The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney (3 page)

“Nonsense!” Grandma Bee got up and began wandering around the room, peering nearsightedly into dark corners, as if hoping to find him hiding in the shadows. “Dr. Snell is always the life of the party!”

The rest of us rolled our eyes at one another behind her back as we remembered, vividly, other parties with Dr. Snell (curtains catching on fire, salt poured on ice cream sundaes, shoelaces knotted together under the table so that we all fell into a heap when we stood up).

“Could we please stay on task for once?” Wren suggested with barely concealed impatience. “We were looking for the matches, remember?”

Lark and Linnet began conducting an antic and utterly useless search of the dining room, which involved such comic gestures as turning soup tureens upside down, scrabbling around under the table and tickling people's legs, and energetically lifting the carpet, raising clouds of dust and making everyone cough.

Grandma Bee wandered back to the table and plopped down in her chair with a sigh. “Who needs matches?” she said, disgruntled. “Let's just turn on the stove and light the candles there.”

“We tried that six months ago for Wren's birthday,” Raven snapped.

“At least now we know the average response time of the fire department,” Dove said philosophically.

My mother kept murmuring, “They were right here in my hand, and now they're gone! Gone!”

After five minutes of this Wren stalked off to the kitchen, where the last known sighting of the matches took place, muttering phrases like “madhouse,” “disorganized beyond belief,” and “pigpen is an under-statement” as she went.

She returned almost immediately, saying, “They were still on the counter. You must have put them down when you brought in the pot roast.” Then she coolly lit the candles as everyone else collapsed in their chairs in exaggerated relief.

“Make a wish, Sparrow,” Dove said.

I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to think hard. There was really only one wish that I desperately wanted to come true.

I wish I were normal.

I opened my eyes to see Professor Trimble, Prajeet, and Floyd standing in the shadows behind my family. Their outlines were wavery and the light was dim, but I could still make out their expressions. Professor Trimble looked disapproving, Floyd looked thoughtful, and Prajeet just smiled his white, white smile and shook his head, as if to say, “You may make that wish, but it is mere tomfoolery, you shall see.”

I scowled at them, took a deep breath, and blew. The flames guttered, flared, and disappeared; thin columns of smoke wafted to the ceiling; my family cheered and applauded and broke into a raucously off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.”

As I looked around at their smiling faces, I felt the strangest sense of warmth and well-being, as if this year my wish really would come true.

Chapter 4

The
signs for my first day of high school were, as my mother would say, most auspicious. The sun rose right on time. A few clouds drifted picturesquely across a clear blue sky. Birds chirped merrily, as if they didn't have a care in the world.

Of course they didn't; they were just
birds
. I was the one with a knotted stomach, sweaty palms, a dry mouth, and a clear, sure sense of impending doom.

I had spent most of the previous day obsessing over my clothes and creating dozens of different combinations, hoping to discover that the perfect outfit had been languishing in my closet, unnoticed until now. As I looked in the mirror, however, I realized that no amount of mixing and matching could make my clothes look hip. Or cool. Or trendy. Even bohemian/funky was a stretch.

I sighed and gave myself a smile in the mirror, just to practice. A small smile, not too desperate, not too toothy.

Mmm, not great. I looked smirky and insincere.

I tried a bigger smile. Agghh, I looked like a manic flight attendant.

“Sparrow, honey, why don't you try being yourself?”

I smelled sugar and butter and turned to see Floyd settled in the comfortable old rocking chair I had rescued from a dark corner of the basement. He smiled fondly at me, his white hair standing up around his head like a spiky halo. “You're such a pretty girl. You don't have to work so hard!”

“Who's working hard?” I asked defensively. I hate it when my spirits pop in at embarrassing moments (perfect example: when I'm trying out facial expressions in the mirror).

Floyd just smiled sunnily and continued to rock— nothing put him in a bad mood—so I turned to scowl at the mirror.

My hair looked like a bird's nest. Built by a bird that was very disorganized and quite possibly insane.

I swiped my brush through it and rooted through my top drawer to find a stray hair accessory among the mismatched socks. “Anyway, I am being true to who I am.” I glanced into the mirror and saw Floyd looking at me skeptically. “I'm being true to the person I was meant to be,” I clarified. “I'm being true to the person I could be, except that everyone in my life already has a picture in mind of who I am, so they can't see the real me.
That's
who I'm being true to.”

“Oh, I see.” He folded his hands on his round stomach. “Well, that's all right then. We all deserve a chance to transform ourselves into who we really are.”

“Exactly.” Aha! I pulled my favorite tortoiseshell headband from the bottom of the drawer and put it on. Now I looked more like the person I secretly knew I was. Fun. Friendly. And even better than that: Absolutely Ordinary. “Perfect.”

“Mmm.” Floyd didn't seem impressed. “Well, good luck, sweetheart. I'm sure you'll have a great first day.”

An hour later I stared up at my new school, trying not to feel intimidated. It was six stories high and seemed to stretch for acres. A broad flight of stairs led up, up, up to enormous double doors; it looked like the entrance to Mount Olympus.

I stood absolutely still, frozen with sudden fear, complete with shaking knees and the awful feeling that I might throw up at any moment. I watched the other students stream through the double doors, laughing and talking with their friends, until I was standing by myself, stranded on the sidewalk. But maybe it was all right that I was alone. Maybe it was a sign that I didn't really belong here. Maybe I should go home right now and give up the idea of a fresh start—

“What utter nonsense!” A voice behind me snapped the words with the authority of a marine drill sergeant. “Get a grip on yourself this instant, and walk up those steps!”

I closed my eyes briefly, willing her to go away.

It didn't work. I opened my eyes to find Professor Trimble standing in front of me. Well, perhaps if I played to her softer side . . .

“My knees are shaking,” I said, trying to sound pathetic and doing an embarrassingly good job.

“Of course they are,” she snapped. “It would be a miracle if they weren't.”

“Thanks for the sympathy,” I snapped back, now feeling more pissed off than pathetic. “That helps a lot.”

“You don't need sympathy; you need bucking up,” she declared. “If you want to feel scared, try defending your doctoral dissertation!
All
of my students thought they were going to die.” She smiled grimly. “I never lost one.”

“There's always a first time,” I muttered just as a bell clanged inside the school. I jumped, not sure whether that meant I was already late.

Professor Trimble grandly ignored it as she continued. “First, stand up straight. No, straight, Sparrow! Has your spine turned into a cooked noodle overnight? Now, plant your feet. Feel the ground beneath you, and
own your space.
”

Hmm. This sounded a little New Agey for Professor Trimble, but I didn't have time to argue. I planted my feet, felt the ground, and owned my space.

She nodded in satisfaction. “There. Doesn't that feel better?”

“Yeah,” I said, surprised. “It does.”

“Good. Remember:
You are not a cream puff.
I expect more from you, the universe expects more from you, and, most important,
you
should expect more from you. Now
move
.”

And without making a conscious decision to do so, I moved. Up the steps, through the doors, and into a wide hallway, jammed with people. It sounded like every single person was yelling hello and “How was your summer?” to someone else. I looked at the sheaf of orientation papers I was clutching. My locker was number 261. I glanced at the nearest locker. Number 1429. That seemed an awfully long way from 261, and I had only four minutes to get to class.

My heart began beating faster. I tried to take a deep breath, but my lungs didn't seem to be working very well. I focused on the paper in my hand, but now the words and numbers were swimming in front of my eyes, there was a faint buzzing in my ears, and my head felt as if it were floating a few inches above my body. I was wondering if this was what happened right before you fell over in a dead faint—

“No need to get in a kerfuffle, Sparrow,” said a voice close to my ear. “I shall be glad to lend you my assistance.”

I turned to see that Prajeet had materialized next to me.

“Follow me,” he said with a reassuring smile. Then he turned and walked rapidly away. I trotted after him, staying as close as I could as we wove through the crowded hallway. We made a left turn, then a right, then another left, and finally stopped in front of a locker. Prajeet pointed to it with a flourish.

Number 261.

I let out my breath. Until that moment I hadn't realized I was holding it. “Thanks,” I whispered.

“No problem whatsoever,” he answered airily. He leaned forward and added, “Here's a trick that I used in university when I suffered from nerves. Breathe in slowly, to a count of three. Hold the breath for a count of five. Breathe out to a count of seven. You have that firmly in mind? Three, five, seven. It will calm your mind and body and bring you peace, guaranteed. Try it today, all right?”

I smiled and gave a tiny nod.

“Good.” Prajeet's gaze floated over my right shoulder, and his smile broadened. “I bid you farewell then. Until we meet again.”

He was gone, and behind me a laughing voice said, “This is
crazy
, isn't it?” I turned to see a girl about my age with bright red hair, freckles, and blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “I'm Fiona Jones. Tenth grade. I'm new here!”

“Me, too.” Brilliant. Eloquent. A sterling display of witty repartee. “Um, my name is Sparrow.”

“Sparrow?” she asked, puzzled.

“Right. Like the bird.”

Her face lit up. “Oh! How totally cool! What's your first class? History with Mr. Grimes—awesome! Me too! Come on, let's see if we can find room twelve-B.” She kept talking, throwing comments over her shoulder to me as people jostled us from every side. “I have no idea where anything is. I'm sure I'll be completely lost for weeks. This is utter madness, isn't it?”

I trailed in her wake, breathing deeply. In for three, hold for five, out for seven . . . A feeling of peace and calm spread through my body. Prajeet was right! I thought. Mindful breathing does work!

So feeling relaxed and confident, I followed Fiona into room 12B.

I grabbed a seat, stowed my backpack under my chair, and scanned the classroom. In the back row a few extremely large guys were crammed into seats that had clearly been designed for wispier people. A cluster of four fashionably dressed girls stood in the far corner, staring raptly into their pocket mirrors. My gaze slipped past other faces—a boy with red hair and a goofy grin, a girl with braces and thick glasses, a shy boy staring down at his desk, a girl who kept twirling her curls through her fingers—until it landed on the boy sitting one row over and one seat back.

He was slumped in his chair, head down, zoned out listening to his iPod. His dark hair just brushed the collar of an old army jacket that was a couple of sizes too large. He wore a worn gray T-shirt, and faded jeans. He looked as if he had woken up late and grabbed the first clothes that he could find. Probably clothes that had been lying on the floor, considering all the wrinkles. As I looked at him, I caught the faint scent of woodsmoke and autumn leaves and felt a little grayness in my soul at the reminder that summer was really and truly over. . . .

At that moment he raised his eyes and looked directly at me. I blushed, embarrassed to be caught looking back.

“Are you finished?” he asked curtly.

I blinked in surprise at the anger in his voice. “What?”

He pulled off his earbuds and leaned forward. “I said, are . . . you . . . finished?” he repeated very slowly, as if talking to a small and rather dim child.

“Um . . . with what?” Even to my own ears, I sounded ridiculous.

“Staring at me. I'm not an exhibit in a zoo.”

I heard a girl in the next row giggle. “I wasn't staring,” I said hotly.

He smirked. “Right.”

“I was glancing casually around the room and you happened to get in the way,” I said loftily.

The left side of his mouth slipped upward as his grin widened. “Yeah, sure.”

He slipped his earbuds back in and went back to staring at the floor.

I could feel other girls in the class sneaking looks at him, and I could guess why.

He
was
good-looking, I thought, trying to be fair. In a moody, sullen, sarcastic, defensive, slovenly kind of way.

As I pointedly looked past him, I noticed the guy sitting behind Army Jacket Boy. He had shaggy dark blond hair, hazel eyes, and a lively, interested expression. He caught my eye and smiled warmly, as if we shared a secret. Then he flicked his finger at the back of Army Jacket Boy's ear. He didn't get much of a response, so he did it again.

Flick.

Nothing.

Flick.

Nothing.

Flick!

Finally! Army Jacket Boy moved his head with irritation.

Flick again. This time to the left ear.

That
got his attention. He turned, scowling, and looked around the room, as if wondering whether someone had been shooting spitballs at him from the back row. Then he shrugged, turned back around, and slumped down even further in his chair.

I glanced over at Army Jacket Boy's tormentor and found myself staring right into his eyes.

Aagghh! Direct eye contact! Twice in one day! What was
wrong
with me?

I blushed. He winked. I could feel myself blush even more, but I smiled back.

Army Jacket Boy gave me a strange look and turned to look over his shoulder. When he turned back, he was frowning. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Of course. Why wouldn't I be all right? I mean, why do you ask?”

Damn. Note to self: Work on witty, intelligent, scathing comebacks at home tonight. Practice until certain people quake in fear at the mere thought of talking to you.

Just then a breeze blew through the open window, and everyone groaned as papers flew into the air. I saw the boy sitting behind A. J. Boy go all shimmery. . . .

Then he was gone.

I must have looked startled, because A. J. Boy turned around again to see what had happened. Of course he didn't see a thing, so I had seemingly been overcome with shock at the sight of an empty chair.

He turned back and gave me a look.

“Right,” he said sarcastically. “That chair is really scary, and you're perfectly fine. My mistake.”

“Mind your own business!” I snapped.

He shrugged. “Just thought I'd offer a helping hand of compassion.”

“Thanks, but I don't need any help.”

“Glad to hear it. I really hate all that helping-hand-of-compassion stuff.” He put the earbuds back in, his legs thrust carelessly into the aisle.

I turned back to the front of the class and blinked hard a few times to discourage any stray tears from falling. Before I had a chance to wonder why any spirit in his right mind would choose to spend part of eternity in a high school history class, our teacher walked in the door and instantly commanded everyone's attention.

“Good morning, class. My name is Sergeant Grimes.” He wrote his name on the blackboard as everyone in the class gaped at him. Sergeant Grimes was a tall, imposing man with a gray hair, a laser stare, and posture that was so straight I wasn't entirely sure he could sit down.

“Before I was assigned to a tour of duty here at Cassadaga Regional High School, I spent twenty years in the Eighty-second Airborne, the roughest, toughest, most hardcore soldiers in the entire U.S. military.” He looked us over with steely eyes. “I expect the same level of discipline, hard work, and devotion to duty from you that I expected from my men. Is that clear?” There were a few intimidated nods as we all sank a little lower in our chairs.