Birdie and Me Page 4

  Anyway, Uncle Carl hadn’t heard from the taxidermist in two weeks, but he went to the spelling bee anyway. It was there that Birdie’s teacher approached him about the missed double-makeup meeting and Birdie’s absences. I don’t know exactly what happened because Uncle Carl was standing at the back of the auditorium and I was up near the front with Birdie.

  All I remember is Uncle Carl yelling, “Excuse me! Who are you? Nurse Ratched or something?” Then there was all this commotion and Birdie’s teacher called Uncle Carl unreliable and a poor guardian and that she would report him and then there was more shouting, this time from other parents, and Uncle Carl kicked a chair over and then stormed out. Birdie didn’t want to go on stage after that and we went out the side door and walked to Uncle Carl’s apartment alone.

  The next day, Patrick came over so they could discuss some things. They were gone for most of their discussion, but when they came back I heard them arguing as they got out of Patrick’s truck. Uncle Carl pointed at Patrick, saying that all we needed was a little help and a little time, both of which Patrick never wanted to give in the first place.

  But Patrick just shook his head, his hands on his belt. “I already told you, Carl. It’s too late. The teacher reported the truancy. She made sure of it after you threw a chair at her.”

  “Well excuse me for caring about the kids’ feelings.” Uncle Carl threw up his hands and then headed toward the stairs. Patrick drove off in his truck.

  Marlboro came back from the taxidermist a week later and we moved in with Patrick three days after that.

  * * *

  • • •

  I knock on Uncle Carl’s door again, and Rosie’s bellowing voice in her British accent calls out from the street. “He’s not there. Said he was headed to Social Security. Went to buy lotto tickets more like it.”

  Rosie is the love of Uncle Carl’s life, his sort-of girlfriend. You know the kind of person you can’t help but like even when they are completely opposite of you? That’s Rosie.

  “Social Security’s not open on Sunday,” I say.

  “That’s what I said, but he just got on that stupid bicycle and disappeared.” She rolls her eyes. “And he wonders why I keep saying no. Ha!” About once a month, Uncle Carl asks Rosie to marry him. She turns him down every time.

  “Come, then,” she says, waving us down to the curb to her truck. “I’ll make you some lunch. I’ve got some new ones to show you.”

  Rosie owns the Quesadilla Ship—the best (and only) food truck in town. The truck’s old—it was the only thing she could afford when she left England ten years ago to take care of her mom, who has some kind of cancer and also some condition where she forgets things a lot.

  She climbs inside the lime-green truck and we wait at the ordering window. With a flick of her wrist, she slaps a couple flour tortillas on the griddle and her eight bracelets ring together like bells.

  Rosie wields the spatula like a wand. “Wow, look at that fantastic hair. Janet got ahold of you, looks like. Now pick your poison. You can try my new garlic fresco quesadilla. It’s hot off the presses, that new recipe.” Her smile is so big it’s about to break her face.

  “Sure, I’ll try it,” I say, because I always try Rosie’s new recipes.

  “Just a regular for me,” says Birdie.

  A Birdie Regular is a quesadilla with Colby Jack cheese and salsa, with avocado and sour cream on top. I guess Birdie’s ordered it enough times that now it’s “regular.”

  Rosie winks, her green eye shadow flashing at me. I’ve never seen Rosie without eye shadow and she always lays it on thick, making it stand out against her brown skin.

  “Birdie boy, when are we going to have another sewing session?”

  I wonder if she’s going to mention how we live a million miles away now.

  Birdie looks down and shrugs his shoulders. “Soon, hopefully.”

  An employee from the Stop-and-Go walks up to the ordering window and asks for a Tomato Onion Sizzle.

  Birdie and me sit down on the curb. He holds out his hand and watches an ant crawling around his finger until it reaches his pinkie, which has light purple polish shining in the sun.

  “Do you think this color is nice? I kind of wish it was darker,” says Birdie.

  “It’s because you didn’t put on two coats.” I know this from the one and only time Rosie did my nails. I rub his nail with my finger and he snatches it away after a couple seconds. He knows how to make polish darker. Mama taught him.

  Mama had a whole set of nail polish, which she kept lined up on her dresser like a little nail polish army. Birdie used to always rearrange them into rainbow order.

  For the first time I wonder what happened to all her polish. Is it still lined up along the back of her dresser? Packed up in a box? And would a place like Patrick’s be easier for Birdie if he had a nail polish army?

  He squints at the ant. “Maybe I should take up ant farming.”

  I wonder if he notices that he’s doing it again, that thing where he says the things Mama used to say. She was always telling us how she should “take up” some new activity.

  Suddenly, there is a screech of bicycle brakes.

  The wind gusts and Uncle Carl half jumps, half falls off his bike and lays it down on the asphalt in front of us. He’s got a bag from Yum Yum Donuts in his hand and a little box that says Shasta Cupcake Company tucked under his arm. He’s wearing jeans and a collared shirt, which I didn’t even know he had. There’s an orange balloon tied to the handlebars of his bike.

  Rosie comes out with our quesadillas and one of her eyebrows goes way up.

  Uncle Carl kneels dramatically at Rosie’s feet. “Mi querida, mi amor.” He holds up the cupcake box like he’s offering a sword. “Marry me, Rosemary Wilson.”

  “No thanks, but I will take the cupcake.” She takes the box from his hand, sits on the curb, and he plops down next to her.

  “But I biked all the way to the mall for that,” he says. “Throw a dog a bone. How many nos can one man handle?”

  “You biked all the way to the mall just for this cupcake?” Rosie says.

  “And the gourmet donuts for my favorite niece and nephew.” He tosses the bag toward us. “They were handing out free balloons, Mr. Bird. Thought you’d want one.” He looks at Birdie and his bushy eyebrows go up and down in exaggerated excitement. Sometimes I wonder if he thinks that Birdie is still the four-year-old kid he met five years ago.

  “I thought you were going to the Social Security office, which we all know is closed on the weekends,” says Rosie. “And you got all spiffed up to go too.”

  “Well, I was on a top secret mission and I had to throw you off my trail.”

  “Top secret mission?” I say as I dig through the donut bag.

  “Yes, and even you two beautiful ladies and this strapping young lad won’t get the secret out of me. These lips are sealed tight.”

  “Right,” says Rosie, “just like your super-secret way of getting free cable? Is it as secret as that?”

  Uncle Carl closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t say I know what you’re talking about.”

  Rosie rolls her eyes and Uncle Carl winks at me as he lights a cigarette. “Well now. Looks like Janet got ahold of you,” he says, pointing his cigarette at my head.

  “She was helping Janet showcase her hair-styling skills,” says Birdie.

  “So you let the menace touch your hair again?” asks Uncle Carl.

  “Don’t call her that,” says Rosie. The funny thing is that sometimes I think Janet likes to be called the town menace. Like that maybe it gives her some kind of power or something.

  Rosie asks, “Who’s going to defend that girl when I’m not here?”

  In less than three weeks, Rosie’s taking a trip back to England. I guess her dad is sick now and her stepmom needs some help with gettin
g his affairs in order.

  I take a bite of quesadilla, which is fried to golden perfection. The saltiness is a good companion to the sugary donut. I go back and forth, taking a bite of one, savoring it, and then taking a bite of the other. Sometimes when I’m eating Rosie’s quesadillas, I feel like my life is maybe totally fine.

  Uncle Carl taps his cigarette over an ashtray that Rosie keeps on the sidewalk near the Quesadilla Ship just for him.

  I’m waiting for him to ask about Patrick’s house, but maybe he’s hoping one of us will say something first.

  Or maybe all of us are pretending that nothing’s changed in the last twenty-four hours.

  A group of people walk up, looking like they’re headed to the hot-air balloon rides, which launch from a spot across town and over the hill. They’ve got expensive-looking coats on. “Back to the grindstone.” Rosie heads back to her truck.

  “So,” Uncle Carl says after Rosie is gone. “Looks like you’ve survived one day with the old man.”

  Birdie says, “And Duke the dog, who doesn’t care about anyone except Patrick.”

  “Patrick even gave him some of the steak he made us,” I say.

  “Wow, steak, huh?” says Uncle Carl. “The goat’s pulling out all the stops to impress you. Got money to throw around, I guess.”

  Clam. Goat. Old man.

  Birdie shrugs. “I wish we could live with you, Uncle Carl.”

  Uncle Carl stubs out his cigarette and blows the last of the smoke toward the sky. “Me too, kid. But the old man’s got more room, and a better job, and he’s just . . . better. For you.”

  Birdie says, “I really don’t care about sleeping on a couch. I don’t mind. It’s a great couch, actually.”

  Uncle Carl kind of laughs and then shakes his head and sighs. “Did you guys already eat all the Honey Bunny Buns? Do you need more?”

  I stand up and say, “I have to go to the bathroom.” And then I walk up to Uncle Carl’s apartment.

  In the kitchen, I dig through the junk drawer until I find the picture of a younger Uncle Carl and a teenage Mama, and the best thing about this picture is that she looks exactly like me. The same thick eyebrows and frizzy hair—not at all shiny, smooth, and styled like she normally had it. In the photo, Uncle Carl is looking off to the side, but Mama is looking right at the camera.

  Under her wild bangs, her eye makeup is smudgy and dark, but she has that same look she’d get when a Wolf Day was coming. Fired up but also resolved and defiant. Her cropped T-shirt and tight jeans look strangely like something Janet would wear.

  I close Uncle Carl’s drawer and look over at the couch. I almost trick myself into thinking that we still live here. That later today I’ll unfold the futon and lie down and try to sleep.

  Birdie and me are here, but our home and Mama’s things are seven and a half hours away in another state. Thinking of Mama and Janet makes me realize that I need to be more determined too.

  **Observation #776: Things I Already Know About the Bus

  The bus station is in the next town, 16 minutes away.

  We have to take a local bus from the sidewalk in front of Uncle Carl’s apartment to get there.

  Then bus #331 takes 8 hours and 51 minutes to get to Portland, Oregon.

  For a long-distance bus, the cost of an adult ticket is $32. Kids are $26.

  Local buses cost $1.75.

  I have $68.71 saved up from birthdays and Christmas.

  I don’t think two kids can ride alone.

  But I look a lot older when my hair is done up.

  And Birdie is great at acting.

  And persuading too. Birdie could convince Mrs. Spater to bake a whole lemon pound cake for him, even when she was tired.

  Maybe he could convince her that we are better off living with her.

  That our lives stopped when we left and all we want is to come home.

  CHAPTER 5

  LOOKING OUT

  The next morning is Monday and Birdie neatly arranges his books and binders inside his backpack before we leave for school. He’s got black leggings on along with his favorite purple jacket. I don’t see any jewelry, not even his milk-and-cookies charm necklace, which he wears almost every day.

  Birdie says, “Patrick didn’t get home until nine o’clock last night. And now he’s already out in the shed. Is he like a secret agent or something?”

  “I guess he’s some kind of mechanic. Rosie says he drives all over Northern California fixing engines that other people can’t fix.”

  Birdie says, “The engine whisperer,” zipping his backpack closed.

  I’m about to ask him if wearing the purple jacket at school stresses him out, when Patrick suddenly calls from downstairs, telling us it’s time to go.

  Birdie puts his Book of Fabulous, which he usually brings with him, in one of his drawers. I offer him some of my toast but he shakes his Honey Bunny Bun at me.

  “I hope you’re not eating more than your share,” I say. “It’s fifteen each.”

  He rolls his eyes. “What do you think I am? A bun stealer?”

  Patrick waits for us on the front step while the truck idles. He locks the door behind us and I’m surprised to find the truck warm on the inside.

  When he pulls into my school’s parking lot, he says, “I have a job in the next county and might be home a little late again. There’s roast beef, cheese, and tomato in the fridge.”

  I look at Birdie, wanting to tell him that it’s going to be okay. No matter what happens in that meeting with Patrick and Ms. Cross-Hams, I will make sure he’s okay. But Birdie never makes eye contact with me.

  “Maybe you should call my cell phone when you guys get home,” Patrick says.

  I nod.

  I can tell he wants me to close the truck door and get a move on. So that’s what I do. Except I don’t exactly get a move on. I stand there in front of the school steps, with students streaming around me like water around a rock, and watch Birdie disappear in Patrick’s truck.

  * * *

  • • •

  My English teacher, Mr. Belling, peers over his glasses at us as he hands out a sheet explaining the details of our next project. Working with a partner, we’re supposed to select a poet, research their life and poetry, and then make a poster to share with the class.

  More than once Mr. Belling stops, takes off his glasses, and pinches the bridge of his nose, which is something he does when someone asks a stupid question. It’s the perfect class to write in my notebook because Mr. Belling has to stop so many times and breathe himself calm in the face of many clueless students.

  Sometimes, when I can’t think of anything to write in my observation notebook, I doodle in the margins. I draw Birdie’s milk-and-cookies charm necklace, which is probably at Patrick’s house, tucked away in a drawer. I guess he didn’t want to wear it when he knew he’d have to sit through a meeting about his clothes.

  I’m not sure how long Mr. Belling has been calling my name when I finally hear, “Miss Royland? Hello? Earth to Jack Royland.”

  I look up from my notebook and see Mr. Belling frowning at me. The tall kid in front of me twists his body around, and under his long, blond bangs I see him eye my notebook. I quickly close it.

  “I’m trying to inform you of your partner for the poetry project. I hate to think that she’ll have to do all the work because you chose to not pay attention in class.”

  Everyone looks at me and I think I even hear snickering.

  “I’ve said this before, Miss Royland: Participation is much easier if you’d just pay attention to the front of the class instead of whatever you are doing in that notebook.”

  His bald head has gone from white to an aggravated red and the body odor coming off the tall kid begins to suffocate every other thought from my mind. I wish he’d turn around so that his arms ar
e clamped down again, holding in that horrible smell. I don’t know what it is with the boys this year, but they do not smell good.

  Mr. Belling finally calls on another student. The boy in front of me turns back around.

  When the bell rings, I don’t wait to find out who my partner is. I grab my things and head out the door.

  I’m at my locker when a voice behind me says, “It’s not your fault. He always zeroes in on the smart ones in the class.” I turn around and face a girl with huge blue-framed glasses. “I think he’s jealous of the smart students. My mom knows him from way back. She said he’s a frustrated failed novelist who is forced to teach middle school English for a living.”

  It’s a girl named Krysten. I don’t remember her last name. But her dark complexion and tons of neatly done braids and blue glasses make her stand out. She’s one of two black students in the whole school.

  “I’m Krysten, you’re Jack,” she says.

  “Ummm” is all I can get out before she starts talking again.

  “Is Jack short for something?”

  “Um, Jackie?” For some reason her pointed questions make me second-guess everything I’m saying.

  “Oh, okay,” she says. “I was just wondering because my mom’s name is Jacqueline and her friends sometimes call her Jack. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I’ve noticed Mr. Belling kind of picking on you since the school year started and I heard he only does that to students he thinks are smart. You and your brother just moved here last year, right? That kid with the girl clothes who I always see you with, he’s your brother?”

  “Yeah.”

  I don’t know what she means about always seeing me with Birdie. It’s not like he comes to school with me.

  Then I realize: She means around town. She’s probably gone by us in the car or something. I sometimes forget that’s the sort of thing that happens in a small town.

  “Anyway, I know you’re still kind of new. So I just wanted you to know about Mr. Belling. That, and we’re partners for the poetry project, so maybe we should come up with a time to meet and get started.”