“I miss her,” I said.
Risa squeezed my hand.
“Will I ever stop missing her?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “but when you miss her, look at all you have to remember her.” She spread her free arm out toward the pond, where a heron was tucking himself into a tree for the night. “When my parents died, my aunt told me that a person’s energy never really goes away. It’s a law of physics or something. It’s still around, somewhere. My money would be on the fact that her energy is hanging out here.”
I rested my head on her shoulder.
“Yes,” I said. “You’re totally right.”
A great horned owl called out into the night, where I knew that somewhere, Gran soared right there next to him.
FIELD JOURNAL
SEPT 5
NOTABLE LOCATION: JENKINS WOOD LIFE LIST ENTRY 3,288: BRIAN MICHAEL WARBLEY LIFE LIST ENTRY 3,289: KIRTLAND’S WARBLER
“Is it here yet?” I asked Jerry.
“Oh my god, leave me alone,” he said.
Risa and I had been chasing down the latest issue of Fauna for days. The October issue would have the winners of the Junior Nature Photographer competition, and Jerry had Fauna connections, at least when it came to getting the new issues first. He had a source who brought copies in exchange for Jerry’s special suet.
You’d think they’d email you or something if you won, but no. You had to wait for the fucking magazine. Damn it, Fauna. Nothing is perfect, I guess.
“I’m just saying, you usually get it way early,” I said.
“Laurel,” he sighed. “Please go clean something or educate somebody.”
I glared at him, but did as I was told. I needed to make the most of my remaining full days at the Nature Center. Monday was the first day of school, and I would have to go back to being trapped in a building for too many hours a day. I wasn’t really looking forward to that, since half the town still blamed me for ruining the chances of new jobs and stuff with the school. Sophie would be there, and Risa. But still. Sophie and I had plans to eat ice cream every day until we had to go back as a means to cope.
About an hour later, I heard a shout from inside the Center. “It’s here, girls,” Jerry called.
I ran inside, where Risa stood, waiting.
“Oh my god,” I said.
“Oh my god,” she said.
“We should look.”
“We totally should.”
We both stood, staring at the magazine.
Just then, the Center door banged open.
“Hi, folks,” said a tall man with fluffy hair and gold wire-rimmed glasses. “We got a bird text about a Kirtland’s warbler. It’s funny, because I was just passing by here on my way to a conference. Have you folks seen it?”
“Seriously?” said Risa.
I looked at the man. He seemed so strangely familiar. Surely I’d have remembered meeting him here? New birders made a mark on me.
“Wait,” I said, realization dawning on me. “Are you Brian. Michael. WARBLEY?” Each part of his name came out louder and higher than the next. I couldn’t help it. I was losing my shit hard and fast.
He smiled shyly. “Why, yes.”
“YOU ARE COMPLETELY MY HERO.”
“WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT A WARBLER?” shouted Risa, obviously unable to keep herself together, either.
Jerry rolled his eyes. “Sorry. The kids are just a little starstruck.” He strode the few paces across the Center to shake fucking Brian Michael Warbley’s hand.
“Always pleased to meet young birders.” He grinned. He noticed the magazine in my hand. “Oh, the latest issue of Fauna. How you’d get it already?”
“I know people,” said Jerry.
Brian Michael Warbley eyed him. “Maybe I should be the one who is starstruck,” he said. “It’s the photography contest issue. You girls enter?”
Neither Risa nor I could speak.
“Yeah, they entered. They were losing their minds before you came in, so now they are just completely gone.”
Brian Michael Warbley grinned again. “Well, let’s have a look, then.” He gently tugged the magazine out of Risa’s hand as she stood motionless, her mouth hanging open. He flipped through the pages until he came to the Junior Photography section.
“Any of these yours?” he asked. He pointed to the first two-page spread, and then the second.
“There,” I managed to squeak. “That one’s mine.” I pointed to the lightning tanagers.
“That one’s mine,” said Risa, pointing to the herons next to it.
“Honorable mentions! That’s amazing! I took an honorable mention in this same competition, you know. That’s how I got my start!”
“Wait, what?” I said, recovering. “You won first place.”
“No, no. People always think that because someone got it wrong in an article and it spread. I keep correcting my Wiki page, but people who think they know better keep changing it back and citing the same wrong sources.” He pursed his lips. “But if you go back to issue two hundred forty, you’ll see. Honorable mention.” He looked at our pictures. “Holy hoatzins! This lighting shot is yours? And this one”—he pointed to Risa’s—“how’d you get that angle? You girls are way ahead of where I was when I entered.” He shook his head. “You are going to be bigger than me, mark my words.”
“I love you, Brian Michael Warbley,” I said. “I mean, uh, your work.”
“Same. Hard same,” said Risa.
Jerry covered his face with his hand.
Brian Michael Warbley put his hand on his chest. “It’s an honor to meet such talented photographers. I should get your autograph now while I can.”
“Well, you’ll have to get your own Fauna. That one’s mine,” said Jerry.
Brian Michael Warbley laughed. “Of course, where…” But he stopped. “Did you hear that?” he said, suddenly catlike in his reflexes. “That call?”
High, sharp little bursts echoed against the Nature Center windows. They ended on an up note, like the bird was asking a question.
“Kirtland’s warblers, outside, about two o’clock, dollars to ducks they’re in a pine if there is one.”
All of us gingerly stepped out of the Center, as quickly as we could go without scaring a possible rare bird away.
“There they are,” whispered Brian Michael Warbley. “Two o’clock!”
We looked up. Sure enough, there sat several blue-headed warblers, lemon bellies flecked with salt and pepper feathers.
“This has always been the one that got away,” he breathed. “These guys are huge in Michigan, but my ex lives there, so the whole state is off limits. I thought I’d never get a decent shot. And here are a whole bunch of them. Anyone know what a group of warblers is called?”
“A confusion,” I said. “A confusion of warblers.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Well done.”
We snapped pictures while a bird hopped down lower and sat still, an ideal model.
“I think they like the attention,” said Risa.
A few minutes later, they flew away.
“Mind if I upload this to Rare Birds? I’m not a PA native, I know. I always defer to my local birders.”
“No, do it,” I said. When the Birdie Bros realized they not only missed Kirtlands but missed Kirtlands with Brian Michael Warbley, my life would be made complete.
“Thanks,” he said, already typing into his app.
“Brian Michael Warbley?” I said.
“Just call me Brian.” He looked at our name tags. “And I will call you Laurel and Risa.”
“Okay, Brian? Could I get your autograph?”
“Certainly,” he said. He signed Risa’s Warbley’s Birding Bonanza and he signed the limited-edition life list Risa had gifted me and that I now had close by at all times. Then Jerry had him sign his bicep for a tattoo.
“Who knew I was so big in PA?” He gave us each a hug. God, he must have a murmuration of birder women flocking to him at all times
. “Congrats again, girls. An honorable mention means a lot.”
He turned and walked toward the parking lot.
“Brian Michael Warbley,” said Risa.
“Brian,” I corrected her.
She shook her head, dazed.
A call came from a nearby willow. Not a Kirtland, but a far more common call.
Made it into Fauna, Gran. Just like you, I thought at the jay. It called back and flitted away.
“Watch out, Warbley,” I said out loud, smacking Risa with my book.
“We’re coming for you,” said Risa.
“But first you better go help set up for the end-of-summer party tonight,” Jerry said. “We got about a hundred of these soda six-pack holders to give out.” He turned one over in his hands. “They feed sea turtles instead of strangling them or something. Gotta get the word out for people to buy ’em. Save the world and stuff.” He glowered at us. “You know. Your job? Congrats and all that, but get a move on.”
Jerry would always keep us humble.
Just for a second, before devoting myself to the task of saving sea turtles, I traced my fingers over Brian Michael Warbley’s signature. He’d touched this. And seeing his name, reminding me that he had been there in the flesh, made me think that Gran had surely put him here in my path, congratulating me in her way, letting me know that I would be okay.
That, every day, I could fly.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks must go first, again, to all of my family, friends, students, and colleagues who continue to support me in my writing and are now subject to incessant birding talk.
Thank you to the Feiwel and Friends team, especially intrepid editor Anna Roberto, who is brilliant and one of my favorite people.
Thank you to Catherine Drayton, who is a great agent, but also a tremendous human being. You are tasked with saving me from myself, and I appreciate that you still do it. Thanks also to Claire Friedman and everyone at Inkwell Management for their continued support.
I owe a lot of specific gratitude to several people for this book. Thanks especially to Jenne Powers, who first took me birding and adjusted my binos so that I no longer saw that black ring. That was life-changing.
Thank you to Gillian Devereux for the urban birding notebook.
Thank you to Melissa Baumgart, Kathryn Benson, and Rebecca Chernoff Udell, without whom Laurel would not be a nature photographer.
Thank you to Morgan Matson, for the title inspiration.
Thank you to the real Birdscouts. You know who you are.
Thank you to Leith Speiden, for the Squirrel Fire™ scene, and for always laughing at my jokes.
Thank you to David Allen Sibley, without whom I would be a shell of a birder.
Thanks to Rachel Maddow who continues to try to save the world.
Thank you to Josh Groban because why the hell not.
Thank you to the Dead Post-Its Society. I love you all.
And thank you to Peter, Katherine, and Charles. You are my flock.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Adrienne Kisner has master’s and doctorate degrees in theology from Boston University and was inspired by her work with high school and college students to write Dear Rachel Maddow. She is also a graduate of Vermont College of Fine Arts with an MFA in writing for children and young adults. Dear Rachel Maddow is her debut. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Begin Reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
A FEIWEL AND FRIENDS BOOK
An imprint of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010
THE CONFUSION OF LAUREL GRAHAM. Copyright © 2019 by Adrienne Kisner. All rights reserved.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2018955486
ISBN 9781250146045 (hardcover) / ISBN 9781250146038 (ebook)
Feiwel and Friends logo designed by Filomena Tuosto
First edition, 2019
eISBN 9781250146038
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The Confusion of Laurel Graham Page 23
