Flyaway (8 page)

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Hey, just wish I'd shown up sooner."

I'm not about to tell him, but I'm actually glad he didn't show up any earlier. I'm glad he didn't see me dancing with Cole. We sit for a minute without saying anything. I hug my bare arms.

"You cold?" He shuts the window and slides his arm across the back of my seat. He must be more nervous than ever, because his leg's jiggling a million miles an hour.

I glance at him. "I hope you don't think ... I know he said I wanted to, but I—"

"Don't even go there," he says, waving his hand. "Cole's a moron." He smiles at me. "Plus I know you're not like that."

He starts to play with my hair, twirling it around his finger. He puts his hand on my cheek and turns me to face him. I'm kind of hoping he'll kiss me. But instead he says, "You need to watch out, Stevie. There are plenty of guys like Cole looking for a chance to hit on you. They think just because your mom, well ... you know."

I know. As soon as Tonya spilled the news about where Mom works, guys started following me in the halls and saying stuff like will I give them a lap dance and when's my next show.

"And I'd stay away from booze if I were you. Messes up your judgment and slows your reaction time."

Now he's starting to sound like my big brother, but I don't mind.

I snuggle in closer. "What are you, the Party Police?"

"Naw, nothing like that." He laughs and gives my shoulder a squeeze. "I don't want to see you getting hurt."

I turn toward him, and he looks deep into my eyes. His pupils are huge and dark behind his glasses. He moves toward me, and now I'm sure we're going to kiss. I shut my eyes.

Just as our lips come together, there's a loud rap on the passenger-side window. We jump apart. I look out to see Aunt Mindy standing next to the car in her robe and slippers. She knocks again and motions me out with a jerk of her head.

"Gotta go," I tell him.

"Right."

I stumble out of the car, practically knocking Aunt Mindy over. The cool air slaps my cheeks. I have to lean against her as she steers me into the house.

"Oh, honestly, Stevie."

"Leave me alone." I stagger into the guest room and fling myself onto the bed. I know I should ask her how the intervention went, but I'm too wasted to talk. Even with my eyes closed, the room spins, and images of the evening replay in my mind.

Then, as I slide toward sleep, my thoughts turn to Mom. We've had some good times together, for sure. Hitting the thrift stores on Saturday afternoons, chowing down on burgers and fries at the McDonald's across the street, making fun of all the Barbie wannabes ordering their salads with low-fat dressing. Dreaming about the future and living by our own rules. She's the only person in the world who totally gets me, and now she probably hates me for turning her in. Or maybe she did agree to go to rehab, and I won't see her until she gets out. Either way, it's all my fault. I curl up on my side and let my thoughts fall away.

I don't know if it's real or a dream, but sometime in the night I feel someone slip off my shoes and tuck a warm blanket under my chin. I'd give anything for it to be Mom.

I wake up the next morning and I know I must look like hell on toast. My head throbs, and my mouth feels like a horny toad crawled inside and died there. If Mom was here she'd say, "All you need is a hair of the dog," and she'd pour me a big cup of black coffee with a shot of whiskey in it. I have to pee, but instead I pull the covers over my head to block out the sun that's hammering at the window. I'd rather wet the bed than risk facing Aunt Mindy right now.

But before long, my bladder's so full I'm about to pop. I stumble into the hallway and just about crash into Aunt Mindy, who's carrying a tray with some breakfast on it. The smell of eggs sends my stomach into my throat.

"About time," she says. "I made you some—"

"Gotta puke." I dash into the bathroom and shut the door.

Afterward, I rinse my mouth in the sink with toothpaste and then sit on the toilet with my head in my hands. The smell of Aunt Mindy's papaya shower gel makes my head hurt worse.

I know I can't hang out on the toilet all day. The hallway is clear, so I'm hoping Aunt Mindy gave up and went away. But no, there she is, sitting in the white wicker rocking chair, which she's pulled up to my bed. She's got on jeans and a Pilates Body T-shirt.

She nods at the plate of eggs and a mug of coffee on the TV tray beside her. "I thought you might like to eat in here."

"Thanks." I wait for her to leave, but she doesn't, so I slip back into bed and pick up the coffee.

Okay,
I think,
here it comes.
The lecture about the Dangers of Drinking and Unprotected Sex, the you're-grounded-for-the-rest-of-your-life speech and all that. But she just asks, "How's the coffee?"

"Great." Which it is, actually. I was expecting her usual coffee-flavored dishwater, but she's made it strong.

"Look, Stevie, I don't blame you for last night. If I were your age, I'd probably have done the same thing."

Yeah, right. Like Miss Perfect would screw up the way I did. I take another sip of coffee and study her face over the rim of the mug. If there's one thing I don't trust, it's Aunt Mindy pretending she gets me.

"You should have some eggs. You need protein."

I shake my head, and not only because the sight of them makes me want to puke again. I'm stalling and I know it, and I know she knows I know it.

"Don't you want to hear how the intervention went ?"

I scoot away from her and just about spill my coffee, but I don't answer.

"Well, I'm going to tell you whether you want to hear it or not. It was rough, but it worked. Your mom admitted she has a problem. She drove down to Portland with Uncle Rob last night, and he's taking her to the rehab clinic this morning."

I set down the mug. Coffee sloshes onto the eggs. "You're messing with me, right?"

"No, I'm just telling you what really happened. Dave's good at what he does. He caught her up in her own lies, and pretty soon she had no choice. She had to admit she's hooked on crystal."

I can't imagine in a million years that Mom would admit that, but I guess it must be true. I stare at the coffee mug and try to hold on while my world turns upside down.

"How long does she have to stay there ?"

She purses her lips. "Ninety days, sweetheart."

For sure I want Mom to get better, but the thought of putting up with Aunt Mindy for the rest of the summer makes me want to scream.

Her voice gets all cheery. "This place has an eighty-percent recovery rate. And I think June's going to love it there. It's right by the ocean. Maybe it's because we grew up in Montana, where the only water is in lakes and rivers, but you know she's always had a thing about the ocean."

My mind is full of questions: What if the treatment doesn't work? Or what if it works too well and the Mom that comes back isn't like my old Mom at all?

Aunt Mindy's still talking. "The summer will go by before you know it," she's saying, and "Maybe when she comes back, she'll get herself a decent job." But I can barely hear her. The questions keep echoing over and over in my brain:
What if...? What if...? What if...?

She pushes herself from the chair and says, "One more thing, Stevie. The boy you were with last night, was he drinking too?"

I frown at her. "No."

"Well, I'm glad for that. But you know you could have called me. I'd rather get woken up in the middle of the night than have you ride home with a kid who's had too much to drink."

I knew she wouldn't let me off without a lecture. She finally leaves for work. I snuggle back under the covers and wonder what's going to happen to me now. When I moved in here a week ago, I never thought it would be for the entire summer. At least I've got the birds to keep me busy...

"Crap!" I yell, and jump out of bed. It's Wednesday, and I was supposed to be at On the Wing two hours ago. Trying to ignore the pounding in my head and the lurching of my stomach, I throw on a T-shirt and jeans and hop the first bus to Ballard.

It's cloudy and still, which makes me feel like the whole world's in a coma. I race the two blocks from the bus stop to On the Wing and slip in the back door, the way Valerie told me to. Alan's kneeling by one of the incubators. When he sees me, he stands and stuffs his big paws in his pockets. Today his dark hair is slicked back and held in place by his sunglasses, which sit on top of his head.

He looks me up and down. "Nice of you to finally show up."

"Give me a break. I had a rough morning, okay?"

"Aww, that's too bad. Too much partying last night ?"

"Where's Valerie ?"

"She waited around for you. She just left for the dentist."

"Oh." I cross my arms over my chest.

"So, are you just going to stand there," he says, "or are you going to get some work done?"

I wish I could leave, but I made a promise to Valerie. I go straight to Tweety Bird's incubator. She's huddled in her little nest, but when I get close, she stretches her neck and gapes. Even though I know it's all about the food, it still feels good that she's glad to see me.

"Want me to start feeding?" I ask.

"We're out of formula. Did Valerie show you how to make it yet?"

"No."

"Then watch and learn."

His I'm-a-bird-expert attitude is driving me nuts, but I am curious what fake bird barf is made of. He plugs in the blender, then takes a bowl of mushy brown stuff out of the fridge. It smells like old dog food. The coffee I drank earlier does a three-sixty in my stomach.

"Eeww. What is that?"

"Ferret chow. It's high in protein, and it's got similar carbs to what birds feed their babies in the wild. We soak it in water overnight to make it soft enough to feed through the syringes." He scoops up a spoonful and shoves it in my face. "Want some ?"

I stumble backward. "Gross!"

He grins and comes toward me with the spoon. "Yum, yum."

"Cut it out." I'm trying to look mad, but I can't hold back a nervous giggle.

"Open up. Time for breakfast."

I shriek and duck away from him.

"Okay, then, I'll eat it myself." He throws his head back, opens his mouth wide, and dangles the spoon above it.

"Oh. Gross. Don't," I say, half gasping, half laughing.

He brings the spoon closer and closer to his mouth, then at the last minute pulls it away.

A big smile spreads across his face—not his usual mean smirk, but a real smile that shows the gap between his front teeth and lights up his eyes, which I'm glad for once aren't hiding behind those sunglasses.

"Had you going there," he says.

I roll my eyes. "You're a freak."

He goes back to his usual grouchy self, but things aren't as tense between us. He dumps the waterlogged ferret chow into the blender, along with yogurt, dried egg whites and some disgusting yellow stuff from a jar.

"What's that?"

"Baby-chicken food," he yells over the whirring noise. Then there's a loud
pop,
and the top of the blender shoots off. Alan flips the switch before the mush flies everywhere, but it's still a mess. A brownish-yellow puddle spreads across the counter.

He fumbles around under the sink. "Great. We're out of rags. Go grab me a towel, would you?"

"Where?"

"The bathroom closet." He nods toward the other side of the house. "Through Valerie's bedroom."

Just like I expected, her room is full of old-lady stuff: a vase of dried purple flowers by the window, a corny painting of mountains and geese on the wall above the bed. Then a framed photo on her dresser catches my eye. A dark-haired man in a suit and skinny tie smiles out at me, and next to him a boy about my age holds up a baseball glove. I move in to take a closer look. The boy has Valerie's eyes.

 

I hand Alan the towel. "So, you do this now instead of going to school ?" I ask as he wipes up the mess and then pours the rest ofthe food into yogurt cups.

It's summer.

Well, technically school doesn't get out for two days, but whatever. "You know what I mean."

"Well, then, yep."

"Isn't that against the law or something?"

"Hey, I'm seventeen. As long as I'm working, I don't have to go to school if I don't want to." He hands me one of the cups and a syringe. "I notice you haven't been exactly burning up the halls of old Ballard High, either."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You brought it up." He smiles that real smile again. "Hey, how about this? I'll spill my story if you tell me yours."

"I don't know. Mine's kind of long."

He shrugs. "We got nothing to do but feed a bunch of birds."

Truth is, I'm dying to tell someone. Even though Alan is the last person on earth I thought I'd be telling it to, I have a feeling I'm not the only one who's had a rough ride.

So while I poke the syringe down Tweety Bird's throat, I tell him about the night Aunt Mindy showed up at the apartment. As I dangle a wiggling worm from a pair of tweezers, I tell him about having to stay with her and get tutored by Rick. While I refill a food dish for a couple of noisy crows, I tell him what I saw at Drake's, and last of all, as I use a mister to wet down some swallows, I tell him about Mom going into rehab. I keep expecting him to chime in with some nasty comment, but he doesn't say a word.

Finally I'm finished. We stare at each other across the room. Then, with a totally straight face, he says, "Sounds like your life just let a bunch of bad farts."

I open my mouth to give him a hard time, but instead I burst out laughing. "Bad farts, that's good," I say. He laughs too.

We continue feeding, but every few minutes one of us snorts. I'm actually starting to feel glad Valerie isn't around. But when I get to an injured jay, I stop laughing.

"Hey," I say, "I can't get this jay to gape."

"Yeah, that's a tricky one." He comes up next to me and peers into the cage. He's so close that his shoulder touches mine, but this time I don't pull away. He holds one hand over the jay's head and moves his fingers toward his thumb and then away, like a beak opening and closing.