The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney

by Suzanne Harper

  He was slumped in his chair, head down, zoned out listening to his iPod. His dark hair just brushed the collar of an old army jacket that was a couple of sizes too large. He wore a worn gray T-shirt, and faded jeans. He looked as if he had woken up late and grabbed the first clothes that he could find. Probably clothes that had been lying on the floor, considering all the wrinkles. As I looked at him, I caught the faint scent of woodsmoke and autumn leaves and felt a little grayness in my soul at the reminder that summer was really and truly over. . . .

  At that moment he raised his eyes and looked directly at me. I blushed, embarrassed to be caught looking back.

  “Are you finished?” he asked curtly.

  I blinked in surprise at the anger in his voice. “What?”

  He pulled off his earbuds and leaned forward. “I said, are . . . you . . . finished?” he repeated very slowly, as if talking to a small and rather dim child.

  “Um . . . with what?” Even to my own ears, I sounded ridiculous.

  “Staring at me. I’m not an exhibit in a zoo.”

  I heard a girl in the next row giggle. “I wasn’t staring,” I said hotly.

  He smirked. “Right.”

  “I was glancing casually around the room and you happened to get in the way,” I said loftily.

  The left side of his mouth slipped upward as his grin widened. “Yeah, sure.”

  He slipped his earbuds back in and went back to staring at the floor.

  I could feel other girls in the class sneaking looks at him, and I could guess why.

  He was good-looking, I thought, trying to be fair. In a moody, sullen, sarcastic, defensive, slovenly kind of way.

  As I pointedly looked past him, I noticed the guy sitting behind Army Jacket Boy. He had shaggy dark blond hair, hazel eyes, and a lively, interested expression. He caught my eye and smiled warmly, as if we shared a secret. Then he flicked his finger at the back of Army Jacket Boy’s ear. He didn’t get much of a response, so he did it again.

  Flick.

  Nothing.

  Flick.

  Nothing.

  Flick!

  Finally! Army Jacket Boy moved his head with irritation.

  Flick again. This time to the left ear.

  That got his attention. He turned, scowling, and looked around the room, as if wondering whether someone had been shooting spitballs at him from the back row. Then he shrugged, turned back around, and slumped down even further in his chair.

  I glanced over at Army Jacket Boy’s tormentor and found myself staring right into his eyes.

  Aagghh! Direct eye contact! Twice in one day! What was wrong with me?

  I blushed. He winked. I could feel myself blush even more, but I smiled back.

  Army Jacket Boy gave me a strange look and turned to look over his shoulder. When he turned back, he was frowning. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be all right? I mean, why do you ask?”

  Damn. Note to self: Work on witty, intelligent, scathing comebacks at home tonight. Practice until certain people quake in fear at the mere thought of talking to you.

  Just then a breeze blew through the open window, and everyone groaned as papers flew into the air. I saw the boy sitting behind A. J. Boy go all shimmery. . . .

  Then he was gone.

  I must have looked startled, because A. J. Boy turned around again to see what had happened. Of course he didn’t see a thing, so I had seemingly been overcome with shock at the sight of an empty chair.

  He turned back and gave me a look.

  “Right,” he said sarcastically. “That chair is really scary, and you’re perfectly fine. My mistake.”

  “Mind your own business!” I snapped.

  He shrugged. “Just thought I’d offer a helping hand of compassion.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need any help.”

  “Glad to hear it. I really hate all that helping-hand-of-compassion stuff.” He put the earbuds back in, his legs thrust carelessly into the aisle.

  I turned back to the front of the class and blinked hard a few times to discourage any stray tears from falling. Before I had a chance to wonder why any spirit in his right mind would choose to spend part of eternity in a high school history class, our teacher walked in the door and instantly commanded everyone’s attention.

  “Good morning, class. My name is Sergeant Grimes.” He wrote his name on the blackboard as everyone in the class gaped at him. Sergeant Grimes was a tall, imposing man with a gray hair, a laser stare, and posture that was so straight I wasn’t entirely sure he could sit down.

  “Before I was assigned to a tour of duty here at Cassadaga Regional High School, I spent twenty years in the Eighty-second Airborne, the roughest, toughest, most hardcore soldiers in the entire U.S. military.” He looked us over with steely eyes. “I expect the same level of discipline, hard work, and devotion to duty from you that I expected from my men. Is that clear?” There were a few intimidated nods as we all sank a little lower in our chairs.

  He began to take roll, snapping out each name as if we were on a parade ground.

  “Mr. Andrews? Justin Andrews?”

  “Here!” The redheaded boy waved his arm as dramatically as if he were guiding a plane onto an aircraft carrier. (Just as I suspected: goofy.)

  “Respond by saying ‘present,’” Sergeant Grimes said. “Cut out the semaphore. And use my name when you answer.”

  Justin looked a little puzzled—I had the feeling that “semaphore” threw him for a loop—but he lowered his arm and said, “Present, Mr. Grimes,” in a subdued tone.

  “Negative.” Sergeant Grimes seemed to be getting more annoyed by the minute. “Mr. Grimes is my father. You can call me Sergeant Grimes. Or you can call me Sergeant. Or you can call me sir.” He paused, then snapped, “Do we understand each other?”

  A murmur of yeses answered him.

  I expected him to bark out, “I can’t hear you!” just like in the movies. But he just nodded, still not smiling, and went on with the roll. I learned that the elegant girl near the windows was named Jeannie Bartlett and that she sounded bored and superior. The girl with glasses and braces also had a most unfortunate adenoid problem and answered almost inaudibly to the name Sarah Carlton. And Army Jacket Boy turned out to be Jack Dawson.

  He was called on three times before he heard his name, leading to his iPod being confiscated and the rest of us being subjected to a rather tedious lecture titled “Sergeant Grimes’s Rules Regarding the Use of Electronics in Class” (short version: “Don’t Even Think About It”). When Jack finally answered, his face was blank, his voice flat. He should have appeared difficult and surly; instead he came off as extremely cool, further evidence (as if it were needed) that the universe is fundamentally unfair.

  “Ms. Delaney? Sparrow Delaney?”

  I was so lost in thought that it took me a second to realize that Sergeant Grimes was calling my name. “Yes. Here,” I answered. “I mean, present. Sir. Er, Sergeant.”

  “Very good. Now try to stay present, if you don’t mind,” Sergeant Grimes said dryly as he checked off my name.

  Finally we got to the end of roll call, and Sergeant Grimes took us through what the year had in store. A lot, it seemed. Reading six chapters in the massive textbook every month, writing a short essay on a historical topic every week, and—wait for it—working in teams on a semester-long research project that would teach us “how to effectively find, analyze, and summarize primary and secondary source materials.”

  No one dared groan, although a certain feeling of anguish reverberated throughout the room.

  “Any questions? No? Outstanding.” The sergeant picked up his roll book and began assigning us to teams of two. He did this by simply running down his list and pairing us off according to the alphabetical listing of our last names.

  All around me people were turning pale with dismay at not being able to choose their own partners, but I would have gladly traded my fate
with any one of theirs, because my research partner was none other than Jack Dawson.

  I glanced over my shoulder. He was staring at the floor, a slight frown on his face.

  “Your research project should focus on some aspect of local history,” Sergeant Grimes continued. “All topics must be chosen and approved by me by the end of next week, so that you have sufficient time to complete your project. I strongly suggest that you meet with your partner outside class in the next few days to decide on your chosen area of research.”

  He would have gone on, but at that moment the bell rang. We all grabbed our books, ready to escape to the next class, but Sergeant Grimes held up his hand.

  “Class!” he barked. The single word sounded like a thunderclap. Everyone froze.

  “One final rule: Even if the bell rings, you don’t leave until I say so.”

  He paused for a long, dramatic moment as we held our breaths.

  Finally he snapped, “Dismissed!” and we all bolted into the hall.

  The rest of the morning passed in the usual first-day blur of trying frantically to find the next classroom, being issued stacks of textbooks, fumbling with a new locker combination, and signing up for extracurricular activities. All in all, I barely had time to breathe, let alone think about the strange start to my new school year.

  By the time I found the cafeteria, I had only fifteen minutes to eat the soggy tuna fish sandwich and bruised apple I had brought for lunch. I spotted Fiona waving to me from across the room, threaded my way through a dozen tables, and plopped down gratefully in the chair next to her.

  “What did you think of Sergeant Grimes? History is going to be a complete horror!” Fiona exclaimed with delight. She had spread out a clean napkin—real cloth, I noticed, and snowy white—and arranged her lunch on it like a work of art: PB&J sandwich with the crusts cut off, a red apple so shiny that it must have been polished, and what looked like homemade chocolate chip cookies.

  Her eyes sparkled even as she moaned about the rest of her classes. “I’m going to be completely in over my head in algebra, I can already tell, and Mr. Crane in English said we have to read twenty novels in thirty-six weeks and if we don’t make it, we’ll have to keep going in summer school! I think he was joking, but still! Are you taking Spanish? Well, then you’re just incredibly lucky because you should see the homework assignments we already have, and this is only the first day!” Fiona took a neat little bite from her apple and sighed happily. “High school is going to be so much harder than junior high! I just don’t know if I’ll make it!”

  “Mmm,” I said. Totally inadequate, I know, but I couldn’t talk about what was foremost on my mind— namely, cute ghosts that disappeared into thin air.

  “Where’s your schedule? I hope we have at least one more class together this afternoon. That would be such fun! Hi, Clare! Hey, Jill!” Fiona managed to keep chattering even as she ate her lunch and waved at various people as they walked by.

  “You seem to know a lot of people already,” I commented.

  “Well, I’m a natural-born extrovert; at least that’s what my dad always says,” she said cheerfully. “He’s a psychologist, so he’s always diagnosing people. I think I get it from my mom, being an extrovert, I mean. She’s a TV reporter. People always end up telling her things they wouldn’t admit to another living soul!”

  I nodded throughout this flow of words, making a mental note to avoid being around Fiona’s mom whenever possible.

  “Of course one of the bad things about being an extrovert is that you tend to talk too much.” She frowned suddenly. “Am I talking too much right now? Am I boring you? You have to tell me if I’m boring you. It’s vital to my personal development.”

  “No, not at all.” I hastened to reassure her.

  “Good. Because I am a little hyper today, I admit it!” Fiona rattled on. “I’m just so so so excited! What clubs are you going to join? I was secretary of the drama department at my last school. My mom and I just moved here a month ago—did I already say that? Anyway, she got a job at the local station. She’s still a reporter, but the station is a network affiliate, so her chances for advancement are much better. My parents are divorced, and my dad lives in Rochester. Once a month I go there, and once a month he visits me, and of course we e-mail all the time, because my dad wants our relationship to remain strong and connected.” She paused to take a breath. “What about you?”

  “Um, what?” I had relaxed a little bit as Fiona chattered, figuring that I wouldn’t have to say much. “What about me?”

  “How many sisters and brothers do you have? What do your parents do? What are your hobbies? You know.”

  “Oh. Well. I have six older sisters . . .” I said cautiously.

  “Six! That sounds like so much fun!” She looked wistful. “I’m an only. I always wanted—”

  “No, you don’t. Believe me.” I didn’t want to hear her big, happy family fantasy, which I was already pretty sure would feature madcap adventures that ended in a group hug. “They drive me crazy. Anyway, my mom’s a, er, counselor.” Which was almost true. “And my grandmother lives with us, too.”

  “That sounds amazing.” Fiona was wide-eyed. “And your dad?” The way she asked the question, I knew she guessed the answer. Her voice had a careful quality that she had probably learned from her father.

  I replied briefly, “He’s not around right now.”

  Fiona nodded and dropped the subject as I looked around the crowded cafeteria. I was beginning to feel a little nostalgic for the claustrophobic cafeteria of my old school, with a few dozen drearily familiar faces, when I spotted Jack Dawson. He was sitting by himself three tables away from us. Well, almost by himself. The ghost was sitting next to him, looking at me expectantly.

  “What are you looking at?” Fiona, curious, turned to follow my gaze. “Ooooh, I see! Your new research partner.”

  “No, no!”

  “He’s just so so cute, isn’t he?”

  I sneaked a quick look. Jack was now sitting quite alone.

  “He looks a little bit like a movie star, don’t you think?” Fiona whispered. “I mean, the kind who would act in independent films and really care about his art.”

  “Oh, sure.” I sniffed. “The kind who plays a heroin addict and ends up dying in the end.”

  “The kind who then wins an Oscar and goes on to have a fabulous career playing tortured souls and making millions,” Fiona finished cheerfully. “Anyway, I don’t care what you say. I think you are just so so lucky to be his research partner.” She caught her breath. “Oh, no, he saw us checking him out!”

  “Us?” I asked, stung by the injustice of this. “I was just trying to eat my lunch—”

  But Fiona wasn’t listening. “I am so so embarrassed!” She giggled (sounding anything but) as Jack stared at us, his scowl practically igniting the air.

  I grabbed the remains of my lunch and stood up, knocking my chair over in my hurry.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “But you haven’t finished your lunch,” Fiona said.

  “I’m not hungry,” I muttered as I picked up the chair and tossed my lunch bag into the nearest trash can.

  “Oh, I understand completely. I’ve been a nervous wreck all day long—”

  Mercifully Fiona kept chattering as we careened down the hall, keeping me from thinking about the fact that I had now made a fool of myself in front of the entire cafeteria.

  Or at the very least, in front of Jack Dawson. Which was even worse.

  Chapter 5

  When the final bell rang, I raced out of the school, ran up the street to the bus stop, and paced impatiently at the curb until the bus finally lumbered into view. I climbed on board, grabbed a seat, and settled back to calculate the day’s rating in my head.

  Plus two points for finding my locker and making it to every class on time.

  Plus seven points for meeting Fiona, possible new best friend.

  Minus seven points for seei
ng yet another ghost. Plus six points because the ghost was friendly and cute.

  Jack Dawson, however, posed a bit of a conundrum: plus five points for being relatively good-looking, minus five points for being sarcastic and surly, resulting in having no effect on the day’s rating in any way.

  Total score: a solid eight.

  Not bad. The best day of my life so far had rated a sixteen (Christmas Day, seven years old, when I found my first bike—used and repainted, but it was mine— under the tree). When the bus pulled up to my stop, I grabbed my backpack and started walking home. The afternoon was sunny and warm. By the time I’d gone a few blocks, I was feeling quite happy.

  As I passed our mailbox, I knocked on it—three taps, then one, then two—before opening it. I pulled out the mail and rifled through it, hoping, as always, for something other than bills and free circulars. No luck, as usual. In fact there were five bills, and three of them were stamped “Overdue.” We also received offers to have our carpets cleaned (we didn’t have any), our house painted (could advertising flyers be accused of sarcasm?), and our lives changed through the miracle of energy realignment (only if it was guaranteed to bring a flow of money energy our way).

  As I opened the gate, Grandma Bee yelled from the backyard, “Is that Sparrow Delaney I hear?” I could see her head, clad in the white pith helmet and veil of a professional beekeeper, bobbing about behind the towering trees and overgrown bushes at the far end of the lawn. (She tried keeping bees last year, but faced with her irritable monologues about the lack of honey production, they all had decamped months ago for a presumably less stressful environment.)

  “Hi, Grandma,” I yelled back as I headed purposefully for the house.