Extraordinary Birds

by Sandy Stark-McGinnis

  As I turn around, I bump shoulders with Matilda. I glare at her and keep moving.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not like them, you know?” she says. “I came to this school right before you did. I’m new, too. Jenny was nice to me, so …”

  “So …,” I say over my shoulder.

  “She’s someone to hang out with.”

  “I wouldn’t hang out with her in a hundred fifty million years.”

  As I walk across the blacktop, I look over my shoulder. Matilda stares at Jenny, at the group, at Cheryllynn. Cheryllynn’s not surrounded by the circle anymore. She’s made her way in front of the girls, hands on her hips. She’s not backing down from them.

  I have to get Bird Girl back. There aren’t many choices I have in my life, but what I do with my story is one.

  No matter where I go on the playground, I can hear the echo of the Vultures’ voices. They don’t stop till the bell rings, leaving Cheryllynn alone, a faded pink dot in the middle of the grass.

  I should’ve stayed with her. I wouldn’t have had to say anything. I could’ve just stood next to her, to show her I was there.

  Some birds are more loyal to each other, like storks, geese, and swans. They’ve been known to stay together during migration when they’re traveling hundreds of miles.

  I wish I could’ve been a goose for Cheryllynn.

  After school, Eleanor honks the horn and waves. Soon as I get into the truck, it starts to rain. As we’re driving down the road, windshield wipers squeak. Out the window, through raindrops, a blurry pink figure appears. It’s Cheryllynn. I think about Jenny’s deal, and look in the side mirror to see if her mom’s car is behind us. “Can you stop the truck? That’s a girl I know, Cheryllynn.”

  Eleanor pulls over, and I open the door. “Want a ride?” I say it so quiet, Cheryllynn doesn’t hear me.

  “Would you like a ride home?” This time she does. She looks up at me, but doesn’t move toward the truck.

  “It’s not that far of a walk,” she says. I don’t blame her for not wanting a ride from us, from me.

  “Maybe not …” I scoot across the seat. “We still can give you a ride.”

  She plops inside the truck, drops of rain falling from the ends of her hair.

  “You’re Cheryllynn?” Eleanor says. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Eleanor shakes Cheryllynn’s hand. “Where are we taking you?”

  “Just to Sav-Mor Market. My mom works there.”

  Eleanor turns down the music. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Since I was in second grade,” Cheryllynn says.

  “You like it?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but I’d be okay living anywhere with my mom, you know?”

  I kind of know what Cheryllynn means. I think I could live anywhere with Eleanor, whether it was the coldest place on earth, Oymyakon, Russia, which recorded a temperature of ninety degrees below zero, or the hottest place on earth, Death Valley, where scientists have recorded the temperature at one hundred thirty-four degrees. As long as there was a chance to fly, I’d be okay.

  Sav-Mor Market is at the end of the block. Eleanor parks in front.

  Before Cheryllynn gets out of the truck, she asks, “Want to come in and have a slushy?”

  Eleanor follows behind us, and as Cheryllynn opens the swinging door to the store, she starts chattering again. “My mom will probably tell you this when you meet her, but call her Rhonda. She doesn’t like to be called Mrs. Watts by anyone who’s friends with me.”

  Rhonda stands behind one of two cash registers. Her hair is cut really short. She wears lots of makeup—pink eye shadow and red, red lipstick. Long peace-sign earrings dangle from her ears. Soon as she sees Cheryllynn she gives her a hug. “How was your day?”

  “Good.” Cheryllynn points back at me. “This is December, and her mom, Eleanor.”

  I don’t correct Cheryllynn about Eleanor being my mom. She is, for now.

  Rhonda reaches her hand out for me to shake. “Hello. Nice to meet you.”

  I hesitate, then put my hand in hers. It’s warm, and soft.

  She turns to Eleanor and shakes her hand, too. “Good to meet you. If you two want a slushy, help yourselves.”

  Cheryllynn pulls me down the aisle. There are two flavors, cherry and blueberry. “I like to mix them,” she says, pressing down on a lever.

  I fill my cup with cherry and follow Cheryllynn to aisle eight. There’s a section that’s a paradise of plastic toys.

  Cheryllynn picks up a wand and twirls it around. “Abracadabra, I turn you into a … What do you want to be?”

  “A bird, please,” I tell her.

  “What kind?”

  “I’d like the hummingbird’s acrobatic ability, the gentoo penguin’s skills as a great swimmer, and the albatross’s ability to fly long distances.”

  Cheryllynn twirls the wand around again. “Abracadabra, I turn you into all the birds you just said. I can’t remember them all. How do you remember all those things about birds?”

  “It’s just easy for me. Things about birds stick in my brain. I was born with a bird brain, you know?”

  Cheryllynn spits red slushy back into her cup and laughs. I laugh, too. It’s a strange sound, only because I haven’t heard it much. The sound keeps going and going, evolving into one I’ve never heard at all, a laugh that makes its way down into my stomach and shakes my whole body. I can’t stop.

  We’re like a flock of nightingales singing.

  All the laughing has made me forget about Jenny. I can’t make her mad. Maybe she comes to this store. Maybe she’s in the next aisle, listening to Cheryllynn and me.

  “I think I should go,” I say, but Cheryllynn is holding the wand out for me to take.

  I don’t grab it right away. “Just a second.” I check aisle seven and aisle six. No Jenny. No Vultures.

  “You okay?” Cheryllynn asks as I take the wand.

  “Turn you into a princess, right?”

  “Of course, and don’t hold anything back. I want to wear everything a princess should wear, a gown, tiara, high-heeled shoes.” Cheryllynn holds her arms out to the side and closes her eyes. I wonder if she believes when she opens them, she’ll really be a princess. “Everything pink, even the diamonds.”

  “Abracadabra. I turn you into a princess.” I wave the wand and point it at Cheryllynn.

  She opens her eyes and looks down at her clothes. “That trick never works, but it’s always fun to try. You know, the first day I wanted to wear a dress to school, my mom said no. Not because she didn’t want me to be who I wanted to be, but because she was afraid kids would make fun of me, and that I’d get beat up. She was trying to protect me.”

  “You probably went to school wearing a dress anyway, right?”

  “No. That day my mom said I should try wearing just a bracelet and a ring at first and see how that would go. I didn’t care what anyone thought, but I guess she was afraid. Little by little we added more things until a dress—it was actually a skirt—wasn’t a shock.”

  I lift the wand. “Want me to try again?”

  “No,” Cheryllynn says, “I’m good.”

  Wandering the aisle, I don’t get any farther than the butterfly wings hanging inside plastic bags. At first I just stare at them, but I can’t help myself, and open one. I just want to see how they feel, even though I know my real wings will feel a lot different. I thread my arms through the straps. If Jenny came around the corner right now, I doubt the wings would cause her to mistake me for a butterfly. But still. It’s nice, for a second, to look over my shoulder and see them.

  “Those look good on you. Like you were born to wear them,” Cheryllynn says. “I could buy them for you, if you want.” She grabs the wings. “The blue ones, right?”

  “No. I don’t need them.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. Thanks, though. I don’t think I deserve them. I saw Jenny …”

  “I saw you wal
k away.”

  “Yeah, I did.” I grab the wings back from Cheryllynn and hang them on the hook. “I shouldn’t have, but Jenny took something that belongs to me. She’ll only give it back if I don’t hang out with you.”

  Cheryllynn takes a sip of her slushy. “You know, Jenny and I used to be really good friends. Best friends, actually.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “When I started wearing dresses to school, her parents didn’t want her hanging out with me anymore. All the teasing is her way of getting back at me. She believes it’s all my fault that we’re not friends. That’s the story she has to tell herself. But she made a choice. And I did, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I made a choice, too, and it was the wrong one.

  Eleanor and I say goodbye. As we walk out of the store, I scan the parking spaces. There isn’t any car that looks like Jenny’s mom’s.

  Inside the truck, looking down at red ice in my cup, warm air blowing against my skin, I stare at Eleanor’s hands. Bluish-green veins rise up from her skin, like a map of rivers, one branching out from another. I want to reach over and press one. The skin looks soft and squishy.

  “Cheryllynn and her mom are nice,” Eleanor says. “Maybe we can invite them to dinner sometime?” I bet her veins are like the Mississippi River. Her heart is so big, she has deep, wide veins to handle the blood needed to keep it beating.

  “That would be okay.” Seeing Cheryllynn and her mom together, the way they treat each other, gives me hope.

  But hope is a scary thing.

  Maybe I’m not a bird. Maybe I’m not even part bird. Maybe I’m just an eleven-year-old girl with a scar on her back where wings will never unfold, no matter how hard I try to make them.

  I look down. My arms have goose bumps even though heat’s blowing through vents, and Eleanor’s singing, bringing her own warmth, too. But the goose bumps aren’t there because I’m cold. They’re there as a reminder. You are a bird, and goose bumps are where each feather belongs: layered, beautiful, strong.

  15

  Today, when I stick the glove into Henrietta’s cage, she ruffles her feathers and hops back, like she’s afraid of me.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper, and give her a piece of raw meat.

  As we’re walking out to the field, Henrietta moves back and forth across my glove, spreading her wings a couple of times. “She’s not herself,” I tell Eleanor. “I think she’s afraid of something. Me, maybe?”

  “No,” Eleanor says. “She’s just familiar with the routine now. Knows what to expect. Kind of like an athlete right before a big race.” She looks up at Henrietta, standing on the perch. “We’ll keep coming out here as long as it takes. There’s no need to set a world record for flight today.”

  I take my position in the field, next to a perch, about ten feet farther than last time. I wave my glove up and down, jiggling the bell. Henrietta doesn’t move.

  “Try again,” Eleanor says.

  I do, but Henrietta doesn’t take flight. “What if I move closer?”

  Eleanor nods. “Let’s try it.”

  I move to a spot closer than I was the first time we were out here and jiggle the bell, and this time Henrietta flies to me.

  But during the rest of our training session, Henrietta refuses to fly any farther.

  On the way home, I ask Eleanor, “Did I do something wrong? If she keeps doing this, she’s never going to fly.”

  “She just regressed a little. We have to keep being there for her. She’ll come around. Don’t worry. You’ll get her to fly.”

  I’m not so sure. Maybe I’m not the right person to teach her, after all. Maybe Henrietta, with her keen bird sense, has decided not to give me her trust. She knows that things don’t usually work out for me.

  “Don’t worry, December,” Eleanor says again. “Hey, Halloween is coming up. Should we go get some pumpkins? What do you think?”

  Eleanor is trying to get my mind off Henrietta. I don’t know if it’ll work, but I like that she’s making an effort.

  “That would be good.”

  Eleanor turns down a dirt driveway that leads to a pumpkin patch.

  Orange. It’s everywhere. But pumpkins are the best of what orange can be: pumpkins, Popsicles, and sunset skies.

  Eleanor wanders the patch, searching for a pumpkin. When I catch up to her she asks, “Have you found one you like?”

  “You want me to pick out a pumpkin?”

  “Don’t you want to?”

  “I guess. What are you supposed to look for in a good pumpkin?”

  Eleanor rests her hands on her hips. “I’ve never been asked that question before. I don’t really know. You just pick ones that you like.” She points to a patch of light blue pumpkins that break up the orange. “Those are Cinderella pumpkins. The green ones are called Fairytales. Then, you have Big Rocks, which are good for carving jack-o’-lanterns, and over there”—Eleanor turns around—“the big white ones are Full Moon pumpkins.”

  “I like the orange, regular ones.” It doesn’t take me long to pick out three, and Eleanor and I take them to the truck.

  “They have a corn maze, too,” Eleanor says. “You want to walk through it?”

  One thing I’ve noticed about Eleanor is she’s always asking me whether I want to do something or not. She’s giving me choices.

  The path we’re supposed to take is clear, and not too confusing, but it feels like the maze goes on a long time. I start to wonder if it has an end. We turn—and suddenly I’ve lost track of direction.

  “Think we’re almost there.” But we turn the corner and the path continues.

  The cornstalks have become an endless wall. I take deep breaths, my oxygen and carbon dioxide exchange getting faster and faster, and I think about Jenny. She still has my book. She has my story, and the secrets it tells of my bird self. Stories and secrets that are only mine to share. My heart beats like a hummingbird’s now.

  “December.” Eleanor rests her hands on my shoulder. I jump a little even though her touch is still featherlight. She sings softly.

  My breathing slows, and I hear Eleanor’s voice saying, “We’re okay. We’ll find our way out. Together. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

  She holds out her hand for me to grab, but I’m not ready to take it. We walk side by side, though, and in four turns, we’ve made it to the end.

  Back in the car, it feels good to sit in the truck with the heat coming through the vents. My feathers, my dormant feathers, are not bothered by the air right now.

  “I get nervous.” I hold one of the pumpkins in my lap. “Sometimes … I get nervous when I think I can’t get out of a place. I don’t like spaces that make me feel that way.”

  Eleanor leans over the steering wheel, her voice a dusky blue. “When I was growing up,” she says, “I was afraid of the dark. Like really afraid. I slept with the light on until I was a teenager. But now, one of my favorite things to do is to go outside at night and just sit. Sit with the noises, even if it’s quiet. That’s what scared me most about the dark. I was always thinking about what noises I’d hear at any minute. It caused me a lot of anxiety.”

  “So I’ll get over it someday?”

  “More than likely you’ll grow out of it.” Eleanor pats the pumpkin. “You ready to go home?”

  Home. I don’t want the word to make me feel the way I did the first time I saw a blue heron take flight. As soon as its feet left the earth, the ground shook a little, and my breath was taken away. Seeing the blue heron made me feel like everything was connected, and that, like Adrian’s told me a million times, the world and I were going to be okay. Most people would want to feel that way, but I can’t. If I feel too okay, I’ll lose the desire to find my wings.

  In the driveway, Eleanor turns off the ignition. “I want you to know, I’m here for you, December.”

  “But not for long. You’re a foster parent, which means your house is temporary.”

  Eleanor leans over the se
at. Behind me, in the field, there’s another oak tree, but it’s a valley oak, shorter, stockier than my flight tree. Eleanor’s eyes rest on the spot where it grows. I wonder if she’s thinking about the word temporary.

  “I don’t have to be,” she says.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean you can stay with me for as long as you want. What do you think of that?”

  “Maybe” is all I can say to that right now. Because staying with Eleanor would not be a realistic life for a bird.

  I get out of the truck, carrying the pumpkin that I was holding in my lap, and set it on the porch. I do the same with the other two pumpkins.

  I open the side gate and go into the backyard, heading to my flight tree. I see three broken birdhouses are on a table. One needs half its roof replaced. I stand over it. Inside is just one room, no windows except for a small round one next to a perching post.

  “After these birdhouses are fixed, we can build something together, if you want?” Eleanor stands inside the back door, the screen fading her into a shadow.

  I don’t remember ever building anything with my mom, not even a puzzle or anything with blocks.

  “What would we build?”

  Her silhouette says, “A desk for your room? A chair to go with the desk? Anything you want. You could paint it any color, too.”

  “I don’t really need anything, though.”

  “Well, maybe you can think about it.”

  The screen door clicks shut. Eleanor goes back to the kitchen.

  I want to try to fix the roof on the birdhouse. All the tools I need are here: measuring tape, a small handsaw, hammer, and nails.

  If people could fix memories like they fix a house, covering up holes, stopping leaks, hanging doors back on hinges, then bad images couldn’t get through.

  As I’m fitting the cut pieces of wood to the roof, five birds gather on the ground under one of the bird feeders. They’re pecking at the dirt where seeds have fallen down.

  Bluebirds’ wings are not really blue. The blue is caused by light waves interacting with each feather. The colors bouncing back to the human eye are in the blue range. When my feathers appear, what Eleanor will see is just blue, and she will be so mesmerized, she won’t care I’m flying away because something as beautiful as me should be free.