The Meaning of Birds

by Jaye Robin Brown

  But then, maybe she’s right after all. If we’d never moved away from the base, I’d never have had a dead girlfriend. The thing is, I do want to limit myself. I want a tiny box of room, kitchen, room. I want a simple job where I talk to no one and meet no one and come home and sleep in darkness. I don’t want light and lakes and depressing birdsong. I definitely don’t want a sprawling college campus filled with excited freshmen who’ve never experienced the cut of loss.

  Nina and Cheyanne nod along with her. “Yeah, take your time,” Nina says. “You can always do community college first, like me.”

  Cheyanne slips Emma Watson off her neck and plops the cat in my lap. “We can just work on the easy stuff, save the essays for later. You know, practice, or something.”

  Mom squeezes my shoulder and the vision of ash blowing on breeze clouds my thoughts. “I’ll be home around five. I thought we could have a kale salad and some grilled chicken with pomegranate relish.” She spends Sundays studying at the law office where she currently works as a paralegal, in hopes of one day having her own corner office.

  Nina scoffs. “Mom, it’s Game of Thrones night. Pizza.”

  “One day your unhealthy eating habits are going to catch up to you.” She looks at the three of our hopeful faces. “Fine. But no meat. A veggie supreme. Thin crust. And get a big side salad at least.”

  “Yes.” Cheyanne fist pumps in a most un-Cheyanne-like way.

  Mom leaves and eventually Nina leaves and finally it’s me and Chey and her goals and aspirations for me.

  “How are you?” she asks, her face solemn.

  “Don’t.” I shake my head.

  “Don’t?”

  “Ask that question. It’s the stupidest question on the planet. How am I? Seriously?” I ball the comforter in my hands. “The girl I was certain I was going to marry and live a beautiful life with died. I suck. But when people ask me that, they don’t want to hear the truth, they want to hear ‘Oh, I’m fine. Hanging in there. It hurts, but I’ll get over it.’ I’m not going to get over it. I’m not okay.”

  Cheyanne moves her face back like I slapped her. “Excuse me. I’m sorry.”

  “And don’t say sorry either. It’s not your fault.”

  Cheyanne takes a breath. I’m not being fair to her but the hurt consumes me. “Ooookay. So, do you want to look at this stuff or what?”

  “Why don’t you just lecture me. It’s what you want to do anyway. Just hold up the brochures and tell me what I should major in and exactly what I should write because I’m obviously a colossal screwup in your eyes and probably the only reason you’re here is because you feel some obligation to the ghost of Vivi.”

  “I know you’re in pain, Jess, but you’re being rude. I’m just trying to help.”

  I ball up into my Snuggie and turn away from her. Being a douchebag feels so much better than letting the sad soak into my cells. “Whatever. This was your idea. I don’t need your help.” I’m pushing her, I know.

  “We don’t have to do this. Levi invited us to go see a movie later on. I was going to see if you wanted to go if we finished.”

  “So, are you going to lead him on forever, or what?”

  “Jess.” Her voice is warning.

  “No, I’m serious. Because that boy really likes you and is really nice and I’m sick of watching you say jump and him saying how high. And it’s disgusting how you are with him. You’re a big fucking tease. You can’t relate to my heartbreak if you can’t even relate to your own emotions. You hide them in your schoolwork. Unlike me.” I push Emma Watson off the bed. “I feel every single freaking one of them. Do you even have them?”

  I find Cheyanne’s limit.

  “You, my friend, are being a class-A bitch. I’m going to leave now.” She stands and hesitates, waiting on my apology no doubt.

  It doesn’t come.

  “What are you waiting for? Go. Just get out of here.”

  Cheyanne grabs her bag and storms out of my room. I follow her to the front door. When it slams, I flip her the bird. And even though it feels righteous and alive, there’s another part underneath that feels dirty. Like I was never worthy of a love like Vivi’s.

  On the way back to my bedroom, I stop in the kitchen. At the back of the fridge is a bottle of some fancy flavored gin someone gave my mom. I pull it out, pour a big glass, and top the bottle off with water. I push Emma Watson into the hall and shut my door so it’s just me, the alcohol, and my memories.

  And then I scream.

  “Fuck!”

  I scream it over and over and over again, my anger punching at Vivi in every direction. How dare she? How dare she die? When I can’t scream anymore, and I’ve drained the glass, I curl into a ball and wish I could have died instead.

  17

  Then: A Competition for the Ducks

  “Wine?” Mr. Bouchard, I mean Henri, held up a bottle in front of me. My eyes widened. Alcohol seemed like something you snuck when your parents weren’t around, not something they offered you.

  It was my first overnight at the lake house and Vivi’s mom had cooked beef bourguignon, which made the whole space smell insanely good.

  When Vivi had whispered in my ear, “Want to spend the night with me?” my heart had stopped. But then she’d laughed. “It won’t be like that. Because you’re my girlfriend, we’ll have separate rooms. But it’s going to be amazing. We’ll make cookies and drink hot chocolate and watch the wild ducks. Some varieties are only on the lake during winter months.” I’d teased her about her obsession and she’d stuck her tongue out at me and her mom had called my mom and it’d all been arranged.

  Now here I was, with a plate full of gourmet food, and an empty glass being filled with red wine. Abigail, Vivi’s mom, must have noticed the shocked expression on my face because she laughed. “It’s cultural. A little wine with a meal is normal for us. If you don’t like it you don’t have to drink it.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Henri said. “She will love it.”

  I envied Vivi sometimes. Her life was filled with trips around the globe and loads of international friends. Even though my dad’s Texas family was an awesome mash-up of various degrees of Mexican and Texan, their lives seemed pretty much like mine. Suburban and boring. I tried to act cool though when I took the first sip.

  Vivi giggled when she saw my eyes squeeze shut and my lips pull down into a puckering frown. So much for savoir faire.

  She whispered, “You really don’t have to drink it.”

  Abigail winked and passed me a basket of crispy bread. “Vivi says you are becoming quite the artist.”

  I scrunched up my face at Vivi. I knew she’d made the whole “Jess is an artist” thing her personal agenda, but it was still strange to talk about it so openly. But I nodded and tried a second sip of the wine after I swallowed the bite I’d just taken of the beef. It was pretty cool how its taste enhanced the flavor of the food but I didn’t see myself becoming a connoisseur anytime soon.

  “This is really good,” I said before adding, “I like drawing and I’m definitely improving, but your daughter has a way of making me sound way better than the reality.”

  “That may be true, but she also has an eye for things. Our Vivi is a special spirit.”

  At this Vivi blushed. “Mom, stop.”

  “What? Can I not brag about my own beautiful daughter to the girl who loves her?”

  Now we were both blushing furiously, because even though we were pretty joined at the hip whenever it was possible, we’d taken things very, very slowly on the physical and confessional part of our relationship. It wasn’t that Abigail was wrong, at least where I was concerned, but the words hadn’t been said between Vivi and me.

  Fortunately, Henri jumped into the ensuing silence. “Did you see this?” He reached behind him and grabbed a folded newspaper section from the kitchen counter. “There is a competition for the ducks.”

  “What?” Vivi said. We both thought it was adorable when her dad sometimes said things tha
t highlighted English as his second language. “Are they going to have a beauty contest or something?”

  He scoffed. “Not for the ducks. For the drawings. Here.” He handed over the paper. “Take it with you downstairs to investigate, leave your mother and I to finish our wine. You can come back for the dessert and the dishes.”

  Vivi kissed her dad’s cheeks, then her mother’s, before grabbing my hand. “Come on.” She pulled me down the steps toward the media room.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Didn’t you hear my dad? He said go investigate.” Vivi winked. “That was clearly a sign they’re giving us solo time. I plan on investigating.” Vivi tiptoed her fingers up the sleeve of my flannel shirt.

  I glanced nervously back up the stairs. The last thing I wanted was any of our parents walking in on some scene they couldn’t unsee, but the truth was I’d thought of nothing but kissing Vivi since we got to the lake house.

  “Chicken,” she teased.

  It’s true. I was chicken. For as much as I constantly longed for her, thought about her, looked at her, I was shy about making a wrong move or ever doing anything that would turn her off. I may have been confident about my sexuality in middle school but it didn’t mean I’d had much chance at actual experience.

  We went and sat side by side on the couch. Vivi faced me cross-legged with the paper in her hand.

  “Can I see the paper?”

  Vivi held it over her head. “You have to get it from me.”

  I tried to take it from her. She sat up on her knees and held it higher. I reached up more to try to get it. She moved her hand back and I fell against the front of her as I followed. Her softness and curves caught me and as my hand planted down to steady myself, I was in the perfect position for that kiss. Her lips parted and her eyes glittered, and I looked at the sweet bow of her upper lip and felt the clench in my body and I leaned in, but she wiggled away, leaped off the couch, and crouched down on the other side, taunting me with the paper.

  “Oh, come on,” I begged, groaning for show. Then I rolled off the cushions and went after her.

  She jumped away again, running back to the front of the sofa. I followed but went wide, hopping over the coffee table and grabbing her before successfully tackling her to the couch. She kept the paper held high, her face flushed with the exertion.

  “You have to pay the toll if you want to read the paper.”

  “The toll?”

  Vivi closed her eyes and puckered her lips. At first, I thought she was going to mess with me again, but this time she didn’t move as I pressed my mouth against hers. Her lips were always a surprise. Soft, full, warm. I kissed her top lip, then her bottom lip, then both. She dropped her hand with the paper across my back and brought the other one up and around. I let my body fall into hers, once again feeling the plush of her curves and the press of her breasts through her shirt. The next kiss brought more pressure and the pull of Vivi’s arms against my back as she pushed up against me. Our mouths parted and between the soft push of lips came a warm rush of tongues and the sweet air of Vivi’s breath. I cradled her cheek in my hand, kissing her again and again, my lips greedy and searching. An involuntary sigh escaped me. My hand, with a mind of its own, found its way to the hem of Vivi’s shirt where it pushed aside fabric, seeking skin, heat, and more, more, more. That brought Vivi’s hand to the top of mine.

  “My parents.”

  I nibbled at her ear, my hand not ready to relinquish its newfound territory. “They gave us time to investigate, remember?” My voice grew deeper. “I’m investigating.” I reached further under her shirt and found where her bra began and tentatively stepped my fingers under the side of the fabric, stroking the whisper of soft skin beneath. I was losing myself in the moment, the headiness of the wine making me bolder, and I started to push her shirt up so I could put my mouth where my hand had been.

  Vivi wiggled out sideways from under me. “Jess.” She glanced toward the steps.

  “Too far?” I said as I sat back against the armrest.

  She looked up at me from under bangs. “In this situation.”

  “But not always?”

  She crawled toward me. “Definitely not always.” She handed me the newspaper.

  We cuddled together and read the article. It was a contest, held by the US Fish and Wildlife Service, to create a water fowl stamp and was open to kindergarten through twelfth graders across the state. North Carolina entries were judged against each other’s age range and then those winners would go onto the national contest and eventually the US Postal Service would turn your artwork into a stamp if you won the whole shebang.

  “The deadline’s not till February. You could totally do this.”

  “I don’t know. You’re real sweet about my sketches, but this is serious competition.”

  “The worst they can say is no. Come on. Please? If you agree to do it, we can totally come back out to the lake house again. Maybe alone.” She wiggled closer to my side.

  “Alone?”

  Vivi laughed. “You have a one-track mind, but yes. My parents can’t bait you with a contest like this and then not give you access to your duck models. Will you work on a piece for it? For me?”

  I read the article again. No could be hard to take, if you had your heart into wanting something. But learning to accept rejection without wigging out about it was definitely a positive step on the Samantha path. And with Vivi as my positivity coach, along with the promise of alone time, maybe I could deal with rejection. It was scary to put myself out there, to start to believe there might be something kind of cool inside of me, but since I hadn’t been able to change my schedule and get into art class for after the break, at least this would give me a tangible goal.

  I folded the paper into a neat square with the contest information facing outward. “Yeah, okay. A duck stamp drawing it is.”

  This time Vivi paid the toll.

  18

  Now: Two Weeks, Two Days After

  My mom comes in when my third snooze goes off and hits the button on my phone. “Hon, get up.”

  “Don’t want to.”

  She sighs and rubs her hand in circles on my back. “I know, baby. But sometimes putting one foot in front of the other, faking it through the day, is the only way to make it. I didn’t want to breathe after your father died, but I had you and your sister to keep me going.” She points to the framed copy of my winning duck stamp on the wall and another drawing I did that was chosen as a calendar finalist for the wildlife rehabilitation center contest. “You have something you love to do. Let your art help you find your way. It’s always worked in the past.”

  I get out of bed because it’s easier than telling her I’m not going to draw anymore. That it’s too painful.

  As I get dressed I think about Cheyanne. There’s been no word from her. No texts on Monday. Nothing so far today. But then, I haven’t really reached out to her either. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m not on main campus now and after this year we’re going our separate ways. Maybe it was time for our friendship to end. Everything else has.

  After lunch—the same nasty all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet from last week—we load onto the activity bus again. McGovern keeps driving west instead of turning back toward the county office building and our classroom.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  Before Deuces can answer, this pale-skinned boy, Levon, turns around from the seat in front of us. “We’re going to get some edumacation. The great state of North Carolina has decided that juvenile delinquents need more than the three Rs. We need a trade.” He looks over. “You’re kind of small, but ripped, too. You’ll do okay.” He pauses like he’s putting two and two together. “Are you that dyke whose girlfriend died? My cousin told me about some fight you were in. That’s some sick shit.”

  I nod and Deuces gives me a little half slug on the shoulder.

  Levon sticks his earbuds back in, turns around, and jacks his head from side to side, jamming to
some silent tune as the activity bus bounces down a gravel road.

  McGovern yells from the front of the bus. “All right, Grady’s finest, we’re here. Remember this is a fucking privilege.”

  “Is anybody going to tell me where here is?” I ask, stretching my legs after being cramped in the tiny seat.

  “Cabinetworks,” Deuces says.

  “What?”

  “Remember I said there were two good things? Well, lunch was the first and this is the second.”

  We file off the bus one at a time. McGovern stands at the bottom with a clipboard and a scowl. He counts us off into two groups of four, and one of five. I’m with Deuces, and two country-looking white boys that are alternative school lifers.

  “Wood shop.” He points to the largest group. “Finishing.” He points to the next. “Forge.” He points to us.

  “Ah, man. I wore my nice kicks today. Can’t I be in wood shop?” Deuces spills attitude all over the ground in front of McGovern. I have a feeling this isn’t going to work in his favor.

  “You will work where I goddamn tell you to work. Now move, pretty boy.”

  I follow Deuces, whose shoes are a blinding bright neon orange, across the parking lot and behind the large building in front, to a smaller one toward the back of the business site.

  The buildings are prefab steel structures, some with doors open to the nice weather, the sound of machinery whirring from inside. It’s obvious we’re here as free labor under the guise of job skills training, but it’s better than being stuck under the stare of Chuck Norris. The building Deuces walks toward has a smokestack coming out from the side of it that belches black clouds skyward. He’s grumbling about his clothes as he goes. Two garage doors are rolled open wide and there are covered concrete slabs where a woman stands over an anvil, her hair pulled tight into a cap, safety glasses firmly in place, and the best set of arms I’ve ever seen on anyone, male or female.

  The woman stops hammering and looks up. Her eyes skip over me, then skip back and there’s the slightest raise of brow and lift of lip that tells me she’s not used to having other females out here to work.