She stares at me like I’m a knot she’s trying to untangle.
“They’re not girl clothes,” I say. “They’re just clothes.”
Her cheeks get a little darker and I feel bad for saying it so forcefully when it was just an honest mistake on her part. “Right. Sorry. I like his sneakers. Anyway, I also like your notebook. The one you had in class? I’ve noticed you write in it a lot. It’s nice to see another person who writes. I have a journal at home. Are you a writer?”
I shove my notebook in my backpack and zip it up. I say “um” again, but even that gets stuck in my throat and nothing else comes out. I’ve literally never spoken to her before this moment and now she’s suddenly here, noticing Birdie and his sneakers and my notebook.
“You should join a club,” she says, smiling. “That’s what I did when I moved here five years ago. I mean, I swear everyone still calls me the new girl, but maybe that’s for other reasons. Joining a club helped with making friends, at least.”
“Can we talk about the poetry project tomorrow?” For some reason this is the only sentence I can get out.
She starts nodding right away. “Yeah, sure. Okay.” She doesn’t stop nodding. “I think my mom is here anyway. All right, talk to you tomorrow, then, Jack. Bye!”
What I want to say is, “Yeah, see you later! And thank you for letting me know about Mr. Belling. And sorry for snapping at you. The poetry project sounds interesting. And no, I’m not a writer. I just write what I see.”
Because that’s the normal thing to say.
I mean, it’s normal to at least say something.
But of course it all just comes out as a nod.
* * *
• • •
I was eight when Mama gave me my very first observation notebook. It was striped blue and green with a binding like a real book. Along the spine, in shiny silver lettering, it said: Jack’s Journal.
“And you know what?” she said. “My mama gave me my first journal too.” She looked away from me and down at her lap. It was the first time she’d talked about her mama.
“Whenever my head gets too full and buzzy, I write my thoughts down, and maybe make a piece of toast, and then all of a sudden, I feel lighter. Like maybe I can breathe a little longer. Understand?”
“I don’t have any thoughts like that,” I said.
“Sure you do. I see you looking at everything. Watching people. Both you and Birdie are so quiet. How did I get such quiet kids?” She lightly twisted my nose like she often did with Birdie. “But you know what? Birdie looks in, you look out.”
I remember it was the middle of a Saturday. All of a sudden, our cranky neighbor Mr. Byrne started mowing his lawn and Mama put her hands around her eyes like binoculars. “You look out,” she said again, laughing. It was my favorite laugh, the one when she was in a good mood and she didn’t mind sitting on my bed, legs crisscrossed up against mine like she was my best friend. We both leaned into the window and spied on Mr. Byrne.
“He’s got two different socks on,” I said.
“Maybe we should go buy him some socks.”
“No way.” I was never sure how far she’d take her ideas.
“Come on. We’ll leave them on his porch with a bow on top. We’ll buy all the socks in the store and make sure he’s never in need of socks again. He’ll thank us. He’ll never be cranky. He’ll never file a parking complaint against my friends when they visit.”
“He doesn’t always have mismatching socks.”
“How do you know?”
“Because . . . I watch.”
She scooted off my bed and grinned. “See, I told you,” she said. “You look out.”
She tapped my journal three times with her bright red fingernail. “I might still buy him some socks. Grilled cheese and broccoli for dinner, my little spy!” And then she floated out of my room, toward the kitchen.
I still have that blue-and-green-striped journal. I keep it in an old backpack, along with the ten other notebooks I’ve used since. Of course none of them are as nice as that first one. In fact, most are like the one I have now—small, cheap, and spiral-bound. But they are filled with what I see because I look out.
* * *
• • •
When I get to town, Birdie is waiting for me by the Quesadilla Ship, just like we agreed. There’s a couple students ordering quesadillas and Birdie sits off to the side looking through a book. When I stand over him, he doesn’t even say hi.
“Guess what?” he mumbles. “I have to get new clothes now because of Mrs. Cross-Hams.”
“What happened?”
“She convinced Patrick that new clothes would solve all my school problems. And afterward, the only thing he said to me was, ‘We’ll sort it out over the weekend. We’ll go to the mall.’ He didn’t even say bye.”
I don’t waste another second. “Stand up. We’re going to the library.”
Birdie looks up at me. “Now?”
I don’t want to explain yet. I just want to go get the details.
“Come on. I have to find something for a school project.” Which is true, but I have no intention of still living here when it’s due.
We walk three blocks to the county library and spot the head librarian, Ms. Perkins, right away.
Birdie loves her, probably. I think it’s because she’s got a totally unique style and doesn’t seem to care about what other people think of her. Like today it’s a long denim skirt with laced-up leather hiking boots and a beaded necklace. Her gray-and-black braids hang down like twin snakes and her necklace clinks together as she leans to grab more books out of the book drop.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. A two-for-one special,” she says when she spots us.
She starts toward the door and we jog to catch up.
“So you’re back,” says Birdie.
“Indeed,” says Ms. Perkins.
“And your sister in San Francisco. How is she? What’s San Fran like? Are you glad to be home?”
The small black mole on her tawny forehead goes up as her eyebrow raises. “What did you eat for lunch? Not another convenience-store donut, I hope.”
“Honey Bunny Buns are buns, not donuts,” he says.
I open the door and Ms. Perkins nods her thanks and Birdie follows her to the back.
I head for the computers with Internet.
On the bus website, I find the FAQ page, where I read that there’s something called an Unaccompanied Child Form.
Children between the ages of 12–16 who travel unaccompanied must have a completed Unaccompanied Child Form and pay full fare.
There’s a bus leaving for Portland tomorrow morning at 7:45 a.m.
We have to be at the local bus stop in front of Uncle Carl’s apartment by 6:52 a.m.
I take out my notebook.
**Observation #777: Inventory of Things at Mama’s House
Her sequin bag.
The nail polish army.
The smooth wooden egg.
Birdie’s little vanity, which lit up.
Mama’s shiny gold-and-pink kimono.
The painting of a fat cat in a tuxedo.
The drawer with our favorite takeout menus.
Our huge ticking banana clock (in hall bathroom).
My dollhouse that was actually a lumberjack cabin.
Pillows Mama made that looked like cheeseburgers.
The Tokyo Tower hat rack Mama found at a garage sale.
Mama’s record player that she bought with her own money at 16.
Mama’s Swan Lake musical jewelry box, with a twirling crowned swan.
Perfume, jewelry & all the pretty things Mama decorated herself with.
Miss Luck Duck, our best lamp, which sat by the front door like a sentry.
* * *
&nbs
p; • • •
When I look up, Ms. Perkins is walking toward me.
I take the poet project information sheet out of my backpack and pretend to study it.
“Jack. This is for you.” She hands me a little plastic envelope that says What They Said Bookmarks.
There are three bookmarks inside, each with a writer’s face and a quote. The package says it includes Oscar Wilde, Maya Angelou, and C. S. Lewis.
“Thank you.”
“So, Belling’s got you doing poetry?” she asks, glancing at the information sheet.
“Yup.”
“Usually I know the poet project has started when all the kids come in looking for poetry books. No other reason that many seventh graders would come to a library looking for poetry. The rush hasn’t happened yet, though.”
“It’s not due for a while. We just started.”
“Eager beaver?” She looks at me with an eyebrow raised and then she studies the list of poets. She hands the paper back to me.
“Have anyone in mind? I’m sure you do. Big reader and all.”
“Not yet. I don’t read a lot of poetry.”
“Would you like some help? Or suggestions?”
I look over at the computer screen, which I never closed, and hope she doesn’t notice.
“Maybe another day,” I say. “I have a lot of other homework today.”
She nods and studies me for just a moment and then says to go find Birdie. “He was a little too hyped up from the souvenir I bought him.”
I tell her thanks again for the bookmarks, but she’s already marching away, headed toward someone who needs help at the automatic circulation desk.
I find Birdie sitting on the floor, engrossed in a book with a picture of a crazy-looking dress that’s covered in what looks like fresh flowers and moss. “Did Ms. Perkins get you a souvenir too?” he asks.
“She did. See?”
He looks over at the bookmarks and I see a yellow pen in his hand that says I ♥ SF. There’s clear fluid with a little cable car that moves when he tilts his hand.
“What’s that book about? The clothes look different,” I say.
“It’s fashion. By Alexander McQueen. He was a designer.” He glances over at me. “He was a man, but he made dresses.”
He turns the page and there’s a picture of a white shoe that looks like it’s carved. Birdie makes his body into a giant comma as he leans close to the book. “Do you think that’s bone? It looks like bone.”
“A shoe made of bone?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s outrageous and singular.”
“Outrageous and what?”
“Singular. Ms. Perkins said it means ‘unique.’ This book was on her monthly display: The Outrageous and Singular.”
He flips through a few more pages in silence and then says, “Ms. Perkins said her sister is sick.” His voice is barely a whisper. “She didn’t tell me at first but I kept asking questions about her trip. Now I feel bad because maybe she didn’t want to talk about it.”
I bump his shoulder with mine. “Hey, it’s all right. She knows how you get when you eat too many Honey Bunny Buns.”
“Yeah, my stomach hurts again.”
I pat him on the knee. “I know. Sometimes it’s hard for you to stop eating them.”
“How come it’s impossible to make friends in this town?” he asks.
I think about what Krysten said, about seeing Birdie and me around. I always figured we stood out because we were new, but I had no idea how much.
We really don’t fit in here.
“What do you think of buses?” I ask him.
“They’re okay,” he says. “Sometimes buses smell.”
“What do you think of a long bus ride? Like maybe nine hours long with a couple breaks.”
I explain about the bus schedule and my idea to find Mama’s things and talk to Mrs. Spater and convince her to take us back. “We can practically take care of ourselves. She’ll understand once we tell her in person. I know she will.”
I describe how I’ll dress up like Mama or some kind of adult. I tell him that maybe if I can make my hair like Janet makes it, I might be able to pull it off. And that it will cost almost all the money I have saved, but it will be worth it to find Mama’s things and convince Mrs. Spater to take us back.
“Maybe I’ll have to dress up in a disguise,” he says, a smile on his face. “Like a costume.”
“Totally. But we’ll have to get ready early, though. The bus comes at six fifty-two. I’ll leave a note for Patrick saying we walked to school.”
“Are you sure we can ride a bus like that alone?”
I hope that I am making the right decision. “Yes. Tomorrow is going to be a Wolf Day.”
**Observation #778: Outrageous & Singular
Mama would have called Birdie’s Alexander McQueen book—WONDERFUL. SPECTACULAR. Maybe MAGICAL.
Uncle Carl would love it too. He’d turn it over in his hands & then open it up & look at the pictures & say, “But do they make it in a size 36?” or “Do they sell it at the Walmart?” or “I bet that’s itchy business for the lower half.”
I bet Patrick would look right through the book like it wasn’t even there. Or he’d put it in the trash & then head off to work or into the silo shed.
CHAPTER 6
A DOG WITH SNEAKERS
The thing about Wolf Day is that there isn’t actually a wolf involved. It started five years ago when Birdie thought he saw a wolf in Mrs. Spater’s backyard. I was pretty sure it was just a coyote, but Mama said, “Well, sometimes it’s good to have a Wolf Day—a day when wild and unexpected and spectacular things can happen. You believe in them. And not just that, but you chase after those wild and spectacular things no matter what your brain might say about what’s ‘probably true.’”
So after that, we had Wolf Days. On a Wolf Day we’d do something unexpected and then follow wherever the day took us, saying yes to every spectacular thing, believing it would lead to something else magical. One time we learned how donuts are made. Another time, we ended up at a bat mitzvah celebration.
And we always found little souvenirs to remind us of where we’d been, like a real-looking wooden egg we got from a family we helped move who had a bunch of chickens in their backyard.
At night, we’d always wait for the wolf. We’d sit silently in Mrs. Spater’s backyard with mugs of hot chocolate and we’d stare into the trees and bushes and hope for some magic. Sometimes it was hard to be so quiet, but Mama said it was important to experience the silence as the night sky swallowed us up.
All I saw that first Wolf Day was the flash of a wild eye and the swish of a gray-brown tail. I know it was a coyote.
I guess the wolf is one of those things that you know isn’t true, like the tooth fairy or something. And yet, there’s still a very small, secret part of your brain that holds on to the possibility that it might be true because it’s magic.
Really it was Mama’s magic that made it work.
In a lot of ways, every day was Wolf Day with her.
* * *
• • •
In the morning, I wake Birdie up at five thirty. It is totally dark and Birdie jerks awake and immediately says “Jack?” in a sleepy voice.
“I’m here,” I say, switching on the flashlight. “Are you already packed?”
“Yeah.” He rubs his eyes.
“How long will it take you to get dressed and ready to go?”
“Half an hour?”
“Okay. We’ll eat Honey Bunny Buns when we get to the bus station, okay?”
He nods again and says, “How come you’re using that flashlight?”
“I’m worried Patrick will somehow see our room lights. Now remember, bring only what you can carry yourself. I’ll have my own stuff to deal with. I
’m not sure if we’ll ever be back here.”
My heart skips a beat saying that out loud.
“I know. You told me last night.” Birdie switches on his own flashlight and gets out of bed. I go back to my room and finish my hair. When I’m done, I check my small duffel bag and backpack. I have to leave some clothes and books behind, but there’s nothing to do about that. We still have to walk to town, take two buses, and then once we’re in Portland, take the city bus to Mrs. Spater’s.
I help Birdie get his bags down the stairs and lock the back door behind us with the hide-a-key.
As we walk along the side of the house, I already know Birdie is going to be too cold, but he insisted on wearing his zebra-print leggings and skirt, along with his purple jacket. He has his hair separated into two short pigtails and wears a silver-and-turquoise beanie, which I’ve never seen before.
“Rosie found it at the thrift shop,” he says. “Don’t worry, it’s washed.”
I put my finger to my lips as we pass in front of the house.
I hold Birdie’s hand the entire way to town. Every few steps I look behind us thinking I’m going to see Patrick’s truck. But we don’t see anyone. It’s like everyone except Birdie and me has suddenly disappeared or maybe been put under a sleeping spell.
Mama used to say that she could feel a Wolf Day coming on, like watching someone slowly swim to the surface of the lake or a pool after diving deep. They’d get clearer and clearer until finally, at some unpredictable moment, they’d break the surface of the water and there they were. Sometimes, I could tell by Mama’s face when a Wolf Day was coming. She’d spend a lot of time observing Birdie and me, her eyes looking like little fires, and it was like only the three of us existed in the whole universe.
When Birdie and me get to town, the sky is purple and I can’t wait to feel the sun on my face. We walk through town toward the bus stop and I nearly fall over when I hear a shout.
“What on God’s green golf course are you two doing?”
It’s Janet and she’s sticking her head out of the salon door.
Birdie and Me Page 5