by Marissa Burt
DEDICATION
For the fearful
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
BACK AD
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY MARISSA BURT
CREDITS
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
ONE
Mary had a little bird,
Its coat was white as snow.
Everywhere that Mary went,
The bird was sure to go.
Wren Matthews was about to lose the Science Olympiad Trivia Challenge. Wren had never lost the challenge, had never come remotely close to losing the challenge, had never even considered the possibility of coming close to losing the challenge before this moment. Now, she sat at the exam table in the corner of the gym, her answer sheet mostly blank, oblivious to the seconds on the timer ticking past. She stared at the rafters, where a huge white bird soared over the tables that displayed students’ science fair entries. As Wren watched, the bird swooped down, talons extended, and grabbed a live mouse from Bobby Felton’s prizewinning project about rodent aggression.
Wren gasped, and her pencil fell to the table with a clatter.
The trivia challenge judge cleared her throat, peering at Wren disapprovingly over her bifocals. “Five minutes remaining, scholars.” She shuffled through her thick stack of answer cards and tapped their edges neatly on the tabletop.
Wren snapped her attention back to her paper, trying to block out the annoying sound of Simon Barker’s scribbling. Next to her, Simon’s red head was bent low over his paper, and his pencil hadn’t stopped moving.
Wren hadn’t been surprised when Simon tied with her during the speed round of the trivia challenge, where being fast was nearly as important as being smart. In past years, other competitors had been fast, too. And she had expected that he would also be able to recite the first thirty-five digits of pi, which sent them through the second round neck and neck. But now they had reached the final written portion, and if Wren’s answer sheet was any indication, things didn’t look promising. There wasn’t much time before the judge would tally their scores and announce the winner.
Wren tightened her grip on her pencil and read the problem she was working on for the third time. She licked her lips and tried to ignore the ominous sound of rustling feathers overhead. Wren wasn’t afraid of birds. After all, being afraid of a harmless animal wasn’t logical. No, she merely had a healthy respect for flying animals. The day-trip to the zoo, where she had been swarmed by the too-eager kookaburras, had taught her that. But Wren’s mouth was dry. Her heart pounded much faster than usual. And no matter how many times she reread the question on the exam in front of her, she couldn’t come up with the answer.
“Three minutes left, scholars.” The judge’s words were nearly blotted out by an unmistakable screech. Wren glanced up, then shrank down into her seat with a strangled scream, barely escaping the white bird as it dive-bombed the table. She could feel the air pressure shift with the thrum of its powerful wings when it swooped off, ruffling her hair in its wake. Wren ran a shaky palm over her bangs, sliding them into place, and glanced uneasily around. No one else seemed to care that a rogue bird had nearly taken her head off. In fact, no one else seemed to be doing much of anything. The judge leaned back in her chair, her index cards frozen midtap. Wren’s parents’ faces were turned in her direction, but their smiles were oddly fixed in place. The rest of the room stood motionless, as though someone had pressed a giant pause button on all the activity. Or almost all of it. Next to Wren, Simon sighed and reached for another piece of scrap paper without looking up from his work.
Wren scanned the ceiling. Could it be possible that no one else saw the bird? Had she imagined it? But there it was. Perched on the basketball backboard like it owned the place. As Wren watched, the white bird launched off its roost, glided over the crowd of frozen homeschoolers, and landed on the outstretched arm of a woman standing a few feet away from the trivia challenge table.
The woman was the only person moving in the sea of people. She fixed her light-yellow-brown gaze on Wren and pointed to the floor. Wren glanced down and swallowed another scream. At first, she thought the white bird had somehow dropped Bobby’s mouse at her feet. But then she saw that it wasn’t an animal at all; instead, the bird had delivered a packet of sooty papers. Wren scooped up the bundle. The bird woman gave her a sharp, distinct nod before disappearing into a puff of shimmering blue-green smoke. The instant she was gone, the rest of the room exploded back into motion. The low rumble of milling homeschoolers. The buzz of the timer. The sound of the judge’s voice.
“Time’s up, scholars.”
Wren leaned out of her chair as though getting a better view could somehow convince her that the woman and her bird hadn’t vanished into thin air. “Um,” Wren managed, shoving the packet of papers into her sweatshirt pocket as the trivia judge reached for the exams. Wren’s voice sounded strange to her own ears, like she hadn’t used it in forever. Should she do something? Tell the judge about the bird? And say what? There was a large bird that you somehow didn’t notice, and it flew to a woman who looked at me and then disappeared? The air where the woman had been standing still flared with little dots of aqua light, so bright they sent matching shooting pains through Wren’s skull. She rubbed her eyes.
“Let’s see what we have here.” The judge flipped through her stack of answer cards, comparing them with Simon’s and Wren’s responses. Her fingers hovered over Wren’s half-finished answer sheet, and Wren studied the pebbled tabletop. She used to purposely miss an answer or two, so she wouldn’t make the older kids feel bad that she was smarter than them, but that was before Simon began coming to the homeschool conference. Now all the questions she didn’t have time to finish would cost her the challenge.
Wren glanced over at her biggest competitor to find that Simon was staring off past her shoulder, his forehead furrowed as though he was still working problems in his head. Wren could see the red ribbon that went with this year’s biology medal peeking out from under his collar. Simon’s entry describing advances in animal husbandry had also won him first place in the living science portion of the competition, and he was up for the 4-H prize and just about everything else to do with science. Except astronomy. That was the one subject Wren would always win.
The judge folded her hands and set them on top of their exams. “It’s been a close competition this year, and now it’s down to you: Simon Barker and Wren Matthews. I couldn’t be more proud.” Her voice was overly cheerful, especially considering the fact that two eleven-year-olds were the top contenders for the upper division trivia challenge. “I’m happy to announce that we have a tie this year. Wren. Simon. Congratulations.” The judge beamed at them as though they had won a trip to Disneyland instead of not winning anything at all. Wren reached for her half-finished exam. How was it possible that her incomplete answers tied with Simon’s annoying nonstop pencil scratching?
Next to her, Simon stood. “Nice job.”
“You, too.” Wren watched him tuck his pencil into his jacket pocket.
Simon was always dressed like he’d been born a hundred years too late. A tailored vest with a matching wool cap. An overcoat in cold weather. Even a pocket watch that he liked to consult whenever a conference session was supposed to end. He sneaked a peek at it, snapping the gold cover open with a click.
“Tied for the win!” Wren’s mom said, coming up behind Wren and giving her and Simon high fives. “How perfect is that?”
Wren’s dad clasped his hands together first over one shoulder, then the other, like a champion would, and Wren let a tiny laugh escape. They wouldn’t care about the tie. Wren’s mom and dad weren’t like some of the parents at the Science Olympiad, all helicopterish and worried about their kids being the best. Wren’s parents were hardcore unschoolers, which meant they pretty much left Wren’s education in her own hands.
Four years earlier, the Homeschool Association had started an astronomy track, and for the first time Wren had begged her parents to go to the Science Olympiad, mainly because of the annual stargazing party. They were dubious at first, pasting on smiles and nodding at all the earnest discussions about core classes and homeschool methods and arguments over How Children Learn Best. Afterward, Wren and her parents chowed down at the Mexican restaurant around the corner and celebrated not doing any of those things.
Then Wren’s dad met Simon’s dad, and now the Mexican dinners were Wren’s parents and Simon’s dad talking a little bit about unschooling but mostly about politics and what books they were reading, and how much they all had in common. It was odd, considering how intelligent Wren’s mom and dad were, that they had failed to notice that Simon and Wren had exactly two things in common: 1. They were both the smartest kids their age. 2. Neither of them could stand being around the other.
TWO
A tisket, a tasket.
Use the dust to mask it.
I wrote a letter to the one,
And on the way I dropped it.
I dropped it. I dropped it.
And on the way I dropped it.
A little girl picked it up
And put it in her pocket.
“How are things going with cross-country?” Wren’s dad asked Simon’s dad around a mouthful of enchilada. “You have any good races scheduled for this year?”
“You bet.” Mr. Barker reached across the table to pass Wren the salsa. “Simon and I are training for a 10K in July.”
Wren scooped a mound of salsa onto her plate. Running a 10K sounded like a kind of punishment. She was glad Simon was at the opposite end of the table, with their parents sandwiched between them. She crunched into a chip and replayed the scene in the gym over in her head for the millionth time. Was there a special breed of bird that, when threatened, produced a defensive cloud of gas that obliterated people? At least a skunk-bird made more sense than people appearing and disappearing into blue smoke. She wished everyone would hurry up and finish eating so she could get somewhere by herself and examine the packet of papers that the bird had dropped.
“Wren, you could join Simon’s cross-country club!” Her mom’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Wouldn’t that be fun? Jogging together is a great way to get to know people. And maximize your potential.”
Wren choked down a laugh. Her mother wouldn’t be caught dead running. “Can we not talk about this now?” she asked, hoping that Simon wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. “Besides, the Science Olympiad is social.”
“All the more reason to build off this great foundation, Wren. I just want you to be well-rounded, sweetie.” Wren’s mom was using her I-mean-business voice, and Wren wasn’t ready to find out what voice she’d use if she knew about the bird hallucination or whatever it was. Wren’s mom turned to Simon’s dad. “Last month I twisted Wren’s arm to take a babysitting training class with other girls her age, and this month I’ve made an agreement with her: a one-hour limit on her computer time until she’s found something social to do.” She patted Wren’s hand. “It’s like I always say: No girl is an island. People need one another.”
Wren’s face flamed with heat, and it wasn’t because of the spicy salsa. The babysitting class had been a fail. A whole weekend spent making forced conversation with kids she’d never met before and would never see again. If her mom was hoping for social development, she’d have to aim somewhere else. All Wren walked away with from that class was a hazy understanding of emergency CPR and a sore stomach from where her partner had practiced the Heimlich maneuver.
“Great idea,” Simon’s dad said. “That’s the biggest challenge about unschooling, isn’t it? Finding opportunities to meet other kids? Simon has some trouble with that, too.”
Wren made herself look at Simon, but he was examining his fajitas as though he’d never seen a tortilla before.
“The college has a bunch of clubs.” Wren’s dad wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I could pull some strings and see if they’d let younger students participate.” He leaned back and put one arm around Wren’s mom’s shoulders.
“That’s an interesting idea,” Simon’s dad said. “They could give each other moral support.”
“Sure,” Wren’s mom said. “Simon and Wren could really maximize their potential together.”
Wren poked a fork at the remainder of her burrito. I’d rather go running. Her parents usually weren’t this focused on what she was doing. They were busy with work, and Wren was busy with whatever she was studying, and once in a while they played a board game together. Until a few months ago, when the neighbor who’d lived down the street from Wren her entire life said, “You have a daughter? How come I’ve never seen her before?” And, while Wren’s mom was perfectly content to let her maximize her educational potential on her own, she was now obsessed with Wren’s social development.
Wren wished she could make her mom understand that she was happy being by herself, but it seemed like her mom had seen too many movies in which the smart, quiet girl dreamed about being pretty and popular. Sure, Wren spent a lot of time alone, but she never felt like she was missing out. She could read whatever books she wanted. She could stay up late puttering around her favorite astronomy forum. She could watch old sci-fi reruns on TV. Wren had lots of plans for her time, and none of them included clubs at the community college, cross-country running, or Simon Barker.
Wren’s napkin slipped off her lap, and when she reached down to retrieve it from under the table, she noticed an odd mark on her sweatshirt. One side of her hoodie was covered with black dirt. She brushed at the stain, but instead of getting better, the spot seemed to grow darker, and even worse, little bits of soot transferred onto her fingers. Wren rubbed her hands together, and in the dimness under the table, the dust flared with blue-green light. Exactly like the cloud around the bird woman.
The papers! They seemed to be giving off the same strange dust that the bird had emitted. Dinner or not, she had to look at them now. Wren snatched her napkin off the floor and slid back up into her seat to find that her parents and Simon’s dad had started debating the merits of the new mayoral candidates. She reached a tentative hand into her pocket and discreetly pulled out the bundle, which sparked with little blue lights as she unfolded it.
Keeping it low in her lap so the others wouldn’t notice, Wren began to read the paragraph centered on the first page:
Once I saw a little bird
Come hop, hop, hop.
So I cried, “Little bird,
Will you stop, stop, stop?”
And was going to the window
To say “How do you do?”
But he shook his little tail,
And far away he flew.
There was nothing else. No explanation, no pictures, nothing but the silly rhyming words. The next poem was just as bad:
Away, birds, away!
Take a little and leave a little,
And do not come again;
For if you do, I will shoot you through,
And there will be an end of you.
Was it supposed to be poetry? Literature had never been Wren’s strong suit, but even she could tell these were no good. She skimmed through more rhymes and was halfway done with the packet when she finally stumbled across one she recognized:
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
There your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveler in the dark,
How I wonder what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
Wren’s mom had sung this to her when she was a little girl. It used to be her favorite. Wren flipped to the back cover. As if it had been added later, one more poem was written in shimmery ink:
’Twas once upon a time,
When Jenny Wren was young,
How expertly she played and how prettily she sung.
The Ancient and Honorable Guild of the Fiddlers invites
Jennifer Wren Matthews
to join their number.
You are expected at Pippen Hill tomorrow.
Sapiens dominabitur astris.
Wren rubbed her thumb over the embossed letters. Was this some sort of practical joke? Nursery rhymes and a guild of fiddlers? This day kept getting weirder and weirder. Her thumb was black, as though bits of the poems were sticking to her. Wren folded the papers, sending a shower of blue sparks to the floor, and tucked them back in her pocket. That was when she noticed that Simon Barker was staring at her, his gaze flicking between her face and the smudges on her hand.
“You got the poems, too?” Simon said in a near whisper, glancing at the grown-ups, who were distracted by their political debate. Wren’s surprise at him speaking directly to her was soon overcome by the sight of his left hand, covered with the same clinging, shimmery dust.
THREE
As I was going up Pippen Hill,
Pippen Hill was steep.
And there I found the truth of it,
All the secrets I would keep.