Dedication
This book is dedicated to Mary Yun and Dalila Gomes. They know why.
Epigraph
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die;
Ever drifting down the stream—
Lingering in the golden gleam—
Life, what is it but a dream?
—FROM “A BOAT BENEATH A SUNNY SKY” BY LEWIS CARROLL
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
The Bird
The Darkness Moves
The Eyes in the Closet
The Middle of Nowhere
The Green Man
The Library
Back at Home
Ocean
Where Memory Meets Water
The Light at the End of the Tunnel
Back in the Real World
Dead Mileage
Bitten
The Pirate
Bitter Truth
The Shortcut
What
Pajama Day
The Path
The Nightmare Line
Falling Up
All Souls
A Door
Transformer
The Long Hall
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
About the Author
Books by Lisa Papademetriou
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Bird
ETHEL B. STRINGWOOD MIDDLE SCHOOL was too drab for daydreams. The building was a squat rectangle with walls the color of depressed oatmeal. The teachers never declared that “learning is fun!” or told their students to “reach for the stars!” They did their jobs just as the building did—they offered the basics and didn’t much care if you enjoyed yourself or not.
Stella Clay respected the building’s honesty. Her twin brother, Cole, didn’t agree.
Still, Stella liked the color of the walls and the old-sweater smell of the hallways. She appreciated the dingy film of dust that covered the windows. Stringwood wasn’t trying to be liked. It was just doing its job.
It was stable, dependable. Besides, Stella often thought, the fun of a drab place is that when something wonderful happens, it’s such a surprise.
That was what she was thinking, in fact, as she stared through the window of room 106B. There was a tree outside the window, a lovely ginkgo with beautiful, golden fan-shaped leaves in the late summer and disgusting, squashy, cheesy-feet smelling seeds in the fall. At this moment, it was spring, and the tiny leaves were a pale golden green. And on one of the highest branches perched Stella’s friend, a blue jay. Monsieur Bleu, as she thought of him (for room 106B was a French class). He wore the blue tuft of feathers on his head like a punk rocker and the markings around his beak gave him a permanent cheeky grin. He was building a nest right beyond the window, and Stella would occasionally catch his eye, bright as a bead of oil.
Stella liked to watch Bleu fuss over his work. It reminded her of the way her father would tug at the bedcovers to get them just so in the morning, smoothing away every imaginary wrinkle and bit of lint. Her mother always let the bed stay unmade. She said it didn’t make sense to straighten it out if you were just going to mess it right back up at night. Her father, on the other hand, said that making the bed gave your whole day a good start. Stella thought that both of her parents made good points, but she could see that Bleu would side with her father.
The bird placed a slender twig just so, then turned to look at Stella. He cocked his head as if to say, Well, what do you think? Stella nodded in an encouraging way, but he turned his back to her and adjusted the twig.
She wasn’t offended that he clearly didn’t think much of her taste. After all, she had very little experience with nests.
“Mademoiselle Clay,” her teacher said, “would you care to conjugate rendre for the class?”
Stella snapped to attention. Madame French (how horrible, Stella thought, to be a French teacher with the last name French) smiled that sneering little smile that teachers must learn in Teaching School—the one that says, I know you were not paying attention and now you will suffer. Stella sighed. Madame French was young and good looking, with long braids that she wore loosely piled on top of her head. She blinked a long, slow, I’m waiting blink. “We are looking for the nous form.”
“I—uh—” Stella looked at the smartboard, but it gave no clues.
Connor Molloy snickered. He turned around in his seat, so that she could get the full impact of his smirk. Connor had thick brown hair and freckles and a round koala-looking face. On this particular day, he wore a hat with little green army men glued to the top. (It was School Spirit Week at Stringwood, which was supposed to reflect devotion to the school and its values. Those values, apparently, included a deep-seated respect for crazy hats and a day devoted to wearing them.) Connor looked like a nice guy, maybe a guy with a good sense of humor, which just proved that looks could be deceiving.
“Mademoiselle Clay?” Madame French repeated.
“I . . . don’t . . .” Stella looked over at her best friend, Renee Semedo, who shouted, “Nous rendons!”
Madame French turned to her with sternly arched eyebrows. “Renee,” she snapped, “I thought we had discussed this.”
“I couldn’t stand the suspense!” Renee cried, and half the class giggled.
“Please, try to control yourself,” the teacher told her.
Renee pushed her purple-framed glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose. “I do try,” she replied. “It just doesn’t work.”
Madame French put a hand over her eyes, shook her head, took a deep breath, and turned back to Stella, who cringed in her seat.
“Now, Stella—” she continued. “Please give us the elle form—”
Thunk.
Stella caught the flutter out of the corner of her eye as Bleu dropped to the ground.
“It flew into the glass!” Connor shouted as Stella bolted out of her chair.
“Everyone, return to your seats!” Madame French cried, attempting in vain to be heard amid the bustle of scraping chairs and running feet as the class moved toward the windows. “Retour à vos sièges! Stella Clay! Get back here!”
But Stella was already in the hall, lurching awkwardly toward the double doors. She burst into the cold spring wind, which prickled her face as she raced toward the gingko tree. The branches grew close to the window, and Bleu lay near the roots, not moving. He rested on his side, his claws curled into tiny, gnarled fists. For a moment, Stella too was frozen, afraid to touch him.
He was her bird, though. Hers because she had watched him and cared about him and felt that she knew him, so she moved forward. Cupping her stiff right hand, she gently scooped him into her palm with the other. He was still, but his heart fluttered against her skin. She kneeled there, feeling his quick, steady heartbeat, ignoring the cold at her nostrils, her fingers. Madame French thudded a fist against the window, and Stella looked up into the furious face of her teacher. “Rentré ici!” Madame French’s voice was muffled behind the glass, but her expression was fierce enough to melt steel.
One windowpane over, Renee pressed both palms against the glass, her eyes fixed on Stella’s hands. For crazy hat day, Renee wore a headband with golden ball-shaped head-boppers. They bounced at the end of a long metal spiral all around her halo of brown curly hair. Renee nodded in a way that meant, go ahead, and the boppers wobbled encouragingly.
Stella wasn’t sure what to do with Bleu. She only knew she couldn’t just leave him. Shivering, it occurred to her that the bird might be cold, so she brought her hands closer to her mo
uth and blew warm air over him. He didn’t move, so she repeated the motion, her breath warming her own palms cupped protectively around the bird.
Bleu jerked suddenly and hopped to his feet. His scratchy, twiggy little claws pricked at her palm for just a moment as he cocked his head and looked at her accusingly, then—in a thrum of feathers—fluttered away, disappearing around the corner of the drab gray brick.
Stella wiped her hands on her jeans and stood up. She looked up at the window, and she heard Madame French’s muffled voice as she shouted in en Français. The faces began to disappear from the window, but Renee lingered a moment and gave Stella their secret signal: an index finger curved into a hook that meant, I’m with you. Shivering, Stella signaled back and then headed across the dead grass patched here and there with ice, back toward the iron-gray double doors.
By the time Stella returned to room 106B, the class was once again reciting past-tense conjugations. They looked at her with nervous eyes, but no one spoke a word or even paused in the conjugation. Only Connor narrowed his eyes and crinkled his nose. Madame French did not look in her direction when she entered the room. Her hand shot out, holding a small slip of paper. Stella plucked it from her fingers. A detention. Renee winced at her sympathetically.
With a shrug, Stella headed for her seat and slid into her chair. She’d never gotten a detention before. She was a bit surprised at the ordinariness of the paper. It wasn’t fancy or anything. It wasn’t even on special colored paper, like the kind they used for flyers.
Well, what did you expect? she asked herself. A golden ticket?
Sighing, she tucked the slip into her homework notebook and glanced out the window. Bleu still hadn’t returned to his branch, but it didn’t matter. He had flown away. He was all right.
And that meant he would be back.
Stella had faith.
“That was amazing,” Renee gushed as she and Stella joined the crowd tramping toward the cafeteria. “I thought that bird was dead, and then you were all, like, Bird Whisperer! What did he feel like in your hand?” Behind her glasses, her huge eyes managed to add as much commentary as her actual mouth.
“Light,” Stella replied. “Soft. His feet were . . . skritchy.”
Renee waited for more. When it didn’t come, she said, “You should be a poet.”
“Cole’s the one who’s good with words, not me.”
“He’s also the one who’s good with hats,” Renee remarked, eyeing Stella’s pink knit cap.
“This was the craziest thing I could find,” Stella insisted. “It’s Mom’s.”
“How is that hat even crazy?”
“I never wear pink,” Stella pointed out.
“Oh, hey, look—the STs are doing another food drive.” Renee paused in front of a table decorated with a blue Students Together tablecloth. Two large cardboard boxes sat on top, half full of jars. The banner at the front of the table read “PB&J—Bring It!” in vibrant, graffiti-style letters.
“Peanut butter and jelly? That seems weirdly specific. Do I like this idea? I don’t know.” Renee often narrated her thoughts aloud as she was having them, which Stella usually found funny.
Besides, Renee spoke her mind. Literally and figuratively. Stella liked that. She never had to ask herself a question like, Is Renee mad at me? because Renee would tell her right away. Renee turned to Alice Yun, who sat behind the STs table, smiling. “Do I like the idea of a peanut butter and jelly drive?” Renee asked her as classmates streamed through the doors to the cafeteria behind them.
“You don’t just like it. You love it,” Alice Yun replied from her place behind the table. Her “hat” was made of paper, with a small green cone at the top attached to long yellow flower petals that stuck out around her head. “Peanut butter and jelly are two of the most requested items at the food bank. They last a long time, don’t have to be refrigerated, and make a quick, no-cook, nutritious meal packed with protein. Here’s some more info,” she added. She handed over a card and smiled, revealing a dimple in her right cheek.
“Wow—I do love this idea!” Renee replied, scanning the card. “You were so totally right!”
“And you can bring soynut or sunflower seed butter too. Because some people are allergic to peanuts,” Alice went on. “We’ll be collecting jars all week.”
Renee turned to Stella. “We’re so doing this!” She looked past Stella and shouted, “Hey! Phoebe Marshall! Bring in some peanut butter!” A girl wearing a popcorn bag stuffed with cotton balls on her head gave a thumbs-up before being swept along in an eddy of seventh graders.
“Who made the sign?” Stella asked, eyeing the banner’s graffiti style. “It’s really cool.”
“I did,” Alice replied, smiling shyly. “My dad helped me bring it in.”
“Well, we are bringing in foodstuffs,” Renee told her. “You can count on us!”
“Glad to hear it,” Alice said. She waved to a couple of eighth graders in squid hats who quickly made their way to the front of the table as Renee and Stella stepped away.
“She is so cool,” Renee whispered to Stella, “with her homemade hat and her amazing sign.”
Stella nodded. Alice was something of a Stringwood celebrity; everyone knew who she was. Stella had seen people staring at Alice’s wheelchair, but she had never heard of anyone asking her about the accident. Sure, plenty of people claimed to know the Official Story, but Stella had heard everything from “her father was a drunk driver,” to “she was hit by a car the day before Christmas,” to “she was on a bicycle without a helmet.” That last one made the least amount of sense, as there was nothing wrong with Alice’s head, but that didn’t stop people from repeating it.
Stella and Renee made their way to their usual table along the left-side wall. The cafeteria was also the auditorium and the recess space on rainy days, and it always smelled like a strange combination of limp broccoli, commercial cleanser, and armpits. Ramlah was already there, sitting with Katie and Other Katie. All three wore hats shaped like goldfish, with open mouths that looked as if they were swallowing the girls’ heads. Other Katie smiled and gestured to the seat beside her, which Renee slid into.
“You guys have to bring peanut butter and jelly tomorrow,” Renee announced.
“Okay,” Ramlah said, and Katie agreed. “Def.” Everyone knew that it was useless to argue with Renee.
A boy with bright, dark eyes turned in his seat at the table behind theirs. Stella’s twin, Cole. He wore a hat made of tinfoil with a tiny green paper alien taped to the top. “Some crazy rumors going around today,” he said, taking a bite of mini carrot.
“Stella got a detention!” Renee announced.
“Oh, you’ve heard about it.” Cole grinned. “But I knew it couldn’t be true.”
“It is, though,” Stella said with a wry grin. “Will you wait for me?”
“What’s a brother for? You’ve waited for me often enough.” Cole got detention at least once a month because he hardly ever paid attention in class. He was usually too busy drawing or writing in his notebook.
It was a problem, that notebook, because Cole insisted that he should be allowed to write in it whenever he wanted. It was his Work, as he called it, after all. He was Working. That’s what you do in school.
Stella pulled out a small container of carrots and a cheese sandwich—the twin lunch of her twin’s lunch. She took a bite of sandwich to hide her grateful smile. She and Cole were different, but she knew that he was thinking the same thing she was: neither one of them much liked going home alone.
It was then that Connor walked over to Stella’s table. Two other guys in baseball hats with plastic army men glued to the brim stood behind him. Matt and Jason looked like they were trying hard to copy Connor’s confident swagger and angelic expression, but it was coming off as backup thuggery.
Freakishly tall for middle school students, Stella thought, watching their approach.
“Hey, Turbo,” Connor said to Stella. “Nice jog to save your bird.�
� He clamped a stiff right arm against his waist and stumbled several steps in imitation of Stella’s awkward run. His clones laughed.
“Shut it, Connor,” Renee snapped. Her golden head-boppers quivered indignantly.
“Nice coordination, Connor,” Cole teased, “no wonder the basketball team is in last place.”
“Cole,” Stella warned, but she didn’t really know how to finish the sentence. She didn’t enjoy being made fun of for her rigid arm and leg, but neither did she like the look in Connor’s eye, which was something like a flash of lightning before thunder rattles the ground. Connor’s lips twitched as he sized up Cole.
“At least my dad can come and cheer for me at games,” Connor snarled.
“Ohmygod, are you a complete idiot?” Renee stood up and actually chucked a strawberry fruit gummy at him. “Shut up!”
Ramlah and Other Katie chimed in. “What’s wrong with you?”
“That’s just rude!”
“Why would you say that?”
“Get out of here, Connor,” Renee warned him. She used her low and dangerous voice—the one that made people listen.
“I was finished, anyway. Come on, guys.” Connor flipped Cole’s tinfoil hat from his head and stalked off. Jason sneered as Cole stooped to retrieve his bent, ruined hat. Matt shot a last glare at Stella before following Connor to the other side of the cafeteria.
Stella took a sip of water, to try to swallow the lump that was rising in her throat. She didn’t understand why Connor disliked her so much. She had never done anything to him; at least, nothing that she could remember. He didn’t seem to like Cole, either, but it was harder to tease him and he was better at standing up for himself.
Stella could never think of anything to say until days or even weeks after she had been made fun of. Only then would the perfect insult appear, much too late and almost always in the shower, where it was perfectly useless.
Cole crumpled his tinfoil hat into a ball and then stood up to throw it into the garbage. At the table, his friends Emmett and Zeke had already moved on and were discussing some video game and the many ways that one could blow up a zombie.
The Dreamway Page 1