Birdie and Me

by J. M. M. Nuanez

  Before I can ask her how she feels about it, she looks up at Birdie and says, “You have any more trouble with Teddy?”

  Birdie sighs and tells her about his backpack.

  She says, “Some kids take after their parents too much, Mr. Bird. It’s hard.”

  He nods at her.

  That’s when I realize Teddy got worse after we ran into him and Ross at the mall—after Patrick did nothing to stop Ross from saying all those things. And Teddy watched.

  “Don’t pay attention to anyone like that,” Janet continues. “And don’t worry. I have a backpack you can use. I’ll get it.”

  Janet disappears into her room and when she comes out, she has her old backpack in her hands. It’s black and covered in white stars.

  “It’s not as colorful as your old one, but at least you won’t have to use a backpack covered in paint or a plastic bag for school.”

  Birdie nods and says, “Thank you,” as he zips the small front pocket open and closed.

  I wonder if Birdie has made the connection between Ross and Teddy and Patrick at the mall.

  The wind suddenly picks up outside and the trailer windows rattle. But in here, the little heater glows red and warm.

  Birdie picks his last piece of pizza apart, which is how he eats pizza.

  Janet stays surprisingly quiet and just looks at him with curious eyes the entire time.

  “So, Birdie,” Janet says, breaking the silence. “Do you think you’re gay?” I’m too shocked to say anything.

  “I don’t know,” says Birdie in a small voice.

  “Do you want to be boyfriends with girls or boys?”

  “I don’t want to be boyfriends with anybody.”

  “Janet,” I say, “this has nothing to do with being boyfriends with anyone. And I’ve already talked to him about that.”

  “Okay, okay,” she says, waving her hands at me. She turns back to Birdie. “So, do you feel like you’re a girl, then? Have you ever heard of the word transgender?”

  “Janet!” I say, smacking her leg. I don’t know exactly what it means, but I also don’t know if I’m ready to have this all swirling around. It was a lot easier with Uncle Carl and Rosie. They didn’t ask questions.

  “I don’t know,” says Birdie, shrugging. “Everyone says I’m a boy.”

  “But what about on the inside? Do you feel like you’re a girl on the inside?”

  Birdie shrugs for the millionth time. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I was a girl because then it would make everything easier. But I don’t know what my mind is.” He looks down at his shoes again. “Is it bad that I don’t know?”

  For a few seconds, no one says anything. Probably because we don’t know if he’s supposed to know.

  We don’t really know anything.

  Mama would have known exactly what to say.

  But she isn’t here.

  All I know is that Birdie is fine just the way he is.

  “No,” I say firmly. I look at him until he makes eye contact with me. “It’s not bad that you don’t know, okay? You’re perfect just the way you are.”

  The silence takes over again and I wonder if what I just said is actually true because sometimes it feels like you have to know the answer. Because what does it mean if he doesn’t know? If you aren’t a boy and you aren’t a girl—then what are you?

  But then I think, what if he does know? What if he knows he’s a girl but he just can’t say it? What if he’s too scared?

  “Where did you hear about all this?” I ask Janet.

  “The Ellen Show.” Janet laughs then, her cackle filling the small space of the trailer living room, making me feel lighter again. “I can find some information online for you guys, maybe.”

  I sit quietly because it’s all so much, and I worry that it’s all too much for Birdie. But he just has this small smile on his face and his feet swing off the tall kitchen chair. He’s looking in, as Mama used to say. He’s looking in, and he’s happy. After everything that’s happened, he still doesn’t really care what other people think.

  It’s here in Janet’s cluttered trailer with cold pizza and the smell of old cigarette smoke that the ground feels totally solid. The walls are close and safe and the air is warm, like this is our own haven, which is a word I looked up in the dictionary after Rosie first invited us to the Quesadilla Ship and gave us warm plates of food. A haven—a place of shelter and safety, a refuge.

  I look over, and now Birdie’s laughing about something Janet’s said that I missed.

  Their laughter builds as Janet combs Birdie’s hair into two pigtails and then adds a bunch of tiny rose clips. She wraps a red feather boa from her mom’s room around his neck. They sit huddled together as Birdie shows her his Sudoku puzzle book and tries unsuccessfully to teach her the mystery of numbers one through nine.

  I sit and watch them, and get my observation notebook out.

  **Observation #787: Tornado Sounds

  Nothing fits better in the ear than your best friend’s voice.

  * * *

  • • •

  After an impromptu fashion show, more pizza, and two more games of checkers, I get up and use the bathroom. I’m washing my hands when from outside comes a screech of truck brakes, tires crunching gravel, and then a yell. I’m out of the bathroom immediately and Janet is there with Birdie.

  “Get in my room and don’t come out,” she says, pushing us back while looking toward the front door.

  There’s more yelling outside, words that I don’t quite understand, and shouts, and Janet’s lazy dog, Lucky, starts barking. It is late, I realize. Patrick is probably off work by now.

  I can’t see anything out Janet’s window, but I hear a truck or car door open and close and Janet yells, “Mom!”

  Then a man shouts, “You think I care about that? Wow. I always knew you’d do something like this! Well, we’re here now, Kathy, so where is it? I drove you all the way back, so get my money.”

  Now Janet’s shouting, telling him to leave or she’ll call the cops, and Janet’s mom is yelling too, but I can’t understand her, and at one point I think I hear Janet’s phone ringing, but it sounds like it’s stuck in the couch. “You owe me! I know you have it. You can’t just use four hundred bucks and then expect to not pay it back!” The man’s voice is louder now, and I step outside Janet’s room to try and get a better look through the front window. I see a truck with the driver’s-side door open, the headlights beaming, lighting the swirling dust from the gravel road as it floats up and around a man in jeans. It’s Ross.

  “You’re out of your mind,” Janet’s mom says, pointing at Ross. Her skin is darker than Janet’s, but under the harsh fluorescent porch light and the truck headlights, it glows almost white. She turns toward Janet and says, “Janni, get back inside.” But Janet doesn’t move.

  Ross says, “You know I’m not leaving until I have it.” Janet’s mom tells him that the money isn’t here and Lucky keeps barking like a maniac. Janet yells again and there is more gravel crunching.

  “You get! Me and your mom are talking!” yells Ross, and Janet screams at him and there is more gravel crunching crunching crunching underfoot.

  And then I’m opening the front door to help Janet, but as soon as I see Ross, recognition flashes across his face.

  Ross looks up at me and says, “What in the—? What are you doing here?”

  He steps toward the door and Janet says she’s calling the police.

  And that’s when I see Ross look next to me and I know that Birdie has followed me out of Janet’s room.

  Ross kind of laughs and I can tell that maybe he’s not quite solid on his feet. “And what’s that gay boy doing here? This place is a freak show!”

  Janet rushes into the trailer and closes the door behind her, locking us in. Ross starts yelling at Kathy for the
kinds of friends she and Janet have and what is happening to this town, and he continues to swear at her and tells her to stop crying.

  Janet’s also cursing because she can’t find her phone to call the police and that’s when a second truck drives up and everything goes real quiet. I back into Janet’s room, pushing Birdie behind me and closing the door, worried about who’s in that other truck, hoping they don’t also want something that Janet’s mom can’t give. And I’m praying they don’t know Birdie and me and I can’t believe I was stupid enough to show Ross my face.

  I hear the second door squeak open and Janet goes outside.

  Ross says, “Well, of course it’s you! Still haven’t straightened out that gay boy, I see.”

  Then, in his booming mountain voice, I hear Patrick yell, “Birdie! Jack!”

  I burst out of the room, holding Birdie’s hand tight, and open the front door.

  There’s Patrick, his hat pulled low like normal, his flannel shirt tucked into his jeans. He looks exactly like he should.

  “Seriously, Patty,” says Ross. “What is wrong with you? You know Teddy can barely concentrate in school because of that freakish kid?”

  “Stop, Ross,” says Patrick. “Just stop talking.”

  “Who are you to tell me that?” He points at Patrick and scowls.

  “Just go home. It’s late and this is not the place. You need to sleep.”

  “Don’t tell me what I need!” Ross slaps the side of his truck. “You’re just making excuses for that little gay boy and you know it.”

  Suddenly, Patrick slams the door to his truck closed and takes a couple steps forward. It happens in a flash, almost in a single motion. It’s the quickest I’ve ever seen Patrick move. “Don’t call him that again. You don’t address that boy by anything but his name: Birdie. He doesn’t need your fixing or anyone’s. Now get in your truck and leave.” Patrick’s voice is the lowest I’ve ever heard it. “Or I will call the police.”

  Ross goes to say something, but then stops and cuts the air with his hand. “Screw all of you!” he yells as he stomps across the yard. He gets into his truck and peels out, leaving more dust in his wake.

  After his taillights have disappeared, Patrick looks over at us and says, “Birdie! Jack! Come here.”

  Holding hands, we run outside.

  I try to get Janet to come with us back to Patrick’s house, but she waves me off, saying she has to stay and help her mom. Even Patrick tries to get her to come, but she just shakes her head.

  As we get into Patrick’s truck, I watch Janet walk toward the trailer with her mom—side by side, conjoined twins disappearing in the dark.

  * * *

  • • •

  Patrick doesn’t say anything until we walk into the house. Birdie and me start up the stairs and Patrick says, “Let’s meet in the kitchen.”

  We wait at the table while Patrick makes a fire in the wood-burning stove. Duke sits by Birdie’s feet.

  Patrick comes in and he’s silent as he boils water and gets the bread down from the shelf. He makes three mugs of hot chocolate and tops some sliced bread with his homemade cheese and honey. He sets everything in front of us at the table.

  He sits down and says, “Well, don’t let it get cold.”

  I think that Patrick is going to tell us that it’s not safe at Janet’s. That now we aren’t allowed there, either.

  Or maybe he’s going to lecture us about not coming straight home after school.

  “I want to make this absolutely clear,” says Patrick in his serious mountain voice. “You guys are not problems to be fixed or issues to be solved. You’re not slack. You’re a couple of kids who have had a hard time, but you belong here. In this house. I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear about that before.”

  He looks at the bread and rubs his neck. Then he takes a piece and eats.

  I also take one

  So does Birdie.

  “Ross is not a good person to be around. Don’t listen to anything he says, because it’s usually nonsense. This is not the first time he’s stumbled around and caused himself and others trouble and it probably won’t be the last. But he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, so don’t pay it any mind.” He finishes his hot chocolate and looks at Birdie. “Okay, Birdie?”

  “Okay,” Birdie says back in a small voice.

  Patrick nods. “Don’t stay up too late.” He picks up his mug and a slice of bread. “Good night.”

  Him and Duke walk out the front door.

  Birdie and me watch him go and then take our hot chocolate and bread into the living room.

  I wonder what could be in that shed that would make Patrick want to be out there in the cold instead of in here with the fire.

  I think about Rosie and her truck.

  I think about Janet and her mom and their tiny trailer heater.

  I think about Mama and how she’d say that when toast and poetry and notebook writing don’t help, warm mugs and a fire could at least give you a chance to close your eyes and breathe.

  **Observation #788: Patrick’s Truck

  A red & tan Chevrolet pickup truck.

  By the doors in shiny letters it says SILVERADO 20.

  The motor rumbles like it’s bringing a far-off thunderstorm.

  But it must have some sort of magic too.

  Because how did it know to show up at Janet’s trailer?

  CHAPTER 16

  AN ENIGMA

  Before the sun is fully up, I find Patrick standing in the living room without his shoes on, looking out the large front window, which isn’t curtained for once and the dawn light comes through. The house is completely silent, like it hasn’t realized that anyone is awake yet.

  From the top of the stairs I can see the steam from his coffee rising into his face as he takes slow sips. Without his hat, the scalp on the very top of his head shows through his thinning hair and all of a sudden I feel like it’s probably wrong to spy on him—even though it wasn’t like I’d planned to spy. I want him to put his hat back on, but I don’t see it anywhere.

  I should go to my room, but I’m afraid if I move the floor will creak and he will notice me. So I hold real still and wait until he goes back to the kitchen.

  When he comes out, he has his work boots and hat on. He leaves through the front door. When I hear his engine start, I creep downstairs and watch his truck pull out of the driveway and disappear down the road. I guess Birdie and me are walking to school today.

  Mama used to say that imagining yourself in someone else’s shoes can help with feeling the tidal wave of joy.

  So I try to imagine being Patrick, having his shoebox life to himself and then suddenly sharing his life with two kids he doesn’t know or understand and didn’t ask for.

  Through my own socks I feel the heat in the carpet where Patrick was standing. I bring my hand up like I’m drinking an imaginary cup of coffee, like I actually like living in a shoebox, but maybe I might like to open the curtains now too.

  What I feel next still isn’t a tidal wave of joy, but it’s something. Something smaller, but also maybe deeper.

  For the first time I wonder what it’s meant to Patrick to lose his sister.

  * * *

  • • •

  I’m surprised when Patrick backs into the driveway an hour later. Birdie and me are about to walk to school, but Patrick says he’ll drive us. “Get in the truck,” he says as he runs up the stairs. “I’ve got breakfast. I’ll be just a minute.”

  Inside Patrick’s truck the heater is going and there is a box of donuts and two coffee cups sitting on the dashboard. They’re filled with hot chocolate. A travel mug with coffee sits in the cup holder.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met an adult who likes hot chocolate as much as Patrick,” says Birdie.

  “I don’t think he normally drinks it.
He just thinks that we like it,” I say.

  “And he’s actually right for once.” He holds the steaming cup in his hands. “Hot chocolate at night. Hot chocolate in the morning. He’s onto something.”

  Patrick gets in with Duke and pulls out of the driveway and says, “Take your pick of donuts. I wasn’t sure what you guys like, so I got a mix. I’ll take the extras to the guys at the job I’m going to.”

  I pick a maple bar and Birdie grabs the chocolate twist. Patrick takes a chocolate old-fashioned and he tilts his hat back a little before taking a bite.

  We are all quiet but this time it’s only because of the donuts. I’m halfway through my maple bar when I say, “Can I please go see Janet after school? I need to check on her.”

  Patrick doesn’t answer right away and I’m sort of regretting asking him. But for some reason, this time, it felt like the right thing to do.

  “After last night,” he says, “you should understand why it isn’t okay for you guys to be wandering around. Why I think it’s important to blend in.”

  “I won’t wander around and I won’t stay long,” I say, pressing ahead as the roller-coaster feeling returns. “But she’s my best friend and I need to make sure she’s okay. And she won’t tell me the truth over the phone. I know it—”

  “You can go to Janet’s,” Patrick interrupts in a firm voice. “But no side trips. Absolutely no going to Carl’s. You go straight there and don’t stay after dark. And you go right home if you get there and see Ross.”

  “I will,” I say, but I’m still holding my breath, thinking he might take it back.

  But Patrick just nods to himself and then finishes his last bite.

  * * *

  • • •

  In English class, we split into partners to work on our poet project. The second we get seated, Krysten looks me straight in the eye and is like, “Jack. The Quesadilla Ship. I wanted to tell you yesterday. I am so sorry.”

  Her eyes are wide and sincere.