by Wendy Dunham
Now I feel smaller than a flea. “So what happened anyways?” I say, hoping I didn’t hurt his feelings too bad and thinking I probably shouldn’t have asked.
William must have sensed how I felt. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’m used to it. My arm’s been like this since I was one day old.”
“So you were born like that?”
“Kind of, but not exactly,” he says. “My arm would have been fine, but I was born breech, which means I came out backward, feet first instead of my head. My shoulder got caught on the way out, and the nerves to my arm were stretched too far and got damaged. It’s called a ‘brachial plexus birth injury.’ ”
My stomach begins to feel queasy as I imagine William coming out of his mother backward, all tangled up on something I don’t even want to think about, but William just sits there and smiles… and when I look at him, I realize his smile is a little crooked, just like mine. Then I have this thought and wonder if we could be related. Gram said people who are adopted can think like this because deep down we wonder where we came from and who we really belong to. One time I saw this happy mom and dad with a ton of kids, and I wondered if they were my real parents. It’s highly possible to lose a kid when you have that many, so I thought that maybe I’ve just been lost all this time. So when I noticed William’s crooked smile, my brain automatically thought we must be related. And no matter how many times I tell myself to stop thinking like that, it’s not long before I do the same thing all over again.
William is completely unaware of what’s going through my head, so he keeps explaining. “My arm’s kind of like a tool without a battery. Since there’s no power going to my muscles, they don’t work. And I can’t feel anything either. A match could touch it or I could lean against something sharp, and I wouldn’t know. I have to be careful.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Not really,” he says. “It’s just part of the plan. My dad’s a pastor, and he says someday when I get to heaven, I’ll find out why I have an arm like this. But until I get there, I’ve decided to do the best with what I’ve got.”
I’m not sure what I think about all that, but I make a decision anyway. William will do our reading, and I’ll write the notes. I reach for his pen and perfectly organized notebook.
Our brainstorming session grows longer and longer, and there doesn’t seem to be an end to William’s ideas. He says Ms. Grackle likes it when students do something out of the ordinary. Since I’m partners with William, that won’t be hard to do.
I write our plan like a list:
1. Make a birding place along Meadowlark River to attract different kinds of birds.
2. Take pictures of the birds with William’s camera.
3. Tape the pictures on a big piece of cardboard to display during our presentation.
4. Make labels for each kind of bird we have a picture of and include five interesting facts (William made me write the word “interesting”).
5. Write an essay about our project and explain why we picked this topic, what steps we took to complete the project, and what we learned from working with a partner.
William thinks for sure we’ll get an A. Bookworms are usually right about things like that.
5
Ecotones
I promised to meet William at seven o’clock the next morning (which is definitely out of the ordinary for me, especially on a Saturday). I’d rather be watching cartoons and eating a bowl of Frosted Wheat Flakes with Gramp, like we used to do.
I drag my feet along the edge of Meadowlark Lane and make my way toward William’s house. Carrying Gram’s big bag of gardening tools makes it seem farther than it really is. We only live a quarter mile down the road from each other, which is a good thing so Gram doesn’t have to drive me and use up all her gas. But even if she had to, she’d never say she minded.
I see William waiting at the side of the road, right by his mailbox. He’s holding a bag of birdseed under his left arm and steadying a long metal pole with a wooden bird feeder on top. When I reach him, I can’t keep myself from laughing because his hair is sticking out in every direction you can find on a compass, which is totally different than yesterday at school. And he has flower seed packages sticking out from every pocket on his pants and shirt (but somehow this doesn’t surprise me). “Nice hairdo,” I tell him. “Looks like you just crawled out of bed.”
“I did.” William smiles, and I can tell he wants to press it down, but his arm is full.
Somehow he manages to carry the metal pole with the bird feeder and the bag of birdseed in his left arm as he leads the way across the street toward the Meadowlark River. He pushes aside a few branches with his left shoulder, and I follow him along the cool, wooded trail. The ground is covered in green moss that feels like a pillow beneath my feet, and the air smells like old leaves and pine needles. After a while the trail ends in a big, flat grassy field, which looks like a green flannel blanket spread wide open and leads me right to the river.
I stand at the edge and look out. The river swirls and rushes with shades of blue I’ve never seen before. And it’s so wide that I can’t tell what’s on the other side. I creep to the very edge of the bank and look over. The water’s so far down I almost feel dizzy. I’m not sure which is stronger—the beauty of the river or my fear. Then it splashes against the cliff, sprays a cool mist all over my face, and makes me smile.
William says that even though his family owns the land, everyone in Birdsong comes here and walks along the river. And I can see that’s true because there’s a worn path stretching clear along the river in both directions.
“Why don’t you put up posted signs?” I ask.
“There’s no need for that. My parents believe in sharing and want everyone to feel welcome. That’s just how they are. You’ll see.”
I check my watch. It’s only seven fifteen. “So why’d we have to start so early in the morning, anyways?”
William looks surprised, as if I ought to know. “If we want to get an A on a bird project,” he says, “we need to understand them. And the best way to do that is to be like a bird… and birds get up early.”
Now, even though I don’t know much about birds, except for the fact they fly and have feathers, I try to sound like I do. “Well, that might be true for the morning dove, but don’t forget about the evening dove. We could have got together this evening and been just as much like a bird.”
I think William catches on to my lack of bird knowledge because it actually looks like he’s holding back a grin. “They’re actually not ‘morning’ doves. They’re mourning doves,” he says. “And that’s because of the sad sound they make—wh’ hooo hoo hoo hooo—like they’re sad or mourning.”
I still think I have a chance of sounding smart. “Well, there’s still such a thing as an evening dove, right?”
He shakes his head.
William reaches in Gram’s gardening bag and pulls out her measuring tape. He looks around real slowly. “You know, River,” he says, “this place is a perfect ecotone.”
“An eco-what?”
“An ecotone,” he says and then laughs (he’s not really making fun of me—I think he just finds it funny that I don’t know as many big words as he does). Then he explains. “An ecotone is an area where different habitats meet, like this area. We have a river, a sunny field, plus a wooded section… so this just happens to be the perfect spot for a birding place. Basically, it means we’ll be able to attract a wide variety of birds.”
But I’m afraid the only thing we’re going to attract is attention (and probably too much).
While we measure our ecotone and mark it with Gram’s garden stakes and string, a lady with a big, red, frizzy hairdo and a giant, bear-like dog comes by. “Hi, William.” she says. “Bee-u-tee-ful morning, isn’t it?” She’s chomping her gum so hard I’m expecting her jaws will disconnect right in front of me. “What ’cha working on?”
William pets her bear-dog, and it starts licking him all over the place,
even on his dangling arm (which sways back and forth with every lick). It must be weird to have a dog lick your arm but not be able to feel its warm, slobbery tongue against your skin.
William tells her we’re making a community birding place for our school project, something Mrs. Kingfisher never got the chance to do.
“Well I’ll be,” she says, still chomping her gum. “That is stu-pen-dous!”
William looks toward me. “And this is my new friend, River. She just moved here from Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. And, River,” he says, “this is Mrs. Martin.”
“Nice to meet you, River,” she says, pulling her bear-dog away from William’s arm. “Well, how about that,” she says (chomp chomp), “I just had an epiphany. Here I am out walking along a river, and then I get to meet one.” Then she laughs like she’s a world famous comedian. And besides being annoyed that she’s messing with my name, all I can think of is that her hairdo would make the perfect home for a family of birds.
“I’m not making fun of ya, sweetie,” she says. “River’s a great name. I’m just making a play on words, that’s all. And by the way, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other at school. I work in the cafeteria.”
Now that I know she’s our cafeteria lady, I’m able to forget about the name joke and the nest of birds in her hair because a cafeteria lady is a very important person to know (I plan on making sure she stocks up on chocolate milk and ice-cream sandwiches).
Then Mrs. Martin notices William’s seed packages sticking out of his pockets and says, “Looks like you’re gonna plant flowers to draw in the birds.”
William tells her about every kind of seed we’re going to plant and which birds will like which flowers. And I can’t tell for sure, but I think she may be interested.
Mrs. Martin nods her head and smiles. “You know, I’ve got a lot of bee balm growing in my garden—some people call it Monarda. I’ll dig up a patch to share. Your seeds are gonna take a while to grow, so if you plant some of my bee balm, it’ll give you and the birds some instant gratification… isn’t that what we all want? Instant coffee? Instant iced tea?” And then she laughs again, which makes her frizzy, big red do bop around in the wind. “Those darlin’, ruby-throated hummingbirds just love that flower, and so do the butterflies—especially the butterflies. I’ll bring a clump of it to church for you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Martin,” William says.
Then Mrs. Martin takes her bear-like, licking dog and strolls away, saying, “And just wait ’til you see all the butterflies.”
Okay, so now we’re not only inviting a variety of birds to our birding place, but we’re inviting butterflies too. This means more work—more interesting facts for our display, more photos to take, and an extra paragraph in our essay (but at least I’m guaranteed chocolate milk and ice-cream sandwiches for the rest of the school year).
After we have the ground ready with all the grass pulled out and clumps of dirt broken, William takes Gram’s hoe and makes seven long, straight rows.
“Why are you making them perfectly straight?” I ask, trying not to sound too annoyed. “Don’t you think we should toss the seeds all over the place so it looks more natural? You know, like a field of wildflowers?”
William shakes his head. “Order is a part of nature, so they need to be straight.”
Then I say to myself so he can’t hear, “If we’re supposed to be acting like birds, you don’t need to get all weird about it, unless you’re trying to be a cuckoo bird.”
As we cover the last seeds with dirt, a kid with long, greasy hair comes by. He’s wearing torn jeans and a sweat-stained T-shirt. He’s holding a fishing pole in one hand and a beat-up tackle box in the other. With no expression on his face, he walks over to William and grunts, “Hey.”
William doesn’t smile but answers, “Hey.”
The kid walks around and scopes out everything. He looks at Gram’s gardening tools, at the bird feeder, and at William’s empty seed packs, which he pokes with his fishing pole. “What are ya doin’?” he says.
William tells him we’re working on a project, but he doesn’t bother to introduce me. It’s not that I mind (in fact, I’m glad since that kid gives me the creeps). I just think it’s weird. William introduced me to the cafeteria lady, and he seems like the type of kid who’s been taught good manners.
The kid stands there and doesn’t say a word. He shifts his weight back and forth, from one leg to the other, like he’s nervous or something. Then he glares at William, kicks the seed packages, and walks away, heading down the river. As he leaves, I see a leather wallet sticking out of his pocket. It’s hooked to a long silver chain that glistens in the sun.
William doesn’t say goodbye. He just stares at the kid until he’s out of sight.
I rub the goose bumps on my arms. “Who was that?”
William’s gripping Gram’s shovel so hard his knuckles are white. “Robert Killdeer,” he says. “Just some kid who has nothing better to do than hang around here and try to intimidate me.”
“Why would he do that?”
William shrugs his shoulder. “Who knows?” he says. “It’s no big deal. Let’s get back to work.”
As William digs the hole for the bird feeder, a tall man comes out from the trail and walks over to us. He puts his hand on William’s shoulder. “How’s everything going, Billy?” Then he looks at me and says, “And you must be River.” (I check my shirt to make sure I’m not still wearing my name tag).
William says to me, “River, this is my dad. Most everyone calls him Pastor Henry.”
William’s dad—or maybe I should say Billy’s dad—looks at me. His eyes are dark brown like a melted chocolate bar, and they match his curly brown hair. “Billy’s told me all about you,” he says (but there couldn’t have been much to tell, except that I was late for my first day of school, that I have a grandmother who waddles like a duck, and that my handwriting is much neater than his son’s). “I like your name,” he says. “I’ve heard it only once before.” Then he looks out across the water like his thoughts are somewhere else. “How did your parents decide to name you River?”
I should be used to that question by now, but each time someone asks, it feels like I’m answering for the first time. My insides get all tight and tangled up like a knotted old shoelace. “I’m not sure,” I tell him, trying to think of what to say. “… I’m adopted, and that’s just the name I came with. But someday I’m going to find out.”
Pastor Henry nods and smiles, and when he does, I notice his smile is crooked like William’s (which makes it like mine). “Well, River,” he says, “I believe you will. Seek and ye shall find.”
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that.
Then Pastor Henry looks around—back toward the woods, across the grassy field, at the river again, and says, “This is a perfect ecotone.” That’s exactly what William said. Gram says an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I think I finally get what she means.
Pastor Henry checks the work we’ve done and gives us each a high-five (which is something I didn’t know pastors were allowed to do). “Keep up the good work,” he says, “and let me know if you need help. I’ll be home preparing tomorrow’s sermon.” Then he heads back toward the trail, whistling.
William pushes Gram’s shovel into the hole trying to make it deeper, but then he stops. “By the way,” he says, “my family calls me Billy, but at school everyone calls me William. That’s because there’s another Billy in our grade. You can call me Billy too if you like.”
“Sure. I’ll call you Billy.” I watch while he tries digging. “You want me to do that?” I say. “Using a shovel with only one hand looks pretty hard.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “I’ve got it.” He digs a few more scoops of dirt and then stops to measure. “Deep enough,” he says. “If I hold the pole in there real straight, can you pack dirt around it?”
“I’ll try.” When it’s as packed as I can get it, Billy wiggles the pole. At
first it moves just a little. Then it leans like the Tower of Pisa.
“Well,” he says, “we should’ve used cement, but we can find rocks and pile them around the base. That’ll help tighten it.”
“Are you serious? We have to hunt for rocks?”
“If you want to get an A.”
6
Rock Hunters
We head to the trail and search the woods for rocks. I go one way and Billy goes the other. I walk around pine trees while searching the ground, when all of a sudden, I find a gold mine. “Hey, Billy,” I shout. “There’s a huge pile of rocks over here.”
“That’s great, River. I found some flat ones here,” he shouts back. “They’ll be good for stacking. Let me bring mine to the trail, and I’ll be right over.”
I look through the pile, finding all the flat ones and stacking them off to the side when I hear a noise. “Hey, Billy! Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That noise.”
“I don’t hear anything over here.”
“Well, hurry up and get over here. It sounds pretty cool… like a maraca or a baby’s rattle.”
“A what?”
“Never mind,” I say. “It’s probably a weird West Virginia locust or something.” I pick through the pile for more flat rocks. The noise gets louder.
Billy shouts from the far side of the trail. “Did you say rattle?”
“Ah, yeah, like ten light years ago.”
“I’m coming, River! Stand completely still,” he shouts. “Don’t move!”
“Cut it out, Billy,” I yell back. “Do you really think I feel like playing a stupid game like statues?”
Billy stops running when he’s a few feet away, and then he moves toward me in slow motion. “River,” he whispers, “you have to trust me. Don’t move a muscle.”