Sparrow

by Mary Cecilia Jackson

  “She was on the floor, Delaney. He yelled at her and held her way too tight. I wanted to put her in my car and drive her to a galaxy far, far away.”

  “Yeah, I feel you. But what can we do? She said she slipped. And here’s the thing: she’s in love with him, and she’s never been in love before.”

  I fight the urge to gag.

  “So what?”

  “Maybe we need to let her be in love, to figure things out on her own. Do I think something is going on? I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve only seen the thing with the necklace, and when I tried to talk to her about it, she shut me down hard. But she’s strong and brave, and if she’s in over her head, she’ll ask for help. Until she does, we have to stay out of it.”

  Delaney slides to the floor and sits cross-legged against the whirring dishwasher. She leans her head back and closes her eyes. I slide down next to her. The smell of the lemons in the trash is overpowering. My nose hairs are frying.

  “Do you believe what just came out of your mouth?”

  “No.”

  “When has she ever asked for help? When has she ever told anybody anything about what she’s thinking? Or feeling?”

  “That would be never.”

  “Do you remember that summer we were ten? When we were climbing the sweet gum tree in your backyard and daring each other to see who could climb highest? You, because you are an obnoxious overachiever, were way high up. I stopped when I got scared, and Sparrow was between us.”

  “Yeah. She slipped and fell and got the wind knocked out of her. Remember how she was so still for a minute we thought she was dead?”

  “We totally lost our minds and almost fell out of the tree ourselves.”

  She laughs. “We were such little morons. But she hurt her wrist and didn’t tell a soul. Not even us. She went to the drugstore all by herself, bought an Ace bandage, and wrapped it up. She told everyone it didn’t hurt. For, like, five days! But her arm turned black up to the elbow, remember? And when Sophie ran her to the ER, sure enough, her wrist was broken.”

  “She drives me nuts, the way she clams up. My granny would say, ‘She keeps herself to herself.’ She keeps everything, especially the important things, all locked up inside. I just wonder what it’s going to take for her to blow.”

  I bump her shoulder with mine.

  “So what do we do?”

  “I don’t know. Watch and wait and see how it plays out?”

  “I can’t do that, Laney. I just can’t sit around waiting for something terrible to happen.”

  “And you can’t stick your nose in where she doesn’t want you, so where does that leave us?”

  I turn to her, holding up my pinky.

  “What, Lucas? Are we eight years old again?”

  “Do it, Laney. Do it. We need to make a pact.”

  It’s time for a blood oath. Without the actual blood.

  She rolls her eyes, but holds up her pinky.

  “What are we swearing to?”

  “That we’re going to try to get her to tell us the truth. Both of us. If we both corner her, she’ll have nowhere to go. She has to spill sometime.”

  “Actually, no, she doesn’t.”

  “Hang on, there’s more.”

  I take a deep breath. Here’s the thing we’ll never be able to undo.

  “This is the hard part, but we have to promise each other. We have to swear. No backing out.”

  “Just say it.”

  “If Sparrow doesn’t talk, if she refuses to tell the truth, then we tell Sophie and Mr. Rose. No matter what. Even though she’ll probably never speak to us again and hate us for the rest of our lives. But at least she’ll be away from that douchebag.”

  I hold out my hand, waiting for hers. She hesitates.

  “Lucas, she’ll never forgive us.”

  “I know. When you swear a blood oath, there’s always a price. We have to do it, Laney. We have to.”

  She hooks my pinky with hers, gives it a little tug. “Okay, I swear. But I hate you.”

  “I hate myself. But we’re doing the right thing.”

  I hand her my dish towel and she wipes her eyes. “Doing the right thing blows.”

  “Word. In the meantime, we text each other right away if we see anything weird. We stay on her like stink on a skunk, but we play it like ninjas, right? All stealthy and quiet-like. We’ll spook her if she knows we’re watching. Deal?”

  “Deal. Now go away so I can go to bed.”

  * * *

  The house is dark and silent when I get home. Not surprising, since it’s after one in the morning. But I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t make my rounds.

  I tiptoe up the front stairs, avoiding the creaky third step, the one my dad never did get around to fixing. Ever since he died, Anna refuses to turn her bedroom lamps off, even in the daytime. She also sleeps with three night-lights, just in case her lamps ever burn out. Last week she asked me if I could teach her to sleep with her eyes open.

  Tonight she’s like a human burrito, all wrapped up in her sheets and blankets, with her head at the foot of her bed and her little feet pushed up against the headboard. She says no stupid angels can take her to Heaven if she goes to sleep upside down, because she’ll be invisible and they won’t know which part to grab. I don’t tell her this makes no sense. She’s only eight. She’s allowed.

  I pick her up and turn her right side up, and a picture falls out of her hand. Anna and my dad at the Outer Banks three years ago. She’s sitting on his lap, her cheeks sunburned and freckled, the wind blowing her dark hair into the enormous strawberry ice cream cone melting in rivers down her arm. My dad is wearing a Red Sox cap and laughing into the camera. The St. Michael the Archangel medal Granny Deirdre gave him when he was deployed gleams in the sun. I tuck the blankets tightly around my little sister.

  She stirs, and I kiss her sweaty hair. “Night, Anna Banana,” I whisper. She turns over and mumbles, “Night, Lucas Pukas. Don’t steal my picture.”

  I prop it against her ladybug lamp so she’ll see it when she wakes up.

  My mother’s room smells like unwashed pajamas and my father’s cologne. She still sleeps on her side of the bed, leaving his side smooth and untouched except for his plaid bathrobe, which she keeps draped over his pillow. Tonight she’s wearing one of his Citadel T-shirts and the ridiculously enormous watch he always wore on dive trips. Her long auburn hair is matted and dirty, in braids she hasn’t undone for days. She’s tied the ends with Anna’s dinosaur elastics. They make her look crazy.

  I don’t touch her, don’t speak, just quietly pick up the bottle of sleeping pills on the nightstand and tuck it into my pocket. Sometimes she wakes up just before dawn and can’t remember how many she’s taken, so she takes more. I keep them with me now, ever since the day she slept so long she forgot to meet Anna’s school bus. Every night she pretends she’s misplaced them. Every night I pretend to find them in the medicine cabinet.

  Just before I drift off to sleep, Sparrow’s face floats into my head, her eyes filling with the tears she couldn’t wipe away fast enough.

  I fumble on the nightstand for my phone and type in the dancer emoji I always use, the only one there is, the disco guy in the purple suit. I wait, hoping to see the flamenco dancer that’s her signature, but there’s nothing.

  Birdy, you there?

  Birdy?

  Let me know you’re okay.

  You okay?

  I’m here if you need me.

  I always will be. Just so you know.

  Her silence is deafening.

  13

  The Fight, Three Days Later

  I’m fine, I promise. It’s just a little bruise. Give me a second, okay?

  Sparrow, you’re not fine! Oh my God, why won’t you tell me the truth?

  She’s still on the floor, her hand pressed against her hip.

  “If you don’t talk to me right now, I swear on my grandmother’s grave I’m calling an ambulance.”

  I run for my
dance bag and dig out my phone, holding it up so she can see. She raises her head and looks at me, but it’s like I’m not even there. Her eyes are distant and faraway. I wish I knew where she went when she gets like this. I’d go with her so she wouldn’t be alone.

  “Birdy, I’m calling 9–1–1.”

  She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and the color starts to come back to her face.

  “Lucas, would you stop being such a drama queen? And your grandmother isn’t dead, you idiot. She sat with us on the patio after your dad’s funeral.”

  “Yeah, I was talking about the other one, wiseass.”

  I hold up my phone and punch the nine. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on, the ones are coming next.”

  “All right! Will you just stop?”

  I put the phone down and cross my arms, waiting.

  “I’m okay, really. I twisted something when I came down, and it hurt like a mother.”

  She rummages in her bag, finds her hairbrush, then shakes out what looks like an entire handful of Advil, chugging them down with half a bottle of water.

  I’m so fed up with pretending that everything is awesome. I am bone tired of looking the other way, sick of letting her call the shots. I give her exactly one minute, then plop myself down beside her and her ginormous bottle of Advil.

  “Birdy Bird,” I say. I can’t keep the irritation out of my voice. “For God’s sake, when are you going to come clean?”

  She undoes her bun and starts brushing it out like she’s angry at her own hair. She won’t look at me. The sky is filled with pink and gold clouds, and there’s a daylight moon disappearing as the light grows. We are the only ones here, except for one of the youth symphony violinists, who comes here to practice in the early mornings because his house is too noisy.

  “Lucas, I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  She doesn’t answer me, but moves her legs into splits, hissing between her teeth at the pain. She never stops brushing her hair.

  “Because I’m not blind. I saw your face at Delaney’s. You were hurt, and you were scared. And the only person in the room who could have made you that way was your boyfriend. So tell me again how nothing happened.”

  She slams the brush down on the floor and glares at me, eyes blazing.

  “I’m not going to do this again with you. I’ve told you and told you and told you, and you just will not listen. Go ahead and believe whatever you want to believe. I don’t care anymore.”

  “You know what really gets me, Sparrow? This is me you’re talking to. Me. We’ve grown up together. You have your own place at our kitchen table, and there’s one for me at your house. All our lives, I’ve told you things I haven’t told anyone else. But when I ask you anything about, you know, you, oh no, that’s not allowed. You just push me away, again and again. You tell me a whole lot of nothing. Why is that?”

  “That’s not true. I tell you stuff.”

  “No, you don’t, Birdface. Talking about your father’s trials doesn’t count. That’s his life, not yours.”

  She won’t make eye contact. She’s distracted and spooked and keeps staring out the huge arched windows. Like she’s afraid someone will be looking back at her, though the windows are so high you’d have to be on stilts to see inside.

  “Sparrow.”

  She touches her head to the floor, which has to hurt like Satan if her hip is badly bruised. Which I totally think it is. But she’s playing the game again. The one where I’m always wrong, always imagining things, and she’s cool. Perfectly fine. Right as freaking rain.

  “Sparrow. Look at me.”

  She straightens up and squares her shoulders. Her face is flushed and sweaty. Even now, when I’m frustrated and mad, I can’t help thinking about how she is straight-up beautiful and doesn’t even know it.

  “God, Lucas! What do you want me to say?”

  I stand up and start pacing. I can’t sit still and be angry at the same time, and I want to be angry right now. I want to feel it coursing through my veins. I want her to see how completely messed up this whole thing is.

  “I want you to tell me why you look so scared all the time. I want you to tell me what really happened at Delaney’s. I want you to tell me why we just blew the fish dive. I want to know why you almost passed out when I touched your hip. And I want to know if your steaming turd of a boyfriend is hurting you. That’s what I want you to say.”

  She looks away, out the window again. She’s gone so far away, it’s like I haven’t even spoken. I kneel down in front of her and put my hands on her shoulders. She almost jumps out of her skin.

  “Don’t scare me like that!” she hisses. “Stop touching me!”

  “Stop touching you? Are you kidding me right now?”

  “No, I’m not kidding! Can you please, just for one second, quit hounding me? It’s nothing! I’m fine! I’ve told you until I’m blue in the face. I slipped!”

  She’s a pro, I’ll give her that. But I’m not smelling what she’s selling. Good liars are still liars.

  “Because if he is, if he’s hurting you, I will wreck him. Then I’m going to tell Sophie, because she’ll hold my coat and lie to the cops for me. And then I’ll tell your dad so he can mess him up all legal-like.”

  So much for the blood oath with Delaney. So much for being all stealthy and quiet, like ninjas. I just threw it right out there, like some hairy, stinking carcass.

  Her eyes fill with panic. Then she shoves it all the way down, deep inside herself. I watch her do it. I’ve watched her do it all our lives. She swallows hard, then turns it all into fury. She turns it on me.

  “Are you actually asking if my boyfriend is hitting me? Are you hoping it’s true, because, oh my God, maybe you’re jealous of him? I’m in love for the first time and you can’t stand that it isn’t with you, so you’re creating this sick little fantasy? So you can rush in and save me and be my hero forever? Is that what’s going on? Is it, Lucas?”

  I draw in a sharp breath. This here is some cruel juice. We are never ugly to each other. Obnoxious, irritating, snarky, hell to the yes. But never, ever truly mean.

  “Do you have anything you want to add before I tell you the truth? Anything else you want to get off your chest?” She’s all up in my face, fists clenched at her sides, eyes wide with fury.

  “You’re on a roll. Go for it.” I try to act like it makes no difference to me, but I’ve never been good at hiding things. Unlike Birdy McBirdface here.

  Outside, gray clouds are scudding across the sky. A flash of lightning burns white through the windows. Thunder rumbles. I feel it in the pit of my stomach.

  “For your information, I slipped in the kitchen a couple of nights ago. Sophie spazzed out loading the dishwasher, and there was water on the floor. I bashed into the corner of the counter and bruised my hip. So when I slid in the beer at Delaney’s and I hit the stove, it was like the same thing all over again. You know how I bruise if someone even looks at me cross-eyed. Now I have bruises on bruises. And yes. They hurt.”

  “What about the marks around your wrists?”

  She tugs down the sleeves of her shrug. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s too late for that. I saw those the week before the party.”

  “They’re nothing. Just from all the rehearsals and extra classes.”

  “Those marks aren’t from dancing, Sparrow, so don’t even try to go there. I know what bruises from ballet look like; I have them myself. Those look like somebody held you down.”

  “I don’t even remember where I got them, Lucas.”

  It makes my blood run cold, not that she’s lying, but that she’s lying about this.

  “Sorry, Birdy. Not buying it. Although maybe you should stay out of kitchens for a while.”

  “You don’t believe me because you hate my boyfriend.”

  “I don’t believe you becau
se of what happened at Delaney’s. I don’t believe you because he’s got serious anger issues. I don’t believe you because you haven’t answered any of my texts since then. You’re acting weird. So yeah, you’re right. I seriously don’t believe you. And yes, I hate your boyfriend.”

  “Nothing happened at Delaney’s, except you totally lost your mind! You got it all wrong.”

  “Oh, right. Nothing happened. I see how he is, Sparrow, pretending to be such a great guy, taking his girlfriend out to fancy dinners, buying her flowers and jewelry. Next thing you’ll tell me is that he comes to your house at night and serenades you in the moonlight. But underneath all that fake shine, he’s still the same old Tristan King, mean as a snake.”

  “You don’t know him the way I do, Lucas. He’s kind and thoughtful and brings me little presents that he knows I’ll love. He listens to me when I’ve had a bad day, he’s learning about ballet, and he makes me laugh. He’s not mean. He’s sweet.”

  She takes off her pointe shoes and crams them into her dance bag without wrapping the ribbons around the shanks. She’s upset, but I don’t care, not this time. Everything I’ve kept bottled up inside comes flying out of my mouth. Every word I haven’t spoken, every thought I’ve been afraid to voice for weeks. For months. Righteous anger, friends and neighbors. It’s better than Taco Bell and a couple of tequila shots with Caleb and Israel and Sam on a Friday night.

  “I’m closer to you, literally, than anyone else, unless you and Captain Douchemuffin are doing it, which I doubt, because you’d never give that much of yourself away.”

  Her face goes white, like someone’s dusted her with chalk. “You pig!” She leaps to her feet, tears off her rehearsal tutu, and throws it in my face, then starts shoving the rest of her stuff into her bag. Water bottle, the huge container of Advil, ratty leg warmers. But I’ve developed a severe case of verbal diarrhea. The words pour out of me like an intestinal virus.

  “You can throw sweaty tutus at me all day long. Doesn’t bother me. I know you, Birdy. I know how you always start humming five beats before you jump. I know when your ankle aches, when your blisters sting, when your head hurts, even when you have cramps. Not because you tell me, but because of the way you hold your body.