by Crystal Chan
Crystal Chan grew up as a mixed-race kid in the Wisconcin cornfields. She now lives in Chicago. As well as a writer, she is also a professional storyteller and performer. Bird is her first novel.
textpublishing.com.au
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
Copyright © Crystal Chan 2014
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
First published by Atheneum Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Simon and Schuster Children’s Publishing Division, 2014
This edition published by The Text Publishing Company, 2014
Book design by Debra Sfetsios-Conover
Cover illustration copyright © 2013 by Yau Hoong Tang
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Author: Chan, Crystal Melinda, author.
Title: Bird / by Crystal Chan.
ISBN: 9781922147707 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781922148704 (ebook)
Target Audience: For young adults.
Subjects: Families—Superstitions—Juvenile fiction.
Dewey Number: 813.6
To the trees, water, earth, and sky, who give of
themselves that I may share my story
—C. C.
CHAPTER ONE
GRANDPA stopped speaking the day he killed my brother, John. His name was John until Grandpa said he looked more like a Bird with the way he kept jumping off things, and the name stuck. Bird’s thick, black hair poked out in every direction, just like the head feathers of the blackbirds, Grandpa said, and he bet that one day Bird would fly like one too. Grandpa kept talking like that, and no one paid him much notice until Bird jumped off a cliff, the cliff at the edge of the tallgrass prairie, the cliff that dropped a good couple hundred feet to a dried-up riverbed below. Bird’s little blue bath towel was found not far from his body, snagged on a bush, the towel that served as wings. From that day on, Grandpa never spoke another word. Not one.
The day that Bird tried to fly, the grown-ups were out looking for him—all of them except Mom and Granny. That’s because that very day, I was born. And no one’s ever called me anything except Jewel, though sometimes I wish they had. Mom and Dad always said that I was named Jewel because I’m precious, but sometimes I think it’s because my name begins with J, just like John’s name, and because they miss him and didn’t want to give me a normal name like Jenny or Jackie. Because John had a normal name, and now he’s dead.
It was my twelfth birthday today, and everyone was supposed to be happy. It was hard to be happy, though, when Grandpa shut himself up in his room for the whole day, like he does every year on my birthday. Mom and Dad made me a cake with vanilla frosting and sprinkles, gave me a present—some socks from the dollar store, but they’re cute and all—and the three of us went to the cemetery to visit Bird and Granny. I always watch those movies where kids have big birthday parties with music and party hats and huge presents and even ponies, and I think it would be nice to have a birthday like that. Especially the ponies. Just once. Instead, I’ve always had to share my special day with the silence behind Grandpa’s closed door and the silence at the cemetery and the silence that hangs thick between Mom and Dad’s words.
Mom and Dad washed the dishes from my birthday cake and went to bed, but I couldn’t go to sleep, just like every year on my birthday, because I kept imagining what Bird was like, what kind of brother he would have been, and what five-year-olds think when they throw themselves off cliffs.
So I did what I often do when I can’t sleep: I changed into my jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, put on some bug spray, and crept out of the house and into the star-studded night.There’s this huge oak tree just down the road in Mr. McLaren’s field, and I often climb that tree as high as I can, and lean my back against its warm, thick trunk. There, I watch the moon arc through the sky and listen to the whirring of the crickets or the rustling of the oak leaves or the hollow calls of the owl.
For a moment, I thought about going to the cliff where my brother flew. But I knew better than to go there at night.
Now, in my small town of Caledonia, Iowa, we have one grocery store with one cashier, named Susie; three churches; our part-time mayor, who works in our town hall, which also serves as the post office; two restaurants that run the same specials, just on different days; and fourteen other businesses. Things here are as stable as the earth, and that’s how folks seem to like it. No one’s ever told me that going to the cliff should be kept secret, but that’s one of the things about adults: The most important rules to keep are the ones they never tell you and the ones they get the angriest about if you break.
I wouldn’t tell them I go to the cliff anyway, because adults don’t listen to what kids have to say. Not really. If they did, they would actually look at me when I talk, look good and deep and open-like, ready to hear whatever comes out of my mouth, ready for anything. I don’t know any adult who’s ever looked at me like that, not even my parents. So the good stuff, the real things that I’ve seen and experienced, like at the cliff—I keep all that to myself. My family doesn’t fit in as it is.
Anyway, tonight I was making my way down County Line Road, which still radiated heat, and my tennis shoes were scuffing against the gravel when suddenly I got the feeling that something was wrong. Different. A shiver zipped across my skin. I stopped and looked at my oak tree. The moon was waxing, growing slowly toward its milky whole self, and the tree was glowing and dark at the same time, its arms spread wide like a priest’s toward the sky. As I squinted in the silver light, a pit formed in my stomach, and I realized what it was.
Someone was already in my tree.
“Heya,” said a voice. It was a boy’s voice. I tensed up all over. There’s never anyone outside at this time of night, grown-up or kid. Maybe it was a duppy, those Jamaican ghosts that Dad always worried about. Duppies’ powers are strongest at night, Dad says, and they often live in trees. You can tell a duppy lives there when a tree’s leaves blow around like crazy even though there’s not a speck of wind. Or if one of its limbs breaks off for no good reason. If something like that happens there’s definitely a duppy in that tree, right there. Duppies can also be tricky and just show up. Like, they can be in your tree when there was never a duppy there before.
But the boy’s voice carried long and lonely through the night in a way that I didn’t think a duppy’s voice could, and each leaf on each limb was perfectly still, frozen in the moonlight. On any normal night I might have just played it safe, turned around, and run back home, but it was my birthday, my special day, and I wasn’t going to go running away and let a duppy ruin it. So instead I said, “Hey,” back, and I stepped over the shoots of corn, crossing the dry, hard dirt of Mr. McLaren’s field. The boy was up on the third limb—the same limb I was meaning to sit on—and his shadowed legs straddled the branch like a horse, swinging back and forth, back and forth.
He was in my tree and I felt kind of stupid, like I didn’t know what to do.
“What are you doing out here at this time of night?” he asked me. I peered up but couldn’t see his face.
I tried to shrug casually. “I climb my tree sometimes, when I can’t sleep.”
“Is that true?” He said it surprised, but like he didn’t really want an answer, so I didn’t give him one. “But it’s not your tree, now, is it?” h
e said.
“It’s not yours, either.”
The limb creaked, like he was peering down at me. I squirmed a little in the moonlight. “Is too my tree. I’m John. This is my uncle’s farm, so it’s my tree. I can climb it anytime I want.”
I’m sure he said some other things, but my brain stopped after he said I’m John.
I must have looked as stupid as I felt, because his voice got a little nicer. “You know, not too many other kids live around here in this middle of nowhere. Especially not many who climb trees at night.”
And before I knew it, he was asking me to come up and sit with him, and I was shimmying up the rope that I’d tied and then climbing the warm, tough bark of the tree, hand over hand, legs pushing forever up, until I was sitting on the branch below his. John’s face was still dark, as I was craning my neck up into the cool shadows.
But I was sitting in a patch of moonlight, and he got a good look at me. “Hey,” he said, “what are you, anyway?” The words were curious, not mean. “You’re not from around here.”
A little something tightened inside me, like it did every time I got this question, but I was used to it. Mostly. “I’m half-Jamaican, a quarter white, and a quarter Mexican,” I said.
“Wow,” John said. “I didn’t know people could turn out like that.”
“And I am from around here,” I said, making sure my voice carried over the crickets. “I was born in the house down the road.”
John said, “I’m not trying to insult you or anything. I’ve just never met someone like you.”
I twirled a thick, kinky lock of hair around my finger, then untwirled it. I’ve learned that it’s best to get this conversation out of the way so we can talk about more interesting things. “Well, now you have,” I replied. “And my name’s Jewel.”
He nodded, almost like he already knew that. “Jewel,” he said. His voice lingered over the word. “I like that name.”
“I don’t.”
“It’s memorable. Like, everyone’s going to know they’ve met a Jewel. But ‘John’? Forget it. We’re a dime a dozen.”
“No, you’re not.” The words came out too fast, too harsh, too laden with pain I forgot to hide.
John paused in the darkness, on his third limb. “Okay, maybe a dollar a dozen, then.” He spoke carefully now. “But I still think Jewel is nice.”
We sat in that tree in the middle of the field under the waxing moon. Suddenly he said, “You know, stars are like jewels. But they don’t twinkle like you think. What your eye perceives as twinkling is the light waves refracting through the layers of the atmosphere.”
The way he spoke, he sounded like a teacher. A good teacher. Maybe that’s why I decided to ask a question, not like in school. “Refracting?” I asked.
“The light bends,” he said. “At a lot of different angles, depending on the layers of atmosphere, and that refracting light changes how we perceive the position and size of a star.” His voice hung in the space above me. “The only way to see the stars as they truly are is to get above the atmosphere. Into space.”
There was no breeze that night, just a thin layer of moist air that hung around us, like the entire earth was listening in.
“I never thought about stars like that.”
John laughed, and it was a short, nice laugh. “Just wait until the Perseids show up.”
“The what?”
“The Perseids. A huge meteor shower that takes place in August.”
I had never seen the Perseids before, or even heard of them, and I said so.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Most people can’t see what’s in front of them if they don’t know what they’re looking for. But once you know what you’re looking for, you wonder how you didn’t see it. Just wait: Once you see the Perseids, you’ll see them every year, guaranteed.”
“How do you know so much about stars?” I blurted out.
I heard the smile in his voice. “I’m going to be an astronaut when I grow up.”
John was so different from the other kids in Caledonia. Most kids around here want to be mechanics or nurses or take over the family business. I almost told him that I was going to be a geologist when I grow up, but I didn’t. Instead, I was quiet. If you give up too much of yourself, too fast, then someone can just up and take it away. And a person like me, without too much of my own to start with—well, you need to be careful with what you got.
I don’t know how long we sat there, but sitting in that tree felt different this time around. Maybe I was getting too old. Or maybe it was just strange sitting there with someone else.
I climbed down after a while, and he climbed down after me. I saw him for the first time clearly in the moonlight, and it was then that I realized why I couldn’t see him all that well before: His skin was dark, dark as the night sky.
“You’re McLaren’s nephew?” I blurted out. My mouth was too fast for any politeness. Mr. McLaren is as white as white could get.
John smiled, and his teeth shone like tiny rows of moons. “Sure am. I’m adopted. Raised by white people. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
I wasn’t sure if he was talking about being adopted or being raised by white people, but I nodded as if I understood. He held out his hand, and I took it and shook it, just like the grown-up I was becoming. I was surprised at how firm his grip was, like we were going to conquer the world.
It was the best handshake ever.
But handshake or no handshake, as my shoes crunched against the gravel on my way home, I wondered about how I could meet someone named John on this night. As Dad says, there are no coincidences in life. Which is a fancy way of saying that when things are meant to happen, no matter how mysterious or crazy or impossible, they’re going to happen. And I think he’s right.
CHAPTER TWO
EARLY the next morning, when the sky still looked like a stained-glass window, I went to the cliff. To get there, you need to walk down County Line Road, then turn left onto the unmarked dirt road that curves by the swale that collects water when it rains. There’s a footpath about a hundred yards away, one that, if you go early in the morning like I did, would drench you with the dew that dangles off the long grasses. There’s a huge granite boulder that sits strong and tall and proud by the cliff, and it watches over the fields and houses and hills in the distance. After that, the drop-off comes suddenly.
I decided not to tell my parents that I’d met a boy named John, and that I found him in a tree. I’ve long grown used to not telling them really cool things, because they usually don’t get excited, anyway. Once, I found this great arrowhead in the backyard, and I ran inside to show it to them, and instead of wondering how old it was or what tribe made it or asking if I ever wanted to be an archaeologist, Mom looked at me sternly and said, “Throw that outside. You know better than to come in here with dirty shoes.”
It happens all the time. Something cool happens, and they just block it out. It’s as if Bird was the only cool thing that could ever happen, and now that he’s gone, nothing else can ever be great or incredible or mysterious.
When I saw the boulder, I slowed down. The air was moist and still. I was the only thing that moved. Today is the day I add another rock, I thought, and pride swirled in my chest. I searched around in the grasses until I found one that wanted to come out of the earth and wiggled it back and forth and dug around the sides until I had it in my arms. It was bigger than the others, which made me happy, too. I was getting stronger.
At the edge of the cliff, beside the massive granite boulder, was a circle of eleven stones. They were large stones, like loaves of bread, eleven of them sitting in a circle so wide I could do cartwheels inside it. I got there, told the eleven there was going to be a new one and they all needed to get along, and arranged them how they wanted to be.
Twelve. Just like me.
Even though it’s not good to have favorites, I have to admit that I did. I found my seventh-year stone by accident; I stubbed my toe on it that first summer w
hen I didn’t know any better and was wearing flip-flops. I was going to pick it up and put it where it couldn’t get hurt when I realized that I had to keep digging around the sides; it was much larger than it looked at first. It also had these strange swirls of pink in it, which I liked.
Or take my tenth-year stone. That one was a gift, really, like the earth heaved it up into my arms, looking nice and new and pretty, with quartz angles jutting out in every direction when I peered at it closely. I couldn’t hold it too tightly or I could cut myself, but that’s precisely what I liked about it.
My circle sure looked different with the twelfth-year stone there, in a way that made me proud. Outside the circle and down a ways, where the soil got thicker and loamy, was a row of saplings that grew from seeds that I planted last summer and sat with when it rained. On the other side of the circle lay an area of upturned earth.
The middle of the circle was empty.
The sun crept up and over the hills to the east. I paused at the circle, slipped off my shoes, and stepped inside. The dirt was loose and cool and whispered against my feet. I faced the rising sun and lifted my arms, as if I were drawing that ball of fire up from the earth and into the sky. There I was, encircled by rocks, at the center of the universe. And everything—from the dried-up riverbed to the limestone cliff outcroppings on the other side, even the glowing sky—watched me.
I closed my eyes as I stood in the circle, my back muscles relaxing, my arms stretched out, settling into their openness. I didn’t know how long I stood there, but I listened to everything I could, to the mice rustling through the leaves, to the bending grasses, to the hollowness of the air over the cliff.
The sounds of home.
After a good, long while I stepped out of the ring of stones, my body lighter. I scanned the ground, as usual, looking for pebbles. I had to go a little farther from the circle, as I had found all the nearby pebbles a long time ago. I rummaged by the base of some grasses until I had five in my hand. Then I went over to a little crevice in the boulder, grabbed the thick, short stick I’d stashed there, and kneeled down in the area just outside the circle, in the upturned dirt where I’d buried the others.
