Feathered

by Deborah Kerbel

  They stand there on the step for a long time. Mrs. Nanda’s hands are clasped together like she’s praying. It looks like the policeman is doing most of the talking and she’s doing most of the nodding. Every now and then, he writes something down on his notepad. Pinky’s nowhere in sight. I wait in those bushes, terrified about what’s going to happen next. You can’t imagine how relieved I am when the policeman finally tips his cap and turns to leave. I don’t dare come out of the bushes until his car is gone from our street. All I want to do is go over and find out if Pinky’s okay, and before I know it I’m standing on their front porch ringing the bell. I knock, too, just in case the bell doesn’t work. Nobody answers, even though I know for a fact that they’re home.

  “Pinky?” I say, rising up on my tiptoes and peeking into the peephole. I think I see a little flicker of light pass through the glass, but still nobody opens the door. “Are you there?” I ask, bending over, pushing open the mail slot and peering inside. A pair of familiar blue pompom socks are standing frozen on the hardwood floor.

  “Go home, Finch,” Pinky says through the narrow opening. “Please.”

  And now there’s a second, larger pair of feet standing beside her and a hushed voice speaking a tangle of words I can’t understand.

  “Pinky?” I try again. “Can you open the door? I want to talk to you.”

  “No. I can’t,” she whispers.

  “But I need to know … what did the policeman say?”

  Mrs. Nanda’s voice floats through the door again. Whatever she’s saying to Pinky seems to be growing more urgent.

  “Mother says she will take care of it. She says thank you for coming. But to please go now.”

  I don’t want my friend to get in any more trouble with her parents, so reluctantly I let the mail slot flap shut and head home. As soon as I’m inside, I find my schoolbag and grab a pencil and a piece of paper out of my notebook and do something I probably wouldn’t have done a couple of weeks ago.

  I write a letter. Yeah, without anybody forcing me to.

  Deer Pinky

  are you all rite? I am home if you want to tak.

  call me. 555-3729

  Sinceerly,

  Finch

  I fold the paper over, walk back to her porch and slide it through the mail slot on the door. Hopefully she’ll get it. Then at least Pinky will know she’s not alone. I know for a fact that will help.

  When I go back inside, I find Mom leaning over the kitchen sink, grabbing on to the countertop with both hands as if she needs something to keep her from falling over. Her shoulders sag like there’s something heavy sitting on them.

  “Mom?”

  She spins around. As soon as she sees me, she straightens her shoulders and smiles a tiny smile. “I’m thirsty,” she says, grabbing a couple of empty glasses out of the drying rack. “Let’s make Kool-Aid.”

  The afternoon and evening pass slowly. I wait close to the phone for Pinky’s call. But it never comes.

  When I walk into Miss Rein’s class the next day, Pinky’s sitting there in the front row wearing a pretty blue dress with matching barrettes in her hair. She looks a little uncertain, but her eyes brighten when she sees me, and she waves. I’m so shocked to find her sitting there, I feel like running over and giving her a big hug. But the bell has already rung and I don’t want to get in trouble two days in a row, so I just wave back and take my seat. I’m so happy she’s here and so relieved it all turned out okay that I don’t think I even hear a single word of the lesson that morning. As soon as the recess bell rings, I jump out of my chair and run over to give Pinky that hug.

  “What happened yesterday? What did the policeman say? Did you get my letter?” I ask.

  She speaks really softly so that nobody but me will hear. She tells me how her parents talked in their bedroom for a long time, but the door was closed, so she couldn’t make out what they were saying. “I was worried because both their voices sounded upset. But they weren’t yelling, which is good,” she says. “Then Father came out and spoke to me and he was very calm. Not at all angry like I thought he’d be. I’ve never seen him so calm. He said how he knew this day was coming. He spoke about Punjab a lot and talked about his parents’ home in the country and how happy he was when he was my age. He said he’s making plans and will take us on a trip there very soon but not to tell Mother because it will be a surprise. Then he tucked me into bed and told me everything was going to be all right and that I could go to school today.”

  I link my arm through hers and we go outside to the playground together. We play hopscotch and freeze tag, and it’s the best day of school I can remember.

  After the final bell I pack up my schoolbag fast, hoping Pinky and I can maybe walk home together today. And since her father has changed his mind about school, maybe he’ll change his mind about letting her come over to my house to play. But she’s already gone by the time I look up, and I can’t find her anywhere. I go to the office to see Mom. She says she needs a few minutes to finish up filing some papers and then we can go home together. That’s when I see Mr. Nanda’s white Chevrolet out the office window in the school parking lot.

  “Be right back,” I say, running outside so I can say goodbye to Pinky. But I get there just as the car is pulling away. I catch a quick glimpse of her in the backseat. She’s watching me and waving and smiling. I wave back. One of her blue barrettes is loose and hanging down around her ear.

  I go back to the office and plop down on the bench where the naughty kids sit when they’re sent to see the principal.

  While I wait for Mom to finish, I swing my legs back and forth, back and forth, trying to shake off the bad feeling that’s suddenly creeping through my bones.

  CHAPTER 14

  Mom takes forever to finish up her work. When we finally get home from school, Harrison’s playing basketball on the driveway. He looks relieved to see us. I wonder if he was lonely sitting at home with nothing to do for seven hours. When Mom asks him how his day went, he stops dribbling, shrugs and points his thumb back toward the house.

  “Fine, I guess. But just so you know, our next-door neighbor’s in the kitchen.”

  Mom looks at him funny. “What?”

  “That little girl Pinky —” Harrison flicks his chin at me “ — you know, the one Matt was making fun of? Her mom is in the kitchen.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, sounding annoyed. “I was watching TV and she was knocking really loud, so I came upstairs to let her in. She said she wanted to talk to Finch. I told her Finch wasn’t home yet. She said she’d wait, so I made her a cup of Nescafé. She looked pretty upset.”

  I wonder if this is about school? Or maybe she’s mad at me for telling Mrs. Fiorini about Pinky? I turn to look at Mom, wondering if she knows something I don’t know. But she’s obviously just as confused as me.

  “Did she say anything else?” Mom asks.

  “Nope,” Harrison says, passing his basketball from one hand to the other.

  “Let’s go,” Mom says, steering us inside. And just like Harrison said, there’s Mrs. Nanda sitting at our kitchen table. Her head is bowed into her hands and there’s a cup of instant coffee growing cold in front of her. She looks up when we come in. Her long, dark braid looks straggly today and her eyes are puffy.

  “Please,” she says, rising to her feet. “My daughter says you are a nice girl. A friend.” Her accent is stronger than Pinky’s. Her voice curls around each word.

  Mom’s right beside me. She puts a hand on my shoulder. “How can we help you, Mrs. Nanda?”

  She walks toward me and takes my hand. Her skin is soft and smooth as sea glass. “Did you see my Pinky at school today?” she asks, her eyes searching mine.

  I nod eagerly ’cause here’s something I do know the answer to. “She was in my class. We played together at recess. And we a
te lunch together, too.”

  She’s hanging on to my words like they’re the only things keeping her up. “She did not come home after school this afternoon. I hoped perhaps she walked with you?”

  I stop nodding. “No.”

  Mrs. Nanda closes her eyes. A second later, she droops into the kitchen chair — like a marionette with broken strings. I wonder what’s wrong. I wonder if what I said upset her. After a minute, she starts talking again.

  “Last night my husband told me he wants a divorce,” she says, her voice hushed like she’s telling us a secret. “Because I told him I want Pinky and Padma to go to public school like other children in the neighborhood. And how I do not like how he shelters them so. This upset him.”

  A mess of questions is spilling through my brain, but I keep quiet, afraid to interrupt.

  “This morning he was more calm and I was hoping he had changed his mind. And then this afternoon, he came early from work,” she continues. “He said he was sorry for our argument and offered to take Padma to the park while I rested. But he has not brought her back. And then when Pinky did not return from school, I became very worried. I called my husband’s work to ask if he had returned to the office, but … but they told me he had quit his job.” Her voice melts away. Tears are running down her cheeks now. Mom takes a seat at the table, too. She reaches into her pocket for a tissue and passes it to Mrs. Nanda. I’m still standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, frozen like a marble statue and trying to understand what all this means. I look around for Harrison, but he’s gone. Probably back in the driveway with his basketball. Or downstairs in front of the TV. After a long minute, Mrs. Nanda finds her voice again. “We came to this country for a better life. But my husband questions whether we found one. I know he was unhappy about the way he was treated at his job. He discussed leaving many times. But I never thought …” She wipes her eyes with the edge of the tissue. “I am very afraid for what this could mean. And I did not know what else to do, so I came here.” She turns her eyes back to me now. “I was hoping Pinky might be with you.”

  “No. She went with Mr. Nanda,” I say really slowly ’cause I’m not sure if this is helping or not. But it’s the truth, so I have to say it. “I saw his car in front of the school. Pinky was in the backseat. She waved to me.”

  Turns out it is the wrong thing to say because it makes Mrs. Nanda break into tears all over again. “He has stolen them both. I am sure of it,” she wails, covering her face with her hands. Mom leans forward and puts a hand over Mrs. Nanda’s shoulder.

  I feel bad watching her cry, so I start crying, too. I’m scared for Pinky and Padma. Something awful is happening to them, even though I’m not exactly sure I understand what. Stolen? How can kids be stolen by their own father? After a minute, Mom comes over, hunches down next to me and takes me by the arms. She leans close and looks into my eyes, like there’s a message inside them she’s trying to read. “Calm down, Finch. I need you to think carefully,” she says. She’s using her most serious voice — the one she usually only uses when I’ve done something wrong and she’s trying really hard not to blow her lid. “Did Pinky say anything to you that could help? Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

  I push my hand over my eyes, wiping away the mess of spilled tears. My heart is pounding so hard, I think it might fly out of my chest. I’m trying hard to remember anything that Pinky might have said about her father. Anything that could help make this better. Maybe I’m not big enough to quit school and help Terry Fox finish his run. Maybe I’m not smart enough to figure out a way to help those hostages get free. Maybe I can’t write for beans. And maybe I’m the only kid on the street who can’t ride a bike. And maybe, just maybe, the rest of my feathers won’t actually grow in and I won’t ever fly. But I think I can help Pinky and Padma get out of trouble. Actually, I know I can. ’Cause it’s written right there all over Mom’s face.

  I think back to what Pinky said in class this morning. And to our conversation in the candy aisle a few days ago.

  “She told me her dad wants to take her to India. He told Pinky they’ll be going there soon. But not to tell because it’s supposed to be a surprise.” My voice sounds as thin as a soap bubble.

  Mom’s eyes widen. She and Mrs. Nanda stare at each other and I get a weird feeling like they’re talking even though nobody is saying a word. Before I can ask what’s going on, Mom puts her hands on my back and shoos me right out of the kitchen. “Thank you, Finch. Go to your room and wait for me to come get you.” She pulls the kitchen door shut behind me before I can even ask what she’s going to do.

  I want to find Harrison and tell him what’s just happened. But I don’t want to go where Mom can’t find me, in case she needs me to help some more. I take my time going up the stairs, keeping my eyes and ears glued to that kitchen door ’cause I’m still scared and I don’t want to miss anything. There’s lots of hushed talking and crying coming from behind it. I hear the sound of the faucet running. And the sound of someone dialing the telephone. I hear Mom’s voice asking for Daddy’s friend Detective Kroon. Mom sounds like she’s in a big hurry. I hear her say the word emergency. And the word airport.

  And then a minute later, I hear her say the word kidnapped.

  CHAPTER 15

  I’m still lingering on the stairs when Mom comes out of the kitchen and finds me. She’s holding her purse in one hand and her key chain in the other. Her eyes are wet and wild, like hurricanes. “I’m going out for a while,” she says, throwing her purse strap over her shoulder. Her lighter drops to the floor, but she’s in such a hurry she doesn’t even bother picking it up. “Stay here with Harrison,” she commands. “Don’t leave the house until I come back.”

  Mrs. Nanda is beside her, twisting on her tissue like she’s trying to wring the white out of it. Mom’s hands are shaking as she fumbles with the loop of jingling keys. As soon as she finds the one she’s looking for, she puts a hand on Mrs. Nanda’s arm and they turn to leave. Without a word from either of them to tell me what’s happening,

  “Wait!” I jump to my feet. “Where are you going?”

  “To the airport,” Mom calls over her shoulder. “We’re going to bring Pinky and her sister back.” She’s talking loud and walking like she’s in a big hurry. Before I know it, the two of them are out the front door. And I’m flying down the stairs so fast, my feet barely skim the carpet. Pushing on my flip-flops, I race to catch up to them in the driveway. The garage door is open and Mom’s unlocking the car. Harrison is standing off to the side, cradling his basketball with one hand and scratching his head with the other.

  “I’m coming, too,” I gasp, reaching for the car door handle.

  Mom glances at me. “No, Finch. I need you to —”

  “I’m coming!” I’m practically yelling now, but I don’t care. I can’t let them leave me behind. Not if there’s a chance I can help. “Pinky’s my friend. I’m coming,” I say again. And before anyone can tell me no, I’m yanking open the back door of the car and strapping on my seat belt.

  Mom and Mrs. Nanda get into the front seat. I guess both of them are in way too much of a panic to argue, ’cause nobody says boo to me. Mom revs the engine and charges the car down the driveway, faster than a bull rushing a red flag. Mrs. Nanda is huddled in the seat beside her. She’s not crying anymore. But she’s not talking either. Her arms are crossed over her chest and the look on her face is like how Mom looked on Daddy’s funeral day — like someone’s sucked every last drop of life right out of her.

  Mom’s gripping the steering wheel hard; her hands are a pair of tight fists. “Detective Kroon said he’ll meet us at the airport. He told me that British Airways has the only flight to New Delhi today.”

  “It will probably connect through London,” Mrs. Nanda says. She’s speaking so quietly, I can barely hear her. “That is how we flew when we came seven years ago …”

  Mom ste
ers the car up a spiraling ramp onto a busy highway. We’re going so fast, I can hear the wind whistling over the back windows. And we’re zipping in and out between lanes and around other cars. My whole life, I’ve never seen Mom drive like this. I really want to ask her what else Detective Kroon said on the phone. And what we’re going to do when we get to the airport. And if it’s really true that Pinky and Padma are being kidnapped. Maybe it’s because of the way she’s driving, but I feel like I might throw up if I try to talk, so I just sit on my hands and button my lips. I’ve never been so nervous in my life. It’s like a nest of worms has hatched in my stomach and now they’re crawling around looking for a way out. The sun through the windshield is hot, but nobody bothers to roll down a window. I’m so nervous, I barely even notice the vinyl seats sticking to my thighs. And that’s saying a lot.

  “If he gets them to India, he will keep them there,” Mrs. Nanda says. “He will take them to his parents’ home in Punjab and will not allow them to come back here. Aah … will I ever see my little daughters again?” Her voice breaks over this last part, and that makes me want to cry, too. I’m so scared for Pinky and her sister. I know how horrible it is to lose a parent. But I can’t imagine how it would feel if my other parent made it happen.

  “The detective is a good friend of ours. He’ll stop your husband in time. Don’t worry,” Mom says. She takes her right hand off the steering wheel and reaches for Mrs. Nanda’s. And in that little moment, it’s like they’ve been friends forever, even though they just met this afternoon. I think about that welcome-to-the-neighborhood casserole Mom never baked and never delivered, and I’m wondering if she’s feeling as sorry about that now as I am. “You will get your girls back,” she says softly. “You will.”