by Sarah Moon
“Is it dangerous? What if she had actually stepped off the ledge?”
“Sparrow?”
“I was just waiting for the birds to come and get me. I wasn’t going to step off.” I know the difference, I think to myself, remembering the time on the roof a few weeks ago.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” And she breathes deeply. I say, “I’ve missed you so much.” I can see her work at something close to a smile. She may have stopped crying, but I can’t. My shirt is wet.
“Do you think you’ll start turning back into a bird?” she asks.
“Honestly, I don’t know. I still want to, if that’s what you’re asking. But in the meantime, I’m trying to figure out how to deal with things down here. That’s why I’m screwing up so much at school. It’s a lot harder since I can’t fly away in the middle of the day. I used to be able to have energy to do work; I used to like it. But I also used to go to the roof at lunch every day and escape. I’m trying to learn how to do one without the other, but it’s not going that well.”
“Let’s just get you through this year on the ground, okay?” says Mom. She sends a full Mom smile over to me.
“Hopefully,” Dr. Katz says, “Sparrow can get some tools to deal with her feelings of isolation and anxiety, and she won’t need to fly. That’s what we’re trying to work on here.”
“That sounds like good work,” says Mom. It’s the closest thing Dr. Katz is going to get to a thank-you, so she better take it.
“It’s helping,” I squeak out.
“I’m glad, baby.”
I look at her now, my full face to her full face. Her arms are uncrossed. Her hand is near enough to mine to take it. She might be the person who taught me not to let people in, and the thought of letting her in seems impossible, but I take it. The pit in my stomach becomes just a little smaller. Just smaller enough so I don’t think I’m about to fall in and keep falling.
I wake up with my heart beating fast, not like flying, kind of like a roller coaster. Like when you’re stuck hanging upside down on a roller coaster and they’re announcing technical difficulties. Tonight is the talent show, and this is, after all, a school for the arts. I can feel the pressure of the Park Slope Stage Moms Who Try Not to Be Stage Moms from inside my room. I brush my teeth and run through the list of props and the names of the performers, what’s the order, who didn’t show up to rehearsal yesterday. It’s not like I care about the talent show; it’s just that I keep thinking about the lights being wrong or the sound going out and everyone looking at me like, Sparrow, what are you doing? Why are you ruining everything? and then I feel like falling out of that stuck roller coaster.
“Sparrow, you’re going to be late!” Mom calls up from the kitchen. This is the one thing that’s really better since we went to therapy. She nags me again. It feels like heaven.
“I’m coming!” I run down the stairs and sit at the island. She’s put out cereal and milk. “The talent show is tonight,” I say, picking at my cereal.
“Mmhmm.” She’s getting our cups.
She looks up from her tea, planting her elbows on the island and leaning toward me. “You’re scared,” she says. “But scared is just scared; it’s like happy or sad or angry. It’s just scared. What time does the show start?”
“Six.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Are you sure? I know it’s early.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. Now stop imagining that worst-case scenario in your head over and over. It’s going to be fine.”
Mom knowing what I’m thinking feels so good I let go of a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. “Okay.”
“Have a great day.”
“Thanks, you too.”
“See you tonight. Now go!”
The glow from an actual, normal conversation with Mom keeps me from thinking that the talent show might kill me, until about second period. It’s during a lull in Mr. Garfield’s class (shocker) that the roller-coaster feeling comes back. The bell rings, and we shuffle out and into the rest of the day. In English, Ms. Smith puts a hand on my shoulder and Post-it note on my desk. You’ll be great. RELAX. I put it in my pocket, and even though I still think I’m only minutes away from losing my breakfast, I smile. I wish the day would just hurry up so that I can face my doom.
In the bathroom during lunch, I can hardly stand to stay in my stall. I have Weaves blaring from my headphones but I feel trapped, too big for this small green square. I shuffle through my backpack, past my sandwich (no way am I going to risk eating right now) and past my books, to the blue Sharpie I’ve had waiting at the bottom of my bag ever since I finished memorizing what I need for today. I find the peach poem on the wall, and below it I add:
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back.
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
I like how it looks; it takes up a big part of the wall now, and I’ve had to write over some RiRi is hotttt to do it, but you can tell that it’s been done by two different people. Most people won’t even notice it, but I imagine the ones who will. I imagine a seventh grader coming in here for the same reason I did, and seeing that she has some company. That she’s not quite as alone as she thinks she is. Maybe she’ll find “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and write down the stanza that comes before the peach one. I imagine a stall full of “Prufrock.” I mean, I’m sure it’ll be painted over by the end of the year, but a girl can dream. And vandalize, for a good cause. I take out Perks and let myself get lost for the rest of lunch. No more roller coaster.
Until showtime, that is. Ms. Smith and I spend an hour before the show making sure that the Hula-Hoops, magic hats, guitars, harmonicas, flutes, and playing cards are where they should be, and we go over the set list one more time. She tells me there have been a few changes—Leticia and her dance crew of popular girls will be going on first, Jayce has dropped out, and Tanasia is going to be performing in his place. We’re just going to have to wing the sound and lights. As the room fills with performers and siblings and parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles, I start to feel that awful feeling again.
Ms. Smith sends me to the light booth. “It’s time,” she says. I see Mom come in just as I’m running up the back stairs. I see her look around for a seat. All the parents are chatting with each other; there’s a cacophony of Oh, Colette, how are Jackie’s piano lessons going? and What do you think about the season they just had? Jake is becoming quite the soccer star and Which tutor did you use for the ISEE? Oh, reeeeally? Mom avoids eye contact and finds a place a few seats down from a family taking up most of a row. She gets out a magazine (I can tell from here it’s Wired; it’s always Wired) and starts reading. She looks uncomfortable. And then it occurs to me, oh my God, she’s awkward! It’s kind of great to see her like this … like me.
Ms. Smith’s voice comes in over the walkie-talkie. “Sparrow, dim the lights, I’m about to start.” I slowly bring down the houselights with one hand while bringing up the stage lights with the other. Ms. Smith steps out onstage to welcome everyone. There’s a small squeak as she approaches the microphone, which makes my heart beat so loud I can barely hear, but I adjust it quickly, and no one seems to notice, or to be running up the stairs to ask why I’m such an idiot. She thanks everyone for coming, thanks parents and kids and the administration and whatnot, and she even thanks me for running the lights and sound, and she asks people not to take photos and to silence their cell phones and … showtime!
First up is Leticia and her group and they do a dance to “Fancy” because of course they do. Leticia is a great dancer, but it feels weird to see her onstage in booty shorts, and wearing bright lipstick, her curls pulled into a tight ponytail. She looks worlds away from the girl who curled up on a mat with me or waite
d in line for hours for her favorite author. She looks grown. We’re headed for different high schools next year and I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. That doesn’t make me as sad as I thought it would, and that makes me sad. The girls all strike sexy poses at the end of the song, and I bring the lights down to transition to the next act. I bring them back up and cue the sound, and I realize that it’s happening, just like Ms. Smith said it would. It’s okay.
As Francis and Eric are busy guessing which cards the audience members have drawn, I hear footsteps up the stairs and Leticia appears breathless behind me.
“Sparrow,” she says.
“Hey,” I say, eyes focused on the boys.
“Listen, I just want to say I’m sorry.”
“Okay.”
“I miss you.”
I look at her. I can still see the girl under the makeup and the push-up bra. I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. It doesn’t feel like I thought it would.
“I missed you too,” I say.
“You have to understand, I just have to be different around Monique and them. They don’t understand me like you do.”
“So to be friends with them, you can’t be friends with me.”
“No! Not at all! We just have to be, you know, kind of secret about it.”
I hear the audience start to clap. It’s the end of the set and I need to pay attention so I can adjust to Tanasia’s act on the fly.
“You know, Leticia, I don’t know a lot about having friends, but I’m pretty sure that part of it is that you’re friends with them all the time. I’d rather have no friends than someone who’s embarrassed to be seen with me.”
“I’m not embarrassed; they just don’t know you like I do.”
“You don’t know me. I have to do this now,” I say, turning my back to her.
I don’t let myself turn around again until I hear her footsteps on the stairs. I bring the lights down and wait for the tears to come. They don’t. The ground feels extra solid beneath my feet, and a slow smile comes across my face as I bring a spotlight up on Tanasia, who is walking toward the microphone with a guitar.
Leticia might be the only friend I’ve had since kindergarten, and all I’ve wanted since the day Mrs. Wexler died was for her to say exactly this, and now that she’s said it, the world feels exactly the same and her offer of friendship feels like a long-lost favorite sweater that’s too small once you find it. I’m so surprised I’m not upset that I almost forget about Tanasia. I focus on the girl onstage, small behind her guitar, which is hanging from her shoulders as she plugs it into a portable amp. She plays electric, which is interesting; she always seemed more acoustic to me.
“This sound okay, Sparrow?” she asks as she strums a chord. I adjust the level a little and give her the thumbs-up. She starts to play and my jaw drops. I would know those three opening chords anywhere. Then she opens her mouth: “With your feet on the air and your head on the ground … ” I laugh at the shock of it. The Pixies. Tanasia. The notes. I never would have guessed, but of course—a black girl with glasses and a love for the Pixies—she could see me when I couldn’t see her. I throw a blue light in there just to let her know I see her now.
So, how have things been back at the ranch with your mom?” Dr. K asks.
“Back at the ranch?”
“It’s an expression; it means—”
“At home.”
“You just wanted me to know that it’s what old people say.”
“Yes.”
“Noted. So?”
“Back at the ranch in Park Slope, Brooklyn, things are okay.”
She’s smiling. So am I. Things are so much easier when it’s just us and our dance. Everything seems a little more relaxed. Her Converse have some paint splatter on them. “It’s better. We’re talking. I mean, not a lot, I am not exactly chatty anyway, and it’s not like before, but I don’t think it could be. But it’s not bad, and that’s a lot better than what it was. This morning I made her tea. She likes tea before a big meeting, which she had today. So I made her some tea. We ate breakfast together. It’s not a big deal or whatever, but it was nice.”
“Kind of a big deal considering the last few months you’ve had together.” My face is hot. I feel a small ball forming at the back of my throat. I’m irritated that I want to cry. Why now? Why do I always have to freaking cry?
“What’s happening over there?”
“I hate the fact that everything makes me cry. I had breakfast with my mom; what’s the big freaking deal? Why do I have to sit in therapy and talk about it, and why in the hell do I have to sit in therapy and cry about it?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but have you been having a tremendously happy last few months? Or years?”
“Obviously not,” I say through the tears that have completely disobeyed me and are now making their hot trails down my face.
“And in that time, was one of the people you could most count on in the world, in fact, let me say, the only person you could count on in the world, your mother?”
“Yeah. So? I haven’t talked to her. And I am now. I know that already; why is it making me cry?”
“Because it’s a big deal, Sparrow.” She sounds almost angry, but I think she’s just trying to tell me she means what she’s saying; she’s also using her hands a lot, which she seems to do when she’s trying to make a point. The waves of her tattoo move slightly with her gestures.
“Because I lost her and this morning I got to have breakfast with her.”
“Yeah, you’re surviving. That matters.”
“Can I put some music on?”
“Sure. You’ve earned it.”
I smile a little and head over to the iPod dock. The first notes haven’t even squeaked out before Dr. K is smiling and tapping her foot. “Weaves,” she says, and I smile because I know she only listened to them because of me. I feel my head lean back, happy and light at the end when Jasmyn starts screaming. The silence after the song feels less empty than it usually does.
“Listen, Sparrow, I know this may seem like a random question, but the school year’s almost over.… ”
“Yee-haw, as we say at the ranch.”
“What are your plans for the summer?”
“I don’t know.” I remember the flyer crumpled now at the bottom of my backpack. “There’s this place that Mrs. Wexler wanted me to go, I think. I don’t think I could do it, though.”
“What’s it called?”
“Nix Rock Camp? Something like that.”
“Gertrude Nix Rock Camp for Girls.”
“Yeah,” I say, surprised that she’s heard of it, and also not surprised at all.
“Mrs. Wexler had good taste. It’s a sleepaway camp: You’d learn how to play an instrument, you’d take music classes and join a band with the other girls there. At the end, you put on a show with the songs you’ve written together. ”
I can’t say anything. It sounds perfect. It sounds impossible. Far away. Four weeks. Other girls. Mrs. Wexler. A show. I swing from good to bad to terrifying to awesome and back to terrifying again. I don’t believe I’ve actually managed to say anything, though.
“What do you think?”
“I think it sounds … ” My eyes. Again. Who is this girl who cries all the time? “Great.”
“The deadline has passed, but I know a guy. They’ll wait for your application. Talk to your mom, and have her call me if she has any questions.”
I wander through the day wondering how I’m going to say it. During lunch, I trace my fingers along the words When the wind blows the water white and black. I’ve been through a lot of rough-blowing winds. I can probably do this. I eat my sandwich and close my eyes. Let the ocean rage.
When I get home, I put on Courtney Barnett and sing at the top of my lungs. I love being home by myself. I know that it’s supposed to be weird or maybe a little scary, but I love filling this empty house with noise. Mom comes home as I’m blaring my way through “Dead Fox.” She turns th
e music down, and I’m grateful for the little act of Mom-ness. She doesn’t think I’ll kill myself if she turns down my music. Normal.
“Hi, rock star,” she says.
“Hi!”
“You’re really into this stuff, huh?”
“Kind of, yeah.”
She shakes her head just a little, but she’s smiling. “Okay. How was your day?”
“It was all right. How was yours?”
“Long. You look like the cat that swallowed the canary. What’s going on?” Mom likes old-people expressions almost as much as Dr. Katz.
“Well … ” I bring the brochure out of my backpack, trying to smooth it out. “I think I want to go to camp.”
Mom turns her head to the side and looks at me with a half grin. “You. Camp. You can’t be serious.”
“I am, a little.”
“Where is this coming from, Sparrow? My Sparrow hates camp.”
“I know. And I might hate this one, but I think I have to find out. It was in a book that Mrs. Wexler gave me. It’s a camp to learn to play music and join a band and whatever.”
“Huh.” She sounds doubtful. “How long is it for?”
“One month.”
“Here in the city?”
“No, it’s upstate.”
“Sparrow, I can’t take you upstate every day. I have to work.”
“No, I know. It’s sleepaway.”
I can feel something in Mom stiffen. I’ve never had a sleepover, much less gone to sleepaway camp for a month, and we both know what happened the one time I did try and that was just for one night.
“I don’t know, Sparrow. You’re barely back to yourself. You’re barely passing eighth grade. What if you have an episode while you’re there?”
“By episode, do you mean flying?”
“I guess.”
“I’m not going to. Nothing would happen if I did, it’s not dangerous, but also, I can’t anymore. Not even if I want to. Not even when I want to. I can still talk to Dr. Katz if you want me to. Maybe on the phone or something? But I have to try this, Mom.”