Call Me Alastair

by Cory Leonardo

  Oh, and Fritz will be in. I assume that’s what Aggie means.

  I play along. “What’s it mean, Aggie?” I ask.

  “FRITZ!” Aggie screams. “Fritz-Fritz-Fritz … FRITZ!”

  Sigh.

  Aggie bobs her head. “Four p.m. That’s when he’ll be here! Four p.m. every Monday, Wednesday and Friday!”

  Fritz is back at school, which means we’re back to the old Fritz schedule. He tried to come in that first Saturday. Told Pete he was just picking up some crickets for Charles. But when he hadn’t left after four hours, Pete told him he needed to “stop haranguing around that parrot cage – customers’ll think you’re buying. ’Sides, you’re covering up the price tag.” Pete wound up banning him from the shop on weekends if he wanted to keep his job.

  While I’ve been analyzing escape routes and throwing sunflower seeds at the tropical fish aquariums, Aggie’s been busying herself between Fritz visits. She’s spent the last few days naming all the goldfish in the shop. Fish don’t often get names. For a pet that’s sold at twenty-nine cents a pop, looks exactly like the guy next to him, and, if we’re being honest, appears a bit dull, no one thinks it’s worth the trouble – except Aggie. There are so many she’s gone through the alphabet twelve times over, even after assigning each name three times (Arnie #1, Arnie #2, Arnie #3, Bernie #1, Bernie #2…). She’s also chewed Pete’s weight in wooden toys.

  “I chewed up five for Fritz today,” Aggie is saying. “I think that one in the corner looks like his nose, don’t you? He will be so happy.”

  “That’s some good art there,” agrees Porky. “That one there really does look like the old schnozola.”

  I give him a withering look.

  “What?” he says. “It does.”

  “See?” says Aggie. “Told you.”

  Fritz comes in for his shift, first stopping to fawn over Aggie and admire her gifts. Each time he passes our cage, Aggie follows him to the end of her perch, this way and that, her eyes holding him like a cup.

  By the end of the day, Fritz manages to sell a few goldfish.

  “Oh, that’s a good job, Fritz!” Aggie calls out to him. “Goodbye, Carl number two! Goodbye, Arthur number three!”

  “Hey, Aggie,” Fritz calls to her before he leaves. “I’ll be back Wednesday, OK? And don’t worry – I’ve been doing some leaf raking and lawn mowing. I’ll make that money somehow!”

  We all know what he needs that money for. It starts with an A and does not end with lastair.

  But I’ll let you in on a little secret.

  All this distraction-free time has given me the chance to put a few new escape plans into place. I’m pretty impressed with the quality, actually. I’m not making a whole lot of progress yet, but we’ll see which one pans out.

  Plan A: gnaw through cage bars. Once out, Aggie and I attach to customer’s hat like some artistic ornament. Flounce out of store. (Estimated timetable: being that I’ve made no progress on the bars, that part’s a little fuzzy.)

  Plan B: wait for small child to open cage. Restrain self from biting fat carrot fingers. Crawl into small child’s Perry Panda backpack to be smuggled out. (Estimated timetable: unknown, as I haven’t yet been able to restrain myself from nipping.)

  Plan C (and this is the most probable): wait for someone to pick one of Pete’s plastic yoghurt spoons out of the garbage and drop it into our cage. Dig tunnel with spoon (tunnel hidden by poop papers). Fly to freedom on unclipped, unbent wing. Live happily feathered after. (Estimated timetable: the wing should heal any minute now.)

  Freedom: I can taste it.

  CHAPTER 10

  September drifts into October; October blows into November. I pay no attention to the jangling bell on the door any more. Honestly, I don’t even hear it.

  I’m still waiting for somebody to drop a plastic spoon in my cage.

  Today, however, I can’t help but notice when a short, round figure presses through the shop door and promptly tears the bell from its hinge.

  “Oh my,” a familiar voice tuts.

  Fritz is working, and as he rounds the corner, the figure points in the direction of the bell on the floor. It’s clattered to a stop in front of the puppy pen. The puppies, as you’d expect, have lost their minds.

  “I’m sorry, dear. I’m not sure what happened. I simply walked through the door, and off it popped! I’m such a klutz!”

  Fritz retrieves the bell. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” he says. “I’m sure Pete can fix it.”

  The woman’s back is to me as she unties a scarf protecting her silvery hair, and I spot a pink curler I’ve seen before. “You’re a peach. Is Peter here, dear?”

  Fritz nods his head and points a thumb towards the back room. “Inventory. He says I gotta man the shop. Can I interest you in a newt? Christmas is just around the corner. Nothing says ‘happy holidays’ like a newt!”

  The old woman turns around.

  It’s Mrs Plopky. Puppy borrower. Costumer of guinea pigs. Her cheeks are pushed up into two plump pillows, and she chuckles in a way that reminds me of the purple martins that nested in the tree outside the shop’s window when it was still warm outside. “Oh no, dear. No newts today. I’m just here look – I mean, to pick up—”

  She opens her pocketbook, selects a scrap of paper from a paper-clipped stack, and lifts a pair of spectacles, fastened to a thin chain around her neck, to her nose. “Some fish food for Humpty Dumpty,” she reads. “And a satin cat cushion – my Tiger can be so particular.”

  “Right this way,” Fritz answers. He leads her around the shop, suggesting not only these fish flakes and that pillow, but a few toys, a scratching tower and a beach-ball-size bowl for her goldfish. “I’m sure Humpty Dumpty will love this one. The glass is tempered, so it won’t break easy.”

  “My, yes!” she exclaims. “I’m certain he will! You do know a lot about this shop, now, don’t you?” She reaches a wrinkled hand out to Fritz. “My name’s Bertie. Bertie Plopky. It’s a pleasure to meet such a polite young man.”

  Fritz shakes her hand a little too forcefully, so that her entire body jiggles with each pump. “It’s nice to meet you, too. You look a little familiar… Well, anyway, the name’s Fritz.” He proceeds to tell her about his acute knowledge of everything pet-shop related. Ever predictable, he follows this up with his life goals.

  I, on the other hand, continue to watch this old woman. Something about the way she shuffles up and down the aisles following Fritz reminds me of Aggie. Even the way her hair appears perfectly curled in those neat rolls, tight around her face, and then sparks up in back like forked lightning. Aggie’s feathers never sit down either. I find myself leaning in, eyes pinned to her.

  “Do you have any pets, dear?”

  “Oh, yes,” answers Fritz. “I have a newt named Charles. He’s a really good newt. People don’t realize how loving newts can be. And I’m buying a bird—”

  “A bird?” Bertie asks, sounding surprised.

  “Yep!” says Fritz, proud as a peacock.

  “Why, me too! That’s the real reason I came in here!”

  Fritz’s beams. “I can help you with that! What kind of bird were you thinking? We’ve got finches and canaries, and we’ve got forty parakeets to choose from.”

  I take a step forward and accidentally tip over a bowl of pellets; they spill and go rat-a-tat-tatting over the shop floor.

  “What kind is that?”

  I look up to see Bertie pointing at me and Aggie.

  Fritz’s eyes widen. “Uh, well…”

  “Tell me: are birds like that friendly?” asks Bertie.

  “Um, I…”

  Bertie shuffles towards our cage. Fritz follows, looking very worried all of a sudden.

  “Lovely, just lovely. See the way this one’s perched – a gentleman of a bird if I ever saw one! Looks to have a stinker streak, though.” She’s eyeballing me, but there’s no hint of recognition. Age and the full coat of feathers have thrown her off. She turns her attention
to Aggie. “And this one! What a gem!”

  “That’s Aggie,” a pale Fritz says.

  “And the stinker?”

  “I named him Alastair,” says Fritz. “I raised them both. I even fixed Alastair’s broken wing when Pete tossed him.”

  I beg to differ. That one still hurts.

  Bertie whistles through her teeth and sets a wrinkled hand on Fritz’s shoulder. “My, my – you are a bright boy. You’ll make a great doctor one day – I’m certain of it.” She takes a step closer to my cage and fixes her bifocals on me. “A broken wing, you say.”

  “Actually, two.”

  “Two broken wings?”

  A parakeet twitters from his cage. “Guy’s a poor excuse for a bird,” he tells the neighbours sandwiched next to him. “You see that wing? Looks like the puppies got to it.”

  I shrink a little and look around to see if anyone else was listening.

  Bertie goes on. “Well, we are all a little beat up now, aren’t we? I’ve got heaps of afflictions myself. Just look at these liver spots.” She points to a field of small grey puddles on her hands. “These hands used to be white as bridal silk! Soft like it too. Everett always said that.”

  “Who’s Everett?” Fritz asks.

  “Oh, well now—” Bertie stops and grips Fritz’s shoulder. “Everett’s my husband.”

  “Does he like birds?”

  Bertie’s eyes twinkle behind the rims of her glasses, and the chain clinks merrily as she laughs. “Lord, no! He’s a pill! Loves poetry and gardening and that’s it! Otherwise, he’s a bit of a grump.” She winks at Fritz. “Made him dance with me, though. Foxtrot, jitterbug, polka – all of it. Do you dance?”

  Fritz shakes his head. “Oh, no, ma’am. I’m terrible at it. My feet always trip me up.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter,” Bertie says, waving her hands side to side and tapping a foot. “I’m a klutz myself, but that never stopped me. You keep dancing like you don’t give a fig, and no one pays any mind to your stumbles. All those ballerinas and such, they envy us wobblier folks. You can have a lot more fun when you quit caring what you look like.”

  “Maybe you’re right—”

  “I am right! Back in my day I could get a whole gymnasium of people boppin’ their socks off. I found my Everett at a dance. He couldn’t take his eyes off me.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow, yes! That man never danced a step in his life until that day. But he followed me out on that dance floor and never looked back,” Bertie says. “You know, you remind me of him a little. My Everett wanted to be a doctor once. Couldn’t afford the schooling, though.” She grabs Fritz’s chin with two fingers and gives it a little shake. “You be a doctor, young Fritz. You got it in you.”

  Fritz nods his head, and his lower lip quivers just a little.

  Pete scuffles in from the back room and notices his one customer straightaway. He rakes his hands through his greasy feather-picked head and groans. “This here’s a pet store, Mrs Plopky, not a rent-a-pet.”

  “Oh, Peter.” Bertie waves him away. “No, no. I was just speaking with this sweet young man you have working for you. He’s trying to interest me in one of these birds.”

  Fritz swallows. “Uh, well, I, not rea—”

  “Oho! He is, is he?” Pete interrupts, clearly interested in this turn of events. “Did Fritz tell you all the benefits of owning parrots? Fascinating stuff. I think it’s here in one of these books…” Pete starts half-heartedly thumbing through one of the yellowed parrot manuals he has for sale. “Page sixty-eight, I’m pretty sure.” He keeps looking up to see if Bertie is waiting for him to show her.

  “Never mind about that, Peter,” she says, patting his hand. “What I’d really like to know is: do they make good companions? My Tiger wants nothing to do with me. And Humpty, well he’s a bit of a cold fish. I guess that must be about right for a goldfish, but I would like something a little more … loving?”

  “How about a guinea pig?” suggests Fritz.

  Pete gives him a strange look. “I do believe we’re talking about a parrot, Fritz my boy.” Pete gestures to the rest of the parrot books on the rack. “All these books here say that parrots are wonderful companions – like loving children, really.”

  “But Alastair’s crabby,” adds Fritz.

  Bertie hooks an eye on me, more intently than before. “Crabby?”

  Pete claps Fritz on the back. “Heh-heh-heh, I wouldn’t say crabby – unloved! Just a little depressed – needs someone to love him! And then there’s the other one…”

  Bertie waves a hand in Pete’s direction. “Crabby doesn’t bother me so much – I’m used to crabby! Crabby doesn’t always mean you can’t enjoy someone’s company.”

  “They’ll give you company, no doubt about it,” assures Pete. “Did you know greys can talk?”

  “Do they!”

  “Oh, but these don’t,” says Fritz.

  “Well, not just yet!” says Pete, giving Fritz a stern look. “But they’ll learn. You can teach ’em, Mrs Plopky!”

  “Doesn’t matter one way or the other,” says Bertie.

  “Aggie’s sick!” shouts Fritz. “And who knows? She may not live long. I’ve heard of avian cancers that’ll—”

  “Cancers!” yells Pete. “Poppycock! This bird will outlive you, Mrs Plopky. Can live a good sixty years! Maybe more!”

  Bertie furrows her brow. She steps close enough for me to see the bright blue of her eyes behind her glasses and the almost disappearing lashes. “Well, now, that could be upsetting. None of us will live for ever, and I wouldn’t want to leave such a lovely creature to live who knows where else after my passing.”

  “You don’t worry your pretty little head about a thing like that,” Pete says. “Fritz here will ring you up for those birds there. They’ll be true friends – you’ll see.”

  The parakeet in the back pipes up again. “Buy one, get the broken one free!”

  Aggie hears him this time and whips her head around to try to spot the little brute, while I straighten my back and cross my feathers again that no one else heard.

  “Cash or charge?” Pete presses.

  Bertie hesitates. “Maybe I should think on it a little.”

  “Yes! You should! She’s awfully expensive!” shouts Fritz, prompting another slap on the back from Pete.

  “I always say, you can’t put a price on friendship—” Bertie looks at the price tag, adjusts her glasses, and gulps. “But I will think on it.” She pats Fritz’s cheek. “You boys have helped me so. Your mothers should be proud.”

  My eyes follow her out of the store. “Toodle-oo!” she calls as she steps outside on to the blustery sidewalk. Leaves spin down the street.

  Fritz looks down at the fishbowl in his hands. “She was so worried about a bird, she forgot her things,” he whispers, and a cold gust of air sneaks in as the door swings shut and sends a chill up my spine.

  “I’m docking you a day’s pay, kid,” says Pete once Mrs Plopky’s out of sight. “You mighta lost me a big sale.” He walks to the back room, scowling as he goes.

  Fritz sniffs, rubs his nose on his sleeve, and gives Aggie a sad look. “Don’t worry, girl. Just means one extra day, that’s all.”

  Aggie says nothing, only coughs and hangs her head.

  Medical Log, November 8

  •Age: 12 years 4 months

  •Weight: 54.3 kg

  •Height: 135 cm

  •Current status: Insomnia, trouble breathing, increased sweat production, weight loss, 4 stress pimples, 1 ingrown toenail

  Holy dyspepsia.

  My current medical status says it all. I am stressed.

  How am I going to do this???

  I just counted the money I have left in my cardiac bank, checked under the sofa cushions and in Grandpa’s old register in the food truck, and cleaned out every last coin spot in Mom’s car. (I found $7.92 and a Toaster Tart.) I even checked all my old birthday cards in case I missed something (a cat hair, that
was about it).

  I came up with a grand total of: $731.14. Not bad for a seventh grader!

  But, by my calculations, that means I’m still $568.86 short.

  It’s times like this I wish we were back in the Fry Guys food truck. I’d sit on the ice cream cooler like I used to, and Grandpa would be cooking up chicken fingers and French fries, and I’d tell him everything, and he’d listen, really listen, and by the time the fries were just perfect – not too bendy and not too crispy – he’d know what to do.

  If it was something like memorizing some medical terminology, I’d just make some flash cards.

  Or if it was just about getting the money, I’d only need time.

  But it’s not simple like that. Right now, all I do is worry about the things that could go wrong. For example:

  What if someone tries to buy Aggie before I can? What if someone BAD tries to buy her? What if it just takes FOR EVER to save that much money, and I wind up with an anxiety condition?

  Or, what if Aggie gets sick like she was when she was a baby? Something’s not right; I can tell. I thought she was just missing me lately, and that kind of made me feel happy. But I found out Pete’s been feeding her hot dogs. Then I saw a peanut in her dish! Those can be toxic!

  I know what Letizia Tortelloni would probably say about it. She’d say, Ah, you take a chance. You mix the anchovy with the cheese, the pistachio with the peas. Who knows what you get? You try. Perfetto! She’d say I should just work at saving, try to help Aggie, see what happens.

  But that’s what I’m scared of. Sometimes, what happens is:

  Kids laugh at you. Like when you agree to go to basketball camp because your mom wants you to meet some new friends, but you keep tripping on the court because she bought your sneakers a little big so you could grow into them.

  Or you end up crying in the bathroom during seventh period because you wrote a whole list of ideas on how to get your dad to move back, and after James and the kids at your lunch table tell you they won’t work, you go to the office to call your mom because you need to know if they’re right, and by the way she sounds when she answers your questions, you realize he’s never coming home.