As we walk through the mall toward the parking lot at the other end, in the window of Scare Monkey, I spot Band-Aids that look like real strips of bacon. I point to them and whisper to Birdie, “A first-class find, for sure,” and smile a little.
He doesn’t smile back, but he stares at them as we walk by. Then I see him looking around, just a bit at first, then more and more intently as we pass by different shops. And that’s when I know I’ve got him playing the best game Mama ever made up.
* * *
• • •
Nobody could ever come up with games the way Mama did. Our favorite was something we called the First-Class Quest of the North Pine Shopping Center. Sometimes Mama and I would call it “The Quest,” but Birdie would always insist that we use the full name.
The game was all about finding the most interesting thing or person. A first-class find. We always finished the game at the Vietnamese restaurant. First, we’d spend thirty minutes walking in and out the shops like the tiny Asian market and the dollar store and the Bubbles Pop Laundromat and the Happy Hair Store, even the parking lot. We’d stay together and weren’t allowed to talk to each other. Then, when time was up, we’d go to Phô Tasty Bowl and after we ordered, one by one we had to say our top three best finds. Mama would draw a map, like a reverse treasure map. Each spot where we found something interesting she’d put an X along with a couple words to describe it, like “Wasabi Kit-Kats” or “baby with detergent in laundry basket” or “press-on-fruit nails.” Then we’d make our case for why our find was the best. The one with the first-class find was allowed to choose our dessert and get something from the quarter toy machine, which usually had little plastic ninjas or little plastic cats.
At some point, I think maybe two or three years ago, Birdie started drawing the map and I started writing down everyone’s interesting thing, along with each person’s points for why it was the best, and Mama would watch us with glisteny eyes.
This game probably seems stupid, but Mama got really sarcastic-silly, saying things like, “Guys, I don’t think you’ve considered the repercussions for planet Earth if we didn’t have light-up rainbow wigs with attached unicorn horns. The consequences could be . . . devastating.”
Then Birdie would mime devastating by throwing his head back with his hand across his forehead.
And there was something about walking around silently for thirty minutes and playing this secret game that no one knew about that made us feel indestructible.
The last time we played the game, about a month before Mama was gone, Birdie won with a ring that had a tiny ballerina on it under a clear plastic dome. “The tiny ballerina dances on a tiny spring when you move your finger,” Birdie said. “And it has a tiny pink foil skirt. Everything is tiny tiny tiny and cute cute cute. And just . . . perfect.”
Maybe it wasn’t the greatest or most interesting thing, but somehow Mama and I knew that Birdie had won this one. I think it was his face as he described it. He gazed down at his hand like he could see the ring on his finger, like he could see the tiny tiny tiny pink foil skirt.
He never did get the ring, but it didn’t matter. We left the shopping center like we always did, stomachs full of hot Vietnamese broth and minty spring rolls, feeling like we had the best family in the universe.
* * *
• • •
We’re leaving the crowded mall when Birdie stumbles over one of the big store bags and a man almost runs into him. Now that it’s almost dinnertime, the mall is crowded. The man says, “Watch it!” and then looks up at Patrick, who walks over to Birdie. A kid about Birdie’s age stands nearby and I’m almost certain I’ve seen him before.
“Patrick,” says the man. “Last place I’d think to find you.”
Patrick takes the large bag from Birdie’s hand. He doesn’t smile. “Ross.”
The kid stares at Birdie. I finally recognize him and his dad, Ross, Janet’s mom’s friend. It’s Teddy, a student in Birdie’s class who used to bother Birdie when we first moved here. Teddy tugs on his dad’s shirt and whispers something to him. Ross looks over at Birdie and then at Patrick and says, “Clothes shopping, old friend?”
“Just a few things,” Patrick answers. “We’ll see you later.”
Patrick tries to turn Birdie away, but Ross continues. “My son tells me that this kid is a distraction in class. Makes it hard for Teddy to concentrate.”
Patrick puts his free hand on his belt and frowns at Ross as he says in a low voice, “I hope that won’t be the case in the future.”
Ross kind of laughs. “I hope you aren’t serious right now, with this kid standing here, wearing that. It isn’t Halloween and even if it was, it still wouldn’t be right. You need to straighten that boy out quick. I’m talking to you, Patrick.”
Birdie steps closer to me and I grab his hand.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” says Patrick. “So why don’t you go on your way.”
Ross laughs again and then smirks. “What’s going on, man? What’s your problem these days?” He shakes his head. “What am I saying? Even when we were in school you always thought you were better than everybody.”
“The boy just needs some direction, so let it go.”
“You think you can put different clothes on that kid and have it change anything? And if he continues to bother my son, there’s going to be a problem and I will deal with it as I see fit.”
Teddy stares at us.
Patrick takes Birdie by the arm and starts walking toward his truck. Birdie doesn’t let go of my hand, so I follow.
As we walk away, Ross calls out, “Hope you had fun shopping, ladies.” He laughs, but it’s not the kind of laugh that makes you want to join along.
We get in the truck and Patrick drives quickly out of the parking lot. My heart is still pounding and I still have Birdie’s hand in mine when we turn onto the highway.
I keep thinking Patrick’s going to say something like Don’t listen to Ross or That guy is an idiot, but he doesn’t.
It’s almost dark when Patrick pulls over into a run-down gas station with a small house next to it. It’s more of a shack, really, with a bright ordering window where a customer stands looking up at a menu. There’s a light-up sign that says THE SWEET POTATO SHOP.
“I’ll be right back.”
Patrick goes up to the ordering window and gets in line. He talks with a guy in an apron who’s sitting out front.
“I don’t want to wear those Norman clothes, Jack. Even if they are my size,” Birdie says.
“I know.” If only we hadn’t run into Ross and Teddy. It was too much. It was too real.
“Mama would be so mad if she knew I had to wear clothes like that every day.”
There’s a sign next to one of the chairs that says SWEET POTATO LAYER CAKE, SWEET POTATO CHEESECAKE, SWEET POTATO COBBLER, SWEET POTATO PIE, SWEET POTATO COOKIES.
I hear Birdie sniffling and look over, but I can’t see his face. “Mama hated sweet potatoes,” he says. He wipes his nose on his sleeve.
“It was yams she hated. And she’d always get annoyed when people would confuse the two.”
“Yeah well, what’s the difference?”
“I can’t remember exactly, but I think yams have really rough brown skin. And they’re not as sweet. Something like that.”
Birdie shrugs. “Who cares.”
I sigh. I know there’s no point in saying anything else.
When we get home, Duke barks and turns around in a circle. I’ve never seen him so energetic. Patrick pets him and scratches him behind the ears. He whispers, “I know, boy. I know.”
I know, boy. I’ve been gone all day. They are the worst.
I offer to help Birdie with his shopping bags, but he ignores me and drags them upstairs.
Patrick watches him and then goes into the kitchen and opens the Sweet Potato Shop ba
g.
“I bought one of everything since I didn’t know what you guys wanted.” On the table is a big slice of layer cake, a small cheesecake, a miniature cobbler in a foil tin, a slice of pie, and a package of cookies.
He grabs some paper plates and forks. He cuts himself a big piece of the cake and a piece of pie, sticks a fork in the cake, and then stands there with the plate in his hands.
“I don’t want him wearing the other clothes anymore. Make sure he wears the new stuff,” he says. “That’s why I bought them. They fit fine.”
Thinking about those stupid clothes in plain “boy colors” makes my whole body itch and feel hot.
“And from now on, I want to know where you guys are at all times. It’s no longer a suggestion. You let me know when you’re going somewhere other than school.”
I just want this horrible Wolf Day to be over.
“Do you understand?” he says, a little louder.
I nod, staring at all the dark orange desserts.
He grabs a cookie from the package and holds it out. Then he says, “Your mama would throw the biggest fit for these cookies. We couldn’t drive that stretch of the highway without Dad stopping for some. We’d drive fifteen minutes out of the way just to keep her from seeing the Sweet Potato Shop. She’d stomp up those stairs and slam her bedroom door if we didn’t stop.” He doesn’t smile as he talks.
He stares at the cookie for a few moments and then puts it back into the package.
“There’s nowhere else for you guys to go. I hope you can understand that. I need everyone to understand that.” He looks at the wall as he says this. It seems like he’s still trying to convince himself.
Him and Duke disappear outside, probably into that stupid silo shed.
The clock ticks.
I could make toast, but honestly, I don’t think even a million slices of toast would help in this shoebox house.
I eat through part of the cake and part of the pie and a bit of the cobbler. I stick my fork in the cheesecake. I don’t eat the cookies.
Why did he buy them anyway? Just to tell his dumb story?
And then I realize what he said. She’d stomp up those stairs.
Of course. This must be Mama’s old house. The one her and Patrick and Uncle Carl grew up in. And their oldest brother, who I think passed away when she was really young.
And now that I think about it, the picture in Uncle Carl’s drawer was taken right here, in this kitchen, against the wall with the ticking clock.
No wonder she left this place.
**Observation #780: Mama in a Shoebox
Which room did she sleep in?
Did she learn how to build a fire in the wood-burning stove?
Did she help plant the trees?
Did she watch Patrick through the blinds?
Did she learn how to make bread in the kitchen?
With a mom, a dad, and three brothers, was it ever quiet enough to hear the ticking clock?
Did she sit on the back of the couch and imagine a yard with rosebushes and a little fig tree?
CHAPTER 8
THE PROPOSAL
The next morning, it’s Wednesday and Patrick says we have to go to school. When Birdie finally comes down to the kitchen in his new jeans, plain gray T-shirt, and black sweatshirt, he announces that he has an apology to make to Norman.
“Even he wouldn’t wear these clothes!” he says.
I hand him a piece of toast with peanut butter. “Do they fit okay?” I ask.
“If you wore an Alexander McQueen gown to school, would that fit okay?” He takes his mad cap out of his backpack and puts it on in a huff. “I doubt it!”
When Patrick comes down, he takes one look at the mad cap, shakes his head, and points upstairs.
Patrick brings me to school first, saying that he wants to speak to Birdie’s teacher again.
Birdie rolls his eyes at this and then spends the drive tugging on the collar of his shirt until Patrick says to stop.
I spend the entire day writing and doodling in my notebook. In English class, I stare at the board behind Mr. Belling’s shiny head, pretending to pay attention to his lesson on alliteration. Without looking down, I draw a hundred Honey Bunny Buns, an entire page covered in swirls.
After class, I leave immediately and don’t stop at my locker even though I know that my project partner, Krysten, is hoping to talk to me. I practically run to the Quesadilla Ship, hoping she won’t follow.
The whole time I’m jogging, all I can think about is my old friend Marguerite and my heart pounds with anxiety.
I’ve never had a lot of friends and to be honest, even having a best friend like Janet is kind of a new experience for me. I did have one in third grade, mostly because of Mama. Mama was obsessed with first ladies, especially Jackie Kennedy and Lady Bird Johnson. There was this girl in my class, Marguerite, who knew a lot about the United States presidents and their families—especially their pets. She was the first person to ask if Birdie and me were named after first ladies and I almost couldn’t believe that she’d guessed on her own.
Then she said her absolute favorite president was John Quincy Adams, who had silkworms and an alligator as pets. A close second was Theodore Roosevelt, who had lots of pets, but she really emphasized his hyena.
We ate lunch together every day after that because Marguerite wanted someone she could talk to about presidential pets and weird presidential family life and all the other presidential facts she knew. And even though the friendship was really Marguerite’s doing, it was nice to invite someone over to my house who thought all of Mama’s ideas were good ones.
Marguerite also really liked Miss Luck Duck, our lamp in the shape of a woman with the head of a duck, something that weirded a lot of people out. Maybe because it was so big and we kept it by the front door. Marguerite said that with the long dress and bonnet, Miss Luck Duck looked a lot like Lady Louisa Adams, the wife of John Quincy Adams (sixth president of the United States). I remember thinking Marguerite was the best best friend I could hope for.
But then, in fifth grade, Marguerite started playing soccer, and then started inviting Allison, the team’s star forward, to our hangouts. Allison asked a lot of questions about Mama and her ideas and ways of doing things, especially when Mama didn’t feel like coming out of her room. One time, Marguerite and Allison even came with us on our Wolf Day adventures, but Allison left halfway through because she didn’t want to go to the Mission Homeless Center and serve hot meals and give out the friendship bracelets we’d made.
Then Marguerite stopped having fun too, I guess, and pretty soon the three of us were eating together at school lunch but only two of us were hanging out on the weekends and after soccer games.
I had tried to ask Marguerite what was wrong, but the words were having a hard time coming out and in the end, all I said was, “You don’t have to pretend to like me, like a jerk.” Her mouth opened into a small O and then I walked away. That was the last time we talked.
When Birdie and me left Portland with Patrick, I never told Marguerite I was leaving. To this day I wonder if Marguerite’s favorite presidents are still Adams and Roosevelt and if she ever thinks of Birdie and me and Mama.
* * *
• • •
On my way to the Quesadilla Ship, I pass by Snip ’n’ Shine and get Janet’s attention through the window. She leans the broom against the wall and comes outside.
“I heard you got nabbed,” Janet says. “Are you guys okay? I called yesterday but no one answered and I still don’t know about leaving messages on Patrick’s phone. You really need to get a cell phone.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s happening anytime soon.”
“Is Patrick mad?”
“I don’t know. I guess. How did he find out, anyway?”
“Dude. The school called Patrick a
nd Carl when you guys didn’t show up. And Patrick heard from the librarian or something about you guys looking at bus schedules. Carl told me. Anyway, rookie mistakes. Next time you run away you really need to involve me in the planning. I know about these things.”
From the back of the store, Cherylene calls for Janet. Janet sighs and says, “Listen. I get wanting to leave. I’ll try calling tonight, okay? Or you call me?”
I nod and she says quickly, “Sorry it didn’t work out!” then disappears into the salon.
And with Janet it’s that easy.
I cross the street to the Quesadilla Ship when I see Birdie walking to meet me. “Hey,” I say.
“Can we get a quesadilla?” he asks. “I don’t want to go to Patrick’s yet.”
“Sure, come on,” I say as I head toward Rosie’s truck.
Half a block away, Rosie sees us and waves a dishcloth out the ordering window.
“You sneaky squirrels! Get over here!”
“Do you think she knows?” whispers Birdie. “Do you think she’s mad?” Birdie can’t stand it when people are upset with him.
Before I can answer, Rosie comes out of the truck. “Boy, boy, boy, you should have seen your poor uncle yesterday. You almost gave him a heart attack. He rode all over, asking everyone in town if they’d seen you.” She pretends to snap the towel at us.
“We’re sorry,” Birdie says quickly. His eyes are all glassy and his nose is red. “Really.”
Rosie looks at him and then squishes him in a side hug. “Oh, you. Come on, now. Don’t cry. You guys hungry?”
She leaves a voicemail for Patrick saying we are hanging out with her and Uncle Carl.
Off in the distance, two hot-air balloons float in the cold blue sky like tiny colorful lightbulbs. Mama would have loved a hot-air balloon ride.
“Rosie, would you ever go up in one of those things?”
“A balloon? Absolutely.” She scatters different kinds of cheeses on the tortillas. “In fact,” she continues, “I rode one for my thirteenth birthday. It was just me and my dad. I hardly got any time with my dad just on his own and we went up into that big balloon and looked out on the miles and miles of green countryside. You know, we barely said a word to each other. We just grinned like idiots the entire time. It was one of the most joyous days of my life.”
Birdie and Me Page 7