Call Me Alastair

by Cory Leonardo

  My feathers itch. A sky like that right in front of us and all Aggie can think of is Fritz.

  Fritz. Making our sky, making everything about him. I shake my head. “Beautiful, my foot,” I say, and stalk to the pile and snatch one of Fritz’s papers. One end firmly grasped in my foot, I pull the other end with my beak and begin to shred it into long, jagged strips.

  “Hey, stop that,” says Fritz. He swats me away and scoots the rest of his loot out of reach and back into his pack. He neglects to take the pamphlet I’ve stolen. I destroy it until there isn’t a readable word left on the page.

  But a funny thing happens.

  As the paper, the paragraphs, the words and punctuation marks go rolling over my tongue, they take on flavour. It’s different from the mush Pete piped into our beaks. Different, even, from the array of fruits and vegetables Fritz has been feeding us. It tastes like, like…

  Information.

  Like ideas. It tastes, not exactly pleasurable, but satisfying in a different way.

  “Here,” says Fritz, digging into the bottom of his pack again. “You like paper? I’ve got some old homework here. I can bring you more from the recycling bin at home. Believe me, you’d be doing me a favour. I never wanna see this stuff again.”

  He carries over a handful of crumpled papers filled with scratchy handwriting and erasure marks. “Have that,” he says, dumping it in front of me and yanking his hand away from my beak. “It’s a story I wrote for English. Probably tastes like garbage, though – I got a C-minus on it.”

  I shred them as I did the brochure, one eye on Fritz the whole time. Aggie trots over and dips her beak in as well. “This is fun,” she says.

  “Don’t you taste it?” I ask.

  “Taste what?”

  “I don’t know … it.”

  “Tastes like paper,” says Aggie.

  I shake my head. “No, it’s not paper. I don’t know, it tastes – sour. With something sweet mixed in. It’s—” I smack my beak. “It’s almost refreshing.”

  “Nope,” mumbles Aggie, with a mouthful. “Just tastes like paper.”

  But there is something. I’m not imagining it. Fritz’s garbage tastes … fruity … lemony.

  “I don’t know why I got a C-minus on it,” says Fritz, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “I thought a story about a sour old lemon who gets squashed by a bus and makes some nice refreshing lemonade out of himself was creative. Mrs Cuthbert said it was disturbing.”

  Sour? Refreshing? Lemon?

  I don’t know if the story’s disturbing, but I do know one thing:

  The taste of it certainly is.

  FROM THE DESK OF ALBERTINA PLOPKY

  Dear Everett,

  First things first: I’m renaming my senior social club for next time.

  A Get-Together with Guinea Pigs, I’m calling it. It’s got a real calming feel to it, I think. Old folks don’t want puppies; they want calm. It’s not about the pizzazz anyway. It’s about old gals like me who don’t have a place to be on a Friday afternoon.

  And speaking of old gals …

  Irma sent me a brochure today. There was no return address, but I knew it was her. (No one else I know buys stamps with kittens on them.)

  I looked it through, and the Pines seems reasonable. But we already knew it was a perfectly respectable place, didn’t we? Driven through it a million times! I liked all the pictures, though. That swimming pool does seem mighty fine. And I’ve always thought the trees there are just lovely.

  I was feeling nearly suckered into it when that one picture got me. The one on the back with that laughing elderly couple? Stopped me in my tracks.

  Remember how I used to say we might like to live in a place like that one day? I said you could hole up in the library while I learned to shuffleboard. I promised to attend your two-person book club so long as you agreed to take ballroom dance classes with me, remember? I always thought you’d love being near so many nice folks, even if being social was never your cup of tea.

  You old coot. You might’ve made a friend in Irma’s Jack, you know. I hear he reads poetry.

  As if it matters. You won’t go with me, and I can’t bear the thought of going it alone.

  Not to mention, who wants to live next to Delores Greenbush, I’d like to know! Not if I can help it!

  Did I tell you she showed up at the Shirley River Community Centre for my Polka with Puppies group? (Should’ve put a note on the flyer: Residents of Apartment #15, Prickly Pines need not apply.) I was all excited I had four folks sign up, and then she dropped in. The snoop. Came and took notes, she did. Delores’s son told Henry all about it. She said I bit off more than I could chew with them pups!

  She just had her britches in a bunch over the fact that one whizzed on her loafers.

  The Prickly Pines Retirement Village can keep her, I say.

  Love you a whole big batch,

  Bertie

  CHAPTER 6

  The wing is still a bit of a problem, I’ll be honest. Even so, I’m pretty sure Fritz kept me in the Infirmary for “observation” a week longer than necessary. But the day’s finally come.

  Moving day.

  If I were the singing type, I might’ve joined the canaries for a few bars this morning – I was the first bird up.

  But it’s noon now.

  I haven’t left this spot under the coatrack since Fritz took off my bandage at eight.

  Fritz has invited his spindly, blue-haired sister, Fiona, to the shop this morning to meet me and Aggie before my trek to the sales floor. She’s back from a college semester abroad and predictably, Fritz has spent the last half hour at the glowing box telling her about gut bacteria.

  “Did you know you have a kilogram of microflora living in your gut, Fiona?” he asks her, never taking his eyes off his reading.

  I’ve learned everything I never needed to know about gut bacteria these last few weeks. Even ate half a library book on it. And that’s not all. In the past month, I’ve eaten a stack of tax forms, three payslips, a phone book, 124 old maths worksheets, six of Fritz’s stories, and one birthday card from Grandma Feldman. (I do not recommend eating birthday cards. There’s a sickly-sweet, imitation maple syrup flavour to them that’s hard to get past.) I also ate Fritz’s bird poster when he wasn’t looking. It was terrible.

  I hate to admit it, but my favourites have been Fritz’s stories. There was a good one about a girl who wears cherry lip balm, and as I haven’t eaten any cherries in weeks, it’s tiding me over, but barely. Then there was another one about Fritz helping an old man who runs a food truck at the fair. The flavour was strong, but sort of depressed, like Pete’s day-old French fries or melted ice cream. Gave me indigestion.

  Fiona, it appears, doesn’t have a taste for gut bacteria either. “I’m thinking of incorporating animals into some of my choreography,” she says airily, tapping on one of the glass cases in the Infirmary. “I saw a flyer at the Thrift Mart for this thing with puppies and polka. Animals are probably the next big thing in dance – you know, like goat yoga.”

  “Goat yoga?” says an incredulous Porky, who’s back for another spa visit. (He heard the lettuce back here was crispier this week.) He mutters to himself as he picks through his food dish. “Think I’d eat my own leg if somebody dragged me to something like that.”

  Fiona taps the case for the hundredth time. The gerbil inside is foaming at the mouth. “Dancing and animals – might make for a good senior thesis. What do you think, Fritzerola?”

  Fritz barely blinks as he looks deep into the glowing box. “Mm-hmm.”

  “I imagine rabbits are pretty graceful,” Fiona says as she sweeps over to another case, this one brimming with baby bunnies. She reaches in to grab one. “Remember that story Grandpa used to tell us? The one about the rabbit that bit him on the shin while he was cashing a cheque at the bank? A rabbit! With rabies! In the bank! He always did have terrible luck with animals.”

  Fritz frowns and looks up. “Wait, what were you say
ing?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Fiona replies. “Just thinking about buying one of these rabbits here.”

  “Hm.” Fritz flips off the glowing box. “Didn’t you say you had some books for me?” he asks, changing the subject.

  Fiona drops the startled bunny back in its case, sprints from the room, and returns minutes later towing a large plastic tub, heaped with … things. “I’ve got a few more in the garage,” she says.

  “What is this stuff?” Fritz asks, poking into the bin as Fiona snatches a crumpled Burger Den wrapper off the top of the pile and shoots it in the direction of the wastebasket. It hits the wall, lands in an Infirmary fish tank, and sinks slowly to the bottom, where a painted turtle eyes it warily.

  “Mostly college textbooks,” Fiona answers. “I really don’t have time to deal with it, with all the extra dance classes I’m taking this summer. I was going to donate, but if you want it…”

  Fritz lifts a large, bristly, blanket-like thing to eye level.

  “My twist-tie quilt,” Fiona says matter-of-factly.

  Fritz’s eyebrows pop up. “Um, great! Thanks?”

  “You’re welcome,” Fiona answers, patting his head and giving him a quick peck on the cheek. She says her goodbye.

  “See you,” says Fritz.

  “Oh!” Fiona turns at the door. “I forgot to tell you. Dad got your message and said he’d try calling again, but he’s flying out for a conference in China and, well, the time difference and all. He said he’ll call next week.”

  “Wait, you talked to Dad? Today?” The look of surprise on Fritz’s face melts into a frown. “I mean – right. OK.”

  Fiona leaves, and Fritz is quiet as he begins to sweep up the storeroom.

  “My friend James says that he sells his older brother’s textbooks online and makes a fortune,” he says finally. “And we’re not even stealing them like he does.” He props the broom against a stack of pet carriers, drops into his chair, and wheels over to his spot at the desk. The glowing box flares to life, and Fritz looks down at Aggie, who’s been working on chewing through the desk leg. “What do you think, girl? Think we’ll make some money?”

  “Oh, yes! Yes, yes, yes!” shouts Aggie, leaving her project and dragging a bowl over to me. (I’ve been displaced from my preferred sulking spot to the coatrack corner.)

  “What’s he going to buy?” I ask her. “Another dumb bird poster?”

  Aggie looks up from her bowl of mango and frowns. “Not nice,” she scolds. But she wonders too and squawks as if Fritz could possibly know what she’s asking.

  But he answers. “A bigger home for you, of course! You’re too big for the cage Pete’s got. And Mom says I need to get a cage before I even think of bringing home a bird.” Fritz chooses a book and sets it on the desk next to him. “Huh. The Mashed Potato and Other Savoury Steps: How Cuisine Impacts Dance Culture. Weird.” His fingers begin clicking away, and he gasps.

  “A hundred dollars – that’s an expensive book! Wow!” He grabs another. “Fifty-two fifty?”

  Aggie flutters her wings excitedly, her eyes shining like two elderberries. “Did you hear that? He’s getting us a home, Alastair! We’ll be a real family in our own home!”

  I feel my feathers ruffle. I dig at a messy spot on my chest and try to fix it. “A cage in Pete’s isn’t a home,” I tell Aggie, my beak full of feathers. “And you and I are family. The two of us. Fritz split us apart, remember?”

  “You know, Fritz and you are a lot alike,” Aggie says dreamily, “both working so hard to get us a home – ”

  Uh…

  “ – and you’re both so smart and handsome – ”

  Um.

  “You’re like twins, Alastair!”

  I love my sister. I do.

  If Aggie’s the sun, then I’m the rain. If she’s a rose, I’m a thorn. If she’s a cherry, well, then I guess I’d be the pit. (I suppose there are worse things to be than a cherry pit. Like maybe a gerbil.)

  But there’s definitely something wrong with her.

  Sure, she isn’t coughing as much as she used to. And her feathers are looking quite nice, I have to say. But rational thinking? Hasn’t been Aggie’s strongest suit of late.

  With statements like:

  “I love the way he blows his nose, don’t you?”

  “Look at how he hides that bag of Cheese Please cheesy puffs in his backpack! Storing away food for the dry season – what a good bird!”

  “It’s a kind heart that doesn’t mind when you poop on his favourite shirt.”

  – I’d say it’s pretty clear she’s gone just shy of crazy. The sooner I separate the two lovebirds, the better. So…

  I’ve been hatching a plan.

  A real-live, actual plan. To escape. I figure we’ll bust out of here through the air vent in the ceiling. Or Aggie’s getting pretty good at chewing through wood lately. I could sign her up to chew a hole in the door. Then we’ll fly off to a tree – maybe a cola nut. Or I always thought I’d like a pine. Dark and prickly, just like me.

  No – a palm.

  Aggie says Pete’s got a poster behind the register: miles of turquoise sea, palm trees and the bluest sky you’ve ever seen. Porky says the place in the picture’s Key West. Florida.

  Probably a few flaps of the wings, tops.

  It should all be quite simple, really. Birds have made an art out of flying in its many forms, after all. Ever heard about the chicken who “flew the coop”?

  Escape comes as natural as a pair of wings.

  (And as soon as my bad wing heals, escape shouldn’t be a problem. Honestly. I have absolutely no concerns that it’s been four weeks and the wing’s got a bit of a bend in it and hurts when I flap. No concerns whatsoever.)

  I leave the irritating feathers on my chest alone and walk the short distance to Aggie and begin to preen her affectionately. I’m making a point. Aggie and me? We’re the same breed, the same species: human-parrot, parrot-human – whatever it is, we’re the same.

  “Forget Fritz,” I say.

  I see Aggie’s feathers fluff a little, and those elderberry eyes narrow ever so slightly. “No, Alastair, you’re wrong. Fritz is family,” she says.

  Just then Fritz pipes up from his place at the glowing box. “I’ll get you out of here. With money like this, I’ll have you home in no time.” He swivels his chair and looks at Aggie. “Mom and Fiona are gonna love you. Just like I do.”

  Aggie looks away from him and back to me. “Family loves you and looks out for you” – her voice is solemn – “and keeps loving you and looking out for you, no matter what. That’s family. And Fritz is part of ours.”

  Not if I can help it.

  I stomp across the room to the desk and find a fleshy spot above Fritz’s ankle. And I chomp. Hard.

  Fritz howls. Aggie howls. I hold fast.

  My beak has a mind of its own, and it slices into Fritz’s thumb as he tries to swat me away. And in one fleeting thought, I wonder if this might not be the best idea. I mean, I’m so close. So close to finally living with Aggie in the shop…

  But then I think of Fritz taking Aggie home with him. Away. From me.

  For ever.

  *

  You know, flying with a bum wing is a lot harder than it looks.

  But catapulted across the room, you get a good head start…

  Until you hit a concrete sack of dog food.

  I wake and look down at a bandage on my good side. Not again.

  My second broken wing.

  Medical Log, July 25

  •Age: 12 years 20 days

  •Weight: Same, I think

  •Height: I think I grew?

  •Current status: Ingrown toenail

  Fiona came to the shop today. She said she talked to Dad on the phone. I must have bbbeen at work or something. I haven’t talked to him since my bbbbirthday, when I told him I wished he were here to celebrate … and then I cried a little … and then he got mad and said it wasn’t his fault. That was three week
s ago. I didn’t mean to make him feel bbbbbad.

  Maybbbbe the phone company’s just bbbbeen dropping his calls lately.

  Or, maybbbe I’m always at work when Dad calls. Maybbbbe that’s it. Maybbbbbe he keeps calling, and I accidentally miss it every time.

  Fiona gave me lots of bbbbooks. That was nice.

  Mom’s working late. Again. I hate that she had to get another jobbbb. It’s always bbbetter when she only has one.

  Alastair bbbbit me today. Twice. First he got me on the ankle. When I reached down to get him loose, he grabbbbbbbbbbbbed on to my thumbbbb. He was really attached, so I shook him. Then I shook him some more. And then I was a little worried I’d need stitches, so I kinda flung him. Just like Pete. I still can’t bbbbbelieve I did that. I can still see him flying through the air.

  I really thought I was going to help Alastair.

  BBBut like everything else, I messed that up too.

  I miss Grandpa.

  Signed: Dr F

  PS. Sorry. The bbbandage on my thumbbbb keeps getting caught in the bbbbbbbbb key.

  CHAPTER 7

  If a bird with a broken wing is a cliché…

  Then I’m a full-blown catastrophe.

  My little biting escapade earned me another four weeks in the Infirmary, hurling all my plans across the shop, where they’ve broken apart and lay in pieces on the floor. Every time I think of it, I want to take a feather in my beak and rip it out.

  Not like a feather picker or anything.

  Just … as a bit of relief.

  Never mind. Forget I said that.

  To add insult to my injury, Pete cut Fritz’s hours now that we need less hand-feeding, and Aggie visits only twice a day. I miss her. And I haven’t had a moment’s peace since Porky got back from Mrs Plopky’s new social club. He’s spent a full week in the spa to “recuperate”, and since I’m the only one back here, he’s got no one to talk to but yours truly.

  “A pig’s got no business wearing a tutu! A TUTU!” has been his daily lament, followed by worries the shop and Babs in particular will find out. “A pink skirt. Just like that one,” he adds, closing his eyes and pointing a tiny claw to the wall calendar and a picture of a potbellied pig dressed as a ballerina. “It’ll be my ruination.”