Flyaway (2 page)

"Actually," she says, "I wouldn't count on that."

 

"Get up, Stevie," a voice says way too early the next morning.

For a second I'm not sure where I am. But when I open my eyes and see Aunt Mindy standing over me with an "I Love Pilates" coffee mug in her hand, it all comes crashing back. I also realize why I slept so well. The bed in her guest room is big and soft, not lumpy like the one I usually sleep on. Still, I'd give anything to be in my own bed right now.

She moves in close, and I can smell coffee on her breath. "Come on, lazybones. I've got a mat class at eight."

Aunt Mindy owns a Pilates studio, which, as far as me and Mom can tell, is where a bunch of rich ladies go to tighten their butts. "Have fun," I mumble, and then pull the blankets over my head.

She pulls them right back off. "I'm going to drop you at school on my way."

School.
The word hits me with a hollow thump, like the thud a rock makes when you drop it in a deep hole. "Can't go to school," I say. I'm too foggy to be creative, so I go for the oldest excuse in the book. "Don't feel good."

She presses the back of her hand against my forehead. "You feel okay to me."

I pinch my thigh hard to make my eyes tear up. "Please, not today."

This time her voice is softer. "You're stressed about your mom, aren't you? Tell you what, you stay home and rest. I'll give school a call."

Call school?
Mayday, we have a problem here.
I sit up. "You don't have to call. I just need to bring a note when I go back."

She frowns. "Is that so?" Then she glances at her watch. "Look, kiddo, I've really got to run. There's stuff in the fridge if you're hungry. I've got some DVDs in the cabinet under the TV, and you're welcome to root through my library. I'll bring us home something for dinner. You like Chinese ?"

I shrug.

"I'm interviewing a new instructor at five, so I'll probably be home about six-thirty. And don't worry about your mom, Stevie. Let me handle that."

She finally leaves me alone, and a few minutes later I hear her take off out the front door. The silence that blankets the house is almost as cozy as the yellow checkered quilt that covers me. In spite of myself, I relax into it. For once I don't have to listen for the phone. I sigh and let myself drift off to sleep again.

When I wake up it's after eleven, and I've got a caffeine-withdrawal headache from hell. I hustle into the kitchen and pour myself what's left in the coffeemaker, but it's so bitter I have to spit it out in the sink. The plant from our apartment sits on the kitchen counter with water droplets on its leaves. Which kind of pisses me off. That plant was Mom's. So what if she forgot to water it?

After I rinse the coffee mug and fill it with water from the tap, I stand back and check out Aunt Mindy's kitchen. Disgustingly perfect, of course. Lacy curtains flutter in the windows, and the sun reflecting on the yellow table makes it look like a pool of melted butter. I pull the curtains aside and see her perfect backyard. Thick green bushes dotted with pink flowers line the fence, and a pine tree towers in one corner.

With Aunt Mindy gone, I decide it's time to do a little snooping around. I carry my mug of water into the dining room, where I run my hands along the smooth, polished wood of the table and open the cabinets to check out her fine china. I already know the bathroom's got a huge tub and a tile shower with sliding glass doors, but I had no idea Aunt Mindy had a flat-screen TV in her bedroom. With a TV like that, I can't figure out why she has like five thousand books. I end my tour in the living room, with its fancy piano, which I'll bet no one's ever played, and an L-shaped white couch.
Big bucks
is what I'm thinking.

Me and Mom do this thing when we're bored where we imagine the house we're going to buy once she gets enough money to get her jewelry business going and we don't have to live in apartments anymore. It's got a bedroom for each of us, a bathroom like Aunt Mindy's with a shower
and
a tub, and a living room even cooler than this one. We call it our NTD House. NTD stands for not too distant, as in Mom's making some killer business connections right now, so we're going to have a house like that in the not-too-distant future. Oh, and it's got a nice wide front porch where Mom can go for a smoke.

I picture Mom kicking back on a porch swing, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth the way she does, and suddenly I need to talk to her so bad it hurts. I dial our number on Aunt Mindy's phone, but it just rings. I hang up before the answering machine kicks in. You never know with Mom. Sometimes she likes to lie in bed, enjoy her cigarette, and ignore the phone.

I scarf down a bowl of cereal and throw on some clothes. I know Aunt Mindy wouldn't like it, but I've got to go back to the apartment. I've got to see if Mom is there.

It's a little cool for the beginning of June, so I go through my bag and find a long-sleeved gas-station-attendant's shirt to wear over my halter top, and thick socks for under my used Doc Martens. Aunt Mindy never gave me a key, so I have to leave the door unlocked. I'll be back way before she comes home, anyway. I catch the number 71 bus downtown and then transfer to the 48, which will take me to the Ballard neighborhood.

It's a long ride, but I don't mind. I've been riding Metro ever since we moved to Seattle last summer, so I'm pretty used to it. Of course, if I had a car, I could get around a lot faster. I've been bugging Mom for months to let me get a learner's permit, but whenever I bring it up she just blows air through her lips and says, "What do you need that for? You already know how to drive." It's true, back in Montana she'd let me take the wheel if she'd had too many beers, as long as we were off the highway and there weren't any cops around. But I doubt that's the kind of practice the driver's license people have in mind.

As the bus gets closer to our neighborhood, the houses turn into dumpy apartments. I get off at 8th and 85th and head toward our street.

After passing the Four Spoons Cafe, I hang a right on 9th and take the shortcut through the cemetery. Most people think cemeteries are creepy, but I think they're cool. I like to imagine those dead people hanging out under the grass, talking about what goes on up here. Who knows, maybe they're watching out for me.

I turn onto the skinny street that borders the west end of the cemetery and pass the place I call Crow House because the old lady who lives there always sits on the porch in her bathrobe and talks to the crows. She's not in her usual spot today, but there are plenty of crows around. A fat one perches on the telephone wire and caws at me. It sounds so sassy I put my hands on my hips and caw right back.

Chirp!
From behind me comes a high-pitched cry that's definitely not a crow's. I turn my head in the direction of the sound, but all I see are the blackberry bushes growing over the cemetery fence.
Chirp!
This time I look down. A baby bird with only a few scruffy feathers staggers in the dirt near my feet. It wobbles, then flails its wings and falls over.

I kneel beside the bird. "Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you."

It trembles and chirps even louder.

There's no way this bird is going to survive on its own. It's so small and helpless and so close to the road, I know it's just a matter of time before it gets flattened by a car or mauled by a cat. I inch closer and hold out my hands. "It's okay. I'll take care of you."

"Hey! Don't touch that robin!" The guy's voice is a low growl.

I turn. I didn't notice the silver Honda parked across the street before, but now I see a guy about my age staring at me through the open driver's side window. Glossy dark hair falls across his forehead and frames his angry jaw. With that voice, he makes me think of a pissed-off grizzly bear in sunglasses.

"This bird is lost or something," I tell him.

"What do you know about birds?"

Wait. I know that growl. I study the guy more closely and realize I also know that face. And those sunglasses.

It's all coming back. Alan Parker got expelled back in October for spray-painting "Jeff Taylor is a faggot" in big black letters on the front of the school. Even before that, he had a reputation as the meanest kid at Ballard High. He was the guy who tripped the special ed kids and made them fall on their faces. The guy who wrote an essay for the school paper calling the rest of us "sheep." Some girls thought he was hot, but when I look at him, all I see is a world-class loser.

"Hey, did you hear me ?" he calls.

I don't answer.

He looks me up and down and smirks. "I remember you. Ballard High. I heard your mom's a babe. Keep meaning to go downtown and check out her act one of these days."

I'm used to kids saying stuff like that, so I pretend not to hear.

"You're Stephanie, right?"

"Stevie." I'm careful to keep any hint of friendliness out of my voice.

He nods toward my feet, where the bird sits huddled in the dirt, trembling. "Now, get away from that bird."

"I'm going to take it home ... I mean, to my aunt's."

He swings open the car door, unfolds his body from the seat, and then saunters across the street like he owns it. His faded jeans hug his thighs, and from the way he fills out his green army jacket, I can tell he's been working out.

"Look, Stephanie—"

"Stevie."

"Stevie. You don't know what to feed this bird or how often it needs to eat. I bet you were going to give it a cute little name, weren't you?"

I hadn't thought about the feeding thing. But I was thinking of calling her Tweety Bird, after my favorite cartoon character.

"What makes you the bird expert?"

"I work at a bird rehab clinic, okay? Someone put in a call about this robin, and I've been observing it for the past hour. By the way, you don't just pick up a baby bird without waiting to see if its parents are around. A mother bird always comes back for her babies, unless she's hurt. Or dead." He tilts his head, and the sun glints off his dark lenses. I hate not being able to see his eyes. "The clinic's got incubators, aviaries, the works. Which I assume you don't."

He's making me feel like such a moron I want to punch him in the nose, and I can't imagine why any bird clinic would hire a reject like him. But I have to admit, it sounds like he's a lot more set up to help the bird than I am.

"Fine. Take it, then."

He moves toward the bird and wraps one hand around it with a quick motion so the bird's head sticks out between two of his fingers. He holds it toward me. "Only safe way to pick up a bird."

Big friggin' deal,
I feel like saying. "What's wrong with giving a bird a name?" I ask instead.

He motions me to follow him across the street to his car. He opens up the passenger side and then nods toward the back seat. "Open that box."

Even though I hate him bossing me around, I lift the lid off the shoebox that sits on the torn vinyl seat. Inside is one of those green plastic baskets strawberries come in, filled with wadded-up toilet paper. He sets the bird on the toilet paper, and I realize it's a nest.

"You don't want to get attached to a wild bird," he says as he slips the lid back on the shoebox. The bird chirps inside. "You name it, you'll have a hard time letting it go. Well, I'm going to get this bird over to the clinic." He smirks at me. "Sorry to steal your pet."

He gets in the car and turns on the engine. I kick the ground, making a brown gash in the grass. As I head back to the other side of the street, I call, "Her name's Tweety Bird!"

He sticks his arm out the window and tosses a card at me. "Come by the clinic sometime. You might learn something," he says. Then he peels away.

I watch till his car disappears before I pick up the card.
On the Wing: Bird Rehabilitation,
it says in small black letters.
Valerie Harrison, licensed wildlife rehabilitator.
It lists an address and a phone number, which I barely look at. I shove the card in my pocket and head toward the apartment. Just the thought that Mom might be there makes me walk faster.

 

Our apartment is in a little complex across the street from a McDonald's and a Chevron station.

A couple of guys stand out front, staring under the open hood of a truck. "I told you the choke's shot," one of them says as I walk by. Then he tosses a cigarette butt into the street. They smell like beer.

Each unit has its own number painted on the front door. Ours is number 11. I check out our window. The blinds are partway open. I don't remember if they were like that when I left, but I hurry to the door and fumble with my keys. "Mom," I call. I can't get the door unlocked quick enough.

The orange shag carpet glares at me, and the vacuum's still parked in the middle of the living room. My note to Mom sits next to her ashtray, exactly where I left it.

I slump onto the couch and stare at the water stain on the ceiling, the one that always reminds me of a spider. Then I notice the answering machine is blinking. There are a couple of calls from Alex, wondering why Mom hasn't made it in to work.
Delete.
Then a call from Mrs. Watkins, my counselor at Ballard High: "Ms. Calhoun, we need to discuss Stevie's attendance, blah, blah, blah ...
Delete.

And then Tonya's voice comes blaring out at me: "Stevie, it's me. Guess what ? Mike's going out of town. You know what that means, so call me back, okay? And get yourself a cell already."

Yes, I know what that means: Tonya and her caveman brother, Doug, are throwing another drunken party. Last time he barfed all over the back deck. No, thanks.
Delete.

I move away from the phone and notice a couple of unopened bills lying on the floor below the mail slot, including one stamped "Past Due" in big red letters. Whenever Mom starts getting bills like that, it's not long before we have to find a new place to live.

I'm about to leave when I notice Mom's bedroom door is shut. I'm positive I left it open when I went in to get the vacuum. I stand there not knowing what to do. If she's asleep, the last thing I want to do is wake her up. And if she's awake, she might not be in the mood for a visitor.