My Name Is River

by Wendy Dunham

  I’m beginning to think Gram might have been sucked up by aliens and returned with someone else’s innards. “Gram,” I say, “did you forget about your leg?”

  “No siree, Sugar Pie! I didn’t. There’s ways around nearly everything if you put your mind to it. I’m gonna get me some physical therapy soon as we settle in. I’ve walked with this old Louisiana limp long enough, and it’s time for change.” Gram smiles bigger than I’ve ever seen. “And I might start plucking me a few strings on a banjo. Bluegrass music is big around those parts.” Gram gives me a wink with her right eye. “I’ve got a feeling bigger than any twenty-pound rump roast that we were meant for this journey.”

  3

  New Kid

  It’s pitch black and way past ten o’clock by the time we reach our new house. We open Tilly’s doors and climb out onto the gravel driveway.

  “Well, Sugar Pie,” Gram says, “what do you think?”

  The quarter moon lets me see as much as I want. “It looks like a box with a roof… nothing like our farmhouse.”

  Gram comes over and pulls me close. “Like I said, Sugar Pie, it’s not gonna be better or worse, just different. Besides, it’s a roof over the head. What more does a sugar pie need?”

  I think about saying, “Just my parents,” but I don’t.

  Gram leans back and tilts her head to the sky. “Look at all those stars a twinkling, Sugar Pie. There won’t be precipitation tonight, and good old Tilly will guard our belongings, so let’s find our pillows and catch a wink on the living room floor.”

  “So we’ll unload in the morning?”

  “Not you, Sugar Pie. You’ll be in school. Me and Tilly will drive around town looking to hire an extra hand.”

  “I can help. It won’t hurt if I miss one day.”

  “There’s nothing so important as a good education, and I’m not letting my Sugar Pie miss out.”

  The next morning Gram drops me off in front of Birdsong Middle School, an old two-story, brick building covered with vines. The sign out front reads “Home of the Falcons.” And on account of our oversleeping (and my missing the bus), I’m late. But it doesn’t bother me any. I was never in a hurry to get here in the first place. But then I remind myself that this is only for three weeks. And three weeks is doable.

  Gram leans over and gives me a smooch on my cheek. “Don’t you worry now, Sugar Pie,” she says. “Everything’s gonna be all right. Now you go on and have a good day of learning.” Then she and Tilly drive away.

  Two huge white pillars on each side of the front steps do their best to welcome me. But any ounce of welcomeness I might have felt disappears the second I step inside. Hanging from the ceiling directly over me is a huge falcon with its wings spread wide and its talons ready to snare me. Of course it’s dead and stuffed, but, really, this is no way to welcome a new kid.

  I follow the sign to the office where I’m greeted by Mr. Augur. I know that’s his name because of his name tag. He seems pretty old (and short) to be a principal, and for some reason, he seems extremely eager to meet me. Then I realize it’s just because his head is positioned way out in front of his body (I’m sure he doesn’t hold it out there on purpose. It’s just because he’s old). His back is scrunched up too, which makes him look even shorter than he really is. Now I know full well it’s not right to criticize his body because he obviously can’t help it, but I can’t help thinking that he has a very strong resemblance to a vulture.

  Mr. Augur stretches his hand toward me, and since I don’t want to be considered rude—in addition to being late—on my first day, I reach forward to shake it. I tell myself to be careful when I shake his hand because old people have brittle bones and they break easy. And Mr. Augur looks brittle.

  He grabs my hand harder than I expected. “Welcome to Birdsong Middle School, River.” Then he covers his mouth and tries clearing a frog from his throat. “I’m sure you’ll like it here,” he garbles.

  Now, right away I’m not sure I can trust him. How does he know I’ll like it? He doesn’t even know me. He should’ve said, “I bet you’re going to like it,” or “I hope you’ll like it.” Then maybe I’d trust him.

  He presses a peel-and-stick name tag on my shirt and gets so close I smell mothballs (which is probably coming from his wool coat because old people like putting mothballs in their closet).

  On my name tag, RIVER STARLING is spelled out all in capital letters. Gram’s last name is Nuthatch, just like Gramp’s was. So that was my mom’s last name too. But when she married my dad, she got his name and became a Starling. Even though Gram took me over, she decided I ought to keep Starling as my last name. I’m glad about that for two reasons. First, because everyone needs something from their past to hold onto, and second, because I don’t think I could’ve handled a name like River Nuthatch.

  I really don’t want to wear this name tag. It just makes me stand out even more. It’s hard enough being new. I might as well carry a neon sign that says, “Hey, look at me! I’m the new kid.”

  Mr. Augur guides me out of the office. “First I’ll give you a tour of our school, and then I’ll show you your locker and take you to your first period class.”

  As we pass the cafeteria, it’s easy to guess what’s on the menu (there’s no mistaking the smell of fish sticks). I wonder if they’ll serve corn and mashed potatoes with them or just French fries. Either way I really don’t care. I just hope they have chocolate milk and ice-cream sandwiches. If they don’t, I might be following Gram’s trail of Camels all the way back to Punxsutawney.

  We finally reach my locker, and Mr. Augur slips me a small piece of paper with my combination 2:2:0. I have no trouble remembering this: two sets of parents, two sets of parents who didn’t want me, and no sets of parents left. Mr. Augur looks at the piece of paper and then at me and whispers, “Don’t lose this or share it with anyone. If you do, the consequences could be devastating.”

  Since I don’t want to take a chance with devastation (especially on my first day) and I already have it memorized, I consider rolling the paper into a little ball and eating it. Really, the worst thing that could happen is someone breaks in and steals my books. I can live with that. But my lunch money? Now, that would be devastating.

  Mr. Augur points to a door with a sign on it that reads “Ms. Grackle’s Seventh Grade English,” and says, “Here’s your class, River. And—I almost forgot. Here’s your schedule. Good luck,” he says after pulling the piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to me. Then he opens the door for me and turns to walk away.

  Nineteen pairs of eyes stare at me. I consider sticking out my tongue but clench my teeth so tight there’s no chance of it escaping.

  Ms. Grackle smiles real big at me and acts all excited, like she’d just won a national bingo tournament or something. And I’ll bet my fish sticks she hasn’t a clue about the red lipstick smudged across her left front tooth.

  “Well, you must be River,” she says. Since I’m not carrying a neon sign, she must have seen my peel-and-stick name tag, and that makes me think I smell mothballs again.

  Ms. Grackle points her long, skinny finger with bright red nail polish toward an empty desk, so I sit down. “Perfect timing,” she says. “The class just finished choosing partners for our year-end project. This year is the very first year I’ve allowed partners. Normally students have to work all alone.” Then she points to a kid in the front row. “I’m sure William’s glad you’re here. Now he’ll have a partner just like everybody else.”

  Ms. Grackle hands out a detailed instruction sheet explaining what’s required for our project. We must work together to decide on a topic of interest to research, complete a hands-on related project, and, finally, present it to the class. The last sentence on the sheet states, “Must include an essay” (and that, in my opinion, is the meanest word in the entire English language).

  “All right, class,” Ms. Grackle shouts, trying to get everyone’s attention. “Don’t forget that you are to do this projec
t without the help of your parents” (she certainly has nothing to worry about with me). Then she waves her finger back and forth across the room. “And if I find out your parents helped in any way, shape, or form, you will automatically receive an F.”

  While Ms. Grackle rambles on, I look around the room at the other students and realize something. William didn’t have a partner because no one chose him. He’s the class dork. The signs are obvious. He’s wearing tan pants with a crease all along the front (a dead giveaway that they were ironed by his mother this morning). And even though I realize pants creep up when you sit, it looks like he’s waiting for a serious flood. His are nearly up to his knees and showing off pure white socks (which would’ve blended in better with sneakers). But he’s wearing brown leather shoes, and neither one has a single scuff mark. He probably polishes them. His dress shirt matches his tan pants perfectly, and it’s buttoned clear up to his chin. To top it off, he doesn’t have a single hair out of place. Not one. But he’s my partner, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  I tell myself that even though he looks like a dork, there’s a chance he’s probably nice. Gram says, “If you judge a book by its cover, you just might miss a Hemingway.”

  All of a sudden, William raises his hand.

  Ms. Grackle nods. “Yes, William?”

  “Ms. Grackle, may a parent help due to safety factors?”

  I figure the whole class will laugh, but no one does.

  “Good question, William,” she answers. “Of course if safety is a concern, as in your situation, parent involvement is permitted.”

  Just then the bell rings, and William turns toward me. “See you later, River. I’m glad we’re partners.”

  Then everyone rushes out the door. Everyone but me. Ms. Grackle must have noticed that I have no idea where I’m supposed to go.

  “River,” she says, “do you know where your next class is?”

  “Not exactly,” I answer (which is the most polite thing I can make myself say because I’m trying hard not to say that I have no idea, and I couldn’t care less because I don’t even want to be here).

  Ms. Grackle takes my schedule and looks it over. “You have PE. That stands for physical education, just in case you call it ‘gym’ where you come from.” Then she points toward the hall. “Take a right and go straight to the end. You can’t miss the gym.”

  4

  A Birding Place?

  I have no idea how, but I make it through PE, science, lunch, and finally math when the dismissal bell rings.

  Even with mobs of students racing to their buses, William manages to find me. “Hi, River,” he says. “Remember me from English?”

  “Sure, I remember. I may be new, but I don’t have memory issues.”

  William’s carrying a massive stack of books in his left arm, so I think my English partner is not only a dork, but a bookworm too (which can be helpful when it comes to school projects). Then I notice his right arm is dangling at his side like a dead trout on a fishing rope, just hanging there without an ounce of life.

  He looks up at me through thick, smudged lenses, using my shadow to block the sun. “Would you like to go to the library with me? We only have three weeks to get our project done, and I’d really like to get an A.”

  Now, hanging out at a library on a Friday afternoon isn’t normally on my list of things to do, but I shrug my shoulders. “Sure, I suppose it won’t hurt.” I was going to help Gram unpack, but since this is for school, she’ll be glad.

  William leads the way along the sidewalk, and we talk about our project. Ms. Grackle said we can pick any topic as long as we follow her guidelines. I cross my fingers, wishing William wants to do something related to hockey or baseball, but I suppose I could handle something dorky like “How to Build Model Skyscrapers out of Toothpicks” (which I’d bet he’s done before).

  As we talk, we pass through the middle of town where there’s a flower garden. And right in the center of the garden is a huge fountain, which is at least five times as tall as me. It has three different levels, and each one has carved-stone birds getting water splashed over their heads.

  William walks over to the fountain. “Isn’t this amazing?”

  I look it over again. “Sure… as amazing as fountains can be.”

  “It flows all the time and never shuts off,” he says, “even when Birdsong loses electricity.”

  “So?”

  “That’s because it has its own generator, believe it or not.”

  “Did I say I didn’t believe you?”

  At first William doesn’t say a thing. Then he says, “Well, no. But anyways, the fountain’s actually a memorial for our last mayor, Mr. Kingfisher. Everyone thought he was a great guy. One day he even saved a kid from drowning in the river. And he really loved birds. He used to have about fifty bird feeders all over his yard. Then after he died, his wife had this fountain built in his honor. She also planned on making a birding place, something else our community would enjoy, but then she ended up dying and never had the chance to build it.”

  “What’s so special about a birding place? I’ve never even heard of one.”

  William looks at me like I’m from Mars. “Oh,” he says. “Well, a birding place is very tranquil. It’s filled with a variety of flowers that draw in the area birds. People go there to watch them, to be quiet and reflect, and to enjoy nature. And if they’re built right, a birding place is a real thing of beauty.”

  “Well, a thing of beauty or not, the whole idea sounds kind of weird.”

  William shrugs his left shoulder. “It’s really not. I probably just didn’t explain it well. You know,” he says, “I just had an idea. Since Mrs. Kingfisher never had the chance to make the birding place, maybe we could do that for our project.”

  All I can do is stare at William and wonder if he’s for real.

  “I actually know a great deal about birds,” he says, “so it wouldn’t be that difficult. And I know the perfect spot for one—right along Meadowlark River. My parents own land there.

  I look straight in his eyes. “If you’re telling the truth and you actually know a lot about birds and you own the land, then you’ve got a deal.” I reach out to shake on it but quickly put my hand back in my pocket—I forgot about his dangling arm. “Anyways,” I say, “it looks like this project won’t be hard after all… an easy A.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” he says, “but I do think it’ll be enjoyable.”

  We head for the library again, but now we’re quiet. Since we already talked about our project, I don’t think either one of us knows what to talk about. Then all of a sudden, my mouth opens, and I start rambling about anything that pops into my head (which can happen when I feel awkward). “One time I found a baby duck sitting in a puddle, so I named her Puddles.” Now William probably thinks I’m telling a joke, but I’m not. And since he doesn’t laugh, I keep right on talking. “That poor little duck must have sat down and given up. She probably couldn’t keep up with the rest of the ducklings on account of her crooked leg. I’m not sure if she was born like that or if she’d been hurt. She tried following me, but when I realized she couldn’t walk, I picked her up and brought her home.”

  William nods. “Good thing you were there to save her.”

  “Anyways, Puddles reminded me of my Gram, since she has a crooked leg too. That’s because she got sick with polio when she was a kid. She had to stay in bed for a whole year, so in three hundred and sixty-five days, she read over four hundred books. I think I’d have died. A book’s okay now and then, but four hundred’s way too many.”

  I look at William, and he’s still smiling and nodding, so I keep on talking. “Then as Puddles grew, her feet got extremely big and wide—even for a duck. Gram said they looked like two big paddles, so we changed her name to Paddles. She’d waddle around our farmhouse with a limp and her big white bottom swaying side to side. Gram has a big bottom too, and on account of her polio, she walks with a limp that makes her waddle. S
he calls it her ‘Louisiana limp,’ since that’s where she lived when she got it. And Gram has a big, puffed-out chest too. I think it’s because her heart’s big. Her doctor says she’s got an enlarged heart. It’s a thing called ‘cardiomegaly’ or something like that. It just means she has a heart that’s real big… but I don’t see how having a big heart could be a bad thing.”

  William shrugs his left shoulder. “Me either. It seems if someone has a big heart, it would be a good thing because they’d have more love to share.”

  Good point, I think to myself, but kind of mushy for a boy to say.

  We finally reach the library. I’m a step behind William when he tries opening the door, and for the first time, I realize how much trouble a dangling arm can be. He tries pulling the handle with a finger from his good arm, since the others are gripping his books. Then before I can help, his stack of books crashes to the ground. “Oops,” he says and picks them up like it’s no big deal. Now if that were me, I’d probably be yelling something that would get us kicked out of Birdsong’s library before we stepped foot inside.

  William picks a table beside a huge window. It’s probably the best spot in the whole library, because the sun’s shining in and spreading itself clear across the table, right along with William’s books (which he arranges in two perfectly straight rows). He rattles off a hundred ideas he has for the birding place and starts writing them in his notebook (which is completely organized with tabs, paper, dividers, and a pouch filled with perfectly sharpened pencils).

  As soon as I see his handwriting, I know I have to do something. “I think I’d better write our notes,” I tell him. “They didn’t teach me to read chicken scratch in Punxsutawney.”

  Then I’m not sure if I made William turn red or if he just got hot all of a sudden from the sun. “I know,” he says. “Most of the time I can’t read my writing either. My dad said I was supposed to be right handed, but because of my arm, I had to learn to be a lefty.” William’s glasses are halfway down his nose at this point, so he angles his head to see me. “It’s not easy writing with your left hand when you’re supposed to be a righty.”