Of a Feather

by Dayna Lorentz

  First swoops low near a human nest set between thick patches of trees. I follow her and perch in a leaf tree.

  “In there,” she hoots. “I heard Mother inside that cave.” She turns and looks skyward.

  “You’re leaving?”

  She tilts her head to me. “You want me to stay?”

  “We have to help Mother escape.”

  First blinks her eyes slowly. “But I already tried and failed.”

  “We can try together.” I glide down and perch on the branch above her.

  First’s ear tufts lift, then soften over her brow. “Together,” she chirps, digesting the hoot like a morsel of meat. “All right. We shall try. Together.” She steps closer to me.

  A happy hum warms my gizzard. “Together.”

  We fly around the place, hooting a greeting to Mother. She had a special hoot to let us know she was returning to the nest, and we cry this special Hoot-hoo-hoo-HOOOOOOOOOT! all around the human nest. A few owls screech or hoot back to us: a pair of screech owls cry for us to go away, that they’re not owls but rather bumps on a tree—not a convincing tactic; a snowy owl warns us away from its nest with threat of talon; and a grumpy barred owl chirrups that we’re too late.

  “Too late?” I perch near where I heard the barred owl. “Too late for what?”

  The barred owl is in a small enclosed nest outside the human nest, similar to the one the Brown Frizz let me roost in.

  First, always one for direct assaults, slams her talons into its roof. “Where’s Mother?” she screeches.

  “Get off my nest, you great tufted gizzard.” The barred owl flaps down to a lower perch, as if avoiding First’s talons.

  I raise my ear tufts at First, bob my head to signal her to move off. We need this cantankerous owl’s help! Then, lowering my tufts and tucking in all my feathers to create a compact and respectable appearance, I hoot to the barred owl, “You know something of our mother?”

  “I don’t know if she’s your mother,” he chirps back. “But there was a nice female great horned here. Her wing never healed right.”

  My gizzard frosts over and sinks in my gut. “Never healed?”

  First is sending off waves of rage. “So the humans killed her?”

  The barred owl clacks his beak with disdain. “You fluff-for-brains hatchling,” he screeches, “I have a broken wing, and no one killed me. I live here with the humans. These humans take me out and show me off to other, smaller humans. I think it’s part of an owl-human alliance they’re trying to develop. We’ve never quite worked out our mutual goals, but they feed me all the mice I can eat without my having to fly on my busted wing, and I let the tiny human hatchlings stare at me and sometimes stroke my chest feathers.”

  “Owl-human alliance?” First squawks with disdain.

  “That sounds right to me,” I hoot quietly. “We do live in the same patch of forest. Makes sense we’d want to get to know one another.”

  “And there is the matter of the food. All I can gobble. Plus, they clean the nest for me. Quite a fine arrangement, if I do say so.”

  “But Mother is not here,” First hoots. “Clearly, she is not a part of this alliance.”

  “Not this one,” the barred owl replies. “But other humans came in one of their rolling hollow rocks, and they took the great horned with them. I believe my humans are trying to spread word of the alliance to other parts of the forest.”

  It makes quite a bit of sense to me. The Brown Frizz and Gray Tail are certainly the kinds of humans who would support an Owl-Human Alliance. Maybe there are more of their kind of human than there are humans with fire sticks. Or maybe the Alliance is meant to control those fire sticks, at least with respect to owls?

  “So you think she’s safe?” First chirps. “That the humans mean to take care of her?”

  “Of course,” the barred owl grumbles. “These humans help owls. At least, they try.”

  First flaps up and away from the barred owl’s nest.

  She has absolutely no manners. I bow to the barred owl and hoot, “Thank you,” before flying off after her.

  “First!” I cry, pumping my wings against an onslaught of icy currents curling down from a nearby mountain. “Slow down!”

  “Why?” she hoots back. “We looked for Mother, she’s not there, it’s over. Go find your own territory.”

  The air currents push down on me, forcing me to curve around to flap out of their thrust. It’s too much pressure. I glide down to the nearest treetop. First fights the currents, burning far too much energy, and then drifts down like a leaf, swerving one way, then the other, and comes to rest in a tree not far from mine.

  Half day cracks open into full light. It’s too late for us to try to find another day roost. I decide to risk a quick hunt to restore my gizzard. My feathers naturally arrange themselves, and I find a clutch of mice in a nearby tussock of grass. I flap up, silent as a breeze, and glide down, down, and crash into the leaves. My talons squeeze around a mouse and then I fly with it up into the branches.

  I find a solid perch and am about to gobble down my kill when I look up and see poor First. I can hear her gizzard grumbling from here.

  I flap up to her, present the mouse. “Here,” I hoot. “For you.”

  First cracks open her eyes. “Why would you give me that?” she peeps. “You’ve got to be as hungry as I am after all that flying.”

  “I’m hungry,” I hoot, “but I can catch another, and you seem in a bad way right now. You need this mouse more than I do.” I nudge the mouse toward her with my talon.

  “This is not how it’s supposed to be,” First grumbles. “The rule is every owl for herself.”

  “Maybe,” I hoot, “but I’m not sure those rules apply to hatchmates. At least, I don’t think they should.”

  First fluffs her feathers a bit and raises her tufts. Then they smooth down and she reaches a talon toward the mouse. “Maybe I can agree to that,” she chirps. She grips the meat and gobbles it down. “Thank you,” she hoots softly.

  “You’re welcome,” I say. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meal of my own to catch.”

  I swoop down and catch a bite for myself, and when I fly back up to First, she’s moved over to make a bit more room on her branch for me.

  29

  Reenie

  In class Thursday, Mr. Brown drops a bombshell: “Instead of doing your presentations in the cafeteria for the other sixth graders, Principal Stanitski wants to have you do them for the whole school at assembly tomorrow!”

  Jamie, Jaxon, and I pass the same look of horror among us.

  “The whole school?” Jamie whispers.

  Jaxon pulls out his wood and starts scraping. The scraping is kind of violent: nervous scraping.

  Mr. Brown tells us to get together to discuss how our practice presentations went on Monday and whether there’s anything we’d like to change now that we’ll be on stage in front of the whole school.

  “Our presentation was perfect,” Jamie says, flapping a hand as if she can swat away the idea of making any changes. “We’ll just do the same thing.”

  Jaxon flicks off a flake of wood. “We could bring in props. I have a bust of my first deer.”

  Jamie’s lip curls. “No dead stuff.”

  “You could use it to talk about the economic benefits,” I note. “Don’t you say something about taxidermy?”

  Jamie frowns like she’s not quite sold on the concept.

  “Aunt Bea,” I say, the words emerging as the thought pops into my head.

  “We already have the interview with her,” Jamie says.

  “But she could bring Red.”

  “She could do that?” Jaxon says, eyebrows tilting up.

  “She said she does educational presentations sometimes,” I say, shrugging.

  “That would be amazing,” Jamie says, her body beginning to tremble with excitement.

  The same smile appears on all three of our faces.

  * * *

 
When I get home, I see out the back windows that Aunt Bea took down the flight pen while I was at school. Tears prick out along my eyelashes. Every time I remember Rufus is gone, it’s as hard as that moment he flew away from me forever.

  I leave my bag on a chair and go out into the yard. Red is perched quietly in her aviary, one foot tucked up underneath her. She glances at me, then stares back out her window toward where Rufus had lived.

  “I miss him too, old girl.”

  I wonder what he’s doing—he’s just waking up, I imagine. Stretching his wings, rousing, preening his feathers. Maybe he scratches an itch on his head with a talon, stretching those ridiculously long legs out before curling back into his stoic stance on the branch. He’s got to get hunting—owls are only successful in catching their prey less than half of the time, even on the best days.

  My stomach growls. It was loud enough that Red gives me her hawk stare.

  “Dinnertime?” I ask.

  She steps closer to me on her perch, tilts her head, and then makes a twittering cry.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  By the time Aunt Bea comes home, I have started soup on the stove and am cutting up a defrosted quail for Red.

  Aunt Bea peeks into the pot. “Smells good.”

  “Tomatoes, white beans, veggie broth, and some kale I found in the garden.”

  She nods. “I’ll throw in some pasta.”

  I hold up the box I have ready. “Way ahead of you.”

  “Should I be worried that you’re three steps ahead of where you usually are in the evenings? Don’t tell me your homework is done too.”

  I snort a laugh. “It’s still me, Aunt Bea.”

  She rumples my knot of hair. “Thank the stars.”

  I shake in the pasta, stirring it into the bubbling red. “You think he’s okay?” I ask. The steam stings my eyes.

  Aunt Bea places a hand on each of my shoulders, gives them a gentle squeeze. “He was ready,” she says. “You helped him get ready. I trust him to take care of himself.”

  I stir and stir. “I trust him,” I whisper into the curls of steam caressing my face.

  Aunt Bea gives me another squeeze. “I’ll get some milk for us both.”

  After we eat, we take the filleted quail out to Red, leash her to one of the perches, and watch from the back steps as she feasts. Red plucks little tufts of feathers and flings them aside, then pierces a strip of meat and gobbles it down. She adjusts her grip on her dinner and begins the process again, flinging the feathers with what I can only describe as glee.

  “We’re doing our hunting presentation for the whole school tomorrow,” I say.

  “The whole school?” Aunt Bea sips a steaming mug of tea.

  “I was wondering if you could come with Red.” I glance over at her. “At the end.”

  Aunt Bea smiles. “I was hoping you would ask.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and give her leg a quick squeeze.

  “Your mom talked to me about setting up visitation.” Aunt Bea takes a long sip. “She also told me about your request for an apartment in Branford.” She looks at me. “That took guts.”

  I pick up a stick, scrape long arcs in the dirt of the overgrown garden.

  “Since she doesn’t have a place yet, we talked about doing visitation here at first,” Aunt Bea continues. “If things go well, I thought maybe she could even do your first overnight here.”

  I look up. “Where?” Would Mom sleep in an aviary?

  Aunt Bea watches Red rip a morsel free, then mantle over her kill, spreading her wings like a protective wall. As if we would try to steal her dinner. Gross.

  “Your mom and I spoke with the social worker,” Aunt Bea continues. “I haven’t been to see my girl in a while. Red’s particular about who takes care of her.”

  Can she be saying what I think she’s saying?

  Aunt Bea goes on. “The game warden said he was okay with you taking care of Red while I’m gone.”

  My heart is thumping against my ribs and the smile on my face is so wide, it hurts my cheeks. “We’d stay here? With Red?”

  She nods, and I see the smile tipping up the edges of her mouth. The porch light sparkles in her eyes. “If you’d like that,” she says.

  I wrap my arms around her shoulders. “Thank you.”

  She hugs her free arm around me. “Thank you, Reenie.”

  Sometimes, thank you sounds an awful lot like I love you.

  “I love you too,” I whisper.

  * * *

  It’s Friday morning and I’m freaking out. “You’re sure you have the poster?” I say to Jamie.

  “I have the poster.” She is absolutely done with my paranoid questions.

  “And I have my note cards,” Jaxon says, preempting my next question.

  I pat my back pocket. I have my note cards. Our group asked to go last because we have a surprise: Red. I now realize this is a terrible mistake.

  Morning meeting has never been stressful before, but now, looking out at the whole school packed into the gym from where we’re waiting in the wings backstage, stress builds inside me and I feel ready to burst. I pull aside the curtains for a fifth time and peek out. Bad idea. The whole school is out there. The gym is packed with eyes staring back at me. And standing against the walls are clumps of parents, invited here to watch the show.

  “Okay, Otter Creek Elementary! Let’s get quiet!” Principal Stanitski shouts through the mike. Then he does the clap—clap, clap, clap-clap-clap—which the whole school then repeats—clap, clap, clap-clap-clap—and it’s so loud it practically shakes the walls apart, meaning that’s how many people I’m about to have to speak in front of.

  Jamie clamps her fingers around both my hand and Jaxon’s. “You guys are so awesome.” She’s hopping on her toes. And something about the extreme size of her smile calms my nerves. Jamie is just happy to be up here with us, with me. Jamie is happy to be my friend.

  Each group goes. I check the clock on the wall. Aunt Bea said she’d be here. And then I see the side door crack open, see her head peek in. She waves to me. I wave back, and my smile grows even wider.

  We can do this, I remind myself. I can do this.

  The principal introduces us, and the three of us walk out and face hundreds of bright eyes and open faces.

  Jaxon begins, and then Jamie chimes in and they do the debate, and then it’s my turn.

  “Falconry is another type of hunting,” I begin, and I glance off to the side door leading outside from the stage and see Aunt Bea, Red standing tall on her arm. “And we have a special guest to show you.”

  It’s amazing to see this look—the look I remember burning across my face the first time I saw Red—flash on all the faces in the audience. Red, though, is completely calm, a queen surveying her kingdom. Aunt Bea uses her at the falconry school in the summer, so Red knows the drill: perch on the fist, be her amazing self, spread wonder and joy.

  All my nervousness disappears because I realize I could just blather gibberish and all anyone would remember is Red.

  At the end of our presentation, we get a standing ovation. We know it’s mostly for Red, but still, we’re pretty psyched.

  After a quick group hug, Jamie and Jaxon are pulled away by their families. I wave to Warden Doucet, who salutes back with a single wave—so that’s where Jaxon got it. Jaxon’s mom smothers him with a hug and flurry of kisses. Jamie’s parents pore over our poster board with her like they’re the ones who’ll give us the grade. Aunt Bea is talking to Principal Stanitski, who seems giddy being that close to a real hawk.

  And then I notice, coming up the steps and onto the stage: Mom.

  She hop-steps to me, then leans down and wraps me in a hug. “Reenie-beany, that was amazing!”

  My arms flap around her. Her shampoo is the smell I’ve always associated with hugs. “You’re here,” I manage. “You came.”

  She strokes my hair. “Of course I did, my girl.”

  I glance over at Aunt Bea. S
he’s watching us, eyes wary but calm. Red considers us, beak slightly to the side. It’s like having my own Secret Service detail, ready to jump in at the first sign of danger.

  Jamie places a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, Reenie, is this your mom?”

  Mom tenses, like she’s afraid of what I’ll say.

  I see Jaxon watching from over his mom’s shoulder as she jostles him with another hug.

  I step back, take my mom’s hand in mine. “This is my mom,” I say. “Mom, this is my best friend, Jamie.”

  My mom looks at me like I’ve given her a gift. “Hi, Jamie,” she says, voice cracking a little on the “ee.”

  I’m right about things being different. But it’s not just me or Mom that’s changed; it’s that it’s not just me and Mom. I have Mom, and I think I even see Gram trying to make her way through the crowd, but I also have Aunt Bea. I have Jaxon and Jamie.

  This is probably not the last reunion scene Mom and I will ever have. I get that. But now, I have many eyes watching over me. I have people I can count on. Now, I know I’m never too far from a safe place to perch.

  30

  Rufus & Reenie

  “Jaxon is hogging the seat,” Jamie complains, shoving Jaxon away from her and thrusting him into me on the other side.

  “You said you wanted me in the middle,” Jaxon says, readjusting his butt and shoving her back.

  They’re both smiling like they’re hiding a secret in the space between them, but everyone in the car—me, my mom, and even Jaxon’s mom, I think—can tell that they like each other. I’ve talked to them both about it. Jamie could not stop obsessing over whether this was the worst friend betrayal ever, to like like Jaxon, and whether I would still be friends with her if she did like him. Jaxon merely asked me if I thought Jamie thought he was cute. I’m not sure which of them was more stressed out talking to me about it. I told them both that maybe they should talk to each other. If I’ve learned anything over the past few months, it’s that talking straight with people is a good thing.

  Jaxon’s mom worked out this whole plan with my mom last week. It’s an early Christmas present, at least for me. We’re going to the Vermont Institute of Natural Science in Quechee to see their birds. The Institute, called VINS, is the largest bird rehabilitation facility in Vermont.