Wild Bird

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  That’s okay, too.

  Because I do.

  I did come back different. And then everything became different. Over the next couple of weeks, Brooke and Kelsey finished the program; then Shalayne and Mia were gone, too.

  Mia’s leaving was sad. Not just because she was part of our group and we liked her and were going to miss her, but because no one came to get her.

  At the end of your eight weeks, there’s a “passage ritual”—someone from your family’s supposed to come to Utah and camp out with you for a night. They set up a little side camp and Tara-the-Therapist is there to “facilitate the reunion.”

  With Brooke and Kelsey and Shalayne, people came. We could hear crying and raised voices over in the side camp, but people came. And the crying stopped and the voices went quiet and in the morning there seemed to be a truce. Even smiles.

  Mia didn’t get any of that. She packed up, came over to Hannah and me to say goodbye, then cried and said that we were her real family and that she didn’t know what she’d do without us.

  Hannah and I promised her that we’d stay in touch, that we’d start a private group online and talk each other through things.

  And then she was gone, disappearing into the desert, hiking with Tara back to base camp, where someone would drive her to the airport and put her on a plane.

  Which left no Falcons and Hannah and me as the Elks. The ones pulling the snow discs. The ones the new Rabbits and Coyotes watched and whispered about. It was feeling a lot like school—little cliques, eyeing each other, taking notes, gossiping—until I decided I’d had enough of that trap. Instead of steering clear, I started invading the Coyote circle to hang out or help out.

  Brooke and Kelsey never did that, but you know what?

  That’s not who I want to be.

  It’s painful to hear new Rabbits freak out their first couple of nights. Painful to know what they’re going through, but also painful to remember acting that way. Babies come into the world screaming and crying and gasping for air, and getting through Rabbit is a lot like that. And then there you are, in a new world, helpless and weak, needing to figure out how to survive.

  The Grizzly Girls number has gone up and down, but there are seven of us again now. One Rabbit, four Coyotes, and Hannah and me. It’s strange to feel like a leader, to show the others how to do stuff, to point out scat and plants and explain how to tell time by dividing up the sky.

  It’s also strange to hear them beg me to tell stories at night. I’ll never be Mokov, but I do like being the Grizzlies’ storyteller in between his visits, and Mokov has definitely made me better at it. He’s also helped me find the story behind the story, which is something I’ve really grown to love. Like a secret room with a wide-open sky.

  Dvorka, Michelle, and John took turns going on leave for a week, sticking us with people who tried too hard to figure us out. The three of them are back now. Dvorka’s hair is buzzed short again, John’s face is clean-shaven, his man-bun is tidy, and Michelle looks exactly the same, only cleaner. I’m glad they’re back. It’s just easier to be around people who understand how to avoid certain buttons.

  They also seemed to really miss us. I asked John about his regular life, and he gave me this little smile and said, “This is my life.”

  I snickered and said, “No, really.”

  He jabbed at the fire with a stick and said, “Well, let’s just say it’s everything I want my life to be.” Then he smiled at me and changed the subject. “I heard there’s been good mail.”

  I just looked down and shrugged, but it was true. I’ve gotten two batches of letters from home since the quest, and they…they’ve made me feel like…like things are going to be okay.

  I was expecting arguments from my parents. Or shock and disappointment. Or for them to hit back. Or justify. Or explain how it was all my own doing. But for all the things I did, for all the lies I told, for all the damage I caused, they said they were sorry, too.

  Even Anabella said she was sorry.

  Actually, Anabella most of all.

  I’ve read her letters, like, twenty times. Partly because I can’t believe she’s being so nice. I can’t remember her ever acting this nice, even when we were little, and it kind of blows my mind. I keep rereading her letters to make sure the words are really there, to make sure there’s not some hidden message I’m missing.

  I also reread them because there’s news about school. About Nico being expelled and in serious trouble because he’s eighteen and officially an adult, about Meadow being taken in by Child Protective Services while she “awaits a hearing.” I don’t know what Child Protective Services is, exactly, or how long she won’t be living with her parents, but it probably has to do with the stoner temple.

  Whatever happens, I don’t see Meadow changing. I’m pretty sure even the desert wouldn’t change Meadow.

  So I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that, and also thinking about something my mother brought up. She said they’re willing to look into sending me to a different school if I think it’ll help. Tara-the-Therapist told me that the biggest problem with leaving the desert is falling back into the same bad habits; and she brought up again how a lot of teens go into transitional programs to try to ease back into the real world. But she also said that those programs are super expensive. So no. I’m definitely not doing that.

  But going back to the same school—walking the same hallways, seeing the same people, facing the same teachers—I’d be lying if I said that doesn’t scare me.

  How’s it going to be any different than it was before?

  How am I going to make new friends?

  Meadow may be living somewhere else, but Anabella said she still goes to school. Still looks the same. Still acts the same.

  And what if Meadow blames me for what’s happened to her? What if it is my fault? What if my parents took my letters to the police? To the school counselors? What if Biggy knows? What if everyone blames everything on me?

  I panic inside, just thinking about it. Suddenly leaving the desert seems like something I might not survive.

  I’ve got just over a week to figure it out.

  What am I going to do?

  The next morning, I do what I’ve done every morning since I was kidnapped.

  I ink a tally mark on my pants.

  Ten groups of five.

  Day 50.

  My birthday.

  I mentioned my birthday to Hannah about a week ago, but I really didn’t expect her to remember. She’s getting ready for her passage ritual. Her dad’s driving in from Kansas, and she’s kind of freaked out about everything.

  But when I return from doing my morning business, I find a present waiting for me at the opening of my tent. It’s a folder not much bigger than my hand, woven out of long grasses. It has a braided loop wrapped around a little woven knot to keep it closed, and when I unhitch the loop, I find three yucca-leaf paintbrushes nestled in a little inside pouch. The brushes are different widths—about an eighth inch, a quarter inch, and a half inch—and flat.

  Dvorka showed us how to make yucca-leaf paintbrushes during an art lesson weeks ago. We’d already spent days on making yucca cordage and yucca shampoo, so I was all about the yucca for giving me clean hair and a new bootlace. But as hard as I tried during the art lesson, my paintbrush came out awful. We tore a yucca leaf lengthwise, shortened it to brush length, then chewed on the ends to soften them until they were brushes. I hated the chewing part. Yucca leaves are tough. And bitter. And when I was done, my paintbrush was all jagged and stupid and I couldn’t paint with it at all.

  These brushes, though…these brushes are unbelievable. Their handles are straight, with the sharp edges buffed down so they’re comfortable to hold, and the bristles are smooth across and soft. Like a real brush.

  “You like?” Hannah asks, watching me from her tent.

  “How did you do this?” I ask. “These are amazing.” I tuck the brushes away and admire the case. “And this…this is incre
dible!”

  I look at her, and it’s like I’ve switched a light on inside her. “Thank you!” she beams. “It was so hard to keep it a surprise!” She scrambles over to my tent. “And guess what? Michelle said I could take you out painting today. She showed me a perfect spot. It’s a bit of a hike, but the view is great.”

  “Just you and me?”

  She nods. “It’s your birthday, and the last day before my passage ritual, so I managed to twist her arm.”

  I laugh. “Besides, what are we going to do at this point, right? Run away?” I look at her present again. “Thank you so much.”

  Her voice goes soft. “I know you don’t really like to paint, but—”

  “That’s because I’m terrible at it!”

  “Today is going to be different.”

  I laugh. “Even if it’s not, it’ll be fun.”

  So after breakfast we head out with a knapsack full of painting supplies, lunch, and water. The day is warm and there’s a lot of uphill, but it seems like nothing—I could hike like this all day. I find a feather to add to my growing collection. This one’s small—only about two inches—and jet black. I can’t find any sign of the bird that dropped it in my path, but I say “Thank you” anyway.

  Hannah adds it to my hair, which she’s been braiding for me the past week or so. “I wish you could actually see this,” she says about my feathery braid. “It looks unbelievably cool.”

  We set off again, hiking along until we’re inside a slot canyon where Hannah stops and says, “This is it.”

  I look around. The space is narrow, with walls on either side of us. I don’t see anything to paint. “Here?” I ask.

  She swings off the knapsack. “I was thinking about your list,” she says.

  “The list I made on my quest?” I showed it to her after she returned from her own quest, when we secretly compared notes.

  She nods. “You told me about the stars, remember? And how you wanted to be someone who…?”

  She stares at me, waiting.

  I blink at her, trying to fill in the blank.

  Finally I look up.

  Above us…way above us, two large trees are growing out of opposite sides of the slot-canyon walls. Their trunks poke out at right angles, then shoot straight up. They’re like arrows aiming at the clouds breezing across the slice of blue sky above us. “Wow,” I breathe out.

  “Isn’t that the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen?” she asks.

  It’s more than just the sight of them that gets me. It’s the survival. Two doomed saplings from opposite sides of the canyon changed direction, reached for the sun, and became…that.

  “It sure is,” I choke out.

  “So let’s paint!” she says.

  I’m still staring up. “I am never in a million years going to be able to paint that.”

  She laughs. “Well, right. We’ve only got blacks and grays to work with.” She begins pulling supplies from the knapsack. “But I will teach you, and really, what matters is that it reminds you.”

  I’m not sure if she means that it should remind me of this place, of this day, of what a real friend is, or to look up.

  And it doesn’t matter.

  However good or bad my painting turns out, it’ll remind me of them all.

  When Hannah and I return to camp, there’s another surprise waiting.

  Dutch oven birthday cake!

  It smells delicious—warm and cinnamony, and it’s drowning in powdered-sugar icing. I squeal like a little girl and dance around. “Can we, can we, can we?” I ask.

  Dvorka laughs. “First, how’d it go? Can we see your paintings?”

  “I made a lot of fire starter,” I say with a laugh, because my first five tries are total trash. But I pull out my final piece—which isn’t half bad—and show it around.

  Hannah keeps hers—which is amazing—tucked away while the Coyotes make a fuss over mine. I show everyone the brushes Hannah made and explain how all the different lines and washes and shades of my painting come from coal and a paste of ash and water.

  They look at both of us like we’ve just descended from heaven. “Can you teach us?” they ask.

  Hannah saves me by saying, “Dvorka can. She’s the one who taught me.”

  “Yeah, it’s gonna have to be Dvorka,” I tell them. “Because Hannah’s leaving tomorrow, and I’m still, uh, learning.” I smile around at them. “But I can teach you how to eat birthday cake!”

  The Coyotes pump fists. “Yes!”

  “Not so fast,” John says, stepping in. He turns to the Coyotes. “Ready for the poetry slam?”

  “What?” I ask, looking around. But the Coyotes are already spreading out around the campfire.

  “Let’s do this!” a Coyote named Glo cries. Then she turns to me and says, “It’s not actually a slam, but you’ll like it.”

  When all four Coyotes are in position, John starts a beat-box rhythm, and after everyone’s in the groove, he points at Glo and the Coyotes throw down lines, fast and sure, like they’ve been practicing all day.

  “She comes from Cali—”

  “Her name’s not Sally—”

  “Don’t dally, or rally—”

  “She’s not that kind.”

  “She’s tough and buff—”

  “A cool McGruff—”

  “Don’t doubt her spinnin’ mind.”

  “A fire starter—”

  “ ‘Push down harder!’ ”

  “ ‘Watch the genie rise!’ ”

  “She tells great stories—”

  “They never bore ya—”

  “Her Disney lullabies.”

  “So don’t be messin’—”

  “She’s representin’—”

  “That Grizzly Girls are fine!”

  “She’s cool and sure—”

  “The birthday girl—”

  “A red earth friend of mine!”

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, WREN!”

  I laugh and cry and wipe my eyes and clap and laugh and clap some more. Then John produces a pack of candles, and fifteen of them get jabbed into my giant cinnamon-bun birthday cake and lit.

  I flash back to that early day in my tent when I realized I’d be spending my birthday in the desert, in the dirt. I remember how angry and devastated and hurt I was.

  But now, as I take a deep breath and blow out my candles in one giant blast, I make a wish I would never have predicted.

  That every birthday could be like this one.

  Early the next morning, another surprise jolts me awake.

  “Strike camp!”

  In the tent next to mine, I hear Hannah groan, “Oh, you have got to be kidding.”

  But they’re not. Michelle’s already scattering fire-ring rocks, erasing our footprint, while John and Dvorka are making the rounds, slapping tarps, barking like drill sergeants. “Let’s move it! Rise and shine!”

  “Tell that to the sun,” one of the Coyotes complains, because it’s not up yet, which means it’s not even six a.m.

  Less than an hour later, we are stumbling in formation behind Michelle and John. Hannah and I are pulling snow discs, the Coyotes are behind us muscling the tarp stretcher, and Dvorka is bringing up the rear, dragging along a very ornery Rabbit.

  “Why the rush to leave?” one of the Coyotes asks, but a couple of hours later, when we break for breakfast, the air’s already dragon-breath hot, and the day will only get hotter. The flies are out, too, hovering around our sweaty heads.

  “Wow,” I pant, parking my disc and dropping my pack in the shade of a pinyon grove. “If this is springtime in the desert, I’d hate to be here in the summer.”

  “This is unusual,” John offers. “Base camp gave us a heads-up.”

  “How much farther?” one of the Coyotes asks.

  Hannah and I grin at each other, then turn to John, who delivers the usual answer. “Pace yourself, ration your water. We’ll get there when we arrive.”

  Breakfast is trail mix, dried fruit
, and as much of our own water as we dare to drink. Before we set off again, everyone zips off the bottoms of their pants, and some of us roll our shirtsleeves up to our shoulders and what’s left of our pant legs up to midthigh.

  Michelle passes sunblock around and then we set off again, slogging across the desert. It’s too hot to sing. Too hot to talk. Too hot to do anything but escape from the heat by folding up inside your own head.

  I think about home. About facing my family, facing school. After I get back, there’ll be two weeks before summer break. How will this work? Am I flunking my freshman year? What about all the curriculum we’ve had to do out in the desert? What does it count for? Will I have to take summer school?

  I think about what Mom offered—about going to another school. I wonder if I should. Maybe it would be better. Nico may be gone, but facing the gossip and glances and Meadow…it scares me. How can I fight all of that at once?

  I’m pulled out of my thoughts by a sound in the distance.

  A motor?

  Yes, a motor.

  And then, up ahead, Michelle unholsters her walkie-talkie.

  I touch my ear, telling Hannah to listen. Then I point out Michelle and her walkie-talkie. “Resupply?” I mouth.

  “I sure hope so,” Hannah says. “This has been a horrible last day.”

  “But if you get to see Silver Hawk?”

  She grins. “That would make it all better.”

  We cross a wide, dry arroyo, turn a bend, and suddenly there it is—the resupply truck.

  “Wa-hoo!” Hannah shrieks, and she and I take off, our sleds bobbing and clanging behind us as we race to reach the truck. “He’s mine!” Hannah calls over to me as Silver Hawk steps out of the truck.

  “All yours,” I call back. “I’m racing for water!”

  She laughs, “Sure you are!” and sprints ahead of me.

  I let her have him. Not that I don’t soak him in. I mean, every time it’s a brand-new wow. But I act cool. Or as cool as a girl fifty-one days in the desert can act around someone that gorgeous.