Flyaway (11 page)

I know I shouldn't hurry, but I'm anxious to get to Tweety Bird. So I give the crows a quick bath with the mister and then replace the basket cover. I continue down the line, feeding a fat jay, two tiny bushtits, and a couple of swallows. At last I come to the blue basket labeled "American Robin D."

"Hey, Tweety girl," I whisper as I set down the feeding tray and fill a syringe. But when I lift the net, the basket is empty. I stare at the bare perch as if looking hard enough could make her reappear.

Alan comes up behind me. "Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. We moved the robin to the aviary. I haven't gotten around to cleaning out the basket yet."

What do you mean, 'the robin? That's Tweety Bird!
I want to say. But I know he'd just make fun of me. "When was that ?" I ask.

"Yesterday after you left. It's still eating formula, but it's also been eating some dish food and flapping its wings a lot, so we decided it was ready. We can keep syringe-feeding it in the aviary till it's completely weaned."

"Thanks a lot." I slam the syringe down so hard the water cup tips over. Water spills onto the feeding tray; the cotton balls are a soggy mess.

"Whoa, what's your problem?"

"You could have waited for me. She is my bird."

"Just because you found it doesn't mean it's—"

"You know what I mean."

He peels off his glove. "Come on. Let's go take a look."

I grab my hoodie and follow him out the back door. The rain has let up some, and the drops feel like tiny pins pricking my skin. Our shoes make sucking sounds as we traipse across the wet lawn. I haven't spent much time in the aviaries, which are like giant, walk-in birdcages. For one thing, they make me kind of nervous: birds flying all over the place and pooping on you or sitting on the ground where you could squish them with one wrong step. For another thing, the aviary is the last place a bird goes before you have to say goodbye to it for good.

We get close to the first aviary and peek in. Birds flit from branch to branch, sometimes swooping down to eat soaked cat chow, worms, or berries from the food dish on the floor.

He points to a branch near the aviary ceiling. "There it is."

It's Tweety Bird all right. She's perched there, puffing out her sleek, spotted belly like she's trying to show it off. I can hardly believe she's the same pathetic bird I spotted near the cemetery just over a month ago.

I unlatch the aviary door and let myself in. The air smells like fresh leaves and bird poop. I move slowly to the branch where Tweety Bird sits.

"Hey, Tweety," I call, not caring what Alan thinks anymore.

She just looks at me through one beady black eye.

"Come here, girl."

I reach toward her, but she sidesteps to the other end ofthe branch.

"Come on, Tweety, it's me!"

She takes off, flitting to a branch at the opposite side of the aviary.

I can't keep my voice from breaking. "Stupid bird!"

Next thing I know, Alan's beside me. "Look," he says, "I told you not to get attached."

The rain picks up again, and fat drops fall through the aviary roof. I shiver and pull my hoodie tight around me.

"You cold?" He takes off his army jacket and puts it over my shoulders.

I'm surprised how gentle his touch is. For some reason I'm scared to look at him.

"How can you stand it?" I ask. "How can you stand to start caring about them and then have to let them go?"

He shrugs. "You get used to it after a while."

I remember what Tonya said, about him only working here because he has to. "You do care about them, right ?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"This friend of mine thought you were only doing this because you have to, for community service."

He stiffens. "Don't you and your friends have anything better to talk about ?"

Why does he have to turn every single thing I say into something negative? I try again. "I told her when you're with the birds, you're cool. I mean, you're patient with them. And, well, sort of gentle."

"Great. Now she probably thinks I'm a fairy."

I have to laugh at that one. "Give me a break. I'm trying to say something nice."

He turns away. I usually think of Alan as this big guy. But when I see him standing there, his shoulders hunched against the cold, he looks more like a sad little kid. I never noticed before that his dark hair has hints of red in it.

"I also told her that inside, I think you're a good person."

For a minute the only sound is the flitting of bird wings. Then he turns back to me, still staring at the muddy ground, and says, "Yeah, right. Like you actually believe that."

"Yeah," I tell him, "I actually do."

He looks up, and I feel like I'm falling into his eyes. I'm not sure who starts it, but suddenly we're kissing. His strong arms wrap around my back. His face is clammy and cold, but his lips are warm. He covers my mouth with tiny, soft kisses. I start to pull away, then realize I want more. He cradles the back of my head, holding me gently as his kisses get longer and deeper. I let my mouth open beneath his.

But as soon as his tongue touches mine, I twist away. What am I thinking? I've got a chance with the Professor, and I'm not about to screw that up for Alan Parker.

"What's wrong?"

"I've gotta go." I thrust his wet jacket at him, burst through the aviary door, and take off across the spongy lawn.

"Wait!" he yells.

But I just keep going.

When I was a kid, I made mud sundaes. I'd turn the hose on some dirt, mush it up real good, and then slop it into a plastic cup. That was the ice cream. Then I'd dribble more mud on top for the chocolate sauce. Next came some dry grass—the sprinkles—and last of all a rock for the cherry on top.

My life right now is like one of those sundaes. Mom being in rehab ? That's the pile of mud. The hassles with Aunt Mindy are the grass, and now the weirdness with Alan is the rock sitting on top of the whole mess.

I haven't seen him since last week, but I can't seem to get him off my mind. I'll be dreaming about the Professor, and all of a sudden it's Alan I'm kissing. Then, right in the middle of it, he turns back into the Professor again, and all I want to do is get away from both of them. I decide the only sane thing to do is stay clear of Alan for a few days. I feel lousy for lying, but I call Valerie and tell her I've got the flu.

Only problem is, if I don't hang out at On the Wing, I've got no excuse to avoid Aunt Mindy. It's been over a week since our fight, and I'm still mad at her for talking bad about Mom. I have to live with the woman the rest of the summer, though, so I wish I could rewind the whole scene and erase the part where I said I hated her. Lying in bed on Wednesday morning, I decide as soon as she gets home from work, I'm going to tell her I'm sorry.

She beats me to it. When I drag myself out of bed at eleven and shuffle into the kitchen to see if she's left any coffee, I find a note waiting for me on the table.
Stevie,
it says,
I surrender. I'm getting off early. Let's go shopping.

 

I haven't been to Northgate Mall in like a million years—it's the kind of place Mom wouldn't be caught dead in. But after Rick's lecture about my clothes, this time I decide to take Aunt Mindy up on her invitation. Plus I'm hoping a shopping trip will give me a chance to patch things up with her.

I have to admit it's kind of fun taking it all in: the dorky mall walkers in their matching tracksuits and blinding white cross-trainers; the snotty-nosed kids dragging their moms into Toys R Us; the smell of popcorn, Starbucks coffee, and cinnamon rolls.

"Let's start at Macy's," Aunt Mindy says. She wants to buy me a new "outfit." With her taste in clothes, this could be scary. We take the elevator up to the junior department, where they've got techno music playing so loud the floor throbs.

She homes in on a faceless mannequin in low-rise jeans and a T-shirt the color of strawberry ice cream. "Isn't that adorable ? You'd look so cute in that."

The getup is so generic I could gag, but I try it on to make her happy. When I come out of the dressing room with price tags dangling, she gazes at me like I'm a bride showing off her wedding dress. "Oh, sweetie, that's darling."

I study myself in the full-length mirror and decide there's a good reason I never wear pink.

I veto everything in Macy's junior department, so she drags me into another store. And another. And another. Just when I've decided that if I have to try on one more so-called cute outfit I'll keel over and die, she halts in front of a shop window and points. "Look, Stevie. It's you."

The mannequin is posed in a position no human being could actually get into, with her legs too far apart and her arms stretched behind her back. But it's what she's wearing that gets my attention: a pair of tight gray denim pants with pockets outlined in white stitching and a black top that shows a triangle of skin under one side of her collarbone.

Aunt Mindy grabs my arm and pulls me into the store. "You're trying it on."

For once I don't argue. I tell the saleslady my size and slip into the dressing room she starts for me. I try the pants on first. Perfect: tight enough to show off my butt, but not so tight I can't sit down. Then I put on the top, and I'm in love. It looks even better on me than it did on the mannequin. It hugs my boobs but doesn't make them look too big, and the triangle hits me just right, so the strap of my black lace bra peeks through.

I can't wipe the grin off my face when I come out to show Aunt Mindy. She claps and says, "Let's get you some shoes to go with it."

By the time we leave the shoe store, I'm feeling lightheaded. I've got a bag with the pants and top in it under one arm and a shoebox with a pair of chunky-heeled clogs under the other. I can hardly believe the amount of money Aunt Mindy signed for on her credit card without guilt-tripping me once.

When I stop at the window of Body Jewelry Plus to look at belly button rings, she says, "Go ahead and browse for a while if you want. I need to pop into JCPenney." She glances at her watch. "I'll meet you at the Starbucks in the food court in, say, twenty minutes."

 

I've snagged a table along the far wall and am halfway through my caramel latte by the time Aunt Mindy arrives. She hustles over carrying a JCPenney shopping bag. When she sets it down on the table, I peek inside.

"What'd you get?"

"Nothing interesting. Just socks and underwear." She takes the bag from me and stows it under her chair, but not before I catch sight of something small, black, and lacy.

I'm tempted to give her a hard time, but she just spent a couple hundred bucks on me. "Thanks for the clothes," I say instead, swiping up the foam that's stuck to the sides of my cup. "They're awesome."

"My pleasure. It was fun."

There's some kind of jazz music playing, saxophone and drums. I keep time by tapping the bottom of my cup against the table. I know I'm stalling. Finally the song ends.

"I'm sorry," I say. "About the other day. I shouldn't have said that."

"I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have said anything against your mom. I only wish she ... Never mind. I'll quit while I'm ahead." She sticks out her hand. "Truce?"

I shake it. "Truce."

There's not much to say after that, so she finishes her mocha in silence. I pretend to be lost in an article about all-ages clubs in
The Stranger.

She sets down her cup, fishes the bag from under her chair, and slings her purse strap over her shoulder. "You ready to get out of here?"

I make a show of needing to finish the last paragraph. "Sure."

I follow her out of the mall, watching her hips sway under her skirt. I'm sure that lacy black thing was a thong, and now it's impossible to erase from my mind the ridiculous picture of it riding up her crack.

A couple of days go by. I know I can't stay away from Alan forever, so one morning I jump the bus back to the old neighborhood. But the closer I get to On the Wing, the less ready I feel to face him. I decide to get off at 8th and 85th and walk for a while, give myself some time to figure things out.

It's a perfect day for the way I'm feeling. The sky is heavy and gray, and mist clings to the tops of the evergreens. The gas-station-attendant's shirt I've got on over my tank barely keeps out the chill. A skinny guy with a ponytail lounging in front of the Sundown Tavern waves his cigarette at me as I pass. The smoke burns my nose and makes me think of Mom. I wander over to our apartment. Well, it's not really ours anymore. They evicted us when Mom went to rehab since she didn't pay the rent. Aunt Mindy didn't pay it either. She thinks we can find a better place when Mom gets back, and she had our stuff put in storage.

I stand and stare at the white Corolla with bird poop on the back windshield that sits in Mom's old parking spot. If it wasn't for me, we'd be together in the apartment right now. But wishing isn't going to change anything, so I turn away, pass the Chevron station and the McDonald's and take a right onto Holman Road.

Traffic whizzes by, leaving a haze of stinky exhaust. A couple of cars honk at me, but I don't bother to look up. I don't know how far I've walked—miles, probably—and I can feel the beginning of a blister on my left heel. It starts to sprinkle as I cross 3rd and then Greenwood and finally hang a right on Aurora, home of used car lots and sleazy motels.

As I walk I go round and round in my head. Should I tell Alan about the Professor ? I haven't heard from him since the day I turned down his invite to the beach, so I'm starting to wonder if there's anything to tell. Why hasn't he called me? And what would I do if Alan tried to kiss me again?

I'm so lost in thought I almost don't notice the crow lying on its side in the corner of a parking lot. As I get closer, it struggles to drag itself a few inches along the asphalt, panic in its beady eyes. One wing sticks out at a weird angle.

I kneel beside it. "It's okay, little guy. I'll take care of you." Then I strip off my shirt and gather the crow inside. Alan or no Alan, I've got to get this bird to Valerie.