Above LIBERATION, there’s a black-and-gray-and-white drawing by M. C. Escher that I swear was in my math textbook last year. It’s shaped like a long scroll with wavy gray triangles at the bottom. The triangles get wavier and wavier higher up the drawing, some white, some black. Eventually two corners of every triangle distort into wings. The third corners turn into beaks. They keep shifting until the triangles change into birdlike shapes, eventually turning into actual realistic birds at the highest part of the scroll.
Since I’m seeing it upside down, it works in reverse — birds morphing into triangles. It works either way, though. Birch must like this print since it has birds on it. Pretty weird, but I like it too.
Somewhere in the background I hear Birch going on and on about what Lou said about the benefits of the inversion table.
Blahblahblah. I’m not listening to anything except the rush of gravity in my ears.
But just as quickly as this inversion table felt good, it starts to feel bad — bad like I might throw up. And right then, as if he knows this, Birch tips the table until I’m standing upright again.
I slowly come to out of my daze. Unfortunately, Birch is asking me something.
“So, can I see your bees?”
I knew it. This was just a trick all along.
“Ugh, there are no bees, Birch. I have to go.” I unstrap my own feet and step away from the table.
“Come on, I saw them. You took your hood down at the meadow and scratched your head with one of those knitting needles you always carry. And you’ve basically admitted it.”
“I do not carry knitting needles with me,” I say in protest.
Birch leans down and picks up one of my knitting needles from the floor, where it must’ve fallen during my inversion session. He holds it out to me.
“Fine,” I say, snatching it from his hand. “I do carry an extra pair of knitting needles at all times. And I do have bees on my head. But they’re a secret. You’re not allowed to see them or acknowledge them or talk about them.”
“But then how can I help?” he asks.
“Help?”
“Well, I think they’re awesome, but you don’t seem to think so. And they’re probably not awesome long term. Maybe I could help figure out how to get rid of them. Without hurting them of course.”
I stare at Birch.
“Or hurting you,” he adds. “Obviously.”
“You want to help?”
“Of course! I mean, I’m curious too — in the name of science. But I promise I won’t laugh or tell anyone or anything like that. Never.”
The knitting needle I’m clutching is covered in sweat. I tuck it back into my pocket and take a long look at Birch. It’s pretty weird, but I believe him. Besides, it’s not like I have anyone else to talk to about this since Adam’s gone. For sure not Dr. Flossdrop. Not even Aunt Mildred. She might be Mildred, but she’s still an adult and would probably feel obligated to tell Dr. Flossdrop. At least Birch seems worth a shot. One shot. For one minute.
Before I can stop myself I bring my hand to my head and sweep the hood off so it falls down on my neck. I keep my fingers poised so I can bring it up again at any moment if I need to.
Birch leans in, still keeping a respectable distance. His lips part slightly in what looks like astonishment. He slowly walks in a circle around me and says a very small “Wow” from time to time. I feel like a woolly mammoth again.
When Birch comes to a stop in front of me, he tears his eyes away from my hair and focuses on my face. “Wow,” he says again.
I put my hood back on and it’s over. It was awful, but not nearly as bad as I thought it would be.
“I can’t figure out why the bees would make their hive in your hair like that.”
“Thanks for the help,” I say with a huff. I start to make my way out of the room.
“Hey,” says Birch. “I can’t figure it out yet, but I’ll work on it.”
“And you’ll help me figure out how to get rid of them?” I ask.
“I’ll try,” he says. “Don’t worry, Zinnia. Your secrets are safe with me. Ice cream, bees. Mum’s the word.”
While I’m not familiar with that phrase, I get the idea. I also have this funny feeling he means it. Birch, who lets everything in so easily, will be good at keeping this thing in. My secret has been thrown overboard, which is terrifying, but it feels good to know it’s been thrown into what seems to be a deep, wide sea.
Bees
STILL THERE
We were still there. Even though we didn’t know where there was. Most of the time we were covered by gray fabric, so we didn’t even have anything to look at. Not that there could be much of a view when you’re used to apple orchards and strawberry fields. We’d been on our way to alfalfa and clover when the truck crashed. Alfalfa and clover! Those things were unimaginable in our current, wretched existence.
The perpetual state of forced dieting, not to mention the slight atrophy of our folded-up tongues and tucked wings, was getting to us. Some of us even gingerly admitted that our beeswax glands were backed up. We were still hungry. Still disgruntled. Worse, we were bored. Even the drones, known for their idleness, were antsy for something to pass the time.
Alas, the queen was glimpsed drumming her nails on an attendant’s behind. Given the conditions, she’d stopped laying eggs. She was used to laying more than a thousand a day! She had even ceased production of her perfume, that sublime scent that signaled all was well with the hive. For all was not well.
We wanted a proper kind of beehood, our species’ calling for millions of years — to work for our own well-being and the world’s. To pollinate and produce honey. To thrive. And yet there we were.
So we came up with an idea. We formed Action Committees to brainstorm possible plans for obtaining a new home. But they were quickly nicknamed (Distr)action Committees. No one could concentrate given the circumstances. We talked about anything — mostly food and the yearned-for feeling of flying at fifteen miles an hour — other than the matter at tarsus of finding a home.
We renamed them Solution Summits, but it was more of the same. We were bees, revered for our ability to work together, for our productivity. But all of that evaporated with our newfound independence. Because we weren’t independent. We were helpless.
Arguments broke out. Factions formed. There was even talk of revolt. Mutiny against the queen!
That was just the riffraff talking. No respectable bee would really dare such a thing, even without the queen’s perfume wafting around to reassure us. Revolt was unthinkable. Downright despicable and un-apian. The queen and the colony were our universe. We’d be nothing without each other.
One faction spoke up and suggested trying to find the truck and the orchards, returning to life as agricultural automatons. If we could find a migratory bee truck, it would be more predictable. At the very least it would involve proper meals.
But that was perceived by the group as giving up. And bees don’t give up so easily. It’s simply not in our nature.
13
OPERATION STARVING ARTISTS
I open my front door — whoosh — and Birch is standing there, one hand in the air, preparing to knock.
“What are you doing?” I yell. “You scared me!”
“Oh, sorry,” he says.
As if Birch could be any more predictable, not only is he at my front door — again — but he’s also wearing plaid. Red-and-black plaid shirt, tan shorts, and socks that are checkered blue and green. It makes me glad I always wear charcoal gray — at least I’ll never have to worry about clashing patterns with this guy.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“Nowhere.”
“Can I come?”
“Any progress on figuring out what to do about these?” I ask, gesturing to my hood.
Birch shakes his head. “N
ot yet.”
“Then no,” I say. His neck shrinks a little into his crumpled plaid collar when I say it, though, so I change my mind. “Fine, you can come if you promise not to ask any questions.”
“You mean it’s a secret mission?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool,” says Birch.
I’ve been working up the courage to visit Adam’s workplace for days because, to be honest, this is kind of my last hope. And I’ve preferred to hang onto a little hope. Hope that my brother will return and, not only that, have the perfect solution to free me from the bees.
But even if he’s not at Starving Artists Movers, maybe I can at least gather some intelligence as to his whereabouts.
Birch and I walk away from Sunrise Boulevard, down a side street and over the big hill where Mildred lives. We make our way to the other main road in the neighborhood, which leads to a more industrial area.
“Starving Artists Movers,” says Birch when we arrive. “That’s clever.”
“OK,” I say. “You’re the lookout.”
He salutes. “What exactly am I looking out for?”
“Anything that seems like a clue,” I say, searching for a way to keep Birch busy — and in the dark about my brother — while I go inside the main office.
“A clue to what?”
“Anything,” I repeat. But then I realize that if I’m really lucky and Adam is here, Birch’s lookout position might be useful. “Also look for any eighteen-year-old humans. Please remember where they’re headed if you see any.”
Birch nods. “Got it.”
“See you soon,” I say.
Halfway to the office I slow, suddenly worried about just barging in there. About what I may or may not find. I pause and adjust my hood. I can feel the bees like a force field, their energy and movement and tiny wind. I look back, and Birch gives me a thumbs-up sign. His small gesture gives me the confidence to press on.
When I walk inside, the office is cramped and messy and smells like motor oil and plastic. There’s a TV blaring in the corner. Some surfing reality show is playing. A man behind the counter glances up as I enter. He has a substantial beard and wears chunky metal rings on both thumbs, all of which makes him that much more intimidating to approach.
“What do you want, kid?”
I take his use of kid as a bad sign, but I answer anyway. “I’m looking for Adam.”
He doesn’t reply. Maybe he doesn’t hear me.
“Adam Flossdrop. He works here,” I try again.
“Used to work here. He quit. Never liked him anyway.”
“Do you know where he went when he quit?”
The man taps one of his big rings on the counter in front of him. “Who knows with these artists? They’re completely unreliable. They’re late, they quit, their heads are in the clouds half the time.”
Despite the name of the company, this guy really seems to dislike artists.
“So Adam didn’t mention anything about his future plans then?”
“We weren’t buddies; he was just one of the movers. Now run along, kid,” he says, turning back to the TV.
That’s that.
Conversation over.
When I return to Birch, he looks like he’s about to burst. “I saw a human who looked about eighteen!” he whisper-shouts.
“Really? Where?” I don’t imagine it’s Adam given that the guy inside just told me he quit, but a tiny part of me flickers with hope.
Birch puts his finger to his lips and motions for me to follow him. We tiptoe around back to the truck lot and spot a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair standing by a Dumpster, looking at his phone.
“Do you even know what an eighteen-year-old looks like?” I ask Birch.
“Not him,” he says. “Our suspect probably went through that back door. Just wait. You’ll see.”
We stand next to a trash can on the sidewalk, in front of the truck lot, trying not to draw attention to ourselves. Sweat trickles down my forehead from the heat of wearing a hood and beehive in this weather.
“Hey, Zinnia…” says Birch while we wait.
“Uh-huh.”
“Remember how I told you I’m here to keep Uncle Lou company this summer? Because he’s lonely?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, that’s not the real reason I’m here,” Birch confesses. “Ever since you trusted me with your secret, I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
Oh no. I freeze. I don’t need this right now. I don’t need Birch revealing something, trying to bond, when I’m keeping something, everything, from him. I already showed him the bees. Isn’t that enough?
“You’re really here to study the flora and fauna of Southern California on behalf of Redwood City Middle School,” I say as a distraction. “Look, there’s one of those green flying beetles for your research right now!”
“Cool! But no…” Birch will not be swayed from this topic. He takes a big breath. “I’m trying to make the soccer team this fall because I haven’t been able to before.”
“What does that have to do with staying at Lou’s?”
“My parents thought Lou could help.”
“Wait a minute. Does Lou play soccer?” I ask. I’ve never seen Lou holding any soccer balls or wearing cleats or anything.
“No, Lou doesn’t like team sports. But he’s an ergonomic coach, so he helps with spinal alignment and fitness and all that.”
“Your spinal alignment is why you haven’t made the soccer team?”
“No. It’s that, well, I’m really uncoordinated.” Birch says this like it’s a terrible, shameful thing to admit.
“Did your parents tell you that?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head.
“The soccer coach said you were uncoordinated?”
“No one said it. No one had to. It’s obvious. Watch this,” he says.
Birch picks up a soda can lying near us on the ground and sets it upright. Then he takes a few steps back and dashes toward it. But when he attempts to kick it mid- dash, he trips. His shoe never makes contact. The can sits motionless on the sidewalk.
He turns to look at me. “See? I’ve tried out twice and haven’t made the team. I want to play soccer, and I want to be part of things. My only real friends back home are in my bird-watching club, and they don’t go to my school.” He pauses before adding, “Actually, they’re all adults. I don’t really have any friends at school.”
“Oh,” I say.
The more Birch divulges about himself, the more I feel the uncomfortable prickliness of guilt. Adam and Mildred have been my only friends since NML excommunicated me, but I haven’t told him that. I haven’t even told him the reason for this whole mission or what we’re doing here in this parking lot — who we’re looking for.
“Soccer is my chance for things to be different at school this year.”
“Good luck,” I tell him. “I hope you make the team this time.” I mean it. I really do.
I’ve been so busy with Birch’s confession that I almost didn’t notice an eighteen-year-old has emerged from the building. But even though I can only see the back of whoever it is, I can tell by the ponytail that it’s not Adam.
The girl taps the guy with the salt-and-pepper hair on the shoulder, and he joins her at a moving truck. He rolls up the rear door, and the ponytailed-girl loads some big green quilts into the back. It looks like she cut her T-shirt with scissors all around the collar in some sad attempt to make that Starving Artists Movers shirt somewhat fashionable. One shoulder slips off while she’s working, revealing a flock of gray-and-black birds tattooed on her skin — they fly up her neck and disappear behind her ear.
The girl finishes loading the moving pads, rolls down the door, and climbs in the truck. The guy gets in on the passenger side.
Feeling my opportunity
slipping away, I head toward them. I try to calm my nerves by counting the letters in one of the words on the company logo. Starving. Eight. But before I can get close enough, the engine starts, and the truck pulls out of the lot.
I wave my arms around, hoping they’ll see me in their rearview mirror, but they don’t. Or they don’t care. The truck turns down a side street and drives away.
“Sooo… what was that all about?” asks Birch.
“Nothing.”
“Are you training to be an apprentice mover?”
“No.”
“Do you think they’re smuggling something illegal in those trucks?”
“No.”
“Are you curious if any coyotes ever visit that Dumpster for food? Because I am.”
I shake my head. “No.”
I say it in a way I hope sounds final. It must because Birch stops asking questions.
We proceed down Sunrise Boulevard toward the duplex. I feel like crumbling — my disappointment adds to the already heavy burden of the bees — to the point that each step is a struggle. I think I finally have to admit to myself that I’m not going to magically find Adam in my neighborhood. That I probably won’t find him at all.
Birch breaks the silence. “Thanks for listening earlier,” he says. “I wanted to tell you about the soccer team as soon as I had a chance. I don’t want to keep any secrets from someone who’s my friend.”
At the word friend, a mockingbird squawks loudly. Birch, ever the bird-watcher, looks up. I stare straight ahead.
Birch said we’re friends and that friends don’t keep secrets. But he must know that I’m keeping one right now. He must accept that I’m keeping stuff from him, the way he seems to accept everything. The way he accepts me.
But I’m not ready to talk about Adam. Not with anyone. Especially someone I practically just met. I keep my eyes straight ahead and don’t respond. Somehow, without even saying a word, I feel as naked as Ronny the Rattlesnake.
Zinnia and the Bees Page 6
