Extraordinary Birds

by Sandy Stark-McGinnis

  The best part about the house is it has a deck in the backyard. There’s a little grass below, then the yard drops off a bluff, leading to the river. Tree branches cut the sunset sky into delicate pieces.

  I lean over the edge of the railing as far as I can go. A robin flutters its wings across the grass, flying into the line of trees. There’s a gate on the balcony, opening to a set of stairs that lead down to the backyard and out to the bluff.

  Looking up through cottonwoods, I want to see if I can stare at the sky without thinking of flight. My eyes don’t stay on the blue for long, and I focus on the trees, following branches to where they meet the trunk, then following the trunk down to where it’s secured to the ground, by roots. In the distance there’s the sound of real birds taking flight, or it’s the sound of the river, or it’s just the wind, growing stronger, strong enough to blow away a story I don’t want to tell anymore.

  “You want to see your room?” Eleanor asks.

  There are only two bedrooms in the house. Eleanor turns on the light, and says, “Surprise!” The room is bare except for blue origami birds from my birthday, and the pink ones we made at the hospital, hanging from the ceiling.

  “You can take them down anytime.”

  I lean into Eleanor. “I’m going to keep them up forever.”

  “I have a feeling in a couple years you’ll be tired of them. Not the fact they’re birds”—Eleanor rests her arm around my shoulders—“but the color. You’ll probably want to replace them with black birds.” She squeezes me against her.

  “Maybe I’ll replace them with ravens. They’re fierce birds. Smart, too.”

  “Fierce and smart is always good.” Eleanor kisses me on the forehead. “I brought some soup for dinner from the other house, and bought some bread. And I grabbed your bag of sunflower seeds.”

  “I’m going to try dinner without sunflower seeds tonight.”

  “Okay, I’ll unwrap some bowls and some spoons, then.”

  The gas stove clicks as Eleanor lights one of the burners. I stare at the origami birds. They’re still, no air moving them back and forth. These birds are a lot more like me.

  I watch Eleanor lay a blanket in the middle of the living room floor, where we’ll eat dinner. She ladles soup into each of our bowls. Funny, maybe I don’t know everything about her yet, but I feel like I’ve known her all my life. In all the foster homes I’ve lived, deep down I was really waiting for the houses to turn into my home, but they never did. They were more like nests, there to give me shelter until I needed to fly.

  I sit down on the blanket and stir the soup with a spoon.

  The sense of sight is most important to a bird’s survival. Birds’ perception of color is much better than humans’. They see different spectrums of light and can detect violet and some ultraviolet wavelengths. Humans can detect red, blue, and green wavelengths. But we can also survive without seeing.

  I see the soup’s broth is yellow. The potatoes and leeks float on the surface.

  The sense of smell is more developed in some birds than others. The turkey vulture has a keen sense of smell so it can locate decaying flesh. But humans rely on this sense much more than birds do.

  I smell the leeks and a little bit of lavender soap.

  Birds have a poor sense of taste. Maybe that’s why they don’t mind worms. Humans, though, have about ten thousand taste buds. Birds have fewer than one hundred. But birds can still recognize flavors and do have their favorite foods.

  I dip my spoon into the soup and catch a potato. I sip first. It’s warm. It’s salty. It’s good. I bite down on the potato. It holds the flavor of the soup. I take another bite.

  The range of a bird’s hearing is similar to humans’. They hear sounds differently. They also can hear shorter sounds than humans can.

  Between the sounds of me sipping soup, I hear Eleanor humming. She’s standing by the toaster oven, warming bread. She’s not humming “Eleanor Rigby.” It’s a different song. I’ll ask her later what song it is. The toaster oven makes a ding sound. Outside, on the porch, chimes ring.

  Eleanor sits down and spreads butter on bread. Behind her, through a window, tree branches cut the almost-dark sky into triangular pieces. If I looked long and hard enough, I’m sure I’d find an outline of a bird’s wing.

  “The soup is good.”

  Eleanor smiles. I don’t know if my mom ever smiled at me. She must’ve, at least once, maybe when I was first born when the nurse laid me in her arms. Holding me then was the easy part, though.

  But it doesn’t matter now.

  23

  It’s harder to see the sky from the deck. Heart-shaped leaves block my view.

  “You ready to go?” Eleanor asks.

  On the way to school, the first song we always sing is “Eleanor Rigby.” I know the words by heart.

  The song isn’t yet over when Eleanor stops in front of the school, but I keep singing until the end.

  “Have a good day,” Eleanor says.

  I give her a thumbs-up and a wave goodbye.

  At lunch recess, Cheryllynn and I sit under a tree at the far end of the playground. She opens The Complete Guide to Birds: Volume One. “Page two hundred ninety-four.”

  “Toucans!” I throw my arms in the air.

  Cheryllynn laughs, and then yells, “Let’s hear it for toucans!”

  “They can’t fly very far, and the look of their bill is deceptive. It looks heavy, but it’s really very light because it’s made of a spongy substance called keratin—the same thing our hair and nails are made of. Its bill is good for reaching fruit on trees, or reaching down into holes for insects, but because it isn’t strong, it’s not effective to use against predators.”

  I see the Vultures coming across the grass. Today, they’re all wearing pink from head to toe.

  “They really could leave us alone if they wanted to,” Cheryllynn says.“They don’t deserve to wear pink.” She stands up. “Pink wasn’t made for mean people.”

  We walk toward the girls and meet them in the middle of the field. They surround us, just like vultures do. I don’t see Matilda—maybe she’s absent today.

  “What do you want, Jenny?” Cheryllynn shoves her hands in the pocket of her furry coat.

  “What did you do to your hair?” Jenny points at me. “It looks like a pile of sticks.”

  “Yeah, it looks like a nest,” one of the other girls says. “Looks like you would have a hard time even combing it. It looks …”

  “Her hair is fine.” Cheryllynn takes a step toward Jenny. “You never used to be mean. Where’d that person go?”

  Jenny folds her arms in front of her chest and stares at the ground. She doesn’t have an answer, and turns around, the rest of the group following her.

  “My hair might look like a nest,” I yell, “but for your information, birds take building nests very seriously. If you’ve ever looked at a nest up close, they’re beautiful, intricate, and detailed. Like my hair.”

  The Vultures don’t look back, don’t have anything to say. I guess they are evolving.

  Across the playground, Matilda stands next to the fence, by a tree, with her hands in her coat pockets. She is here today. I wave. She waves, too. She doesn’t seem to be a part of Jenny’s group anymore.

  “You were glorious, you know?” Cheryllynn says.

  “And you”—I rest my arm around her shoulders—“are extraordinary.”

  After school, I have an appointment with Dr. S. I sit across from her.

  “How is your wrist?” she asks. Not a why question.

  “Still a little sore.”

  “And how is your heart?”

  An unusual question for Dr. S. She’s never mentioned my heart before. “It’s fine.” And it is, no abnormal heartbeats or rhythms. “It moves about eighty beats per minute.” I’m not sure where she’s going with her questions, but I’ve decided to answer them in a practical way. No half-truths.

  Dr. S is wearing a blue scarf with blue pa
nts that match, and a white blouse that would be terrible for camouflage unless she was an emperor penguin living in Antarctica. Her white belly would help her hide from predators like the leopard seal. The seals would look up and the white would blend in with light coming through the water’s surface.

  “I have a why question for you today.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Why did you just ask me how my heart was?”

  “Well, I’m an admirer of Amelia Earhart, too. One of my favorite quotes of hers is, ‘Everyone has oceans to fly, if they have the heart to do it.’ The rest of the quote is …”

  “ ‘Is it reckless? Maybe, but what do dreams know of boundaries?’ ”

  “That’s right.”

  Dr. S carries my backpack out to the waiting room. Eleanor folds a magazine about taxidermy into her purse.

  “We had a very good session,” Dr. S tells her. “She’s making very good progress.”

  Even though the scar on my back will always be there, I feel like I’m making progress, too.

  On our way out of the office, Eleanor says, “And now, we have a bird to visit.”

  At the rehabilitation center, I can tell by Henrietta’s squawk that she’s stronger today. Her pitch is fierce. It has fight in it. Inside the cage she’s perched on a branch, her eyes following our movements.

  “I think she’s ready to try to fly on her own.” Eleanor hands me the falconry glove. “Let’s see what she can do.”

  Eleanor opens the cage, and I hold the glove out to Henrietta. “Today is going to be your day.”

  Behind the rehabilitation center there’s a field. Beyond the field is the line of trees growing by the river.

  “Now, she might take to this free thing, or she might not. In case she does, do you want to say anything to her first?” Eleanor asks.

  I’m all out of Amelia Earhart quotes, and telling Henrietta what I know about birds, how I think they’re the most beautiful animals on earth, seems pointless. She knows what she is. She knows what she has to do. Her main purpose: survive. But even birds need a little luck, a little help from someone sometimes.

  Eleanor leans her head close to Henrietta and says, “You’re strong, but if you need more time, we’re here.” She looks at me. “Right, December?”

  “Right,” I whisper.

  “On three,” Eleanor says.

  One. All animals need a place to call home.

  Two. All animals need parents, even if it’s just for the purpose of coming into this world.

  Three. All animals need one another, whether we realize it or not.

  I swoop my arm up in the air, but Henrietta clings to the glove.

  “If you can, thrust your arm more up and out to give her a little momentum,” Eleanor says.

  I do, but Henrietta doesn’t want to let go. “Is she afraid?”

  “No,” Eleanor says, “she just doesn’t want to say goodbye.” She leans close to Henrietta. “We don’t want to say goodbye, either, but the world is waiting for you.” She turns to me. “Let’s try something else. Take off your glove.”

  Eleanor holds Henrietta for me. “When you throw her up in the air, you’re going to have to completely let go. You think you can do it? If you want, I can …”

  “No.” I want to be the one to set Henrietta free.

  “When you thrust her into the air”—Eleanor demonstrates the technique with her arms—“it’s going to feel awkward, and she might flutter her wings and land on the ground.”

  “If she does,” I say, “we’ll try again, right?”

  “You bet.” Eleanor nods and smiles.

  “Okay, girl,” I whisper to Henrietta, “this is it.”

  I don’t think. I don’t count. I throw Henrietta into the air, and let go. She doesn’t flutter, or hesitate. She flies a short distance to a tree, landing on one of the branches.

  “She’s just getting a feel for where she is,” Eleanor says.

  Minutes pass and Henrietta still hasn’t moved. “Maybe she’s having second thoughts about leaving.”

  But right after I say “leaving,” Henrietta proves me wrong and takes flight. She flies above the field and circles around it, soaring over Eleanor and me, and swoops toward the river, standing out against spring’s shades of green.

  And that’s it. She’s free.

  There’s a bench against the building, and Eleanor sits down on it, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the sun. “Henrietta was my tenth bird I’ve set free. I’ll never get tired of it. And I’ll never get tired of having you around. I promise.”

  “We’ll see,” I say. These words belong to the bird girl, December, words still filled with fear and caution. But maybe it’s a good thing I still need for people to prove their words to me. Even Eleanor.

  “Yes, you will see,” she says.

  Birds have memory. Some can scatter seeds across many miles and remember where they placed them. Songbirds remember songs they were taught when they were young. In a test, some pigeons were able to memorize twelve hundred pictures.

  No matter what, for as long as I live, I’ll always remember the words to “Eleanor Rigby,” the way Eleanor sings it, low and kind of sad, but with a smile across her face, like there’s a lot of hope in the sadness. That’s what I love about her.

  Against the sky, a handful of blackbirds swoop through blue, catching currents of wind, moving in and out of sunlight. I am a human. I am a girl. I don’t know how long I’ll have to keep saying this to myself, but I will.

  A bird’s life, as any animal’s, is about surviving. They fly, they migrate, they eat, they lay eggs, they sleep. Humans are animals. Our main purpose is the same as a bird’s, but in between migrating, eating, sleeping, fighting, we laugh, cry, talk, yell, make each other feel happy and feel sad. Our survival is a lot more complicated. Some of our lives are easier, some more gnarled. That’s the nature of us. Of Cheryllynn, of Eleanor. Of me.

  My name is December Lee Morgan. The scar on my back isn’t where wings once unfolded. It’s where bones and blood are etched with only a part of my story.

  I think birds are the most amazing creatures on earth. What sets them apart is their ability to fly on their own.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Finding and honing December’s story was a long journey, and there were many people who chose to take the journey with me—I will be forever grateful to all of you.

  First, I want to thank my agent, Patricia Nelson. She is intelligent, passionate, and so, so kind. Thank you for believing in me, and in December, and for always being there.

  I want to thank Joanna Marple for her time and insight into earlier drafts of this book. Thank you, too, for your friendship. During the Nevada SCBWI mentor program in 2012, Susan Hart Lindquist said to me, “I think you should write middle grade.” I started writing Extraordinary Birds not too long after. Thanks for that piece of wisdom, Susan. I’m glad I took your advice.

  To my editor, Allison Moore, thank you so much for “getting” December, for your brilliance in making her story stronger, and for your enthusiasm and dedication in bringing December’s voice into the wider world. I feel so lucky to have you in my corner.

  Thank you to the entire team at Bloomsbury, especially Anna Bernard, Lizzy Mason, Erica Barmash, Beth Eller, Brittany Mitchell, Alona Fryman, Valentina Rice, Cristina Gilbert, Jeanette Levy, Donna Mark, Liz Byer, Diane Aronson, Melissa Kavonic, Cindy Loh, Annette Pollert-Morgan, Nicholas Church, Zoe Griffiths, Jo Blaquiere, Alice Grigg, Joanna Everard, Rosie Ahmed, Frank Bumbalo, and the sales team. I’m amazed by your support and love for this story.

  The first time I saw the final jacket art for the book, I couldn’t stop staring at it. It captures December’s story so perfectly. Thank you, Hari and Deepti.

  I’d also like to thank Trevor Davis for taking time to answer any questions I had about California’s foster care system, and Sydney Fowler for their insight into Cheryllynn.

  Lastly, thank you to my family. To Constance and to my sis
ter, Tami, for always reminding me of what I was capable of doing with my writing. To my mom, who taught me to “just keep going.” And, to my husband, who has weathered many of my dark clouds, but remained, as he still does, the sunlight.

  BLOOMSBURY CHILDREN’S BOOKS

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  First published in the United States of America in April 2019 by Bloomsbury Children’s Books

  Text copyright © 2019 by Sandy Stark-McGinnis

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Stark-McGinnis, Sandy, author.

  Title: Extraordinary birds / by Sandy Stark-McGinnis.

  Description: New York: Bloomsbury, 2019.

  Summary: Eleven-year-old December waits to sprout wings and fly away, until a new foster mother changes her perspective on home and family.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018045422 (print) | LCCN 2018051449 (e-book)

  ISBN 978-1-5476-0100-4 (hardcover) • ISBN 978-1-5476-0102-8 (e-book)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Foster home care—Fiction. | Birds—Fiction. | Wildlife rescue—Fiction. | Orphans—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S73765 Ext 2019 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.S73765 (e-book) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018045422

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