Sparrow

by Sarah Moon

  “I just, Sparrow, I just got you back. I don’t want you to go.”

  “I know. But I think I have to. I think I can’t just stay here with you all summer, even if I want to. Here’s the information. I have to get the application in pretty soon.”

  She sits at the island, taking the brochure from my hand. “I’m proud of you, Sparrow. I know you’re scared.”

  “I’m really scared.”

  “Speaking of which, are you friends with the girl who played that song at the talent show?”

  “Tanasia? No, not really.” I don’t say, Tanasia? I sit next to her every single day in English class and ignore her even though she’s obviously trying to be my friend and even though she’s probably the only person at school I have anything in common with. I don’t say, Tanasia? I haven’t said word one to her since the talent show. I don’t say, Tanasia? Every single day I tell myself that I’m going to say hi, that I’m going to write her a note back, and every single day I sit there and avoid eye contact.

  “Well, maybe you should be.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Okay, let me take a look at all this.”

  “Okay.”

  I go upstairs and breathe a sigh of relief. I take out my math packet and try to finish it. I only have two weeks before grades close and there’s no way Mom will let me go if I don’t, well, graduate eighth grade.

  “So, I talked to my mom about the program,” I tell Dr. Katz, the sunshine pouring through the windows, covering everything in her office with a hopeful gold.

  “How did that go?”

  “Not great, but I think she’s going to let me go.”

  “Do you want to go?”

  I take a second to think about this. I am scared out of my mind. I mean, really, who am I kidding? I was in a freaking mental hospital four and a half months ago—do we all really think it’s a good idea for me to go skipping off to summer camp? Also, there will be other people there, and we all know how awesome I am at that. But here’s this woman who knows exactly how crazy I am, and she doesn’t seem to think it’s a terrible idea.

  When I imagine camp, it goes one of two ways. The first, it’s perfect; it’s like a version of Mrs. Wexler’s library but with music. I learn how to play bass. I am weirdly good at it. I don’t even need to practice, but I do. I practice all the time in a small room with big windows and hot afternoon light just like this one. Bass is the perfect instrument for me; you can barely hear it if you don’t know what you’re listening for, but the song wouldn’t be the same or even half as good without it. It’s the pulse. You’d think that was the drums, but it’s not. It’s the bass. And bassists are tall and skinny, like me. Well, except for the tall part. But in the summer-camp-library dream, I’m tall too. It’s perfect.

  Then there’s the nightmare scenario. It’s the Y camp overnight, but I don’t get to go home. It’s the cafeteria, but worse, because I expected it to be better. And worse because it’s in the middle of nowhere and we have to camp and I didn’t even bring a tent or a sleeping bag. A counselor lends me a tent, but I don’t know how to set it up, and everyone already seems to know each other and they’re talking and laughing and going off for an activity while I’m still trying to put together my tent, it starts to rain, and I just crawl between the flaps on the ground and wait. And then I become the girl who couldn’t put her tent together, and at reunions in ten years, no one will remember my name, but they’ll remember coming back to the campsite and finding me in a little soaking wet pile on the ground. I play the tambourine. They make me lead singer. No one wants to be in my group. The counselors have to make the other kids be in a group with me because that’s what counselors do, but everyone knows the difference between wanting to be in a group with someone and being forced to be in a group with someone. They all hate me because they’re being forced to pretend to like me, and every day the teacher is like, “Louder, Sparrow. I can’t hear you singing,” and I have to sit with my tent neighbors at lunch, which is eight hundred times worse than sitting alone.

  “Sparrow?”

  “Hi.”

  “Hi there. What’s going on?”

  I explain my two scenarios; I start to fidget when I get to the part about sitting with the other kids at lunch, mostly so I can hide the fact that my hands are trembling.

  “I see,” says Dr. Katz slowly, forcibly suppressing a smile. Is she seriously about to laugh at me right now?

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, angry.

  “It’s not that it’s funny, Sparrow. You just have a very vivid imagination. So, let’s start with this: There are no tents.”

  “There aren’t?”

  “No. It’s at a college campus upstate. You’re not wrong: There will be some nature, but you won’t be sleeping in it. You’ll be in a dorm.”

  “That means roommates; that’s even worse!”

  “There’s no getting around it, kid, summer camp definitely means other people. But it’s other stuff too—the chance to learn something new, to get good at something that you didn’t even know you could do a week before, to be exposed to new music and its history.”

  When she talks about that stuff, the music part, my heart loosens. I don’t have to fidget anymore. Subtly, my fingers press down imaginary chords on an imaginary bass.

  “I like that part.”

  “Right. So, what you have to decide is whether it’s worth it to you or not, think about it.”

  “I will.”

  “But not for too long. If you’re going to apply, you have to do it before next week.”

  It’s late, and I know I should be sleeping, but I can’t. I’m reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and Charlie is in the hospital. It’s different than when I was there, but it’s nice to think that another kid, even a fictional one, has seen the inside of one of those places. I let myself think for a split second that maybe there’ll be a girl version of Charlie at camp. Then I think of the muddy, rained-on tent. I wish I could sleep.

  The next thing I know, it’s morning. I come downstairs and there’s a whole big breakfast waiting. Mom is not a pancake mom, but there are pancakes and bacon and eggs and warm syrup. Warm syrup? Who does that? Something is up.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Wrong? Nothing, girl, I made you breakfast. A little inspiration. A little sustenance. A little bravery.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I manage a smile.

  “Eat.”

  I do. I tear into the pancakes with the warm syrup, making sure to drip some on my eggs too. She puts a cup of tea down next to my plate.

  “So, what do I need inspiration, sustenance, and bravery for?”

  She raises her eyebrows at me like, Think about it. “The application, remember? We’re doing this.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah, that. Get the teacher recommendation and fill out your part of the form. Bring it to me this afternoon at the office.”

  “I’m going to need another pancake.”

  When I get to her office after school, I hand Mom the recommendation (Ms. Smith’s, of course) and my part of the application. She informs me of her plan. “Okay, Sparrow. You sit here with James until I’m done at six. You need to get math and science done tonight. Enough excuses. We’re not going for As here; we’re going for done. Got it? We’ll stop for sushi on the way home, and then you’re finishing social studies. Am I clear?”

  “Yes,” James and I say in unison.

  “Good. Get to work.”

  James turns his speakers on quietly, but I can hear that he’s playing the Strokes, and I nod in appreciation of his efforts. “It’s go time, kiddo,” he says. We tear through as much of it as we can, James helping me with whatever math he remembers from eighth grade, tossing me peanut butter cups when I get a right answer. I am awful at science, but half of the packet is just filling in the periodic table.

  “Let’s go,” Mom says, with one hand on her hip, her briefcase in the other.

  “Thanks, James,
” I call over my shoulder as I throw my stuff into my backpack.

  “Good luck, kid; eighth grade’s a killer.”

  Mom orders sushi as we’re headed to the train; it’ll be at the house five minutes after we get there. It’s nice to have Mom be Mom—everything scheduled down to the minute. On the train she says, “Get out your social studies.”

  “Mom, it’s a ten-minute train ride.” She cocks her head to the side, that infamous eyebrow raised.

  “People with 4.0 GPAs can argue. People who are barely managing to pass eighth grade and who are begging to go to summer camp and not summer school take their work out of their backpacks the second their mothers tell them to.” Fair point. I work until we get to our stop. If Mom had her way, I’d probably write and walk at the same time.

  “Go sit at the island,” she says as we get into the house. “This is a working dinner.” There is no point in arguing. After dinner, I may beg for some music but that’s about as far as I’m willing to push it and I need some time to perfect my strategy.

  She puts out the dishes and I can feel her peering over my shoulder to make sure that I’m still going. “I promise, Mom, I’m working!”

  “I want my child to pass the eighth grade; she acts like I’m a prison warden,” she says to no one in particular. After dinner, she checks my work from the afternoon while I try to finish my Gatsby reading for the next day.

  Around ten, I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. “Mom, I’m tired. Can I put some music on to keep me up?”

  She looks at me askance, trying to tell if I’m trying to get away with something or if I’m for real. “Okay, but go easy on me. No angsty white boys.”

  “You’re the one who listens to NPR all day, home of angsty white boys.”

  “I like them for news.”

  “Here, try this.” I put on Alabama Shakes. “A black lady indie rocker, and only a little angsty.”

  “Not bad,” she says, tapping her manicured nails on the countertop. I get back to work. My head is too heavy to carry by twelve thirty. It’s rolling around on my shoulders.

  “I guess we could call it a night.”

  “I think I’ll pass,” I say.

  She turns her chair toward me. She cups my face in her hands. “This is the last time, Sparrow. We’re not doing this again. We’re not doing hoping for Cs. We’re not doing rooftops. We’re not doing hospitals.”

  “I know,” I say, lids half-closed.

  “You want to go to camp? That’s fine. But you need to be able to stay there, just like you need to be able to go to high school in the fall. And if Dr. Katz isn’t helping you do that, we need to find you someone who will.”

  “She’s helping, I promise,” I say, wanting to talk about anything other than this.

  “She better be. Sparrow, I’m serious. If you’re going to camp, you’re staying there. You’ve got to figure out how to beat this thing. I can’t bail you out. Got it?” I pretend to be asleep, as my heart starts kicking quietly against my ribs.

  Mom and I pull up to the campus and there’s a big banner that says WELCOME TO GERTRUDE NIX ROCK CAMP FOR GIRLS. Mom puts her hand on my shoulder as she turns the wheel like, Here we go. She parks the car and the entire time I think, Let’s just turn around, let’s just leave.

  “Honey, you’re going to be okay. Come on,” Mom says. Possibly she can hear my thoughts, or more likely, I look like I’m about to puke. She takes my backpack out of the trunk and passes it to me. She’ll roll the big suitcase. She must feel bad for me. Mom believes that you should only pack what you can carry. Right now, I must look like I could carry a water bottle.

  We follow signs to this long line and my heart starts to beat a thousand miles a minute and I grip my backpack with both hands to keep from falling over. All the other girls seem to know each other already. They’re running around and hugging and shrieking, and it’s the first day of kindergarten all over again, except this time there’s no Chocolate and no cubbies. Counselors are coming up and down the lines introducing themselves; the girls seem to know all of them too. A woman with curly green hair and another with a shaved head and a cheek piercing that hurts to look at are heading to me and Mom.

  “Hi!” they say in creepy unison.

  “I’m Ginger,” says the green-haired one.

  “I’m Jane,” says the shaved head.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” says Mom, who has apparently become an entirely different person and seems totally at ease in this super-weird situation. “I’m Donna and this is my daughter, Sparrow.” Donna. My mother just introduced herself as Donna.

  “Hey, Sparrow!” says Ginger. “Cool name.” I think I manage to nod my head. I do not manage to look up. I am expecting a soft elbow in the ribs from Mom to get me to look them in the eye. Instead, she puts her hand on my shoulder. “She’s a little shy,” she says. Camp is apparently an alternate universe.

  “I am too,” says Jane. I don’t buy it. Shy people don’t shave their heads. “The shaved head’s just a ruse,” she adds. I smile a little bit, not that either of them can see it, since my eyes are glued to my shoelaces. They continue down the rest of the line.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Mom says. I think she’s said it about eight million times in the last twelve hours. I look up and up for the birds, just to see if I can do it. I close my eyes and wait for the swoop swoop feeling that I know won’t come, and it doesn’t. Mom says, “Sparrow, your turn,” and puts her hand gently on my back to guide me toward the table at the front of the line. There are two more counselors at the front, registering people. The black one has almond-shaped brown eyes that peer up at me kindly from under a baseball cap. “Hi, Sparrow. I’m Ty. You’re in Nina with me; let me show you where it is.” I can’t tell if Ty is a man or a woman, maybe something more like both. Ty is handsome and beautiful and takes my backpack with strong arms and leads us up to the dorm.

  “Who’s Nina?” I finally manage to ask.

  “It’s our hall. Every hall is named after an important female musician, like Nina Simone.”

  “I haven’t heard of her.”

  “You will.”

  Ty takes us down a long hall with a brown-and-white linoleum floor. My door is the last one. There’s a little bird cutout on the front that says Sparrow on it, and a yellow cutout in the shape of a spike that says Spike on it in black marker. Ty opens the door, and the room is tiny twin beds and nothing else except this girl and her entire freaking family and what seems like every instrument ever invented. She’s setting up a drum set in the corner and has, like, four different guitars with their own particular stands and straps, and it’s just me and my mom and my stupid pink rolly case that she got me when I was six.

  “Hi,” the girl says, bounding over to greet me, “I’m Spike.”

  “Hi,” I say.

  “This is Sparrow,” Mom helps.

  “Cool. Nice to meet you,” she says. “Is it your first time at GNRC?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “I’ve been coming since I was eight. It’s cool; you’ll like it.”

  I don’t know what to say, and so I say nothing. In my head I say, Sparrow, how come you can’t even carry on this simple conversation? That doesn’t help.

  “Spike, give me a hand with the hi-hat, please.” That’s Spike’s mom. Or … I think it is. There are a lot of people in this room. Mom is at my bed, taking sheets out of my suitcase. A girl comes by, wearing a ripped plaid vest and a white tank top, and jean cutoffs. I understand immediately that she’s cool.

  “Spike!” she shrieks. They run to each other, hug, do a chest bump, and then go into an intricate handshake. The other girl doesn’t look in my direction. I usually like being invisible, but this doesn’t feel awesome. “Come on, you’ve got to come say hi to Alyssa, she’s been asking about you all morning.” They scamper out of the room holding hands. Her family manages an awkward “Nice to meet you,” and they leave too. They probably have their own friends to go visit.

 
; Mom’s made up my bed, and now she pulls me to it. She holds my hands in hers. She looks into my eyes. “You listen to me,” she says softly. “You’re going to be just fine, I promise. I know this is a lot of people and a lot of new things at once. I know you’re scared. You’re doing just fine.”

  My eyes start to water. “No, I’m not, Mom. I’m not doing fine. I can’t even have a normal conversation with any of these people, and they all know each other already.”

  She wipes my tears and I feel like I’m about four years old. “This was always going to be the hard part. You just introduce yourself when people talk to you, and try to look at them when you can.”

  “God, what is wrong with me?”

  “You’re shy. You’re anxious. Lord knows you come by it honestly. You’ve never done this before. I know you want to go stand by the wall like the first day of school but—”

  “The cubbies. I didn’t stand by the wall; I hid in the cubbies.”

  “All right, the cubbies. I know you want to go hide, but instead you’re here. You’ve already won.”

  “It doesn’t feel like it.”

  “Winning doesn’t sometimes. Now, I should leave. So dry your eyes, and get ready to go to lunch. You can call me every day if you need to. I’ll see you in four little weeks.”

  I nod. It’s all I can do. I hug her with everything I’ve got.

  She puts her hands on my shoulders firmly. “You can do this. You’re already doing it.” She kisses me on the cheek and closes the door after herself.

  I lie on my bed facedown and cry for what feels like hours. After a while, I hear Ty in the hallway. “Food time, guys, let’s go!”

  I file out of the dorm with everyone else and head to the cafeteria, in a different building a few doors down from Nina. “Welcome to Heart, kids, this is where we eat. Go grab a seat.”

  Go. Grab. A. Seat. I hate those words. They make everything seem so simple when it’s so freaking complicated. We all wait in line for food. It looks like there are hamburgers, veggie burgers, sweet potato fries, and cookies. I don’t care, I don’t have a lot of faith in my stomach’s ability to hold anything down right now anyway. When it’s my turn, I take some fries and turn around to face my doom. Tables filling up with girls who are chatting, smiling, finding a place because they know where to go. It’s like everyone got a map but me.