Be Light Like a Bird

by Monika Schröder

  But my relief only lasted so long. My mood was as blustery as the weather. I was supposed to work at Mr. Leroy’s store that afternoon, but by the time I reached Eats of Eden, there were still too many feelings churning inside of me. I was worried that I had crossed the invisible line. I had stepped away from popular girls to the other side, where lonely nerds like Theo had to hang out. From now on, Theo and I would spend more time together — even at recess — and work together on all class projects. What would I do when the others started whispering about Theo and me? Would I be able to stand it?

  Mr. Leroy noticed that something was bothering me, so I told him what had happened.

  “If this girl is mean and you have nothing in common with her, you did the right thing,” Mr. Leroy advised as we unpacked a box of gluten-free crackers in the back of the store. “Why worry about spending more time with Theo? I thought you got along well with that boy.”

  That was the problem with adults. They always made everything sound so easy.

  “I do get along with him,” I said. “But what if —”

  “Now don’t tell me you can’t be friends because he’s a boy,” Mr. Leroy interrupted. I had mentioned during a previous shift that I was working with Theo on the social studies project and that we had started to watch birds together. “From all I hear, you have a lot in common with him and you enjoy spending time together. That’s the most important thing. What do you not like about him?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like him,” I said.

  “You see?” Mr. Leroy said. “You can’t come up with anything. So I say, just hang out with Theo, and things will be all right.”

  * * *

  Theo was waiting for me at the bike racks before school the next day. “I heard what happened in the cafeteria yesterday,” he said.

  I locked up my bicycle, and we walked up the stairs together. Callum and a bunch of other boys were standing in the corner, right next to the office. When he saw us walking by, he called out to the other boys, “Look, it’s the newlyweds!”

  Everyone laughed.

  I looked straight ahead and headed toward my locker. I put my backpack away and followed Theo to the other end of the hallway where a row of desks waited to be fixed by the janitor.

  “You can’t let it get to you,” Theo said, pushing himself onto one of them.

  “Mm-hmm.” I nodded.

  “Seriously,” he said. “They can only hurt you if you let it bother you.”

  “This doesn’t bother you?” I asked.

  Theo shook his head. “Not anymore,” he said. “I play this little game with myself. Whenever someone says something mean, I count to three and think of that person naked in front of Mrs. Peters’s class. Imagine Callum, with his fat little legs, standing naked in front of us. That makes me laugh.”

  I had to smile.

  “Don’t be scared,” Theo told me. “You cut yourself loose from Carrie. That’s a good thing.”

  Right now it didn’t feel too good. In the distance, I could see Carrie and Victoria talking, throwing glances in our direction.

  “You’re not like them,” Theo continued. “Now you don’t have to pretend anymore. And trust me, if you don’t respond to their teasing, they’ll get bored and leave you alone.”

  Just then, the bell rang, and we walked back toward the classroom. On the way, I saw something now hanging on my locker door. Someone had cut a heart out of pink construction paper. On it were two letters: T & W.

  “Pay no attention to it,” Theo whispered.

  Mrs. Peters greeted us at the door. “Good morning! I changed the seating arrangement. I’m sure you’ll all be glad to learn that you are now free to choose who you want to sit with.”

  Sure enough, the desks were now arranged in sets of two. Carrie and Victoria had already grabbed seats next to each other. Callum and Tim raced to another pair of desks.

  Theo hesitated for a moment, looking at me. Carrie nudged Victoria in the side so she’d watch what I’d do.

  I took a deep breath. “Where do you want to sit, Theo?”

  Theo gave me a small smile. “You choose.”

  “Let’s take the two desks under the window,” I said, and we walked over to our new seats.

  28

  Ma had to take time off work to come to portfolio night later that week. We met at school, in the foyer, and she asked where we should go first.

  “Let’s go to my Spanish class,” I said, and soon we were sitting next to each other in front of Mrs. Quezada, who listened to me explain the assignment to Ma.

  “Interesting,” Ma said. “So what’s your new holiday?”

  I handed her the poster. Ma studied it, and Mrs. Quezada said, “I didn’t know that Wren had lost her father. This is very touching, and I’m sure you two will commemorate the sad event together.”

  Ma kept her head down, looking at the poster much longer than necessary.

  Mrs. Quezada pulled out a sheet and pushed it on the table between us. “This is the comment sheet, Mrs. Kaiser,” she said. “I’d appreciate it if you would leave a comment about Wren’s work.”

  Ma had to clear her throat before she said, “Yes, no problem.”

  While she scribbled something on the sheet, I saw red blotches forming on her neck. Then she got up and very politely said goodbye to Mrs. Quezada. As she walked out of the room, I noticed she was holding herself up much straighter and stiffer than usual.

  I hurried after her, but once Ma crossed the hallway, she ran right down the stairs and out through the main door. I caught up with her in the parking lot.

  I expected her to yell at me. But she didn’t yell.

  “I can’t do it,” Ma said quietly. “I cannot talk about him.”

  When she looked at me, I could see she wasn’t angry. Instead, there was something in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before. She was hurt.

  * * *

  In bed that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about the pain I had seen in Ma’s face as she’d held the poster. I’d wanted to hurt her back, and it had worked. But now I tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep.

  By the time Ma came home from her shift at the diner, I was still awake. I heard the water running in the bathroom, followed by the toilet flushing. Ma’s bed squeaked as she lay down. And then, quietly, I heard her sob.

  I pulled the pillow over my head.

  29

  “You guys didn’t stay long at portfolio night,” Theo said the next morning.

  “My mother had to get back to work,” I lied. I didn’t want to talk about the poster.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “Yes.” But I knew he could tell I was lying.

  Thankfully, Theo let it go. “Want to go to the pond after school?” he asked.

  I nodded again, feeling grateful.

  * * *

  Once we got to the pond I told him what was going on.

  “So you made this poster because your mother had to sell your dad’s car,” Theo said.

  “Yes,” I said. “And also because she never talks to me about my dad.”

  “Hmm,” Theo said. “So now you’re angry at her.”

  “I am,” I said. “How could she do this to me? That was the last thing we had of his.”

  “Your mother is probably mad too,” he said.

  “But she’s mad at my dad, and he didn’t do anything,” I said. “That’s different.”

  “Have you ever wondered why she’s so mad?” Theo asked.

  I shook my head. “Isn’t it obvious? She’s mad because he died and left her with no money.”

  “Maybe there’s something else,” he suggested.

  “Like what?”

  Theo shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he did something before he died.”

  “What would he have done?”

 
“I don’t know,” Theo said. “You could ask her.”

  “I’m not asking her anything ever again. I’m done talking to her,” I said. “I hardly even see her, and it’s better this way.”

  Just then a pine siskin appeared in a tree. Theo snapped a few photos.

  “It belongs to the finch family,” I said when he showed them to me. “See the yellowish tint on the feathers? This one’s a male.” We noted the sighting in our journals, and I tried to draw the bird but erased my attempt right away.

  “Is there a rule that you have to add drawings to your observations?” Theo asked. He now also had a bird journal but only wrote down descriptions and names of birds we saw.

  “My dad told me there should be drawings in a bird journal,” I said.

  “I think I might just paste photos in mine. I really can’t draw.”

  “My dad said that you get better with practice,” I told him.

  “I have a second digital camera. It’s a little older and slower, but the zoom is good. You could have it,” Theo offered.

  I shook my head. “Thanks, but I don’t need a camera.”

  Theo put his camera down and turned to me. “How did your dad actually die?”

  I held my breath. I hadn’t told anyone.

  But then I told Theo.

  I told him about the terrible day of waiting. About the phone call from search and rescue. About Ma burning Dad’s papers. About driving up I-75 all the way from Georgia but never talking.

  And then I cried.

  When the sobbing stopped, I felt empty but also better. “Don’t look at me,” I said, burying my face in my hands. “I look like a puff fish.”

  Theo had listened to me quietly. Now he pulled a pack of tissues from his pocket and offered me one. His eyes stayed straight ahead. “I’m not looking,” he said. “And they’re actually called puffer fish.”

  I blew my nose. The tissue smelled like pencil shavings.

  “That must have been hard not to have a body,” he said after a while. “Did you have some kind of memorial service?”

  I shook my head.

  “You should ask the guy at the garage if he still has the car. If he does, you could go and at least say a proper goodbye to the old car.”

  I nodded. Thank you, Theo.

  30

  I didn’t see Dad’s old Volvo among the cars parked next to the office of Karl’s Auto Repair when I biked over the next afternoon. The garage was open, and Karl, a stocky man in dark red overalls with his name embroidered on the bib, stood in front of a truck with an opened hood.

  “Your mother’s Volvo?” he asked when I inquired. “The blue one? Why do you need to know where it is?”

  “I forgot something in the glove compartment,” I lied.

  “Hmm.” Karl frowned. “I sold it to Randle. But his junkyard isn’t far. You can get there on your bike. Follow 7 Mile Road. You can’t miss it. Left-hand side.”

  * * *

  Karl was right. It didn’t take long for me to get there. A self-painted sign pointed me toward Randle’s Junkyard — Where Cars Come to Die.

  Where cars come to die… ? Was that supposed to be witty? It wasn’t.

  Scattered across the grass to the left and right of the gravel driveway stood sculptures that had been welded together from rusty auto parts — most of them human-like creatures on two legs with reflectors on hubcaps for faces. Others were oversized flowers. The largest one was a giant metal bird made from mufflers. Next to it stood a sheep, its coat consisting of spark plugs.

  I reached a yard filled with old cars. Some stood on cement blocks, their tires removed. Corrosion had eaten a rusty lace on the bottom of the front door of a blue sedan. A yellow Mazda was missing its front doors and a right rear fender.

  This really was where cars come to die, I realized.

  Behind the cars, there was a shack with a sign above the door that said Office. I entered. Above the desk, next to the door, hung a corkboard covered with bills. A large poster of a sitting Buddha, smiling a serene smile, covered the opposite wall. Through the open back door, I saw a garage full of shelves filled with car parts.

  The wind was picking up now, and the sky had darkened in the west. I went back outside and walked around the shack and saw a red-painted wooden cabin set in a well-kept garden. The driveway was empty, indicating that whoever lived there probably wasn’t home.

  I scanned another row of cars to the right, near the trees. There was our Volvo.

  I walked over and tried the door — it was unlocked, and I slid into the backseat. I let my hand glide over the seat cover, caressing the burn mark Dad had said was already there when he bought the car.

  I inhaled the smell. It felt so good to be in the car. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and took deep breaths. Raindrops started drumming on the hood and roof. I fell asleep to their soft rhythm, and soon I was dreaming of driving along a sun-drenched road in Georgia with Dad. We were on the way to the coast on a birding expedition. We passed trees covered with Spanish moss, while Dad sang one of his silly songs. It was so bright outside that I had to shield my eyes from the sun. We laughed.

  Suddenly a man’s voice interrupted my memory. “Who are you?”

  I woke up, startled. It was raining hard, and the man who’d spoken was standing outside, holding a jacket over his head. He was about Ma’s age and tall, with dark, shoulder-length hair. He was dressed in jeans and an oil-stained T-shirt.

  “Were you sleeping in there?” he asked.

  “No, I was just, like, sitting in it,” I said, still groggy. I climbed out of the car.

  “You all right?” The man looked concerned.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “Randle,” he said, offering his hand. “I own this place.”

  “Wren,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “Are you a runaway or something?” he asked.

  “No, no. I’m no runaway,” I said. “I wasn’t looking for a place to sleep. That used to be my dad’s car. I was just saying goodbye to it.”

  “Come on. I live over there,” Randle said, pointing to the cabin on the other side of the lot. “We need to get out of this weather.”

  I followed him through the rain, but when we reached the driveway, I hesitated. He was a stranger after all, and I was about to go into his house. He caught my glance. Above the entrance to his house, several clotheslines displayed small flags of different colors.

  “Those are Tibetan prayer flags,” Randle said as he opened the door. “They promote wisdom, strength, compassion, and peace.”

  I decided to follow him inside — after all, how bad could someone with Tibetan prayer flags be? He led me into a large, sparsely furnished room with a kitchen counter at one end and a living room sofa with a chair and coffee table at the other.

  “I’ll get a towel,” he said and disappeared into the back.

  I glanced around the room. This didn’t look like the home of a junkyard guy. A bookshelf held a few art books and several crime novels. I recognized some of the titles Ma had read before she’d switched to romance. On an antique sideboard, a stone Buddha looked sternly ahead, one hand up, his palm toward me.

  Just then Randle returned and handed me a towel.

  I dried my hair and dabbed the nape of my neck. “Are you a Buddhist?” I asked.

  “Try to be,” Randle said. He walked over to the kitchen counter. “Want a smoothie? I usually have one this time of day.”

  “Sure.”

  I watched him take out a cup of berries and carrots from the refrigerator and noticed a thick scar that snaked around his wrist like a bracelet. He peeled a banana and threw the fruit into the blender, poured almond milk on top of it, and pressed the start button. When the noise stopped, he poured the foamy liquid into two glasses.

  There was an envelope on
the counter, and I read the addressee.

  “Randle Redbird, that’s your name?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, it’s a Chippewa Indian name.”

  “I thought you were a Buddhist.”

  “I am,” he said. “I’m also part Chippewa Indian.” He motioned for me to sit down at the kitchen table and handed me one of the glasses. “‘To keep the body in good health is a duty,’ the Buddha said.” He lifted his glass in my direction.

  I took a sip of mine. “It’s good,” I said.

  Randle pulled out a rubber band to tie his hair into a ponytail, and I saw burn marks on the underside of his arms. I wondered how he’d gotten all those scars.

  “So you’re sad to see the old Volvo go, hmm?”

  I nodded. With his hair back, Randle looked handsome, like a rustic Keanu Reeves.

  “Gotta say, though, your old man didn’t take too good care of it.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “The motor hasn’t seen any new oil for a long time, and the tires had almost no more tread. Didn’t get a lot of love and tenderness, this one.”

  “My ma’s been driving it now for three months,” I said. “We came here all the way from Georgia.”

  “Divorce?” Randle asked.

  I shook my head. “Death.”

  “Your ma got rid of the car before you had time to let it go?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I nodded.

  “The Buddha said that life and death are inseparable,” Randle told me. “He wants us to learn to let go.”

  I put my glass down on the counter. This Buddha talk was getting on my nerves. “I should get going,” I said.

  “I know losing someone you love is hard,” he added. “My favorite foster dad died when I was twelve.”

  “You were in foster care?” I asked.

  Randle nodded. “For most of my life before I was old enough to live on my own.”

  “What about your real parents?”

  He shrugged. “I never met my dad, and my mother left me on the steps of the Salvation Army as a baby.”