Sparrow

by Mary Cecilia Jackson

  “Yep. She says she can’t help me if I won’t help myself. I told her ‘whatever.’ That didn’t go over so well.”

  “She loves you, though her reasons escape me.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten after four. We’re late.” I’m so nervous about seeing Sparrow that I feel sick.

  “Do you think she’ll be happy to see us?” Delaney asks softly.

  “I don’t know. I don’t see how she could be happy about anything right now.”

  “You’re right. This is going to suck. Sophie says she hasn’t said a word since she woke up, that she cries so hard when those detectives try to get her to talk they have to give her drugs to calm her down.”

  “I’m afraid she’s going to hate me, after all the terrible things I said to her. What if she thinks I’m just like him? Especially after what I did? What if I am just like him? You know, a bully who hurts people?”

  She puts her icy fingers on either side of my face, forcing me to look at her.

  “Are you out of your mind? Listen to me, Lucas Oliver, and listen good. You’re nothing like him. He’s a monster, and you’re, like, I don’t know, a cocker spaniel. A really screwed-up cocker spaniel who should be in therapy right now, but still. You were standing up for someone you love. Maybe it wasn’t the right way to do it, and maybe there’s trouble in your future, but nobody seriously faults you. I, for one, am glad you broke his perfect nose.” She opens her car door, puts one foot out onto the pavement.

  “Let’s leave the car here and walk back. I need the cold to clear the cobwebs out of my brain.”

  As we walk up the middle of the street, I take her hand. It seems like such a small thing, holding her hand in mine, walking up Sparrow’s driveway. But right now it feels huge, bigger and deeper than the cold sky above us. It’s the only thing that keeps me from running.

  Sophie’s waiting for us at the door, looking exhausted and sick, like she’s had the flu for a couple of years. “I’m so glad to see you guys,” she says, hugging us. “So, so glad.”

  “We miss you, Sophie,” Delaney says, hugging her tight. “Has she said anything?”

  “Not a word, to us or the police. Madame Levkova’s been here three times, and Sparrow wouldn’t even talk to her, which I never thought I’d live to see. Her body’s broken, but her heart is broken way worse. I know I’m putting so much pressure on you, but please, see if you can get her to say something. Anything. At this point, I’d be happy with a string of curse words.” Her voice catches. “It’s like she’s just … gone.”

  “Oh, Sophie, don’t cry. We’ll do our best, promise. Lucas, you ready?”

  I want a massive crater to open in the floor and swallow me whole.

  “You bet. Let’s do it.”

  Sparrow is in the living room, lying on the enormous white couch. She’s wearing her favorite blue plaid pajamas, which seems familiar at first, but then feels jarring and wrong, like some discordant echo of who she used to be. Her hair is starting to grow in a little, and she looks like a prison camp escapee. The stitches on her head aren’t as livid and red as they were in the hospital, but they look painful, like a row of scabby little ants marching across her skull. Her face is still bruised, her busted lip still slightly swollen and raw. She’s wearing a hard plastic boot, and her foot is resting on a pillow, the toes blackish purple.

  It’s hard to look at her.

  When Delaney bends down to hug her, she pulls away, shrinking back against the pillows, furiously shaking her head. Delaney backs off but doesn’t miss a beat, pretending like everything’s cool.

  “We’ve missed you so much!” she says brightly. “Ballet isn’t the same without you. We suck so hard; Lucas can attest. You need to get better so you can dance Swan Queen. I can’t do it, but you were born for that role, right, Lucas?”

  “Truth.”

  Sparrow turns and stares out the window. I can feel this—this force—coming from her, like something vicious and cold is putting its bony fingers on the back of my neck.

  It’s not her. Not anymore. The compassionate friend who talked me off the ledge when my dad got sick and again after he died, the joyful dancer all filled up with light and grace, is gone. Whatever lives inside her now is dark and ravenous. It’s consuming her, piece by piece, and I wonder if we’re too late, if this is the Sparrow who’ll walk the earth with us now.

  Standing here, helpless, in her living room, I know now that death isn’t the only way you can lose someone you love. She’s gone, but she’s here. And somehow that seems worse than dying, savage and cruel and pointless.

  Delaney looks at me, her eyes filled with panic. She’s about to lose it.

  “We miss you, Sparrow,” I say. “I miss being your Siegfried.”

  She turns to me, her eyes filled with venom and something so terrible it doesn’t even have a name. She looks at both of us, and her mouth begins to move. It takes a while for the sound to come out.

  “No,” she says. “No.”

  Her voice is like a graveyard, full of ruin.

  Delaney takes a step back, shocked.

  “Sweetie,” she says, her voice trembling. “It’s just Lucas and me. Come on, you can talk to us. We love you.”

  “No,” Sparrow says, in that moldering, dusty voice. “Get out.”

  “Birdy,” I say, desperate for some recognition, some familiar light in those poisonous eyes. “We were both there before you woke up. In the hospital. We talked to you. Did you hear us?”

  She lifts her face to the ceiling. I can see the muscles in her throat working, hear the terrible gasping sounds she makes trying to breathe, trying to speak. She puts her hands over her ears and howls, a bloody, guttural sound, like she’s swallowed knives.

  “I didn’t hear anything! Get out of here!” she screams. “Get away from me! I hate you! I hate you all! Get out!”

  My voice dies in my throat. I can’t move. It’s like I’ve turned to stone. Everything goes quiet. It feels like the world has come to a full stop, like the sun should go dark, like clocks should stop ticking. I’m holding my breath, afraid to let it out, afraid to move. Because if I do, maybe something worse will happen.

  Delaney starts to cry, gulping, breathless sounds, breaking the spell. I pull her to me as Sophie rushes in. Delaney buries her face in my shoulder, but I can’t stop looking at Sparrow, who’s still holding her hands to her ears, her mouth open in a silent scream.

  Sophie rushes in and tries to gather Sparrow into her arms, but Sparrow thrashes and slaps her hands away. Delaney and I are paralyzed.

  “Sophie, we’re sorry,” Delaney sobs. “We’re so sorry. Oh my God, we didn’t mean to upset her. We’re so, so sorry!”

  As she kneels at Sparrow’s side, Sophie looks at us like she’s surprised we’re still there. “Guys,” she says. “I need to help her calm down now. Probably best for everyone if you go on home. I love you both so much for coming and for trying. We’ll talk later, okay?”

  I don’t have any words left. They’ve all flown out of my brain, like songbirds heading south for the winter. Delaney cries harder, and I unlock my legs, still holding her, and turn to leave. Just before we reach the front door, I look back. Sophie reaches out to Sparrow again. One flailing arm, heavy in its cast, hits Sophie in the face.

  Delaney’s sobbing fades to hiccups as we walk back down the driveway. I open her car door and she slides behind the wheel. Her face is raw and blotchy. When I make no move to get in with her, she says, “Aren’t you coming?”

  “No,” I whisper. “I’ll walk.”

  “Lucas, it’s three miles. And it’s cold.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ll freeze.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “You sure you don’t want a ride?”

  “I can’t—I can’t be with anybody right now.”

  She stares at me for a second, then nods and drives slowly away.

  It�
��s so much worse than I thought.

  She hates us.

  She hates me.

  24

  Consequences

  When I get home, long after the sun has set and the dinner dishes have been washed and put away, my mom is standing at the kitchen sink, staring out the window at the dark. She’s holding her cell phone. Anna’s sitting at the kitchen table, coloring a map of the United States. She’s made Virginia purple, her favorite color.

  I take off my jacket and toss it on a kitchen chair, then rub my frozen ears to get some feeling back. They ache with cold.

  “I just talked to Mr. Freeman,” my mom says without turning around.

  “So what? Not much else they can do to me, unless there’s a blindfold and a firing squad in my future.”

  “What’s a firing squad?” says Anna.

  No one answers her.

  “I saw Sparrow today. Does anybody give a damn about how she’s doing?”

  Anna stops coloring.

  “Don’t say bad words, Lucas,” she chirps.

  “Shut up, dork.”

  “Lucas,” says my mother, turning to face me. “Do you want to know what Mr. Freeman said?”

  “No, I don’t. Because it won’t change shit.”

  Anna’s eyes widen. “That’s a really bad word, isn’t it, Mommy?”

  “Yes, it is, sweetheart. Why don’t you finish your map in your room? I’ll come up and check on you in a few minutes.”

  “Yeah, Anna. Why don’t you go upstairs? And you’re eight. You should be able to stay inside the lines by now, twerp.”

  Anna gathers up her crayons and her map, then turns to me, her mouth trembling, her big blue eyes filled with tears. “You didn’t used to be so mean, Lucas. I like the old Lucas way better than the one you are now. You’re nasty. Don’t talk to me anymore.”

  Her little shoulders shake as she leaves the kitchen, but she holds her head high. I don’t hear her crying until after she slams her door.

  “Nice work, son. Have you made sure to hurt everyone in your world today? Do you check us off on a list every night? I’m sure you’re not finished with me, so go ahead. Take a shot.” She leans back against the sink, folding her arms across her chest.

  I’m suddenly so freaking tired I could crawl under the table and fall asleep on the floor.

  “You don’t seem interested in what Mr. Freeman had to say, so I’ll fill you in. Magnus King is suing the school because the fight happened on campus. He’s claiming ‘negligent supervision.’ I’m also named in the suit, because you’re a minor, so I’m being held responsible for your ‘willful misconduct.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  I wish she would smile at me, maybe take a foil-covered plate out of the oven, tell me she saved some dinner for me. Maybe that’s happening in my parallel universe, where all the good stuff lives. It is definitely not happening here.

  “It means that because of what you did, I am going to end up paying Tristan’s medical bills, for as long as his father cares to drag it out. I’ll also be paying his psychiatrist’s fees, since his father is screaming about emotional damage and PTSD. I don’t have the money for this, Lucas.”

  Tristan King. The gift that keeps on taking.

  “What happens when they finally figure out he’s the one who hurt Sparrow? What happens when he goes to jail?”

  “I don’t have the luxury of playing the what-if game, kiddo. I have to deal with what’s happening right now. And right now I’m terrified that this will put us in a real financial bind. I’ve got some job interviews lined up next week, but substitute English teachers don’t exactly make big bucks.”

  “Mom—”

  “Lucas, I can’t talk to you anymore. Our lives are falling apart here, but hey, I’ll figure it out. I don’t really have a choice, do I? In the meantime, you need to go upstairs and tell your sister you’re sorry. Shame on you for speaking to her like that. Right this minute I’m more angry at you for hurting Anna than for beating up Tristan King.”

  I leave her in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, looking small and alone. Walking up the stairs, I take inventory.

  Sparrow hates me. My mother is in trouble because of me. Delaney’s a wreck, and I’ve been a total jerk to the one person who believes I hung the moon. When I walk past Anna’s bedroom door, I hear her crying, her face buried in a pillow so no one will hear. That’s when I know I’m a coward. I can’t even face my eight-year-old sister.

  * * *

  Three days later, I get a text from Levkova, asking if I can come to her office in the late afternoon, after her annual daylong meeting with the board of directors. A text from her is like a royal summons. You don’t say no unless you want to lose your head or some other vital body part.

  After Anna left for school, my mother went off to meet with the attorney who handled everything when my dad died. Anna told me I was the worst brother on the planet, and she didn’t need me to name her stuffed animals or read her stories before bed. She even put a sign on her door. It says, Go away, Lucas Pukas. You aren’t my brother anymore.

  When I get to the conservatory, Levkova isn’t in her office. The tall leather chair behind the antique table that serves as her desk is pushed neatly in, and the collection of glass inkwells she keeps in a corner sparkles in the light. Not one thing is out of order, the rose brocade pillows on the love seat neatly plumped and placed, a pot of yellow-and-purple orchids on the credenza behind the desk.

  I find her in the big studio, sitting at the piano, listening to the Swan Lake score with her eyes closed. It’s so loud that she doesn’t hear me until I’m standing beside her.

  “Madame,” I say. No response. I clear my throat and she jumps about a mile.

  “Oh, Lucas, you startled me,” she says, turning down the music. “I am sorry. I have lost track of the time. We can talk here, if that is all right with you.”

  I’m instantly nervous and on guard. On the Chekov scale of one to ten, she’s already at a solid twelve.

  “Yes, Madame. I’m sorry Delaney and I are taking so long to figure things out. We’ll get there, I promise. We’re practicing on our own, and I think we’re a little better this week.”

  Her frosty blue eyes freak me out. If she told me to shave my head and bark like a dog, I’d do it, just to make her stop looking at me.

  “Lucas,” she says, standing up and taking both of my hands in hers. Oh God, this is going to be bad. “I did not ask you here to talk about your dancing. I have something very difficult to tell you.”

  My stomach drops into my shoes.

  “You know that it is a requirement for all conservatory students to remain in good standing at school and in the community. This is in the contract you signed when you were accepted. You have seen many dancers leave because they were failing in their coursework. Or because they were in trouble.”

  No, no, no, please. Not this. “Madame, I—”

  She shakes her head, silencing me.

  “I’m afraid, Lucas, that you cannot remain a student here until your issues are resolved. You have assaulted another student. You have caused your school to become involved in a lawsuit, and you have received much attention—much notoriety—in our community and even beyond. Until this dies down, until Dr. King is no longer upset, until your name is cleared, I cannot allow you to dance here. This is not my decision. If it were up to me, I would let you stay. This comes from the board, and they are adamant.”

  “Tristan’s mother is on the board.”

  “She is. She abstained from the vote. But even without her, this decision, it was unanimous. You have been given an indefinite leave of absence. Your place will be held for one year, and then we must offer it to another student. I am so sorry, Lucas.”

  I’m so dizzy that I bend over, my hands on my knees. When she speaks again, her voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. I feel her cool hand on my shoulder.

  “Lucas, it makes me so sad to tell you this. You are such a gifted,
promising young dancer. It is my hope that your troubles will soon be behind you, and you will return to us. But these are the rules, and I cannot break them. Not even for you. And—”

  “And what, Madame?” There’s an edge in my voice. Even I can hear it.

  “You must know that you are not helping Sparrow. You are causing great harm to yourself, though I suspect you cannot see this. This anger—everyone can feel it. There is no room for that here. I cannot have you in class. I know, believe me, what it is to be powerless, to watch the suffering of one you love. It is best that you take some time away—for you and for us. You must decide how—if—you can calm yourself enough to dance well again, to be part of this company.”

  When I straighten up, those icy blue eyes are filled with anguish. And pity. Anguish I can take, but the pity feels like a kick in the ’nads. Before she can make me feel any worse, I walk away.

  * * *

  Back at home, I find every single heavy object in my room and line them all up on my bed, in order of weight and importance.

  The sea-creature paperweight I got for my birthday when I was seven, the year I wanted to be a marine biologist and train killer whales at SeaWorld.

  The baseball I caught when I was ten and my dad took me to Richmond to see the Flying Squirrels play at the Diamond. Back then I couldn’t decide whether I loved Little League or ballet more.

  Three cheesy soccer trophies with marble bases.

  My thirty-pound dumbbells.

  A photo in a heavy silver frame, me with Sparrow right after Nutcracker last year. She’s holding a huge bouquet of red roses, and I’m grinning like a baboon. My arm is around her shoulders, and she’s beaming, dressed in the long white nightgown that Clara wears through most of the performance. I’m in the Russian costume, blousy black pants and boots, long white shirt, red-and-gold sash knotted at my waist.

  The paperweight goes first, sailing across the room and out the closed window like a champ. The echo of shattering glass is sweet and cold, the way ice would sound if it could sing. The baseball is next, followed by the soccer trophies. When every pane of glass is broken, the jagged edges sparkling viciously in the last rays of the setting sun, I heave the dumbbells at the wall, hitting the spot that was just repaired from the damage I did weeks ago. Fine dust drifts onto my bed, my desk, my orange lava lamp, the beat-up beanbag chair from fourth grade. I save the photo for last. I don’t see the glass break when it lands, but I hear it, and that’s good enough.