Flyaway (12 page)

It feels like a million miles to On the Wing. Rain soaks the shirt in my hands, and the crow inside it is so still I'm starting to wonder if it's dead. By the time I finally get there, my teeth are chattering.

Even though I can't wait to get out of the rain, I hesitate outside the back door. Then I feel the crow struggle underneath the shirt, and I know I have no choice. I open the door and step into the cage room.

The birds greet me with squawks and chirps, but I don't see Alan anywhere. Valerie's not around either. I stand in the middle of the room, holding the crow and shivering, not sure what to do.

Then I hear voices from the living room. One is Valerie's, the other I don't recognize.

"He could definitely present some challenges for you," the unfamiliar voice says.

I tiptoe into the kitchen and peek through the half-open doorway. Valerie's sitting at the dining room table opposite a big lady with long, dark hair and too much makeup.

"I don't know how much you know about his background," the lady says. "This kid has moved around a lot."

Valerie must be taking on a new volunteer. I squeeze closer to the doorway so I can hear and see better.

The lady reaches into her briefcase and pulls out some papers. "These are the reports from the families who have fostered him. They all cite angry outbursts and incidents of cruelty as reasons for terminating care. It's going to require a lot of patience to take him on."

Valerie takes the papers but doesn't look at them. "He's had a hard life, but he's a wonderful young man," she says. "I've seen plenty evidence of that here. What he needs is a stable home, and I believe I can provide that for him. He's been unofficially living here for the past few months, anyway."

They must be talking about Alan! I squeeze even closer.

"We appreciate that you're willing to take in an older teenager. Most people want babies, or at least little kids. But the older ones need just as much love and care. Maybe more, sometimes. So many of them get pushed out of the foster-care system the day they turn eighteen and end up homeless or in jail. Or worse."

"I've heard that. And that's the last thing I'd want for him."

The lady smiles. "We know you have a unique relationship with Alan, so we're hopeful the adoption process can go smoothly."

She's adopting him? I back up so fast I bump a china teacup off the counter. It hits the floor and smashes to bits.

"What was that?" the lady says.

Still cradling the crow in one arm, I drop to the floor and hurry to gather up the pieces.

Valerie rushes into the kitchen. "Stevie! Are you okay?"

I know my face must be turning a million shades of red. "I'm sorry. I'll buy you another one."

"I don't care about the cup." She pulls me to my feet and looks me up and down. "Oh, honey, you're soaked. You shouldn't be out in this weather, especially with the flu."

I hold out the shirt. "I came to bring you this crow. I think it's hurt pretty bad."

"Everything okay?" calls the lady from the living room.

Valerie pokes her head around the doorway. "Fine. But can we finish up another time? I've got a bit of a situation here."

She takes the bundle from me as gently as if she's picking up a baby. "Now, young lady, let's get you out of those wet things. There's a robe hanging on my bedroom door. Change into that, and we'll put your clothes in the dryer."

When I come back to the cage room hugging my wad of wet clothes, Valerie's got the crow laid out on the old wooden desk she uses for an examining table. She pulls on a pair of latex gloves and peels away the shirt like she's unwrapping a fragile Christmas present.

The crow just lies there. Only the rise and fall of its chest tells me it's still alive.

"I hope I didn't hurt it."

"You did a great job." She turns it over, running her hands along its drooping wing. "But I'm not sure there's much we can do."

"You can fix it. You fix all the other birds."

She touches the wing again and shakes her head. "I'll do everything I possibly can, but it's in pretty bad shape. You shouldn't get your hopes up." She wrestles off the gloves. "The dryer's in the basement, right as you come down the stairs. While you're tossing your clothes in, I'll get this crow into a basket. I want to work on that wing later, but right now it needs dark and quiet."

I could use a little dark and quiet myself. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around what I overheard.

***

"It's about lunchtime," Valerie says when we meet back in the kitchen. "Why don't you join me for some leftover chili?"

We take our steaming bowls to the little table in the living room, and Valerie shoves a stack of magazines aside. She hands me a sweaty can of Sprite."
Bon appétit.
"

We spoon up our chili for a few minutes in silence. It's rich and spicy, with little chunks of meat in it.

Finally I can't stand it anymore. "Are you really adopting Alan?"

She chuckles. "I was wondering how much of that conversation you heard."

"I didn't mean to. I—"

"That's okay. Yes, I've started the adoption process. He needs someone to love him. And since my son's been gone..." She picks up her can of Sprite but doesn't take a drink. I think about the photo in her bedroom, the boy with Valerie's eyes.

"The one with the baseball glove?"

She takes a deep breath and answers the question I don't know how to ask. "It was a small-plane crash. He and my husband were both killed."

I'm sorry.

She looks up at me and smiles, but the smile never makes it to her eyes. "It was a long time ago. He was right around Alan's age when I lost him. So you see, I need Alan as much as he needs me."

I try to imagine what it would be like to have Valerie take care of me, and for a second I feel a twinge of jealousy. Then I shake it off. What do I have to be jealous about ? I've still got Mom.

The Fourth of July is Mom's favorite holiday. Not because she's patriotic or anything—she just likes to set off fireworks. Last year was our first Fourth in Seattle, so we celebrated by buying a whole bunch of fireworks cheap, at one of those stands out on the reservation. Roman candles, sparklers, fountains—Mom bought them all.

We didn't know much of anybody back then, so we had our own little party in the alley behind the motel we were living in. We chugged a beer, then Mom set off the fireworks. I can still smell the gunpowder and see the way she waved her arms and whooped and cheered when those pretty colors lit up the night air. I was nervous she'd burn herself or the cops would hassle us. But looking back, I think of it as one of our top-ten good times.

So when I start hearing the boom and sizzle of fireworks Saturday night around eleven, I wish I could bring that good time back again. Aunt Mindy invited me to some barbeque, but I can't imagine hanging out with a bunch of people I don't know when the only person I really want to be with is Mom.

 

On Monday Aunt Mindy reminds me she's taking a couple of days off. Oh, joy. She has these big plans to plant a vegetable garden in the backyard. She's out there Tuesday afternoon in her shorts and sports bra, digging in the dirt, when I put on my new duds and head for the library.

Rick walks into the conference room and sets his bag on a table. "Let's see what you've got for me today."

I pull out my latest drawing, which is of a backyard with a swimming pool. He has me do a new drawing every week, and I'm definitely getting better at it. He makes me put in the measurements of everything now; I've gotten better at that too.

He leans over to study it. "Good work with your measurements. Now let's go over what you know about volume." He scoots his chair closer to mine. "You say here the swimming pool is ten by twenty-five feet, with a depth of five feet. Let's imagine the pool is empty, and you want to know how many gallons of water you'd need to fill it. You remember the formula I gave you last week?"

I nod. I'm really trying to pay attention, but I've just noticed that he's wearing a new cologne.

"So what's the length times the width times the depth?"

I look up at him. "Let me guess. You've got a new girlfriend, right?"

"Huh?"

"You know. The cologne. The haircut."

He laughs. "Now, hang on a second. We're here to talk about your education, not my love life." He taps the drawing with the eraser end of his pencil. "Have you come up with the answer yet?"

"So, who is she? Some Microsoft babe?"

He holds up both hands. "Whoa. Getting a little personal, aren't we ? Let's get back to your drawing."

We work on volume equations for the rest of the session. When the time's up, he gives me my homework, and then I pack up my stuff.

"Have a good week with your new hottie," I say over my shoulder as I'm leaving, just to bug him. I expect him to tell me to give it a rest, but he doesn't say a word.

I turn around. I never saw a black guy turn red before, but I swear his cheeks are pink.

"Okay, Stevie. We were going tell you," he says.

For a second I stare at him. And then it all makes sense: the haircut, the new cologne.

The thong?

I read somewhere that seeing your parents have sex could damage you for life. Now I know that imagining your aunt doing it—especially with your tutor—is even worse.

"We should talk," he says, but I'm out the door. I take the long way back, trying to wrap my head around the whole thing.

I have to admit I sort of had this fantasy about Rick getting together with Mom. Not that I'm dumb enough to actually think it would work. But Mom really needs a guy like him, and I ...
Forget it,
I tell myself.
Just file that one under "Things That Are Never Going to Happen.
"

But the more I think about it, the more pissed I get. Aunt Mindy's got plenty of dough; what does she need a rich guy for? How come everything always works out so perfect for her, and nothing ever works out for me and Mom?

I expect to find Aunt Mindy in the backyard, but instead she's sitting at the kitchen table, staring into her coffee cup. I'm ready to spit out some snotty remark about her and Rick when she looks up and says, "Stevie. I'm glad you're home." She picks up her coffee cup and cradles it in her hands. "I spoke to your mom today."

My heart starts to race. "When?"

"She called about half an hour ago."

"What did she say?"

She looks at me and sighs. Her face is so sad, I'm thinking something awful must have happened.

"What did she say?" I ask again.

"She said she's had enough treatment. She wants to leave rehab."

The thought that we might be together again soon makes me so happy, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. "That's great!"

She shakes her head. "She's only been there six weeks, and it's a twelve-week program."

"But if she's better..."

"I know you want her to come home, sweetheart, but I don't think it's right."

Leave it to Aunt Mindy to ruin everything. I put my hands on my hips and glare at her. "Oh, I get it. You don't want her to come back and steal your boyfriend."

"What?"

"I know about you and Rick."

I can tell I've caught her off guard. Blood rushes to her face. "That has nothing to do with it. I only want her to finish the program. She asked me to loan her money for bus fare, but I said no."

My mouth drops open. "You've got to be kidding me."

She doesn't answer.

Fireworks go off in my gut. I give the table leg a good kick. "You think you're so hot with your Pilates and your fancy house and your rich boyfriend. What's the big frickin' deal if Mom has to borrow a few bucks of your precious money?"

"It's not about the money. But you're darn right my money's precious." She slams down her coffee cup and stands. "I work hard for that money—which is one thing I've sure as hell never seen your mom do."

I stare at her. "Oh, my God, you really do hate her, don't you?"

"How can you say that ?"

"She always told me you hated her. Looks like she was right."

She pulls her "poor me" face, acts like she's all hurt. "That is so unfair. I'm only trying to do what's best for her."

She's such a fake that I actually have to laugh. "What a load of crap. All you ever think about is you."

"Oh, really? Well, let me tell you something. You want to know who doesn't care about anyone but herself?" She leans across the table and gets right in my face. "June Elizabeth Calhoun, that's who."

Nobody talks about Mom that way.

"Screw you!" I race to the guest room.
I wish I'd never come to live in this house.
I grab my old green overnight bag and start stuffing in clothes: my panties, bras, plaid boxers, and gypsy skirts. Beaded old-lady sweaters and lace shawls, men's flannel shirts and camouflage pants.
I wish I'd never seen Aunt Mindy's stupid thong.
Tanks, camis, midriffs, bikinis. Tight jeans, baggy jeans, faded jeans, embroidered jeans. I tear my stuff off every hanger and empty every drawer.
And more than anything in the world, I wish I'd never ratted on Mom.

I zip my bag and sling it over my shoulder. On my way to the door, I notice Aunt Mindy's keys hanging on their hook.
Don't,
I tell myself. Then I hear the back door shut, so I run to the kitchen and peek through the blinds. Aunt Mindy's out in the yard, scowling as she jams her shovel into the dirt.

I grab her car keys off the hook and slam the front door behind me.

Adrenaline sizzles through my veins as I unlock Aunt Mindy's Camry, toss my bag in the back, and slide into the driver's seat. I haven't been behind the wheel in a while. Even though my hands are shaking, I manage to get the key into the ignition. I try to pull away from the curb, but there's a grinding noise and the car moves forward in slow jerks. I cuss at myself and release the parking brake.

Just as I'm starting to work up a little speed, a squirrel scampers into the street. I slam on the brakes. It freezes, tail rigid, and then dashes underneath a parked car. My heart thuds a million miles an hour as I hang a right off Aunt Mindy's street and onto the main road.