Ship of Souls

by Zetta Elliott

  “Hey, D. Grab a seat,” she says.

  Nyla knows my name? I’m smiling like an idiot, but I can’t help myself. I also can’t think of anything cool to say. I take a seat next to Nyla and try to look at the other kids she’s hanging with. Regine’s a track star. Melvin rules at chess. A couple of kids are in the drama club, and the others—combined—have almost as many piercings as Nyla. As soon as Nyla opens her mouth, they all quiet down and wait to hear what she’s going to say. “Hey, everybody—this is D.”

  The other kids turn and look at me. Some smile, some nod, some say, “Hey,” and one girl with blue extension braids gives me a salute. Then a seventh-grader with the biggest Afro I’ve ever seen points at me and says, “Hey—I know you.”

  I shove at least half my corn dog into my mouth so I don’t have to say anything. I’m pretty sure that sitting next to Nyla doesn’t earn me automatic immunity from insults.

  “You’re in the math club,” he says. When I nod, he goes on. “My sister says you’re, like, some kind of kid genius—a total math freak!”

  I look down at the carton of milk and bowl of canned pineapple on my tray. Aside from Nyla, these kids aren’t exactly what I would call “cool.” But they clearly know and like one another—they’re friends. Which puts me on the outside. I brace myself for the usual nerd jokes.

  Then Nyla slips her arm around my shoulder. “A math freak, huh? Then it’s official—you’re one of us, D.”

  I smile at Nyla, but I’m not really sure how to feel. Should I be proud that I belong with a bunch of self-proclaimed freaks? Or should I try to salvage whatever social reputation I have by getting up and sitting somewhere else—even if that means eating alone? I finally decide that I’d rather be seen with the wrong kind of kids than be totally invisible.

  “So,” Nyla says, “what else are you into besides math?”

  My mind races as I try to think of something to say that will make me look mature and cool enough to be interesting to an eighth-grade girl. It’s hard to focus on anything besides my discovery that Nyla has dimples that only show when she smiles. Finally I settle for a lame but true answer. “I like birds. There are two hundred species in Prospect Park.”

  I know how lame that sounds, but Nyla just nods and says, “Last of the dinosaurs, right? Maybe I can tag along the next time you go bird-watching.”

  Before I can tell Nyla that she can tag along ANYTIME, a skinny kid wearing preppy clothes suddenly whispers, “Hottie alert!” and everyone at the table quiets down. I’m so busy looking around for a cute girl that I don’t notice Keem’s heading over to our table.

  “Hey, D. What’s up?”

  I nearly choke on a chunk of pineapple but manage to cover my mouth before a piece of half-chewed fruit flies out and lands on Keem’s new kicks. I feel like I must be dreaming—two of the most popular kids in school talking to me on the same day! “Not much,” I stammer nervously. “Just having lunch.”

  Keem stands there awkwardly. He glances at Nyla, but she’s flicking a bottle cap along the tabletop. The girl with the blue braids watches the cap zoom right off the end of the table and yells, “SCORE!”

  Keem finally gives up on trying to make Nyla notice him. “See you tomorrow, then. Four o’clock, right?”

  “Right. I’ll meet you in front of the library,” I say.

  Keem nods, glances at Nyla one last time, and then walks away. Crushed.

  I turn to Nyla and find her watching Keem’s back. “Friend of yours?” she asks with her eyes still glued on Keem.

  “Tutee,” I say before cramming all the remaining pineapple into my mouth. I don’t want to talk about Keem.

  The kid with the giant Afro says, “Two tea? What’s that mean?”

  It takes me a few seconds to stop chewing. “I’m tutoring him in math. I’m his tutor, he’s my tutee.”

  Afro-kid nods like he’s impressed. “What’d I tell you? The kid’s a math genius.”

  A skinny kid cradling a skateboard says, “Yeah—and look what they make him do: teach the dumb jocks how to count to ten!”

  “Keem’s not dumb.” I’m not sure why I said that, but it’s too late to take it back now.

  Nyla turns to the skater kid. “What’s the Freak’s Golden Rule, Jamal?”

  He drops his eyes and mumbles, “Don’t be a prick.” Then he looks at me and says, “Sorry I dissed your friend, D.”

  I’m about to say, “Keem’s not my friend,” when a girl with a shaved head and a bolt through her nose says, “My brother plays ball in the park with Keem. He gets mad respect—on and off the court.”

  The girl with blue braids looks straight at Nyla and says, “He also gets any girl he wants.”

  Nyla sucks her teeth, but her eyes find Keem sitting with the other jocks on the far side of the cafeteria. “We’ll see about that,” she says, then gets up and carries her tray over to the trash.

  The noise level in the cafeteria seems to drop a notch as Nyla walks down the main aisle and out into the schoolyard. Some of the freaks get up and follow their leader. Others stay and finish the crappy school lunch. A quiet girl with long locks slides along the bench and asks if I can help her with her math homework. I say, “Sure,” and think maybe I really do belong here with the rest of these outcasts.

  6.

  After school I decide to skip the library and head straight to the park. I haven’t been on my own much lately, and while I like making new friends, I’m not going to get used to their company. Here today, gone tomorrow. That’s what people are like.

  Birds are different. Some birds migrate, but there are plenty that stay in the city all year round. I don’t have to go to the park to find them—pigeons are everywhere, which is probably why they get kicked around so much. I think pigeons are beautiful—that iridescent ring around their necks looks just like a rainbow. But that’s one of those things I’ve learned to keep to myself. Otherwise kids’ll call me a wuss or a punk—or worse. When I’m in the park, there’s no one around to tease me for liking birds. They’re related to dinosaurs, you know, which makes them really ancient. And raptors—they’re some of the fiercest predators around. I saw a hawk tear into a live rabbit once—blood and guts everywhere! Bird-watching’s definitely not for the faint of heart.

  Today I head deep into the park, away from the sports fields and the playgrounds that attract other kids. Spring’s coming, and we changed all the clocks last weekend, so the days are getting longer. Only a few patches of dirty snow are left in the park, and all the dog poop people never bothered to scoop shows up now as uneven clumps of thick green grass. If you look closely—and watch where you step—you can see tiny purple shoots poking up here and there, proof that life’s stirring underground. My mom used to love crocuses. Purple was her favorite color. Seems like each new season brings fresh reminders that she’s gone.

  The ravine’s a good place to spot birds, and with no leaves on the trees yet, it’s easy to find their nests and track their movements. Male birds usually have brighter colors, so the challenge is to find their mates. Mostly I listen for their calls because my eyes aren’t great these days. I was supposed to get my eyes checked last fall, but then Mom went into the hospital, and my vision wasn’t anyone’s priority anymore. I guess I should tell Mrs. Martin because sometimes it’s hard for me to see the board at school. But for now I just sit close to the front of the classroom and squint when I can’t see clear.

  It’s dim in the tree-filled ravine, so I take my time heading down the concrete stairs that are built into the steep slope. I’m watching my feet, not the trees, and that’s how I notice an injured bird huddled in a pile of dry leaves not far from the steps. It’s cooing like a mourning dove, but it’s got the wrong coloring. I stand still and try to figure out a way to reach the bird without startling it. As soon as I step on those dry leaves, the bird might panic and try to fly away. I can’t see whether its wings are damaged, but that’s the only reason a bird like that would be on the ground instead of
up in a tree.

  “Hey, there. I’m D.” I figure a little small talk can’t hurt, especially if I use a soothing tone of voice. “Looks like you could use some help. Can I come over there?”

  “Yes, please do.”

  I blink my eyes a couple of times even though it’s my ears that are playing tricks on me. I could swear that bird just talked to me! Then again, I hear my mom’s voice all the time. Maybe there’s just something wrong with me.

  I push that thought aside and go on talking to the injured bird. It must be some kind of dove because it’s pure white. I’ve seen white pigeons before, but this bird’s smaller. Maybe someone released it at a wedding—people get married in the botanic garden all the time, and that’s not far from here.

  “OK,” I say as I take my first step toward the bird, “I’m coming over there now. Don’t mind all the noise—it’s just these dry leaves, no need to be alarmed. I’ll move real slow, like this. See?”

  The dove coos some more, but it doesn’t flinch as I move toward it. When I’m about a foot away, I squat down and brush away some of the leaves that are covering its body. Right away the bird starts to tremble, and I realize the dead leaves were keeping it warm. “It’s OK,” I assure it. “I’m going to take care of you.” The bird seems to understand me because it wriggles its body closer to mine and even lets me stroke its body with my hand. I know feathers are supposed to be soft, but this bird’s feathers feel like satin! Before I can pet it a second time, the bird makes a small leap, and I catch hold of it with my hands.

  Up close, the bird doesn’t look white anymore. In a way, it doesn’t even look like a bird! In my hands it seems to glow as if lit from within by a white flame. The next instant it cools, hardens, and glitters like a tear-shaped diamond. Then it warms again and settles between my palms like a precious pearl.

  “I really need to get my eyes checked,” I say to myself.

  “Why—do you doubt your senses?” asks the shimmering globe.

  “You can talk?”

  “I can communicate, yes. You like birds, don’t you?”

  Before I can answer, the white orbs turns back into a dove. It whimpers softly, which makes me forget all the other questions I was ready to ask. “Are—are you hurt?”

  “No, but I am weak.” She snuggles close to my down jacket. “And a little cold.”

  Without any hesitation I unzip my jacket and place the bird inside, next to my heart. “Is that better?”

  She coos once more and looks up at me. “It’s getting dark.”

  After several minutes of gazing at the luminous bird, it’s hard to tell whether or not the sky’s growing dark. When I came to the park, I had planned to stay for at least a couple of hours. Still, I find myself saying, “I guess it’s time to go home.” And with that, I climb back up the steps that lead out of the ravine.

  As I walk back to Mrs. Martin’s place, I start to notice that things look different. Clearer. Brighter. And I don’t normally look forward to going home, but tonight I can’t wait to turn my key in the lock. I walk faster than usual, checking on my precious cargo every few seconds to make sure she’s OK.

  I go straight up to my room and rearrange the pillows on my bed to make a soft resting place for the bird. Then I take one of Mrs. Martin’s good plush towels out of the linen closet and wrap it around my new friend. “Is that OK?” I ask her. “Are you warm enough?”

  “Yes, thank you. You’re the perfect host. It’s good to know that the long years of captivity haven’t impaired my judgment.”

  That’s the most the bird has said to me so far, but one word in particular stands out. “Captivity?”

  The bird makes a sound that’s almost like a yawn. “You’d better go and have your dinner.”

  “I’m not really hungry,” I say as I carefully sit on the edge of the bed. “I’d rather stay here and talk to you. Where were you held captive?” I ask, but the bird only sighs. Then Mrs. Martin calls me, and I know I have to go downstairs or else she’ll come up to check on me.

  “Go and nourish yourself. I’ll rest while you’re gone.” The bird nestles against the soft towel and closes her eyes, which ends our conversation—for now.

  I go downstairs and try to act as normal as possible. Mrs. Martin’s got the baby carrier on the kitchen table, but Mercy’s starting to fret. That’s what she does before breaking into a full-blown wail. I’m about to ask if I can eat up in my room when Mrs. Martin asks me to rock the baby.

  “She’s been so unhappy today,” Mrs. Martin says with a yawn. “Up all night and then she wanted to be held all day long. Poor thing.”

  I use my hand to rock the carrier back and forth, but the baby’s screwing up her face, which means she’s about to bawl.

  “Not like that, D. Pick her up. She won’t bite.”

  Bite? This kid doesn’t even have teeth yet. It’s my eardrums I’m worried about. And what if her shrieks startle the bird—what if she decides to leave? Mrs. Martin’s standing at the stove watching me. I take a deep breath and pick up the wriggling baby.

  As soon as I put her body against mine, Mercy becomes still. She whimpers a bit, but quiets down when I bounce her a little.

  “That’s it,” says Mrs. Martin with a tired smile. “She likes you, D.”

  I can’t imagine having to hold a cranky baby all day. “Maybe we should order in tonight,” I suggest.

  Mrs. Martin pushes herself off the counter and jumps into action. “No, no—you’ve been working hard at school all day. You deserve a home-cooked meal. It’ll only take me a minute to warm this food up.”

  Mercy stays quiet for about two minutes, and then she starts to fret again. I keep bouncing her on my shoulder, and then I try walking around with her. But nothing I do seems to work, and before long she’s screaming. Mrs. Martin turns off the stove and takes over.

  “You can serve yourself, can’t you, dear?”

  “Sure,” I say, only too happy to swap a bawling baby for a plate of hot food. “Uh—would it be OK if I ate up in my room? I sort of have a headache.”

  “That makes two of us,” Mrs. Martin says with a sigh. The baby clutches Mrs. Martin’s sweater in her tiny fists and buries her brown face in the old woman’s wrinkly neck. Mercy quiets down after Mrs. Martin starts rubbing her back and humming softly in her ear. I watch them, and for just a moment I wish I were still small enough to be held like that. But Mercy’s the baby—not me.

  “Should I make a plate for you, too?” I ask.

  Mrs. Martin shakes her head. “I’ll eat later, once Mercy’s gone to sleep.”

  I stand where I am, not sure it’s really fair for me to leave Mrs. Martin alone with the baby—after all, she had to take care of Mercy all day. Mrs. Martin sees the guilt on my face and smiles. “Go on, dear. I’ll be fine. You can come down later and show me your homework—not that you’ll need my help. You’re such a bright boy. We can have a cup of cocoa together.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I fix myself a plate and head upstairs, anxious to talk more with the bird. But when I reach my room, she’s fast asleep, so I just eat my dinner and get my homework out of the way. When I take my plate back downstairs, everything’s quiet. The can of cocoa’s on the kitchen counter, but Mrs. Martin has fallen asleep in the rocking chair with Mercy resting peacefully in her arms.

  For just a moment I feel like a ghost, an invisible intruder in some other family’s home. I clean up the kitchen as quietly as I can, and then head back upstairs to check on the bird.

  “Are you ready to retire?”

  “You’re awake!” There’s something different about the bird, but I’m not sure it would be polite to say anything. Her feathers are no longer white. They look kind of dingy, like water-stained paper.

  “I’ll need a deeper sleep soon,” she says, “but I wanted to talk to you first. I never thanked you.”

  “Thanked me? For what?”

  “For saving me, of course.”

  “From the people who held you captive?�
��

  “Yes. It’s a long story, and I don’t have the strength to tell it all tonight. I can, however, share some of my history.” The bird suddenly spreads her wings and flutters over to my dresser. She nods at the vacated bed as if to tell me to get in.

  I’m guessing this will be a bedtime story I’ll never forget! I quickly change into my pajamas and slip into bed. Once I’m settled, the bird flies over and nestles against me like a cat.

  “Are you glad you found me?” she asks.

  “Sure!” I exclaim. “Nothing special ever happens to me—not special in a good way.”

  “You have endured much for one so young.”

  The bird doesn’t look at me directly, but I get the feeling she’s talking about my mother. “How do you know that?” I ask.

  “I know many things about you. I can sense what is not said.”

  The only magical birds I’ve ever heard of were in books or movies. I never expected to find one in Prospect Park! And now it’s here with me.

  The bird looks up at me with her dark, sparkling eyes. “Many would have walked away—or tried to expose me for profit. But I knew you were different.”

  “Different how?”

  “You have a tender heart.”

  I stiffen for just a moment, then relax as I realize the bird isn’t calling me a wimp. She burrows against my neck, and I feel her tiny heart beating steadily.

  “You should rest now. You’ll need your strength for the task we must undertake.”

  “What task?” I ask with a yawn. I wasn’t tired a moment ago, but now I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open.

  “When it is time, all will be revealed.” The bird’s voice sounds like a soothing lullaby. She reaches out a wing and strokes my cheek with the tips of her feathers.