Birdie and Me Read online

  He takes a breath and rubs the back of his neck again and looks down the wooden staircase and it dawns on me that he really is about to leave. We’ve lived in this town for ten months and this is the first time we’ve ever been in this house and now we somehow live here.

  “You kids know why you couldn’t stay with Carl anymore, right?” He pauses. “He’s not reliable. You’re better off here.”

  We don’t say anything. Patrick clears his throat. “I put my cell number and the address here on a paper by the phone. One for each of you. Carry it with you.” He stares again at Birdie and then knocks twice on the wall and takes the stairs down.

  Birdie picks a bedroom and goes in.

  The hallway is dark.

  Somewhere there is a clock ticking.

  On the way here, I tried to pretend that today was a Wolf Day, Mama’s greatest invention: a spontaneous amazing adventure. But Wolf Day was all about saying yes. Moving to Patrick’s is all about saying no.

  No to Fry Shack ice cream sundaes.

  No to fashion magazines for Birdie.

  No to easy walks to town.

  How can it really be true that Patrick is Mama’s brother?

  **Observation #773: Shoebox Inventory

  5 bedrooms, 0 decorations on the walls unless you count some painting of a ship in a bottle & another of wooden ducks

  1 ancient basset hound (named Duke) that might be blind & also deaf

  1 fridge (no magnets):

  3 pounds of frozen ground beef, 2 pounds of frozen ground elk, 2 packages of bacon (1 frozen), 1 bag of tortillas, 1 jar of mayo, 1 jar of grape jelly, 1 block of cheddar cheese, 3 sticks of butter, 8 eggs, 4 carrots, 1 cabbage

  2 wooden cupboards (with the doors removed):

  9 giant cans of beans, 5 cans of tuna, 2 boxes of cereal (no milk), 1 jar of peanut butter, 2 onions, 1 jar of nuts, and something round wrapped tightly in foil and covered in a small towel

  1 overgrown backyard with a big lonely-looking oak & 4 other smaller trees

  1 giant circular shed on the side of the house (Birdie said it’s an old grain silo that’s been shortened—he saw one on some home makeover show he watched with Uncle Carl)

  1 large something next to the shed, covered in a giant tarp on a trailer—a boat?

  1 big living room window that would let in a lot of light if only you’d pull the curtains back

  1 wood-burning stove with a giant pile of logs & kindling (the only thing in the whole house that is anything like home)

  0 pieces of evidence that Patrick is related to Mama or Uncle Carl or any of us

  CHAPTER 2

  DINNER WITH A CLAM

  After unpacking a little, I find Birdie sitting on the back of the living room couch, staring out the large front window, his face close to the glass. The curtains are open, so light floods in.

  “Are you cold?” I ask. “You look cold.”

  He’s got his purple jacket on with the hood up. It’s October and starting to get chilly because of the nearby mountains, but I’m not sure I’d wear a hood indoors just yet.

  “It’s so windy here but with no rain like at home. It’s cold sitting by the window.”

  “Then why are you sitting there?”

  “Because if you sit right here and look out, it almost reminds me of our front yard.”

  I stand behind him but don’t see it. Our house didn’t have a chain-link fence. We had tall rosebushes and a little fig tree.

  I’m not cold, but I go to the wood-burning stove and make a small bridge of wood, just like Mama taught me, and shove crumpled newspaper and wood chips underneath and then light a match. The newspapers catch quickly and I watch the flames for a moment and then close the little door.

  In the kitchen, there’s no bread, so I use tortillas for peanut butter and jelly, which was something an old boyfriend of Mama’s used to do before she broke up with him—I’m pretty sure the tortillas were to blame.

  When I return to the living room with the food, Birdie’s eating a Honey Bunny Bun.

  “Birdie, stop. I have real food.”

  Birdie looks over at the rolled tortillas and the little pile of nuts and a couple of carrots.

  “I don’t think I’ve eaten a carrot since home,” Birdie says, finishing his Honey Bunny Bun. “I don’t even remember what they taste like. Probably not as good as a Honey Bunny Bun—is that peanut butter and jelly in those tortillas?”

  I don’t think we’ve had any kind of raw vegetable since Mama’s house. “You can’t live on Honey Bunny Buns forever,” I say.

  “Says who?”

  “Says me, your wise, all-knowing, Honey-Bunny-Bun-expert older sister.”

  “Um, if anyone is the Honey Bunny Bun expert, it’s me.”

  “Actually, it’s probably Uncle Carl.”

  “True.”

  We don’t say anything else for a long time. We sit on the back of the couch and look out the window and eat our picnic lunch, and there is the faintest crackle coming from the wood-burning stove and it’s finally warm enough for Birdie to put his hood down.

  I’m about to ask Birdie what makes the view from Patrick’s window so much like Mama’s when I see it. Maybe not what he sees, exactly. But with the fire and the stupid crunchy carrots like the ones Mama would make us eat all the time, and sitting in a real living room, on a real couch (a couch we don’t have to sleep on at night), I feel like home with Mama wasn’t just some dream like I’ve been telling myself the last ten months. We did live in a house. We did have our own rooms, with our own things, our own real lives. It had all really happened.

  * * *

  • • •

  When I hear Patrick return right after the sun sets, I’m lying on the rug in Birdie’s room as he sorts through his binder of fashion collages. He made it from magazines and gel pens and stickers. Uncle Carl even bought him a whole stack of new magazines once. Birdie calls it The Book of Fabulous.

  When the truck goes quiet, Birdie sits up straight and taps his pinkie on his leg.

  The front door opens and Duke’s collar jingles.

  I sit up. Birdie and me watch the door.

  Each footstep seems to echo and I catch myself holding my breath again, just like earlier at Uncle Carl’s.

  Patrick appears, glances into the room, wipes his hands with a gray bandanna, and says, “Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.” Then he nods and disappears and Birdie and me look at each other.

  “Are we really going to eat dinner with him?” asks Birdie.

  “I think we have to.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “That’s because you’re eating too many Honey Bunny Buns.”

  He gathers up his supplies. “When we first moved here, Uncle Carl asked us so many questions. He even wanted to know about that lizard we caught that Mama made us release in the backyard. He remembered. What does Patrick remember?”

  “Patrick’s not a big talker. Like Uncle Carl says, he’s a giant clam in pants.”

  “I don’t want to have dinner with a clam. Especially one who doesn’t like us.”

  Birdie pulls out his mad cap, which is this old sparkly purple knit hat that comes to a point, like an elf hat. Mama made it when she was in one of her knitting crazes, which used to happen once a year or so.

  I call it his mad cap because Birdie only wears it when he’s mad.

  When it’s time for dinner, Birdie and me go downstairs. Even before we walk into the kitchen, something perfect and wonderful hits my nose, but I can’t place what it is.

  At the kitchen island, Patrick slices a big round loaf of homemade bread. I realize this is what was covered in foil under the towel in the cupboard. The bread knife is
small in Patrick’s hand. Two iron skillets filled with steak, onions, and broccoli rest on the counter.

  Duke lies on the floor a few feet from where Patrick stands.

  Patrick looks at Birdie and his mad cap as he plates our food and says, “Take a seat.”

  Patrick sets our plates down, along with the bread, some forks, knives, and a roll of paper towels. I automatically close my eyes and inhale and the aroma goes straight down into my chest.

  For a moment, I think that I shouldn’t eat it because Mama wasn’t a fan of red meat.

  But before I realize what I’m doing, I have a bite in my mouth.

  It tastes perfect.

  Almost too perfect.

  And I suddenly realize that we’ve been eating Fry Shack, instant noodles, and snacks from the Stop-and-Go for the last ten months.

  Patrick sits down, drops some food on the floor for Duke, and then starts to eat.

  Birdie stares at his plate, his arms in his lap.

  “Need me to cut it?” Patrick asks, looking at Birdie’s steak. When Birdie doesn’t say anything, Patrick looks at me, like maybe Birdie doesn’t understand English and needs me to translate.

  “We didn’t eat a lot of steaks,” I say.

  “He doesn’t eat steak?” Patrick asks. His eyebrows might be raised in surprise, but it’s hard to know for sure under his hat.

  “No. That’s not what I mean,” I say.

  “Carl said you didn’t need much help in the way of food.” Patrick looks back at Birdie’s hat. “Are you cold?”

  “He just likes to wear it,” I say. “Helps him adjust to new stuff.”

  I give Birdie a piece of buttered bread, which he nibbles on.

  Patrick finishes quickly, then he gets up, washes the pans, and goes out the front door. Duke follows.

  For years, all Birdie has asked for is a dog. Too bad this dog doesn’t care about anyone except Patrick.

  I go out to the front window and peek through the blinds. There’s a light on in the round silo shed and the glow makes it look like a UFO.

  I call to Birdie to come look at the UFO lighting, but he doesn’t answer. I find him at the trash can, scraping his dinner off his plate.

  “Birdie—”

  “I have a stomachache. Good night.”

  And that’s how I’m left alone in the kitchen with an old green ticking clock and a hole in my chest going down to the center of the earth.

  * * *

  • • •

  Patrick is outside for over an hour. When he does come in, he stays downstairs.

  I don’t want to leave the bedroom, but I can’t sleep without a glass of water near me.

  When I go downstairs to find one, Patrick is standing at the kitchen island again and this time he’s kneading dough.

  I go to the sink and try not to stare at Patrick’s dusty hands as they move the dough around.

  I’m about to leave when he says, “The clothes Birdie’s been wearing, are those yours?”

  “All the clothes he wears are his,” I say.

  I watch Patrick put one mound of dough to the side. He grabs another, throws a bunch of flour on the counter, and lays the dough down and begins kneading.

  The clam makes bread.

  He continues, “Tomorrow I will show you around the house a bit more. How to take care of the kitchen. And some things about the yard, like where to put ash if you’re going to make another fire. Also, the washing machine and where to hang-dry clothes.”

  “Okay.”

  I wonder if I can go now.

  He washes his hands at the sink. “Birdie needs some proper clothes,” he says. “This seems to be part of the problem he has at school.”

  “He doesn’t have a problem.”

  “Missing twenty-seven days is a problem.”

  “But it doesn’t have anything to do with his clothes.”

  Patrick stops drying his hands. “That’s not what his teacher said.”

  “Ms. Cross-Hams?” I don’t mean for this to slip out, but I’m shocked Birdie’s school troubles are being blamed on his clothes. Then again, Birdie’s teacher—whose arms are like giant ham hocks—hasn’t been a fan of Birdie since we showed up last year, a couple weeks into December.

  According to Birdie, the first thing Ms. Cross-Hams said to him was that he couldn’t have his purse in class.

  Birdie’s always been the teacher’s favorite, so he didn’t know what to say. And he hasn’t figured it out since.

  Patrick sighs again and hangs the towel by the sink. “Now that you live here, there’s going to be some changes.” He calls Duke, who stands at the sound of his name, and they head out of the kitchen. Right before he goes out, he stops and says, “On Monday, I’ll drive you guys to school. I’m going to speak to Birdie’s teacher. We’ll get it sorted out. She has some ideas.” Before I can think of anything else to say, he and Duke go, leaving me standing next to the mounds of dough.

  Mama always let Birdie wear what he wanted. He never wears skirts or dresses to school because he says they aren’t comfortable for dodgeball, which is another thing Birdie likes. Even still, most people do notice that Birdie doesn’t dress like most boys. But his pink and purple shirts, rainbow shoes, and leggings covered in pink donuts, and everything else, have never really been a problem.

  Of course, getting Birdie to go to school has also never been a problem.

  I press my finger into a doughy heap. It is soft and still warm from being kneaded.

  I want to smash it into nothing.

  **Observation #774 Old Bedroom Inventory

  81 books: novels, comics, biographies, reference books, and 6 poetry books, which I rarely opened (all from Mama)

  11 observation notebooks

  4 plants, left over from a science fair project

  4 strands of twinkling lights on a fake palm tree from Birdie’s 7th birthday party

  1 Swiss Army knife

  1 Treasure box of rocks and shells

  9 board games, plus one I made when I was 8

  1st place ribbons: 6th-grade science fair, spelling bees & math league

  1 bean bag chair (for reading)

  1 banker’s lamp (found at a garage sale) on a small white writing desk (which Mama found on the side of the road, sanded down, and painted)

  1 life lived freely (even if my room was half the size of the one at Patrick's)

  CHAPTER 3

  THE TORNADO

  To say that Janet Rosweiler is my best friend is a little bit of a lie. I guess it’s better to say that she is my only friend. She was the first person I met after Patrick drove Birdie and me to California from Mama’s.

  Janet lives with her mom in a house that’s really a double-wide trailer on a two-acre plot of land. It sounds bad, but it’s actually pretty nice. There’s a big oak tree and six big cedars and the first time I saw it, my chest ached thinking of home. Janet has her own room and her mom has two jobs and like four boyfriends, so she’s barely there. Which means Janet basically has the place to herself.

  I’ve walked to Janet’s from town probably twenty times and never knew Patrick lived right down the street. Birdie and me would even explore the nearby nature reserve, which stretches almost to Patrick’s backyard, and still we never knew.

  This morning, Sunday, Patrick and Duke left before the sun was up. Birdie was still in his room when I slipped a note under his door reminding him I was going to Janet’s. My tennis shoes make little crunching noises as I cross the gravel driveway to her trailer door. I’m starting to doubt if she’s awake even though she made me promise to come by at nine a.m.

  “Hey loser, don’t you have anything better to do on a Sunday morning?” Janet yells from a window.

  “Ha! You’r
e the one who told me to come early,” I yell back.

  “God, your hair is a DISASTER. I should take a ‘before’ photo. Get in here.”

  Lucky, a dog Janet found behind the Stop-and-Go, barely lifts her head from a nap. I hope they aren’t waiting for her to become a watchdog.

  I walk in, looking around.

  “She’s not here,” says Janet. “It’s Sunday morning, meaning last night was Saturday night, which is Ross’s night, so she’s probably at his place as if I care. You want some Froot Loops and a smoke? My mom forgot her cigarettes. Again.”

  I sit down to her bowl of cereal, ignoring the cigarettes as she begins brushing my hair. Janet is fourteen, a year and a half older than me, but she started smoking when she was ten. Now she says I’m already behind on my smoking career by more than two years. I don’t know if I totally believe her, though, because I’ve never once seen her actually finish a cigarette.

  Janet sighs. “I can’t believe you go outside looking like this. Seriously, why am I even friends with you?”

  “Because I helped get your cell phone out of your mom’s locked car. And because I sometimes do your English homework.”

  “Okay, okay, okay. Whatever. Now tell me. What is Patrick’s house like? I can’t believe you live there now. I’ve always wondered about the inside. And what’s with the giant round thing in the front yard?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s a shed.” I swirl the cereal bowl. “Birdie says it’s an old grain silo.”

  “Oh my God—Birdie. Is Patrick actually babysitting him?”

  “No.” I tell her about the note I found this morning that said Patrick had a quick job in town and would be back later.

  “So Birdie’s all alone doing what? He could have come with you, you know. The kid knows more about hair than you do.”