Sparrow

by Sarah Moon

  Storm petrels are rare in the city, and if I hadn’t spent all my lunch periods since fifth grade in the library, making my way through book after book, I would have thought it was maybe a hawk or a seagull. But no, it’s a storm petrel with its wide black wings, soft gray underbelly. Its hard black beak and sweet dark eyes. I’d read once upon a time that storm petrels can appear when it clears after days of rain, but I’ve never seen one. Come on, he says to me. What are you waiting for? Don’t you miss this? Follow me. And he swoops straight down to the ground. I watch him go, my body folding over my legs, arms dangling in the air below my feet, reaching, dizzy at the height. I can’t see him. I imagine my body smashed on the ground at the end of this last flight. I’m not sure that I want to. I’m also not sure that I won’t. I can’t get myself to back away from the ledge, so I lower my body to the rooftop, inch by inch. I lay my head back, my legs still playing with the air, flirting with flight.

  In this daze of death and sky, I hear a bell. I scoot my body backward, away from the edge. I remember the sirens as the ambulance came to get me. I remember the surprised look on the custodian’s face when he opened the door to the roof and found me here. I don’t want to go back to the hospital, mostly because I don’t want to put Mom through that again. I swing my body back down the ladder and through the window and down the hall to class. No one asks where I was. No one is staring at the spot on the sidewalk where my body could have been. Mr. Rothman ushers me into class. I sharpen a pencil. I do a Do Now. Kids around me talk and text and roll their eyes. My body is here. My mind is still on the roof, staring at the empty sky.

  The bell rings and from TV on the Radio last night to this moment feels like one hundred years. I sit in Mrs. Robbins’s room in a daze, trying to get my feet to stand, to put up my chair, to walk downstairs where Mom will be waiting. Mrs. Robbins turns off the lights. I stand up. “I’ll get your chair,” she says. Mrs. Robbins never gets anyone’s chair. This is going to be just as bad as I think it is.

  “Thanks,” I say as I head out the door. I put my headphones on and listen to Patti screaming in my ears. Down the hall. Down the stairs. Mom is waiting, black skirt, white blouse, pearls. She is polishing her sunglasses and she stands by the door to the office. She doesn’t see me at first. Or maybe she just pretends not to see me.

  “Hi,” I say. She nods, and takes my headphones off my ears.

  Mr. Phillips comes out from the office. “Hi, Ms. Cooke, nice to meet you. I’m Jack Phillips. Come on in.” Swish swish swish. He leads us to the conference room and points out two chairs for us to sit in. “So, I thought we’d talk for a while, and then you’ll have the chance to hear from Sparrow’s teachers. How does that sound?”

  Mom nods. Under the table, I see that she’s picking at her nails. She’s not angry (or she’s not just angry), I realize, she’s scared.

  “So, we asked you to come in today because obviously this has been a rough year for Sparrow, and she’s had a lot of trouble getting her work in.”

  “Since when?”

  “Well, basically … ” Mr. Phillips is having trouble finishing this sentence. He doesn’t want to be rude and mention the hospital.

  “Since after I came back, Mom.”

  He looks at me, grateful. “Yes, exactly. As Sparrow said, it’s been hard for her to get work in during these last few months. But I will also say that it’s not just limited to homework. Sparrow has a lot of trouble in class too.”

  “How do you mean?” Mom asks, the edge in her voice teetering over into anger.

  “What do I mean, Sparrow?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do. Sparrow has some trouble paying attention in class; it’s as if she’s somewhere else most of the time. Between that and her homework, her grades have taken a real dip this semester.”

  “I see.”

  “I’d like to bring in a few of her teachers to talk more specifically about what she owes and how she can turn this around. There’s still time, Sparrow.” Of course there’s time, what there’s not is a different me.

  One by one, Mrs. Robbins, Mr. Rothman, and Mr. Garfield all come in. They all say the same thing: I’m checked out, I owe work, I need to get every assignment in for the rest of the year or I won’t pass, and there’s the small matter of my participation. There’s a chorus of You’re such a smart girl and You can turn it around and Don’t you want to go to high school? Mom nudges me in the ribs and I sit up and nod, I make promises, I make eye contact. Part of me even believes that I’ll go home and do my homework tonight.

  Mr. Phillips bring this funfest to an end, telling me that I can do it, telling Mom to call if anything comes up. He shakes her hand, swish swish swishing out the door, and leaving me alone with Mom.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. She’s silent. She reaches for her bag, and pushes back her chair as Ms. Smith comes in. I want to disappear. I hate that I’ve disappointed her too.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Ms. Cooke,” she says, extending her hand. Mom takes it, and manages a smile. “Sparrow is an extraordinary girl.” Mom is stiffening, preparing for the but. She tries to look at me, but I’ve been counting the black flecks in the carpet for what feels like hours now.

  “I know it’s been hard for her, but she’s been great in English. Her writing is gorgeous and funny and detailed. She’s a tremendous reader.” I lose count of the black flecks. “She’s creative and talented, and while I know she’s gotten into some hot water this year, I wanted to come by and say that in my class, that’s simply not the case.”

  I sneak a quick glance at Mom. She swallows hard, and then smiles. “Thank you,” she says. “I know how much she loves your class.”

  “Well, I love having her. Now, Sparrow, I know that you need some extra credit.” I nod. She clears her throat. She’s waiting for me to look at her. I force my head up; it weighs a million pounds, but I do it. “I know you know that I’m in charge of the talent show this year.”

  “Ms. Smith, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not going to—”

  “Sparrow, you are not in a position to negotiate. You are going to listen to what Ms. Smith has to say.” It’s the first sentence Mom has said to me since last night.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Don’t worry, Sparrow, I’m not going to ask you to perform, I’m not that much of a monster.” She smiles and her cheeks push her black-rimmed glasses up.

  I look at her, and I smile too. “What, then?”

  “I want you to run tech for the talent show. I would have told you after class if you hadn’t ducked out to the nurse. You’re going to learn how to run the light board; you’re going to help me order the performances and rehearse them and make sure that everything goes smoothly. What do you think?”

  “I don’t have to sing or dance or a read a sonnet or whatever?”

  “No.”

  “She’d love to.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you,” I stammer.

  “Thank you,” says Mom, and we all file out. Ms. Smith goes up the stairs to her classroom and we head out into the evening for the silent walk home. Mom doesn’t speak until we’re finally sitting at the island in the kitchen. Mom is a slow burn; she’s not going to let it all out at once. She holds tight to her feelings until they’re boiling over. She likes to be inside when that happens.

  “Just say it, Mom,” I say as I rock my feet back and forth on the stool.

  “Say what, Sparrow?”

  “Just tell me how mad you are at me, what a failure I am, how this isn’t how you raised me, how disappointed you are.”

  “Why? Why bother, Sparrow? You’re going to do what you’re going to do anyway, and it seems like it’s been quite a while since you’ve listened to what I’ve had to say.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “It is that. I’ll tell you what else it is. You can shut me out all you like, little girl, that’s fine. But you’re not going to screw
up your future so you can sit in your bedroom and play air guitar. Starting Monday, you’re coming to the office every day after school and you’ll sit with James and you’ll work until I’m ready to come home.” James is Mom’s assistant at the bank.

  “I have therapy on Monday.”

  “About that. I can’t really see how it’s helping you.”

  “It’s helping.”

  “Not as far as I can tell. As far as I can tell, you’re not paying attention at school, you’re not talking to me, you spend all your time in your room or staring off to who knows what in the backyard, you still won’t tell me what happened, you still won’t tell me anything, and now for the first time in your life, you’re failing school? Failing, Sparrow. And you’re telling me that therapy is helping?”

  I stare at the ground. I feel like I’ve spent all day this way.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you, Sparrow.” I look up. I look her straight in the face, which is not the best idea. She’ll take it as defiance, which I guess it is.

  “It’s helping, Mom. I’m sorry you can’t see it, I’m sorry you don’t like Dr. Katz. I’m sorry you don’t like that I’m listening to angry music all the time. And I am really, really sorry that school is such a mess and that I’ve screwed up so bad. I get that this is a big deal. But the solution isn’t taking me out of therapy; it’s the only thing that helps. You think this is bad? This is nothing.”

  “This is nothing?”

  “I can’t talk about this anymore.” I get up and go upstairs, knowing that this is the last thing that I should do. She appears in my doorway one minute later.

  “You can’t walk away from me, Sparrow.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Things have got to change around here. I’ve let you be too independent. You want to go to therapy so bad? That woman means that much to you? Fine. But every other day you will be at my office after school, working. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good night.” She shuts off my light and closes the door. I’m fully dressed and wide-awake and it’s one of those moments when you just know that things are going to get worse.

  And they do. Kind of. I’m scared enough of Mom, and of disappointing her more, that I manage to stay awake in most of my classes for the rest of the week. I go to her office and sit with James after school. James is a nice guy; he’s young and new, just as scared of Mom as I am. I sit on the couch outside her office and watch YouTube videos on my phone. He offers me a snack from the candy drawer that he keeps in his desk. I take some peanut butter cups and stare off some more.

  “Where’s Mom?” I ask him, one headphone still on my ear.

  “Meetings for the rest of the day, kiddo,” he says. So, I don’t have to worry that she’ll come by to check on me with her neutral face, which is just a cover for her angry face. I don’t have to worry about whether she is more or less angry than she was the day before. And I don’t have to worry about that silence, that heavy, lasting silence that has been following us around since long before she left me in my room with the lights off. I put both headphones on and unwrap the candy. After a few minutes, James is kneeling in front of me.

  “What are you listening to?”

  “TV on the Radio.”

  “They’re dope,” he says. I smile and nod, not taking off my headphones. He reaches up and grabs one off of my ear. “Listen, kid. I don’t know if you know this, but your mom is pretty scary.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “So, if she comes back here and you’re eating candy and rocking out, we’re going to have a serious problem.”

  “I know.”

  “And I’m not talking about you and your mom, I’m talking about your mom and me. I can’t have her angry at me, short stuff. That’s just not going to work. So, whatever it is that you’re supposed to work on, can you at least look like you’re working on it?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “What are you supposed to be working on?” I hold up my entire backpack with its three packets of makeup work and all of tonight’s assignments. He tries to lift it and then fake falls under its weight. “You better get going, then.”

  Sometimes I wake up around four thirty, when the sun is just starting to come up and my neighborhood is this weird pink that doesn’t seem to fit the city streets and building-block houses or the traffic, and I look out the window and want with everything I’ve got to be up in the air just one more time. I’m not trying to fly away from anything, I’m really not, but when you spend your whole life wrapped in blue, wind at your back, sun-soaked and soaring, it’s hard to settle for just walking around. It’s hard to settle for the subway and school and watching TV.

  I go to school and work on those endless packets while everyone is talking to each other, and then I go to the office and eat candy with James and do work and wait for Mom and then go home with her on what always seems like an eerily quiet subway car and then avoid her and listen to music in my room until I fall asleep. It’s fine; it’s better than a hospital, but it’s not like my life was. It’s not like I can’t tell that something is missing. I don’t know how everyone does it, walking around in bodies that are nothing other than what they are. Being themselves and never anyone, or anything, else. I guess it’s okay to wander around without the swoop swoop of your heart rising and falling in your chest and your wings stretching over water if you’ve never had it.

  I sit at the island and eat my cereal, and it’s like I can’t even get myself to bring the spoon to my mouth because what’s the point? The cereal looks like twigs in my milk; it reminds me a little of a nest. Great.

  “Bye, Mom!” I call as I leave. She’s running late today, or maybe she’s started going to work later so that she can avoid me in the mornings. It’s fine. I walk to school and let the crowd push me along to my first-period class. I don’t have to think about it; I just follow the swarm. When I get to my classroom, I stand on line and read The Perks of Being a Wallflower and wait—wait to get into class, wait for the day to end.

  In English, we’re starting to read The Great Gatsby, which I only like because Charlie’s also reading it in The Perks of Being a Wallflower. The popular girls ask if we can see the movie. Ms. Smith says absolutely not, and that’s why I like Ms. Smith. I never like movies that books get turned into. She asks me to help pass out books, which I don’t like because I feel the other kids watch me as I walk around the room, but I think she’s just testing me to make sure I’m ready to be her assistant, so I do it. Also, it’s not like she’s actually giving me a choice. When I get back to my seat, there’s a note on top of Perks. It says Charlie is the best. Do you like the Bots? I look around my table, and everyone seems completely fascinated as Ms. Smith introduces the book, telling us about Fitzgerald’s life and asking us for a definition of materialism. Nobody seems like they’ve just finished writing a secret note to someone they’ve never spoken to. But then again, what would that look like?

  Everyone is trying to start to pack up without Ms. Smith noticing—she doesn’t like it when you pack up before the bell. I try to think of who might have left me a note. I’ve never gotten one before. I look around my table at the five other kids I’ve been sitting with since September. Are any of them secret indie rock fans? Not Christina, who’s best friends with Monique. Not Zahara, who wears pink shirts with rhinestones and loves, loves, loves Katy Perry. Noah sometimes rides a skateboard, so maybe, but why would he write me a note? The truth about Tanasia is that I don’t know anything about her. She sits with the second-tier popular kids at lunch, she seems nice, but does she blast indie rock in her spare time? I just don’t know. It’s nice to feel something in my stomach besides dread—what is it? Curiosity? There’s the tiniest spring in my step as I slip the note into my pocket and head to the door.

  On my way out of the classroom, Ms. Smith stops me to say that rehearsals will begin next week, just us at first so I can “learn the ropes.” I’ll need to be in the theater from three to five
on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I say okay, what else can I say? My heart sinks to my feet as I realize this means talking to Mom about not coming to the office, which means she’ll have to trust me to not fail out of school, and that doesn’t seem likely.

  When I get home from the office that night, I rush through the door and upstairs to my room. I start to download the Bots. I click related artists over and over; I add Thunderbitch, Courtney Barnett, Benjamin Booker, and Tune-Yards. My feet kick against the floor in time. I watch video after video. I can’t take my eyes off the hands of the bass players. My packet of worksheets, my impending academic doom, the hospital, Dr. Katz, even Mom, it’s not that they feel far away; it’s that they feel like a foreign language, an alien planet. Nothing to do with me and this good noise. I didn’t know you could feel this free with both feet on the ground.

  “Sparrow? Come on in.”

  “Hi.” I have a seat and see what we’ve got going on today. I guess Dr. K is feeling funky, rocking her yellow-and-green Roos and a yellow-and-red shirt that I think is what batik means and a leather vest. With fringe.

  “Hi.” She says the word like it has a few extra iii’s at the end, like she’s waiting for me. “So, how’s it been on the ground?”

  “Kind of boring, honestly. Everything is okay, except for feeling like something is missing all the time. Like part of me is … not dead, maybe, but dying? It’s like when you have a scab and you can’t stop picking at it and it turns into a scar and then you pick at that, even though it’s just skin, but it feels like a different kind of skin, like a stump? Does any of this make any sense?”

  “Yep.” She smiles. “I want to talk about something from last time. Why the roof?” I think about my most recent visit up there and shudder a little inside. I know I should tell her. I will. I will.