Wild Bird

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  I squint at him. “Salt Lake City?”

  He motions to two seats in the waiting area and hands over the duffel. “There’s a letter inside. You might want to read it.”

  The envelope is sealed. My name is typed across the front of it. I recognize the Lucida Handwriting font, my mother’s favorite.

  I tear it open, unfold two typed pages “handwritten” by Lucida.

  The letter begins: My Precious Baby Bird.

  “I am not a baby bird!” I cry.

  Joel’s right next to me, focused on his phone. “Then quit chirping like one.”

  I fold the letter up. I don’t need to read it. I already know what’s in it—how she just doesn’t understand what’s happened to me. How we used to be so close. How she wants her baby bird back. Besides, it’s typed. Something about that really bugs me.

  “You don’t want to know where you’re going?” Joel says as I start to chuck the letter in a trash can. He’s still looking at his phone, flicking through messages.

  I tell him exactly where he can go.

  He gives a little shrug. “Not until I deliver you.”

  I spin back. “Deliver me? To whom?”

  “Nice grammar,” he says, looking up with a grin. Then he shrugs and goes back to his phone. “I guess if you really wanted to know, you’d read the letter.”

  “How would you know what’s in my letter?”

  He pats his messenger bag. “Got a copy in your file.”

  “My file?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Why is there a file on me? Who had time to make a file?”

  He flicks through his phone. “Maybe you should read the letter.”

  “Maybe you should just tell me!”

  He shakes his head. “You can read the letter or find out when we land in Salt Lake. Up to you.”

  I stare at him flicking through his phone. I really, really don’t want to read the letter. I really, really just want someone to tell me what’s going on. But finally I break down, sit down, and read. And just like I thought, I hear all about what a disappointment I am and how nobody understands what’s happened to me, and how they’ve tried everything—counseling, therapists, surefire behavior modification techniques that have backfired instead, how my antagonistic attitude is ruining our perfect family, and how “little Morris” is in danger of my evil influence. Then she goes into this awful metaphor about icebergs and the Titanic and listening to the pings of radar and being desperate to do something before it’s too late to “turn this ship around.”

  On page two—indicated by a tidy “2” precisely centered in the footer in case I couldn’t figure it out—I finally learn what this means:

  They’ve “enrolled” me in a wilderness therapy program.

  “That’s it?” I blurt out, and I’m suddenly smiling. “I’m going to camp?”

  Joel smiles back, but it’s a wily smile. Like maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about.

  “It says so right here,” I tell him, pointing to that part. But then I see something else. “Eight weeks?” I gasp. “Are you serious? Eight weeks?”

  He nods. “Sounds about right.”

  “What about school? It’ll be almost over in eight weeks! What are they going to do—hold me back?”

  “Looks like you were headed that direction anyway.”

  “What? How would you know?”

  He pats the messenger bag.

  “That’s in my file? The school is in on this?” I feel weirdly embarrassed. “I was going to pull those grades up,” I tell him. “No way I was going to flunk my freshman year.”

  A woman behind the B-54 gate counter announces that it’s time for our flight to board. Joel grabs my arm and steers me into a corral that says Group 3.

  “How is eight weeks in the woods going to change anything?” I ask him.

  He starts to say something but checks himself. “You’ve got the window seat,” he says. “Try to enjoy the views.”

  But once we’re in the air, the sun hurts my eyes so bad that I pull down the window cover and close my eyes instead. And I’m mostly asleep when the coffee cart rolls by. “I want some!” I call, because it’s already going past.

  “You want coffee?” the flight attendant asks, not sure what a kid would want with that.

  “Yes!”

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “Yes!”

  Joel frowns but lets it slide. “Give her a ginger ale, too, would you?”

  The coffee helps my head, but not my stomach. So I sip the ginger ale and eat half of a pack of the saltines that Joel has in his bag.

  Like he knew I’d need them.

  Something about that bothers me more than I can explain, so I lean my head against the window, close my eyes, and block it out.

  Who cares, right?

  Who cares.

  I think a lot about my mother’s letter on the flight. I try to sleep, but I can’t get comfortable. Plus, the coffee’s kicked in, so my mind keeps going back to it.

  Something about her letter tweaks me, and hard. If I was home right now, I’d be yelling stuff at her to tweak her back. That’s always easy. And she’d deserve it. I mean, what kind of lame parent is she? Just because she can’t handle me, she has me hauled off in the middle of the night, removed from her precious house like a criminal? I thought this had to do with Nico, but I was sweating that for nothing. It’s about her stuff, and the precious family unit and how I’ve messed everything up. She can’t deal, so she gets rid of me? What kind of mother does that? What kind of parents do that? I mean, hello, Dad? Where have you been the past four years? Besides detailing your precious new Prius every single Saturday.

  Joel doesn’t say a word to me the whole time. He eats some powerhouse sandwich with sprouts sticking out everywhere, drinks tomato juice, and reads. I can’t stomach anything but the saltines, and seeing him chow down is gross. I shoot hate at him extra hard, but it doesn’t seem to faze him.

  When I have to use the bathroom, he follows me, then waits outside the door for me to come out. Everyone watches us coming down the aisle. I can hear them wondering what my deal is. One old lady’s staring so hard, I tell her, “Mind your own business!” which makes her jerk away like I’ve hit her.

  Stupid nosy hag.

  Then I’m back in my seat, trapped by Joel and his annoying eating and reading.

  When we land, Joel sends a text, then escorts me off the plane without letting me in on anything. The airport’s not nearly as big as LAX, and it doesn’t take long to get to baggage claim. Not that I have anything to claim.

  “We’re looking for a woman in army-green pants and a red bandanna,” Joel says, hawkeyeing the place.

  “Her?” I ask, pointing to a woman in army-green pants and a red bandanna.

  “Michelle!” he calls out, waving like a goofball. Then he grins at me like the sun’s just come up on a God-given glorious day. “End of the line for me, kiddo.”

  Much as I hate him, I’m weirdly not ready to hear this. “You’re leaving?”

  “Got an eleven-fifteen out. No time to dawdle.” He leads me over to Michelle. “Here she is, one Wren Clemmens.”

  “Perfect,” Michelle says, smiling at me. She looks like she’s in her late twenties, and her teeth are like candied gum soldiers standing at attention. There are tattered straps of cord around her wrist, with dried berries strung through, and a red bandanna wrapped around her head.

  I notice her feet.

  Hiking boots.

  Good for the mountains, maybe, but bad for speed. Plus, her pants have lots of dorky, weighted-down pockets. And nowhere on her do I see handcuffs.

  “Welcome to Utah,” she says to me. Then she asks Joel, “Stat report?”

  He hands over a folder—my file—and says, “Threw up at oh-four-hundred, clearly wasted—suspect drugs with alcohol. Coffee with sugar and cream at oh-eight-thirty, followed by ginger ale and a sleeve of saltines. Complaints of headache and nausea.”

 
Michelle nods. “I’ll bet.” She eyes me. “The altitude’s not going to help that any. You’ll probably feel pukey for a couple of days while you detox and get used to thinner air.”

  Detox? The word floors me. Do they think I need rehab?

  She’s already turned back to Joel, asking, “Anything else?”

  “She slept on and off. Thirty minutes in the car and another thirty on the plane. Used the bathroom at oh-nine-fifty.”

  I feel like a stupid kid, being picked up at day care.

  “Okay,” Michelle says. “I think we’re set. Have a good flight back.”

  He gives her a little salute, tells me, “Good luck, Wren,” and takes off.

  “Ready?” Michelle asks, and when I nod, she small-talks me toward the exit, chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter.

  I hate her already, but it doesn’t matter. I’m keeping an eye on Joel as he hurries away.

  Chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter.

  We’re almost at the door.

  Chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter.

  Move it, I tell Joel in my head. Faster. He turns a corner and is…gone.

  And just like that, I take off running.

  My plan is to get out the door.

  That’s it.

  I drop the duffel because I don’t need it slowing me down, and it doesn’t have much in it anyway. Undies, a brush, and hygiene stuff is all I saw when I took out the letter—things I can shoplift if I need them, no problem.

  I do make it out the door. And about twenty yards down the street. But then some guy in army-green pants grabs me and wraps my arms behind my back so fast and hard I squeal.

  “Help!” I shout. “I’m being abducted!”

  “Nice vocabulary,” he says in my ear.

  “HELP!”

  People look, but they don’t do anything.

  “HELP!”

  He snaps cuffs on me, ratchets them down until they hurt, then holds a big walkie-talkie up to his mouth and says, “Got her.”

  “Thanks” comes crackling back.

  Michelle.

  The guy who’s nabbed me has such a deep, glowing tan that it looks like the sun’s shining from inside him. His hair’s in a thick brown man-bun with little kinky waves breaking free here and there. And he’s strong. Really strong. “I’m John,” he says, muscling me forward. “Welcome to Utah.”

  “Great,” I grumble, and let him steer me to a—how creative—black SUV.

  John hoists me into the middle seat, where he takes off the cuffs and causes more pain with cheerful introductions. “You’ve already met Michelle.”

  “Hi again,” she says from the driver’s seat.

  “That’s Nash, riding shotgun.”

  “Hey,” Nash calls back.

  “And Dax,” John says, hitching a thumb at the guy in the backseat. “Just in from Chicago.”

  Dax is looking bloodshot. Mad, dirty, and bloodshot.

  And about eighteen.

  “Meet Wren,” John says to nobody in particular.

  “Wren,” Dax snorts. “A real wren-egade, huh?”

  “Shut up,” I tell him over the seat.

  He’s looking more evil than mad now. “Da doo wren-wren-wren, da doo wren-wren.”

  I squint at him. “What?”

  “Looks like Dax is waking up,” Nash says over the seats as Michelle pulls into traffic.

  Dax doesn’t bother to explain the doo wren-wren thing. Instead, he starts singing, “Wren, wren, wren ’til her daddy takes the T-bird awaaaaay.”

  “Knock it off!” I shout back at him.

  “Wait,” he says, like he didn’t even hear me. “It’s fun, not run.” He slumps back. “Whatever. Beach Boys are lame.”

  “I have to camp with him?” I ask with a squint.

  “Uh, no,” Michelle says. “He’s just your in-flight entertainment.”

  “Can I switch the channel?” I ask.

  John snickers, which gives me a strange little jolt of happiness. “Not until we get to the field office.”

  “You can wren, but you cannot hide,” Dax says, giving me a creeper look.

  “Gross.”

  “Seen yourself lately, little bird?”

  I flip around in my seat and try to whack him, but John yanks me back. “Cuffs?” he asks.

  “Cuff his mouth!” I shout.

  Dax is the one who snickers this time. “Such an angry bird.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Stop taking the bait,” John says under his breath. “He’ll leave you alone.”

  “No he won’t! You try living with my name! You’ll see—it’s the stupidest name ever!”

  “Are you kidding me?” Michelle says. “I think it’s an awesome name. Wrens are beautiful, delicate birds, with an incredible bubbly song. We had one nest at our house a few years ago. It was a joy to wake up to.”

  “You sound just like my mother,” I grumble. Then I close my eyes and turn away, trying to block all of them, all of it, out.

  I didn’t used to hate my life or my name. Back in elementary school, they seemed okay. I went to a school where most of us had known each other since we could remember. People were used to my name, and even though I wasn’t a fan of it, I didn’t hate it.

  Then my dad got a new job, and we moved. And instead of going to sixth grade at the school I’d gone to since kindergarten, I got thrown in with the wolves of a huge middle school in a sprawling city south of Los Angeles where I knew nobody but my family. I had to start all over, and my name got stupid reactions or had to be explained again and again and again.

  “Anabella will help you adjust,” my mom assured me. “You’ll meet new people, experience new things….It’s an exciting time! Give it a few weeks—you’ll love it.”

  But Anabella was in the eighth-grade wing and too busy making her own new friends to worry about me. Outgoing and really pretty, she was instantly popular.

  I do look like my sister. But I’m the knockoff version of the designer model—the cloth doesn’t hang right, the stripes don’t quite match.

  Teachers at my old school always began the year excited to see me. “Oh! You’re Anabella’s sister!” they’d say, expecting someone polite and attentive; someone who would raise her hand with correct answers.

  I used to try to live up to that.

  I used to try hard.

  But I always felt like I was chasing my sister’s shadow. Like I could never actually touch what she was.

  And then we moved and my friends were gone and I had no one to sit with at lunch. Anabella and I may have been in different wings, but I’d see her in the lunch quad swarmed by new friends, and it finally sank in that she really didn’t want me around.

  It also sank in that, as much as I tried, I would never live up to what she was. She would always be ahead of me. Always come in first. Always fit her name, like I fit mine.

  After a month of feeling alone and hating my new school, I ran into this girl in one of the Wing-6 bathrooms. “Hey,” she said, giving me the once-over. She was at the mirror, busy with an eyeliner pencil.

  “Hey,” I said back.

  “What’s your name? Haven’t seen you before.”

  “I’m invisible, that’s why.”

  She laughed and really looked at me. “I’ve got magical powers then, ’cause I can see you fine.” I went inside a stall and relieved myself, and when I came out, she said, “I’m Meadow, by the way.”

  “Shut up,” I said, washing up at the sink.

  “I know, right?”

  “I’m serious. Shut up.”

  “Whatever.”

  But as I was drying my hands, I wondered if she might not be making fun of my name. So I said, “I just don’t like people messin’ with me because of my name.”

  “Your name? I don’t even know your name! Why would I ask what your name was if I already knew it?” She went back to working the eyeliner. “Just get out of here, would ya?”

  “It’s Wren,” I said.

  She tur
ned to face me. “Seriously?”

  “Like I said, shut up.”

  “Like the bird?”

  “Like the stupid bird.”

  “Ohmygod!” she squealed, throwing her arms around me.

  I laughed. “So your name’s really Meadow?”

  “Yes!” She started bouncing up and down. “This is so awesome! This is meant to be! We are totally going to be best friends!”

  I laughed too, and for the first time since we’d moved, I felt a surge of happiness.

  “This is un-freakin’-believable,” she giggled. “Meadow and Wren, best of friends. Even rhymes!”

  “Right, huh?” I laughed.

  “We should celebrate!” she said, then pulled out a joint and a lighter. I felt the happy bubbles inside me pop, saw warning lights flash through my brain. But with a flick of her thumb, she brought fire to life. “You’re cool with this, right?”

  I was afraid to say yes.

  I was more afraid to say no.

  We get on Utah’s Interstate 15, heading south. It’s a freeway like any other freeway. On-ramps, off-ramps, too many cars. If you believe the signs, Las Vegas is in the direction we’re going, only four hundred miles away.

  I’m trying to pay attention to our route, although I don’t know why. Where would I go if I could escape? That didn’t matter when I ran at the airport, but for some reason it does now. Maybe it’s being on the freeway. Running seems so hopeless.

  I’m mad about everything. About being kidnapped. About not getting to say goodbye to Nico or Biggy or even Meadow. About my parents. About Anabella—the narc. About my having no phone and no money and not being allowed to make any calls or even text anyone. I’m twitchy without my phone, and I’m mad about being trapped in an SUV with three hippie-dippie camp counselors and a strung-out thug whose sense of humor stinks as bad as he does.

  But I’m also kind of distracted. Out my window, up on the mountaintops, there’s snow.

  Lots of really white snow.

  I’ve never seen real snow before. The closest I’ve come is the white stuff on top of the Matterhorn ride at Disneyland. When I was six, I thought it was real. I also thought the ride was scary.

  One of the snowcapped mountains looks a little like the Matterhorn to me. It feels scary, too. But why? I’m not six anymore. And we’re not even heading toward the mountain. Still, it’s like the ride I’m on now has nothing to hold on to. And it feels like a real Abominable Snowman is lurking right around the corner.