focus it takes for the rest of my classmates to stay awake and end their gawking.

  4

  Then: Stork Rhymes with Dork

  Nothing to look at here, people, nothing to talk about.

  I took a deep breath, stepped onto the bus, and willed away the stares. I planned on making it the next three years without incident.

  At least this part of the school day had an established pattern. I sat directly behind the driver in the window seat and curled away from the door. It had been a good strategy last year. Nobody messed around at the front of the bus, so my rides were uneventful. I’d gone from talked about too much in my middle school bully years, to not talked about at all. You make me happy when skies are gray.

  Tumbling from the bus to the walkway to the crosswalk to the front doors of Grady was different though. In freshman academy, they’d kept us relegated to one wing of the school, one entrance, one locker hall. This year it was open season on sophomores, just as I’d feared.

  I walked through the halls keeping my head down, my shoulders rounded, my dad’s old camo backpack resting on one side, and my new Sakura pen set that I’d bought—thanks Samantha, and your hidden talent talk—tucked in an outside pocket. A cluster of boys from my old middle school, joined by a few new ones they’d latched onto in freshman academy, tried to incite me as I passed them, “Hey, freakshow, want to fight?” The laughter from the group followed me down the hall as I heard them replaying one of my less stellar moments from seventh grade. I would not react. I would not react. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me . . .

  “Can you believe it?”

  I looked up. Cheyanne had her sleek black hair up in Princess Leia buns, and was sporting black lipstick to match. She was wearing the jacket she’d told me about when she texted from her San Francisco grandparents’ house over the summer—midriff short and made out of fuzzy rainbow-hued pom-pom balls. Underneath she wore a black catsuit and high-topped black Converse. She fit this school about as well as I did, the one main difference being that she was both extremely smart and musically gifted and her killer glare meant that no one ever messed with her. It was exceedingly lucky for me that she’d moved here in seventh grade, even if it was exceedingly unlucky for her to have to come from California to the suburban South. But at least the word queer didn’t freak her out. Everybody needs at least one friend and, though she had more than just me, being a band kid and all, at least I had her.

  “Believe what?” I watched upperclassmen flow through the halls, keeping an eye out for the couple of other gay kids I peripherally knew.

  “Remember how I said I needed to get into honors English because Mom was pissed they put me in the regular one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They transferred me. It changed my schedule all around and now I’m not in your math class anymore.”

  This was critical news. This meant I had to go through every day of this semester with a perfect nobody to hang out with.

  “It’s worse,” Cheyanne said.

  “Worse?”

  “My lunch is switched, too. And I have to get to the orchestra room anyway. Did I tell you? I ditched the violin and am playing the string bass, so Mr. Lunesto wants me to come in for extra practice. Which is stupid because I can play circles around anybody at this school.”

  Cheyanne’s modesty was not one of her strong points.

  “Are your parents pissed?” Music was something all the Chen kids were started on early and I’d always gotten the sense Chey’s parents considered the violin the most superior of instruments, and therefore the one they required their kids to play. Which of course infuriated Cheyanne because as she put it, “What’s more stereotypical than me playing the violin?” It made sense she’d want to rebel. But she’d never quit playing altogether; music flowed through her veins.

  “Yeah, they’re furious. Best decision I ever made. Now I’ve got to run. I’ll text you after school.” Cheyanne waved goodbye and bounced off down the hallway. Kids parted when they saw her coming. The girl was fierce, even if she did just totally screw me with her schedule change.

  In math class, uncertainty followed me through the door. Cheyanne would have been third row back, center, so by default I would have been third row, off center. Today though, I had to make seating decisions that could potentially haunt me for the rest of the semester. I chose the comfort of the back corner and a wall. To kill the time until the bell, I started doodling a bird on the corner of my notebook.

  It turned out I liked doodling, and spending my summer lost in the instruction book Samantha had given me saved me from a load of boredom. I’d expanded beyond the small square format of the Zentangles into full-page drawings and had managed to fill almost an entire sketchbook.

  I was so lost in the therapeutic rhythm and the feel of my ultra-fine pens, that when something bounced against my desk, my hand skittered off the page.

  “Crap.” A girl stood next to the empty seat in front of me. “I’m so sorry. Did I mess your drawing up? I’m such a klutz.”

  Before I could answer, she leaned over to look at it. “Huh? Turkey buzzard? You know, they’re related to storks. You’d never think it if you looked at the two side by side. Oh god. Stork rhymes with dork. Which I am. Because there’s no way you wanted all that trivia. Sorry, I’m ridiculously into birds. It’s a si
ckness.”

  I’d never seen her before and I definitely would have, dork or not. She had enormous brown eyes framed by thick lashes, a petite nose with a small gold ring in it, a perfectly shaped mouth, and an under layer of purple streaks in her hair. She even had one of those dimples in her chin that some people diss on but I’d always thought were super sexy. She was curvy where I was angular, and Cheyanne-style cool in a vintage floral jumpsuit and worn-in purple Doc Martens.

  I slid my hand over my drawing because even though I did enjoy it, it wasn’t something I shared with people. “Um, it’s just a bird.”

  The girl slung her tote bag over her chair and flashed a quick grin at me, before sliding into her seat and turning to face my desk. “There’s no such thing as just a bird. Once you get to know me, you’ll understand that.” She smiled then, perfect teeth except for a very charming gap that went exceptionally well with her chin dimple, and, dear God in the heavens, please let this teacher assign our seats today because suddenly getting to know her seemed like the thing that would remedy my entire life.

  The math teacher did attendance, then announced to the room, “Okay, people, we’re going to do partner work today. Turn to the seat behind you and introduce yourself, then memorize where you are because this is your spot until I say otherwise.”

  Hello, answered prayer.

  The girl turned around again, her bangs slightly obscuring her eyes as she moved, and held out her hand. “I’m Vivi.”

  Vivi. It sounded like poetry. Vivi and Jess. It sounded strong.

  “Um?” She cocked her head.

  Right. What even? Smooth move, Jess. Speak. Get your words out. Shake her hand. “Uh. Yeah. I’m, um. I’m Jess.”

  The girl, Vivi, stared. And I felt something wriggle in my gut.

  Oh shit, this is it, she’s going to ask for a different partner because of how I look or because I sound like an imbecile. But she didn’t. She smiled and nodded and said, “Cool. Nice to meet you.”

  I kept staring, my eyes locked on Vivi’s lips and that cute chin dimple, and my mouth must have been hanging open or something because she cracked up laughing, then turned around to get her math book before turning back with an “I like to get As. Hope you don’t have a problem with that.”

  Nope. No problems here. Sophomore year was looking up already.

  5

  Now: One Week, One Day After (After School)

  I take my earbuds out when I get off the bus. Jay-Z’s chorus hangs in my ears. I got ninety-nine problems but a bitch ain’t one.

  I’d take ninety-nine million problems to have Vivi back. Of all the macabre songs to land in my shuffle. If it wasn’t so tragic, I’d laugh.

  The house is empty. Mom’s still at work. Nina probably is, too. The thunder of quiet is deafening.

  “Emma Watson,” I call. A faded mew answers me from the back of the house. I follow the sound to my room where my cat looks at me from my drawing table. “You think I can have that space?” I point to the bed in a futile attempt to get her to act like a dog and move on command.

  She flicks her tail.

  “Fine.” I dump my stuff onto the floor and scoop her up in my arms. I think briefly about food, but just as fast the thought goes away replaced by a churn made of heartache. Worst diet ever. I hold the cat as long as she will let me, which isn’t long enough. When she wriggles free, I turn to the now empty drawing table.

  My inks are lined up near the window and I go through the motions, opening colors and carefully placing the caps in the little plastic containers I recycle from the kitchen. I pull out a fresh sheet of Bristol paper and tape it in place at the corners. I insert a clean nib into the end of the plastic pen carriage. Then I sit. Staring at white paper. At nothingness. At snow. I try to dip the pen in ink, but my hand is indecisive.

  When nothing comes but pain, I pick up the bottle of black ink and spill a puddle onto the page. I pull the domed circle out from itself with the plastic end of the penholder making a spider, or cracks, but definitely not art. When the penholder doesn’t satisfy me, I switch to my fingers, knowing they will stay stained black for days. When that no longer satisfies me, I hold the pricey paper up and tear it into strips. Then I tear those strips into strips. And those strips into squares. Then tinier squares until all I have left is a pile of black stained paper covering my desk. I drop my head into my hands not even caring that my face will end up stained, too.

  Art is stupid.

  My phone buzzes. Cheyanne wants to FaceTime.

  I answer.

  “Heard you beat up some backroads boy.” Cheyanne’s still rocking the fall look she had on at school today. Black tights, short red plaid shorts, massive black sweater, and a wide round-brimmed black felt hat that only she can get away with wearing in the hall without comment from teachers. The resting bitch face is powerful.

  “Truth.”

  “Make you feel better?”

  “Like I could do it again.”

  Cheyanne knew angry Jess, but that Jess has been long dormant. Samantha taught me ways to manage, then the miracle of Vivi happened. Vivi soothed the remaining beast, showed me how to channel my rage into real art instead of doodles. But now? My fingers are firebrand hot. My soul pours out the reminder that art is inextricably linked to emotion and emotion leads to pain. Death can kill more than the person who died. It kills the future you thought you knew. It kills the dreams you were brave enough to have and gilds your stupidity for ever having them in the first place. I actually growl in response to my thoughts.

  “Uh. Settle down, tiger. Want to go out tonight? It’s teen night at Doolittle’s. Levi can get you some vodka. What’s all over your face?”

  “Ink,” I say. Get wasted, dance till I can’t move, these are definite things to contemplate, but being around happy people doesn’t sound appealing. I offer an alternative. “How about the tracks?”

  Cheyanne cocks her head, then shrugs. “Sure, why not. Meet us? After dinner, around seven.”

  I nod. Levi remains Cheyanne’s lapdog. Though I sometimes feel kind of bad for his unrequited crush, I figure it’s probably pretty annoying for Chey to be the object of his never-ending pursuit, no matter how subtle. But overall, he’s pretty cool as far as dudes go and we both like having him around. At the last second, Cheyanne flashes an uncharacteristic smile and lifts heart hands to her chest. “Love you.”

  My instinct is to reply with an I love you, too, but the river pushes up a wave and instead I give her a thumbs-up and shut down my phone.

  6

  Then: A Small Sparrow

  I made heart hands to myself. Which was stupid considering I was hidden in the bathroom stall before math class. But I needed a pep talk from somebody. Four weeks of class. Four weeks I’d been an utter dolt and completely nonverbal around Vivi other than a series of blushing grunts and groans.

  Today, though, was different. I’d decided to invite Vivi to hang out with me and Cheyanne at the tracks and Stan’s Diner on Friday night. It wouldn’t be a date because Cheyanne would be there, but maybe I could feel Vivi out a little bit more. By now, she’d have figured out I was into girls, if not by the way I looked, by the school rumor mill. She didn’t seem fazed by having me as her partner. She didn’t act nervous or put off around me like some girls did. And when I’d stalked her social media accounts, it seemed like she had a diverse group of friends and wasn’t someone who’d get stressed out by a girl having a crush on her, even if it wasn’t reciprocal.

  As our teacher wound down his speech about finite and infinite sequences and assigned too much homework, I worked up my nerve. My hand lifted to reach forward and tap her shoulder, and I was almost there, my finger about to press against her skin when she pivoted around.

  I sat back so hard my chair jumped against the floor.

  Her eyes widened. “Am I that frightening?”

  “No, I was . . .” I lost my nerve.

  She reached into her Audubon society tote bag and pulled out a bright
Tupperware brimming with some kind of casserole. “My mom sent me to school with this. No way I can eat all of it and it’s way too good to waste. Want to join me for lunch?”

  My tongue completely seized up and grew so large it wouldn’t fit in my mouth, so I nodded and mumbled.

  I’d noticed that she usually ate outside, and often alone, but sometimes sat inside with the kids from the International Club when they had their lunchtime meetings. I’d tried to get brave enough to go and sit with her, but my Samantha training usually had me racing away from the chaos of the high school cafeteria to the library with my sketchbook, pens, and pack of cheese crackers.

  When the bell rang, she smiled and motioned for me to follow her. I did.

  In the cafeteria, she motioned for me to wait by the drink machine. I did. But I also acted like a total creeper, watching her walk across the room, paying way too much attention to how her hips swelled out before sliding back in to round thighs and well-muscled calves. My chest cavity threatened to rip open. I couldn’t remember any other crush feeling quite like this.

  She plucked two forks from the end of the lunch line and when she got back to me, she stuck them—tines up—in my front pocket, then she grabbed my hand and hauled me to an empty picnic table by the big oak tree outside the cafeteria doors.

  She grabbed my hand.

  At the table she let go, then plopped down, opened the lid, and reached for the forks in my pocket. Then she patted the bench for me like I was a toddler. “Sit.”

  I sat.

  “Food in our house is a very big deal. My mom is a Cordon Bleu trained chef.” She handed me my fork and pushed the container toward me. I lifted a bite and tasted rich layers of potatoes and cream and zucchini.

  I managed a guttural groan of goodness.

  “She met my dad in France, he’s French you know.”

  Bites of casserole served as a reason for my muteness. But then, somehow, in the way of small miracles, or maybe it was just my heart beating against my vocal cords, I managed a couple of intelligible words. “Do you speak French? I’m horrible at foreign languages.” What I don’t mention is that my dad was half Mexican and fully fluent in Spanish. I could have been better if I’d tried. Or if I’d had more time with him.