Where The Little Birds Go

by Celeste, B.

  Grandma told me once that you can tell a person is bad news by the way they smile. It’s the way their lips curve, Kinley. It’s even worse if they have a twinkle in their eye.

  And this kid, whoever he is, has the very twinkle Grandma always warned me about. She said she's had decades of experience, making her an expert on who to avoid. Yet, my interest is piqued by the boy sitting across the room from me. The way he’s perched in the chair is both casual and not, like he knows he needs to be here, but doesn’t want to be. Who are you, New Kid?

  Wetting my dry, chapped lips, I examine the thin layer of dust on Mrs. Lewis’s fake plant. I’m half tempted to grab a tissue and wipe it off, but I force my hands to remain at my sides.

  “Um, Mrs. Lewis?” The clock on the wall shows that homeroom is almost over, which means I’ll be late to first period if she doesn’t tell me why I was called down here.

  “Just one more moment, dear.”

  Internally sighing, I plop down into the closest seat. It’s an uncomfortable plastic chair that belongs in the elementary wing, but I don’t complain too much because it puts distance between me and the boy with silver eyes.

  For some reason, I feel the need to look up again. I’m not sure why, because there are plenty of other things to look at. Like the new assistant principal who’s talking rapidly on the phone in his office. His image is cut off by the busted blinds on the windowed wall, but whoever he’s speaking to is getting an earful.

  New Kid shifts in his seat when he catches me watching him. “You just going to stare or do you plan on saying something?”

  My eyes widen. “Uh…”

  He chuckles and reaches for his pocket, pulling out his phone. After a few seconds, his music stops, and the room is bathed in silence. From a distance, I hear heels clicking on hard flooring, girls laughing, and a ball dribbling.

  “Sorry,” I murmur, embarrassment prickling the back of my neck and cheeks.

  Shoes scuffing against tile has me looking from the grubby floor to the new kid as he grabs his belongings and moves over to the chair next to me.

  He shoots me a wink with eyes that look far more magnetic from up close, especially framed with dark lashes. “I’m always down for a cute girl giving me attention.”

  Thankfully, I don’t need to reply before Mrs. Lewis looks up between him and I. Her signature bright blue eye shadow covers her lids, and there’s black mascara smudged under her right eye, magnified by her thick brown glasses.

  “Oh, good! You’ve met Mr. Callum.” Her smile is wide and showcases the slightest hint of smeared lipstick on one of her front teeth. I debate on saying something but opt to focus on the name I’m supposed to recognize.

  Mrs. Lewis picks up something from the printer beside her and waves it at us. “This is his schedule. You know the drill, Kinley. Locker number and everything is listed by his information on the top. Principal Gilbert just wants you to show him around.”

  Lips parting in surprise, I chance a quick look at the new kid. I figured my chances of being summoned to the office weren’t severe. I’ve never been in trouble in my life. Well, not intentionally. I agreed to hold onto a flash drive once for a friend and then got escorted to the office in tears when I found out it had a recorded fight on it that the school was investigating. I broke down as soon as the principal called me in to ask questions. One of the teachers who was helping investigate vouched for my good behavior. It pays to be a teacher’s pet I suppose.

  New Kid smirks again. “This new school is looking better than my last one already.”

  His last one? Why was there one before this? Military families don’t exactly settle into the middle of nowhere. Civilization is at least two hours in any direction—cities, stoplights, businesses don’t exist here. Lincoln has more cows than humans, and the only stoplight in the middle of town is usually ignored because it takes too long to change.

  That leaves other possibilities. Behavioral ones. I’ve gotten my fill of becoming friends with all the wrong people since high school started two years ago. My plan now is simple—go to school, get good grades, and get out. I don’t want distractions deterring me from graduating a year early and living out my dreams. Especially distractions with silver eyes and an up-to-no-good smile.

  New Kid gets up and takes the schedule from Mrs. Lewis, who gives us her toothy smile before dismissing us with her eyes. She has Bejeweled Blitz to get back to.

  Sighing, I walk out of the office with the new kid on my heels. His long legs catch up to me quickly, and I feel his gaze on my face. He’s taller than me, that much I can tell from my peripheral. Six two? Six three? He reminds me of Justin Fully, who sprouted well past six foot after seventh grade. Except unlike Justin’s lanky frame, the new kid has an athletic build that fills him out in a flattering way—like he’s involved with sports or physical labor. Some of the farm kids have thick arms they like to show off when the school year starts, especially the tans that color them until the first cold snap hits.

  A white earbud hangs out of New Kid’s pocket, unwound from the device he stuffed there before chasing after me. He pays it no attention, but it bugs me more than I like to admit. The wires will get all tangled and ruined.

  He glances down. “You see anything you’re interested in?”

  At first, I don’t understand what he’s getting at, but when he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively my whole face heats up. I keep my gaze pointed at my boots as I walk toward the high school stairwell at the other end of the hall.

  New Kid finally falls into step beside me, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. I think he’s going to put his music back on and ignore me, but he winds up the buds and lets it drop back into his jeans instead.

  “Is black your favorite color or something?” His black jeans are distressed with scuffs and rips along the left leg. I always liked the style, but Dad always makes comments about how pointless they are, especially because they cost so much money for what little material is offered.

  “No.”

  One word, that’s all I get.

  Clearing my throat, I ask, “Where’s your locker listed? I can show you that first.”

  Instead of answering me, he studies the class photos lining the main hallway. It goes back to when the school merged with the neighboring town’s district in 1996. He goes to each one until we’re farther from where we need to be.

  I blurt, “I don’t like the way you walk.”

  He peels his eyes away from the glass frames and grins at me like I just said something amusing instead of randomly insulting.

  “Why don’t you like the way I walk?”

  We spend a few moments in silence as he saunters back over to me. There’s a big watch on his wrist that looks expensive and out of place considering most people our age use their phones to look at the time.

  “I just … don’t.” The words don’t come out easy when he stares at me like he is. Everything about him screams confidence. I’m the exact opposite.

  “Don’t be like that, Birdy.”

  My brows pinch until curiosity has me looking up at him. Mischief dances across his features, the corners of his lips quirked up until dimples pop out on either side of his mouth.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He winks. “Seems appropriate. You’re flighty when it comes to answering my questions.”

  I’m flighty? He ignored me to look at old photos like he’d rather see the evolution of hairstyles, rather than answer a simple question.

  He starts walking further down the hall, causing me to try catching up with him. Nothing but the squeal of our shoes against the freshly polished floors fills the silence between us.

  I’m prepared to respond when he suddenly stops by the auditorium. One of the double sets of doors is propped open. The janitors are probably cleaning after it was used for the middle school assembly on drug use this morning.

  When he starts walking in, I snap out of my train of thought and grab his arm. “What are you do
ing? You can’t go in there.”

  He rolls his eyes and peeks in. It’s nothing special to look at. There are three sections of seating, and a medium sized wooden stage in the front of the room. Currently, the two sets of black curtains are open, revealing the cobblestone wall that matches the exterior of the school. On the rest of the beige walls are random geometric shapes that match the school’s forest green color scheme. We’re home of the Spartans.

  “They do plays here?” His question is almost lost on me because he’s studying the stage contently. It isn’t until he looks over his shoulder at me and tips his head toward the room again that I muster an answer.

  “Yeah.”

  They’ve already started meeting afterschool about the winter play. I heard someone say it’s going to be a musical, but for such a small school it’s very hush-hush. I’m betting on Grease, since that’s a fan favorite.

  He hums before turning toward me. “Do you participate in them?”

  Me? I blink, wondering if he’s kidding. Then I remember that he doesn’t know me, which means he doesn’t know how awkward I am in front of people. “Um … no.”

  He tilts his head. “Why not?”

  I give him a small shrug. It’s really a comfort thing—not a difficult answer. Somehow I don’t think that’ll be good enough for him though.

  “I’m not much into acting, I guess.”

  There’s no guessing about it. The only acting I do is when I come home and tell everyone I had a good day at school. It’s a tale I spin to stop my brother from threatening petty people who make fun of me over stupid things like staying quiet or eating alone.

  We begin walking again. “What are you into then?” He stops in the middle of the hall, his boots making a horrendous sound against the tile. “Wait, let me guess. You’re the bookish type who loses herself in period pieces where the men insult the available women until they inevitably get married because they’ve always truly loved each other, right?”

  I blink. Then blink again. “Did you just describe Pride and Prejudice?”

  His grin returns. “Unlike you, I happen to love acting. My old school’s drama club did a year’s worth of Jane Austen adaptations.”

  “And I assume you always got the lead?”

  He doesn’t have to tell me with words.

  He tells me with his eyes—with his confidence. It radiates off him like his own personal spotlight. I wonder if it gets too hot.

  Shaking my head, I fight off the small smile that wants to tilt my lips. If they curve upward, I lose. New Kid can’t win.

  He steps forward, the tips of his boots nudging the ends of mine. “Come on, Birdy. You know you want to smile.”

  My brows arch. “I told you not to—”

  “Fine,” he relents, studying me. My five-foot-seven frame feels puny compared to him. He notices the difference as much as me, looking down to catch my eye. “Little Bird is far better.”

  My jaw clenches. “I’m not flighty.”

  He steps back. “Sure you’re not.”

  He’s the epitome of Mr. Darcy.

  “What am I supposed to call you?”

  His eyes flash. “Corbin. Corbin Callum.”

  Chapter Four

  Corbin / Present

  Craft Food service has a few tables set up in the main hall for everyone working on the lot. By lunch, they’re all surrounded by scatterings of people talking amongst themselves about industry gossip. I’m not interested in who got implants, who broke up, or who had a mental breakdown.

  My feet guide me to the Italian buffet, where salad, pasta, and breadsticks are lined up in a tidy row of steel trays. Stepping to the side of where Kinley places leafy greens on her plate, I grab a breadstick and tear off an end.

  “You should use the serving utensils.”

  Besides a quick hello to save face when introductions were made in front of the entire cast, this is the first voluntary conversation we’re having one on one. The last thing I want it to turn into is a half-ass lecture on how to properly utilize buffet style lunches. I want to talk about her. How she’s doing. If she’s as excited about this film adaptation as much as I am to be part of it.

  Grabbing a plate and putting the torn bread onto it, I follow her along the edge of the table and absentmindedly pile food up. “You used to hate Italian.”

  She stops and finally, finally looks at me. Her dark brown eyes don’t hold a friendly hue to them though. They’re distant round orbs that give me no indication to what she’s thinking.

  The rest of her is the same, just older than I remember. Her round face is slightly more defined, her cheekbones more prominent, and her lips still full like I used to love. She never wore makeup to emphasize any of the features other girls would kill to have. Like the long dark lashes that flutter whenever she tries to look at me without giving herself away. I recognize her old mannerisms. She used to hate getting caught staring, but like me, she can’t quite stop.

  Her gaze dips to the piles of dirty dishes off to the side, trying her best to keep the conversation boring. “Why don’t they use disposable?” she asks, not directing the question to anyone specific as she walks to a nearby empty table.

  My desperation to hold a conversation with her has me jumping on the opportunity. “I think they like to keep staff busy so they’re not loitering during shooting. Most of them are happy to do just about anything if it means being near people like us.”

  Brows arching, she blinks up at me. “I guess you’re going to have to explain that to me. Who exactly is ‘people like us’?”

  Rubbing my lips together, I shift under her scrutinizing gaze. “I just meant, uh … you know, actors. Celebrities. A lot of the people employed to cook, serve, and clean do it to be part of whatever films are shooting on location.”

  Picking up her fork, she shakes her head and stabs a chickpea from her salad mix. “I’m kind of relieved. For a minute I thought maybe you’d changed. I’m glad to know you’re still an asshole though.”

  My lips part in surprise. The Kinley I knew rarely swore unless she thought it was justified. She kept to herself to avoid confrontation, never initiated it so bluntly.

  She glances from her plate to me. “Did you ever think that maybe the people hired to do those mundane tasks are just happy to have a job? I know this is beyond you, superstar, but people are motivated by money more than fame.”

  “It’s Hollywood,” I point out, a little dumbfounded by her quick judgement. “I’m not saying they’re not happy to be employed doing some shit job for even shittier pay, but you have to admit some of them are here to ogle us too.”

  When her fork drops onto her plate with a loud clink, I know I’m in for it. Kinley Thomas loves food. Rarely will she stop eating to give anyone a piece of her mind, but I’ve witnessed it before. Her thoughts build in her head until she’s ready to combust and can’t hold it in.

  “I used to be a dish washer once, remember? The Tryon was my first real job that, yeah, only paid minimum wage. It wasn’t fun, the people weren’t that great, and the hours sucked. It was work though. Quit talking about the people who do the jobs you think sound awful like they’re beneath you.”

  Swallowing, I try stopping her from standing up. “Kin—”

  She grabs her plate. “No.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be an ass.”

  “It’s your default mode,” she informs me matter-of-factly. “Sometimes I think you can’t help it, especially not now. I mean, I should congratulate you, Corbin.” My name on her lips stirs something in me that has been dormant for too long. “You’re exactly where you want to be. I know how hard you worked to live out your dreams. Great job. You did it.”

  Her praise does little for me because the disappointment hanging on every word drowns out the pride I should be reveling in.

  She grips the plate a little tighter in her hands, like it’s her way of keeping control. “Do you remember when people in Lincoln told us never to forget where we came from? They didn
’t want us to forget the little people. Well, I haven’t forgotten. Have you?”

  Not knowing what to say to make this better, we just stand there staring at each other until she chooses to walk away. It’s symbolic. She’s making the decision now that I made ten years ago.

  Dropping my plate onto the table and wincing at the carbs I loaded up on, I kick my feet back and stare over at Kinley’s retreating figure. She smiles and waves at someone who calls her name before disappearing around the corner.

  “That went well,” I murmur to myself.

  Lena Dasani is a black-haired, blue-eyed powerhouse I never expected to meet. We met through a mutual friend four years ago, when I was invited to a New Year’s Eve party. It took one little look, the slightest batting of eyelashes, and a simple brush of the hand before we became attached at the hip.

  Being with Lena gave me hope. Despite the press capturing pictures of me with random women before her, I rarely went out or hooked up more than a few times a year. Nothing ever compared to the feeling I got when I was a teenager, no matter how hard I chased to find it again.

  I’m getting ready to head to the car that’s waiting to take me back to my condo on the outskirts of the city when my phone goes off. Swiping the tip of my tongue across my bottom lip when I see Lena’s name on the screen, I clear my throat and pause by my designated trailer.

  Holding up a finger at the driver waiting for me by the black Escalade, I press the cell against my ear. “Hey, Lena.”

  Her soft Greek accent greets me, as I lean back against the cool metal siding. “I haven’t heard from you all day. I figured you’d call me during your lunch break like usual.”

  She’s visiting her family in Greece while I spend time filming. It’s typical for a quick Skype call while cast gets a meal break since there’s a ten-hour time difference between us.