“And we were also disappointed that you felt you had to lie about where you were going,” Dad says.
“So why did you let me go?”
Mom reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. “Your dad and I knew it was important to you. You were giving up your pet fish to help out a boy you barely know. Of course, we never thought it would be quite so dangerous.”
“We thought you might just drop Bubbles at the back door, but then we saw you go in the side door of the house,” Dad says. “A few minutes later, the old car pulled in with the family, so we knew there was trouble. That’s when I went over there.”
“But how did you know I was out on the roof?” I say.
“Do you know how noisy those squeaky old windows are when you open them?”
Mom squeezes my hand again and says, “You look puzzled, Oliver. What’s on your mind?”
I know it’s a risk, but I decide to ask them anyway. “Why aren’t you mad at me?”
“We’re not entirely happy with what you did, Oliver,” Mom says, her voice sounding a little more stern. “You knew that going into someone else’s house was wrong, and escaping out the window was terribly dangerous. You could have been seriously hurt.”
“Mom’s right,” Dad says. “You made some bad decisions. But Mom and I know that your intentions were good. You took a big risk trying to help out that boy across the street.”
“So things didn’t exactly work out. Sometimes the best plans go really wrong,” Mom says. “It happens to everyone. When I was your age, I nearly drove Grandpa Golley’s car into the lake.”
“And when I was your age, I nearly burned the house down when a science experiment caught fire in the bathroom,” Dad says.
“That’s part of growing up,” Mom says. I’d never heard those stories before. Maybe Mom and Dad weren’t ready to tell them to me—until now.
While I take a sip of hot chocolate, I think about the kid across the street and his yelling, screaming, crazy parents. I look at my mom and dad and can only think of one thing to say to them.
“Thanks.”
The next morning, Dad and I stop at Grandpa Golley’s on the way to school to pick up the parrot.
“I’m sorry to say the birdbrain still hasn’t said a word,” Grandpa Golley says, as he helps me put the cage in the back of Dad’s car. “Keep the blanket over the cage until the last minute. That way, it might calm him down, and who knows? Maybe you’ll even get him to talk. But I wouldn’t count on it.”
When I walk into the classroom with the birdcage, the place is wild. A chihuahua has a chicken cornered over by the teacher’s desk. Brett’s running around the room with a blanket trying to catch his budgie, while Sarah’s coaxing her cat down from the top of a bookshelf. Greg is crouched on the floor, reaching under a supply cabinet, grabbing at something hiding underneath. Mom would call this pandemonium. Mrs. Franzen is sitting at her desk, smiling nervously, probably because her brilliant teaching idea has backfired in a spectacular way.
I keep the blanket over the birdcage. The last thing I want to do is give Grandpa Golley’s parrot a heart attack.
By the time the second bell goes, the chihuahua is back on its leash, the chicken’s in its cage, and Greg has his gecko out from under the supply cabinet. When I look over at Sarah with her cat curled up in her lap, I notice an empty desk. The kid’s desk.
After all the trouble I went through to get him a pet, he doesn’t even show up! Maybe he ate Bubbles. He probably thought I gave the fish to him as a snack. Now, instead of having my own pet fish, I’m stuck with this stupid parrot that won’t talk.
I fold my arms and slump down in my seat while Mrs. Franzen rambles on.
“As you know, your oral presentation should be no longer than five minutes, but no less than…” she says.
The oral presentation! I’ve spent so much time worrying about the kid and my fish, I haven’t even thought about my presentation! This is not good.
“Remember, you are to talk to us about the life of your pet. Unless, of course, your pet wants to talk for themselves,” Mrs. Franzen says, smiling.
I could tell her my parrot doesn’t talk. But I don’t. I scowl. Instead of laughing or smiling, I scowl. I scowl because I haven’t planned anything. Nothing. Not one single word. I have no idea what I’m going to say. I scowl because I’ve tried to help this kid, and all he does is eat my fish! I scowl because I’m stuck with the only parrot in the world that doesn’t talk. I have plenty of reasons to scowl. So I scowl.
Mrs. Franzen picks up a pottery bowl from her desk. Inside are slips of paper with everyone’s names on them. If she draws your name, you have to do your presentation whether you’re ready or not. My only hope is that she forgot to put my name on a slip of paper. Maybe she’ll go through the whole class and forget that she missed me.
Not likely.
She reaches into the pottery bowl and swirls the slips of paper around. “We’d better get on with our presentations before our special guests get restless!” she says.
Everyone leans forward, waiting for the first name to be drawn, hoping it won’t be them.
“The first person to present is…” Mrs. Franzen closes her eyes and picks out a slip of paper. Everyone holds their breath. She slowly unfolds the paper, and says, “Kiki!”
Yes! I can breathe again!
“Can’t we have a redo, Mrs. Franzen?” Kiki says. “I can’t do my presentation because Fuzzy’s taking a nap.”
“I’m afraid not, Kiki,” Mrs. Franzen says. “Fair is fair. I’m sure you could wake Fuzzy up for your special presentation.”
Kiki leans toward her hamster cage and shouts, “Fuzzy! Wake up!” She looks up at Mrs. Franzen and says, “To be honest with you, Mrs. Franzen, I don’t really like hamsters. I don’t really like any animals. I had to borrow Fuzzy from my cousin. She warned me that Fuzzy sleeps a lot. He’s been sleeping ever since I picked him up last night.”
“Now, Kiki,” Mrs. Franzen says. “No more stalling. You’d better…”
Mrs. Franzen pauses as everyone turns toward the door as the kid shuffles in with both arms wrapped around an old metal bucket. I recognize that bucket. Mom and Dad must have left it behind when they moved. The kid staggers over to his desk near the back of the room, puts the bucket down with a thud and sits.
“Eyes front, everyone!” Mrs. Franzen says. “Kiki, get on with your presentation, please.”
Kiki trudges to the front of the room carrying the hamster cage. She sets it down on a table, unfolds a crumpled piece of paper and begins to read.
“Hello, everyone,” Kiki says. “This hamster’s name is Fuzzy, and he’s a sleepy, smelly, ugly little rodent…”
I want to see what the kid is up to at the back of the room, but Mrs. Franzen is strict about good audience behavior. That means keeping your eyes glued to the front.
“He spends most of his life sleeping, and the rest of the time he runs on this little wheel, but he doesn’t go anywhere. That doesn’t seem to matter to him. He also likes to chew up newspaper…”
I don’t listen to the rest of Kiki’s presentation. I’m too busy thinking about the kid and the bucket. I’m also wondering what happened to Bubbles, and what the kid will do for a presentation. It’s tough to do a presentation when you never talk.
Instead of worrying about the kid and Bubbles, I should have been thinking about my own presentation. The next thing I know, Mrs. Franzen pulls another slip of paper out of her pottery bowl and says, “Next to go is Oliver!”
I bury my head in my arms on my desk, hoping that I’ll magically become invisible. If I disappeared, she’d have to pick someone else.
“Oliver,” she says again. “It’s your turn!”
Okay, so I’m not magically invisible. Instead I’m in trouble. Big trouble. I don’t have anything prepared and I have no idea what to say. What would a mute parrot be thinking anyway? If this parrot had anything going on in that birdbrain of his, he’d tell us about it. But no.
He doesn’t say a word because his brain is totally empty! Mrs. Franzen’s assignment is so dumb!
There’s no point in arguing with Mrs. Franzen. Even my parents are on her side. I try to come up with some excuse for not doing my presentation. Maybe I should tell her that I have to leave this minute for an emergency orthodontist appointment. The only problem is, I don’t have braces. I don’t think she’ll buy that one.
Maybe I should pretend to faint. That’s it! I’ll hold my hand to my forehead, stagger around, knocking against desks and running into the wall as I walk up to the front of the room. When I reach the front of the room— BOOM!—I’m down on the floor, out cold. They’ll call the school nurse, and I’ll get to spend the rest of the day in the sick room. The only problem is, Vijay tried the very same thing last week, and Mrs. Franzen didn’t buy it. Not only that, I’m a terrible actor. Mrs. Franzen would know in about half a second that I was faking it.
“Please, Oliver. Don’t dawdle. We have a whole class of presentations to get through,” she says.
I take a deep breath, grab the handle of the parrot’s cage and lug it to the front of the room. As I stand there, I try to think of what to say, but not one single part of my brain is working. My brain is completely shut down! Lights out! No one’s home! I spend a couple of minutes clearing my throat, hoping something might suddenly happen to save me—like an earthquake or a meteorite crashing into the school. Or maybe the school will go into lockdown mode because a moose is marauding through the halls. When I don’t feel the floor shake, hear a meteorite hit the school or see any moose antlers on the horizon, I reach for the birdcage. Very slowly, I lift the blanket off the cage. There are a few oohs and ahhs when the class finally sees the parrot.
“No fair, Mrs. Franzen!” Greg says. “Ollie brings a pet that can talk. He doesn’t have to say anything. The bird will do his presentation for him!”
The class laughs. But I don’t. “Actually, this parrot can’t talk,” I say. “It’s never said a word in its life.”
“A parrot that can’t talk?” Greg says. “What’s the point of having a parrot that can’t talk? That’s about as dumb as a Mexican jumping bean that can’t jump! Or a hyena that doesn’t laugh at your jokes!”
“If the parrot can’t talk, it doesn’t really matter. The whole point of this assignment is that Oliver has to imagine what the parrot thinks of its life,” Mrs. Franzen says. “Go ahead, Oliver. Tell us about your parrot’s life.”
But I can’t go ahead. I stand there as silent as this parrot, staring out across the classroom with everyone staring back. After a few moments of silence, all I can manage is an, “Um…um.”
“Go ahead, Oliver,” Mrs. Franzen says. She sounds impatient. “We’re looking forward to hearing about your parrot.”
I glance at Mrs. Franzen, then back out across the classroom. I can’t do it. I’m not any good at this sort of thing. I may as well be trying to ride a unicycle or play the bagpipes or juggle chainsaws.
“You did plan a presentation, didn’t you, Oliver?” Mrs. Fransen says.
“I…uh…uh…” I look out across the class of staring faces and see the kid. He’s getting out of his seat and wrapping his arms around the bucket. Everyone turns to look at him as he walks to the front of the room carrying the bucket. There are whispers and a few snickers.
For most of the kids in my class, it’s the first time they’ve taken a really good look at the kid. Sure, on his first day in class, everyone looked him up and down. After that, he faded away and became pretty much invisible.
He puts the bucket down on the table beside the birdcage.
Mrs. Franzen looks confused and says, “What is it, Diggory? It’s not your turn.”
The boy with the greasy hair, the mismatched socks and the ratty sweater stares out across the class toward the back of the room. He speaks in a voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just trying to help Oliver out.”
“But it’s not your…” Mrs. Franzen begins, then stops herself. She looks over at me, smiles, nods and says, “Very well, Diggory. You go ahead with your presentation.”
The kid named Diggory takes a deep breath and reaches into the bucket with both hands. He pulls them out, hands cupped together, water dripping from his fingers. When he opens his hands, there, lying calmly, is a small fish. It’s about the same size as Bubbles. And it’s mostly gold with lighter patches along the bottom, just like Bubbles. It has to be Bubbles. I’m wondering if he’s dead, but then I see his tail fin twitch a little.
Diggory carefully puts the fish back into the bucket and looks up at the class. He bites his lip, looking nervous, as he stares out across the silent classroom with everyone staring back.
Finally he opens his mouth, and a few wispy words float out. “Life as a fish…”
“Pardon me, Diggory,” Mrs. Franzen says. “You’ll have to speak up. We can hardly hear you.”
He’s breathing hard but says in a louder voice, “Life as a fish is easier than being a human.” He pauses. The class is silent. “Fish never get chased by the police.” He hesitates, then his eyes turn to the ceiling. He says very slowly, “It’s really scary being chased by the police.”
Diggory looks down at the floor, and I can see his bottom lip quivering. I can tell he needs some help.
“BUT WHAT ABOUT PARROTS?” I shout. Everyone in the class jumps, including the parrot, who flaps its wings a couple of times. “Life as a parrot is also way, way, way easier than being a human. For instance, parrots never go trick-or-treating at a zombie’s house!”
There are some giggles in the class. Diggory turns and looks at me. “A zombie’s house?”
“Yeah, a zombie’s house! A zombie whose name is Milburn! And the worst part is that he only gives out one single lousy candy!”
There are more giggles, but Mrs. Franzen clears her throat, and everyone goes quiet.
I’m about to tell everyone more, but Diggory starts talking again. This time, his voice is stronger and louder. “And a fish never has to drive really fast through back alleys and side streets while a police car chases it with the siren screaming.” He pauses, takes a deep breath and says, “It just swims around in its fishbowl. It’s way safer in a fishbowl.”
“Same for this birdcage,” I say, banging the bars of the cage a couple of times. “Look at those sturdy metal bars protecting the parrot. Nothing could break through those bars. Not even Spike McChomp!” Okay, so I’m lying. Spike McChomp would use the bars of this cage for dental floss. But I’m not going to let a little exaggeration get in the way of my presentation.
“But what about humans?” I continue. “Not so lucky! No cages for them! No, sirree! Spike McChomp can run up to any human trying to steal a spike from his yard and chew their pants right off!”
Again the class is giggling. Before Mrs. Franzen has a chance to quiet them, Diggory starts speaking again.
“This fish…his fishbowl broke. It’s sort of like when people have to ditch their car in a gravel pit and set it on fire with all their stuff inside, then run for it.”
The class listens to every word he says. But again Diggory stops, and he’s looking up toward the ceiling. I wait for him to say more, but he has this look in his eyes. It’s like his mind’s lost in remembering something, and he’s forgotten all about his presentation. Then I notice a tear trickle down his cheek. I have to do something.
“As for this parrot, well, he’s just plain lucky he can fly,” I say. “If he decided to jump off the Pegasus Valley Bridge, it would be no big deal. But not for a human! If a human jumps off the Pegasus Valley Bridge, it is downright terrifying! So terrifying, he might even tear a bolt right off the bridge before he jumps!”
Diggory looks at me for a couple of seconds and wipes the sleeve of his sweater across his cheeks. He sniffs, then turns to the class and says, “This fish doesn’t like this bucket as much as his fishbowl. But a bucket isn’t as bad as living in a car-wrecking yard. It’s not as bad as living in a rusty van with a roo
f that leaks when it rains and has a nest of rats living under the front seat.”
Diggory stops, and his eyes get that look again where he stares up at the ceiling. This time, I don’t wait. I just start to babble.
“Yeah, the life of a parrot, I tell you! This parrot might think he has it tough, but he never has to spend two whole months staying with his aunt and uncle and nerdy cousin on some farm. This parrot never has to milk cows, shovel poop or weed the garden during their summer holidays! This parrot has it so easy.”
Diggory steps toward the bucket and rests both hands on the edge as he stares down into the water at Bubbles. Then he says in a quiet voice, “This fish would like to move into a new fishbowl. He’d like to live in a fishbowl that wouldn’t break. A fishbowl that couldn’t be taken away. A fishbowl that was safe.”
No one in the class says a word or raises their hand. Diggory just stares into the bucket. I have a feeling that he’s not going to say any more, so I shout, “On behalf of the fish, the parrot, and Diggory, I would like to thank you for your kind attention! Our presentations are over!”
I look over at Mrs. Franzen, worried about what she’s thinking. I don’t think my presentation was exactly what she was looking for. Neither was Diggory’s. I don’t know if we exactly “got inside the head” of the fish or the parrot.
My only hope is that Mrs. Franzen thinks our ideas were original and imaginative. Maybe she figures I made everything up.
I wonder about all the stuff Diggory said, and I have this bad feeling that, just like me, he wasn’t making anything up either.
Sixteen
Dad picks me up after school to take the parrot back to Grandpa Golley’s. As we pull away from the school, Diggory’s heading in the other direction, lugging the bucket with the fish down the sidewalk on his way to the bottle depot.
“Dad?” I say. “Could we give that boy a lift? His bucket’s pretty heavy.”
“I’d like to, Ollie,” Dad replies, “but we’re already late. We have to drop off the parrot at Grandpa Golley’s house, then you have a dentist appointment. We can give him a lift some other time when we’re not in such a hurry.”
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