Birdspell

by Valerie Sherrard

“Did you want something?” Taylor asked.

  “Oh, uh, yeah,” I said. “I was wondering if I could borrow some ketchup.”

  Taylor stared for a silent second or two.

  “You came here to borrow ketchup,” she echoed. It wasn’t exactly a question, but I nodded anyway. Probably much more vigorously than I needed to.

  Her head withdrew. A moment later it reappeared, this time accompanied by her hand, thrust forward, holding a ketchup bottle that was about one quarter full.

  “You can keep it,” she said. “We have another bottle.”

  I took it. I mumbled a thoroughly embarrassed thanks and started toward the stairs. Behind me, I heard DJ muttering something that was probably rude and probably about me, although I couldn’t actually make out the details. The door closed.

  Back in my apartment I checked on my soup and went to let Sitta back out of his cage. It wasn’t until half an hour later that I noticed Mom’s purse, slumped in the corner of the kitchen.

  A tickle crept up my neck.

  Mom was home? Had she been home the whole time, or was it possible she’d come in while I was at Taylor’s place, accidentally borrowing ketchup?

  I crept toward her door, which was closed tightly. I stood there for I don’t know how long, listening.

  Finally, with growing dread, I tapped.

  “Mom?”

  Silence. I tapped again.

  “Mom? Are you in there?”

  Nothing. I tapped a little louder.

  “Mom? Are you okay?”

  When there was still nothing on the other side of the door but silence, I opened it and stepped inside. The curtains were drawn, but a thin beam of sunlight cast an eerie glow over the room. It did little to illuminate the small figure on the mattress in the corner. A sheet was drawn up to my mother’s chin. She was lying absolutely still.

  I reached for the light switch, but drew my hand back without flicking it on. Instead, I crept closer and peered down.

  “MOM!”

  Her eyes remained closed, but her mouth parted enough to breathe out three words.

  “Leave me alone.”

  My gut revolted in some weird combination of relief and rebellion. I barely made it to the toilet in time.

  Fourteen

  THE SOUP DIDN’T HAVE a lot of flavor. I didn’t care. I’d gobbled down half a bowl when it occurred to me to stir in a squirt of the ketchup. That improved the taste a bit, but the best thing was how amazing it felt to have a full stomach. There was still a fair amount left too, and if I needed to I could make at least two more pots from what was left in the bag of dried beans and stuff.

  I made a mental note that, from now on when I buy food, I’ll get more of it, plus oatmeal, which can go a long way, even if you have to eat it without milk or sugar. I usually get oatmeal, but somehow I’d forgotten it when I spent the refund from the office supplies.

  I took some soup to Mom after I’d eaten, but she refused to take so much as a single bite. I dumped it back in the pot and left a glass of water on the floor beside her mattress.

  “Let me know if you want anything later,” I told her. My voice sounded strangely loud in the silence of her room.

  I stepped into the hall, tugged her door closed, and went to find Sitta. He was in my room but he hopped onto my shoulder and stayed there until we got to the living room. As I dropped down onto a cushion, he rose into the air, made a wide circle above me, then flew down the hall and back. I smiled when he picked the other cushion to land on. It’s become his favorite spot, probably because of the splashes of color in it.

  “Well, buddy,” I told him, “I’m afraid it looks like this could be a bad one. You don’t know her well yet, but when Mom comes out of the wild-ideas, awake-for-days phase, she usually drops, and the faster she drops, the harder it is for her to get back up.”

  “Go! Go!” Sitta said. Then he added something that sounded like, “What?”

  “I don’t blame you for wondering,” I said. “It can get really scary. Sometimes it seriously looks like she’s going to stop breathing because it’s too much effort and she doesn’t care if she keeps on or not.”

  Sitta let that sink in without commenting, but I continued. It felt good to talk about it, even if it was just to a bird.

  “It won’t last forever. It could be days, or it could be a lot longer, but eventually, she’ll come out of it. Then she’s okay for a while. Usually a few months. Once it was longer, when she stayed on her meds. But it always starts over.

  “It doesn’t have to affect you though, buddy,” I added quickly.

  “Call!” said Sitta. “Who? Who?”

  He was right. There was no one to call.

  “So if I seem distracted now and then,” I explained, “it’s just that I’m always on edge, waiting. Whatever’s happening at the moment? It never lasts. That makes it hard to relax and enjoy it when things are good.”

  Sitta gnawed a bit at the feathers on his left side.

  “I hate it,” I said.

  Sitta cocked his head at my angry tone. I won’t say he looked shocked exactly, but there was puzzlement in the way his face was tilted.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother, but it’s hard, the way life is with her. And I try to protect her, but there’s only so much I can do, or hide. I know, for example, that old Mr. Zinbendal across the hall has been hearing things. And that old geezer has troublemaker written all over him.”

  Sitta dropped an oystery splotch on the cushion and flew back down the hall.

  “Good talk!” I called after him.

  I’d just finished cleaning Sitta’s cushion deposit when Taylor knocked at the door. I knew it was her before I went to answer by the sharp, four-rap pattern.

  “So,” she said as soon as I opened the door. “What did you really want earlier?”

  I’d been ready with a story to tell her at that time, but like most lies it refused to reassemble itself on the spot. I edged uneasily toward the truth.

  “Just to say I was sorry I couldn’t babysit last week,” I said. “I didn’t want you to think I meant to quit altogether — if you still need me sometime.”

  “I didn’t think you were quitting,” she said.

  “Oh. Well, good then.”

  Taylor sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. “What’s that weird smell?”

  “I made soup.”

  “In that case, remind me to never eat your cooking. It smells like mouthwash.”

  “It — oh that. I was cleaning a cushion. Sitta had an accident.”

  That seemed to amuse her. “Sorry,” she said, an apology that would have looked more sincere if she’d stopped grinning. But then her forehead scrunched up quizzically.

  “You didn’t mean you actually made soup, right?”

  “Sure I did,” I said, as if I’d been doing it all my life.

  Taylor’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “Homemade soup?” she said.

  “Yup.”

  I don’t know why she thought I might lie about soup, but she clearly didn’t believe me. It probably had something to do with my skill at projecting nervousness.

  “Show me,” she demanded.

  “Show you?” I felt my face getting warm. “What, you’ve never seen soup before?”

  “I’ve never seen soup you made before. What, are you, embarrassed? How bad could it be?”

  “It’s not all that great,” I admitted.

  But Taylor was moving forward, and was inside the apartment before I had time to think of a reason to keep her out. She’d made it halfway through the living room before coming to a dead stop and whirling around to face me.

  “Where are all your things? Are you guys moving out?”

  That was when something malfunctioned. I’m not sure if it was my brain or mouth
or possibly both, but when I tried to repeat the lie I’d told Izelle about us being minimalists, it got distorted en route.

  “No. We’re minibalistics.”

  “You’re what?” Taylor said.

  “We don’t like to have a bunch of stuff,” I explained.

  “You mean you’re minimalists?” she asked after a second or two.

  “That’s what I said,” I claimed.

  “Oh-kaaay,” she said. After another look around she remembered why she’d come in and headed toward the kitchen.

  I followed helplessly as she trounced her way to the stove where the pot still sat. Her hand darted out and snatched the lid off like she was about to expose me as a big fraud.

  For the next minute or so she stood, leaning forward and peering into the pale mix. Maybe it took her that long to decide whether what she was looking at could actually be called soup. When she straightened up and swung around to face me, I was braced for some sarcasm and insults. So what she said was a surprise.

  “Looks better than I expected. Although, I didn’t actually come by to inspect your,” she paused and smirked, “uh, culinary accomplishments. I wanted to know if you could babysit tomorrow.”

  “Sure,” I told her. “Right after school?”

  “Yes. And the next couple of days too, if you can.”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  “Great,” she said. “Oh, and I keep forgetting to mention this but help yourself to anything you want to eat whenever you’re watching Molly. That’s Mom’s rule for all our babysitters.”

  She left then, and I went in search of Sitta, who was on the windowsill in our room.

  “We’re in the money, buddy,” I told him. “Eighteen bucks coming our way!”

  Sitta played it cool about the news of our wealth. I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop smiling.

  I still had the babysitting job, and tomorrow when I was done watching Molly, I’d see if the guy from the store was around and ask him about odd jobs. Even with Mom in her current state, it seemed that things were looking up.

  “You know what?” I told Sitta. “I think you’re good luck. Maybe you can put a spell on Mom and make her better.”

  “Foo!” said Sitta.

  Fifteen

  I LIKE TO FLY well under the radar at school. That isn’t hard as long as I do my work and stay out of trouble. If Mom happens to be doing okay when parent-teacher meetings come along, fine. But if she’s not, I make sure I haven’t given my teacher any reason to get in touch with her.

  Another thing I don’t do is make friends, which I realize makes me sound antisocial. I’m not. I just don’t want anyone asking questions, noticing things, or inviting me places I can’t afford to go, which is basically anywhere that costs money.

  Besides the potential for prying, there’s just no point starting friendships that will only last as long as it takes for us to get kicked out of our apartment. Then Mom wants out of that neighborhood altogether, which is never a problem in a city this size. I’ve hinted more than a few times that I wouldn’t mind finishing a full year at the same school, but every time we’ve relocated it’s been far enough to make that impossible.

  So I don’t start things, I avoid them. In most cases I will walk away from trouble even if it makes me look like a gutless wimp. Today was an exception and, even with what happened, I can’t help feeling that somehow it wasn’t exactly my fault. Unless I can be blamed for not spotting a bully who’s a couple of inches shorter than me and, to quote Mom’s friend Mike, looks like he couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag.

  Not that most bullies want to fight — unless there’s a small army to help them. Like I said, I try to keep my distance from trouble but I’ve seen enough of that sort to know most of them are actually cowards with a capital C. I guess everyone knows that.

  The difference is, a lot of them look tough enough to throw down, even if they almost never do unless they’re cornered. Not this guy. Mack something or other. He looked about as threatening as a hamster.

  I had no lunch with me, so I was wandering, killing time and avoiding the smells and sounds of food. I’d just passed the science lab when Mack came around the corner and our right shoulders bumped. The kind of thing anyone who wasn’t a moron would ignore.

  Unfortunately, Mack didn’t fit that description.

  “Who do you think you are?” he demanded.

  I switched my expression to neutral and started to sidestep him, which he misread as weakness. A bully’s courage rises with every sign that a target fears him.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he said. A brilliant probe for pointless information.

  I still would have let it go — the hostility-for-nothing, the tough-guy attitude. There wasn’t a single thought in my head of making any kind of deal out of it.

  And then he grabbed my arm.

  That’s where it got weird. I can’t even say what happened to me, or why. The classic explanation would be that I snapped, but it felt like more than a snap. An explosion, maybe, an eruption of epic proportions.

  Almost before I knew what was happening, I had him backed up against the wall and was yelling into his terrified face.

  I don’t know what all I said, although even in my crazed state I was aware that some of what I was shouting at him was complete babble. No doubt that added to his shock and fear.

  This went on for, I don’t know, a minute? Maybe two or three? Until a small audience had formed and someone — a couple of guys actually — hauled me away from him.

  For the record, I hadn’t hit him, or done anything else to actually hurt him. Still, the way he sank to the floor where he curled up and started whimpering, you’d think for sure he’d been hammered good and hard.

  “What’s your problem?” I yelled, although not as loud or angry.

  Mack’s head lifted enough for him to level a look of pure loathing at me. “He’s crazy!” he screamed. “Get him out of here!”

  “Not so tough now, are you?” I said. But all the fire and fury had drained out of me. Good thing, because by then a teacher was hurrying toward us.

  As I was escorted toward the main office, the sound of running feet caught my attention and when I turned my head, there was Izelle, falling in beside me. She said nothing, but she walked along with me all the way to the office doorway and as the teacher motioned me inside, I heard Izelle say, “It will be okay, Corbin.”

  I gave her a nod, wondering how such a small gesture could have felt so important.

  A few minutes later I was in the principal, Ms. Delvecchio’s, office. She used some heavy pauses and disappointed looks to convey her disapproval of what I’d just done. On the other hand, she told me she knew every conflict had two sides and if I wanted to share mine she’d certainly listen.

  I said nothing. Not just because I didn’t want to be a rat, but because there was no way to spin what had happened in my favor. How could I justify the way I’d come so unhinged over being asked a couple of dumb questions and having my arm grabbed?

  I didn’t understand it myself.

  That mattered a lot less than the fact that I did understand what was going to happen next. This was confirmed before many more minutes had passed when Ms. Delvecchio informed me I was being suspended.

  “Your mother will need to come in for a meeting before we can allow you to return to class.”

  Since we had no phone, she told me, a letter would be sent to Mom with the details of this appointment.

  “As for the rest of today,” Ms. Delvecchio continued, “you’ll go to the in-school suspension program.”

  In-school suspension is a concept I don’t quite get, but I gathered my stuff and reported there. Four other students were sprawled at desks, supposedly giving at least a little attention to the work in front of them. The teaching assistant on duty motioned me to a sea
t and told me to find something productive to do.

  I hauled out my math homework, but it was impossible to concentrate when all I could think about was how badly I’d messed up, and how one stupid outburst had earned me problems I might not be able to fix.

  Unless she had some kind of remarkable bounce-back, my mother wasn’t going to be coming to any meeting. And a forged note wouldn’t help in this situation.

  Unfortunately, she was all I had. Unless you count my father. Which I don’t.

  By the time school ended for the afternoon I’d spent some time thinking about that. My father. Payer of support, ignorer of son.

  The fury I’d felt toward Mack earlier apparently hadn’t worked itself entirely out of my system, because on my way home I stopped at the library and sent my so-called father an email. I decided it was time he heard what I thought of him.

  Sixteen

  THE LETTER FROM MY school got here yesterday. Our meeting with Ms. Delvecchio is supposed to be on Thursday morning. Two days from now.

  I’d opened the letter myself since Mom is still lying in bed, spending most of the time sleeping or staring at the ceiling. She’s had a bit of food — on Saturday I went to the bakery and forced myself to spend a little over four bucks of my babysitting money on some of Mom’s favorite treats. A brownie, a lemon bar, and a couple of date-filled oatmeal cookies.

  I took the box home, cut off the string they’d tied it with, and put it and a fork on the floor beside her mattress. I hoped the smells would get to her and sure enough she’s been taking nibbles, working her way through them a bit at a time. It’s not great nutrition, but I guess it’s better than nothing. And she’s been drinking water, so that’s good too.

  I watch daily for signs that she’s coming out of this. By now, I know what to look for. Nothing yet. I remind myself over and over that it won’t last forever no matter how bad it seems.

  These days and weeks have always been the worst. The silence gets so huge it’s almost enough to crush you. But this time, I’m not one hundred percent alone.

  Sitta has proven to be a great listener, easily as good as a dog. Although, I’ve got to say he looked pretty startled when I filled him in on something that happened when I was in grade four. (To be honest, he looks startled a lot. It’s kind of his go-to expression.)