A Bird on a Windowsill (2 page)

Prologue Two

Savannah 

I’
ve come to learn two truths about love.

One: The fall is the easy part.

Two: It’s best not to fall.

My name is Savannah Catesby. And this is a love story. It’s not pretty. It’s not poetry. It doesn’t even have a happy ending. But I guess that’s partially due to the fact that it’s not over, yet. And honestly, I’m not sure it will ever really be over. I’m not sure
love
—of any kind— is a thing you
get over
. And it’s definitely not a thing you get over when it comes to Salem Ebenezer—my oldest friend.

And really, in the end, I just wish we had more time. I wish we had a dozen lifetimes to get this right.

But of course, we don’t.

We only have this one—and it’s short.

Way too short.

I love Salem. I always have. But then, there’s something else I’ve also learned about love:
Sometimes the hearts we steal are not the hearts we were ever meant to keep
.

Chapter One

Salem 

(Five Years Old)

Day 1

“W
ho are you?”

My back stiffens. And for a second, I can’t breathe.

“I can see you. You’re not a ghost, are you?”

I slowly catch my breath and then shake my head.

“What’s your name?”

“Salem.” My voice cracks, and I work fast to clear my throat. “Salem Ebenezer.”

She drops her gaze to the water in the little stream for a moment, and then just as quickly, her eyes are back on me.

“Ebenezer?”

I nod once.

“Do people call you Eben?”

I shake my head
no
.

“Then, I’ll call you Eben.”

I feel my face twist into a question mark. “Why?”

She shrugs her narrow shoulders and goes to poking a stick at some soft red clay. “I don’t know.”

It’s quiet then. There’s a sound of a truck—like a dump truck—off in the distance, but other than that, it’s quiet.

I watch her. She slips off her tan sandals and dips her bare feet into the water. The water must be cold because she lifts her toes fast and goes back to poking at the red clay, instead. I watch as she stamps out a pile of little holes and then makes them disappear by pressing her palm hard to the clay.

I have been coming down here for almost a week now, spying on her. And I know I’m not supposed to be spying, but I can’t help it. Every day about this time, she comes to this little stream that runs through the center of town, and she pokes at the mud or drops rocks into the water and watches them sink. And most times, I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I can see her lips moving, like she’s making up stories as she goes. I like being a spy, and plus, she’s fun to watch. But today, I just couldn’t watch her anymore. Today, I decided I wanted to be in her stories. And that’s when I stepped out from behind the trees.

She looks up at me, and my breath gets caught in my throat. I don’t say anything as her stare hangs on me for what feels like one of Reverend Cantrell’s whole sermons. And I feel like runnin’, and I probably should, but I don’t.

“What are you doing here anyway?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

I sure ain’t gonna tell her I’m spying.

She narrows her eyes at me. “Well, how’d you get here?”

“I walked.”

I watch as she pushes her lips to one side of her mouth—just like a grown-up does when they don’t know whether they should laugh at you or scold you.

“Well, do you wanna play with me?”

When I don’t say anything right away, she picks up a rock and throws it into the water. Her hair is cut short, kind of like my sister’s. She looks nice. She’s a girl, but I don’t got much choice at this time of day. There usually ain’t any kids around here until evening.

“Well?” she asks, a little impatient, this time.

I quickly drop my eyes to the dirt at my sneakers.

“I guess,” I eventually say. And I follow that with a shrug.

“Well, come on.”

She waves me over. And now, all of a sudden, instead of having the urge to run away, I have the urge to run to her. But I don’t want her to think I like her, so I don’t.

And the next thing I know, I’m sitting down on a rock next to her. I grab a stick, too. There are all kinds of sticks around. I look up. There’s a maple tree hanging above us. They must have all come from it.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” she says, jabbing her stick into the ground near my shoe. It’s almost as if she’s trying to get me to move my foot. I press it harder into the ground.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

My eyes quickly find hers.

“What? Me?”

She only nods.

“Trees and sticks...and you trying to poke my foot.”

Her eyes light up, and her smile gets big. “How did you know?”

I shrug. “I just knew,” I say, proudly.

“You’re on my telescope.”

“Your what?” I quickly pick up my foot and look at the ground under it. There’s nothing there.

“This is the moon,” she says, pointing at all the little holes she’s poked into the ground. “And I’m looking at the stars through my telescope.” She bounces a stick, as if it’s walking, to the place my shoe just was. And then she jabs it hard into the ground.

I picture my foot still being there, and I let out a thankful breath that it’s not.

“My friend, Dillon, says the moon’s made out of cheese,” I say.

She gives me a funny look and then just stares at me.

“What are those?”

I follow her eyes to my pocket.

“Gummy worms,” I say, tugging on the little bag. “You want some?”

I hand her the bag, and she takes it and opens it with her little hands. And then her eyebrows squish together.

“Why are there gummy bears in here, too?”

She pulls out a worm with one hand and a bear with the other.

I shrug. “I just put them together, so I didn’t have to carry two bags.”

I watch as she holds the two gummies side by side, as if she’s examining the two closely.

“Why have I never seen you before?” she asks, shoving both the bear and the worm into her mouth and biting down hard.

“I don’t know,” I say, squashing the urge to tell her that she probably hasn’t seen me because I’m good at hiding. “I usually stay around the sawdust pile.”

Her eyes are back on mine fast. So fast, it makes me jump.

“At the lumberyard?”

“Yeah,” I say. “My dad owns it.”

“Can we go there?”

I lift my shoulders and then let them fall. “Yeah, if you want.”

She jumps up, stuffs the gummies into her pocket and rubs her hands together. Then she brushes off the back of her dress. “Let’s go then.”

And as quick as my dog can lick up my leftovers, she slips on her sandals and starts walking. I throw my stick down and follow her.

She’s a fast walker, and I have to run a little to catch up.

“What’s your name anyway?”

“Savannah,” she says, without missing a beat.

I think about it for a second. “Does anyone call you Vannah?”

“No,” she says, short and sweet.

“Well,” I ask, timidly, “can I call you Vannah?”

“Why?”

I feel her eyes on me, but for some reason or another, I don’t look up. I just keep my eyes on the dirt and the grass at our feet. “I don’t know.”

I don’t hear anything for a while, so I lift my head and catch her smiling at me. And right then and there, I decide that her smile is nice.

“Okay,” she says. “You can call me
Vannah
.”

I feel my grin getting bigger, as I shove my hands into my pockets.

“Why are you always at that stream?” I ask.

“How do you know I’m always there?”

I meet her eyes and notice they’re green. But then I quickly look down.

“I mean, today,” I say, instead. “Why were you there today?”

She shrugs. “My uncle works at the paper.”

“Oh,” I say. “Does he write all those stories?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then that makes sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“Oh.” My fingers nervously fidget in my pockets. “Nothing.”

There’s a puddle in our path. We both jump over it.

“Do you live around here?” she asks.

“Yeah, I live right outside of town. I’m gonna start school soon.”

“Where?”

“Allandale Elementary.”

“Me too,” she says, giving me another nice smile.

I smile back, and then I concentrate on walking. We cut a path straight through Mr. Witte’s yard and across Maupin and Elm streets. And then she sticks her hand into the pocket of her dress and pulls out something shiny.

“Here,” she says, holding the shiny thing out to me.

“What is it?” I ask, taking it from her.

“It’s a key. I found it, but you can have it.”

I turn it over in my hand. “What’s it to?”

She tilts her head back and squints her eyes up at the sky, most likely to keep the sun out. “Probably some big star tower...with a big, swirly staircase and a big hole in the ceiling where you can see the sky. And it’s probably got a big telescope in it, too, so you can see the stars...up close.”

I look at the key with wide eyes. “Really?”

“Probably.” She shrugs.

“Well, then why are you giving it to me? Don’t you want it?”

“Yeah, but you’re better at finding things.”

I hold the key out in front of me. A little ray of sunlight shines through the hole at the top and makes me shut my eyes

She’s right, though. I am good at finding my grandpa’s glasses when he loses them. But how does she know that?

“How do you know I’m better at finding things?”

She lifts one shoulder. “You found me.”

I think about it and then nod. “I guess you’re right.”

“So,” she says, “if you find that star tower, you come find me, and then we can spend all night looking up at the moon and dancing alongside the stars.”

“Wait. It has stars...inside of it?”

“Yeah, they live on the walls?”

She says it like it’s something I should have known.

I nod, approvingly.

“You find it. You come find me. Okay?”

I look at her and then back at the key before squeezing it into my palm.

“Okay,” I agree.

We walk a few more steps.

“Vannah?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you mine?”

She gives me a funny look—like she’s just discovered I’m an alien or something.

“I mean,” I say, feeling embarrassed. “Are you my friend?”

She smiles. “Yes.”

I let go of a thankful breath.

“Eben?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you mine?” She’s looking at me, grinning wide.

I nod. “Yep.”

“W
hat do you got there, boy?”

I look down at the little piece of metal in my hand. “A key,” I say.

“Let me see it.”

I hold it out in front of me, and Grandpa’s old, wrinkly hand reaches for the key. I watch him as he goes to examinin’ it. He lets his glasses slide down his nose as he turns it over and mouths under his breath the random letters written on the piece of metal.

“Hmm,” he says. “Looks like a key to some toolbox, maybe.”

“A toolbox?” I try not to sound disappointed.

“Yeah,” he says, still looking at it. “Where’d you get this from?”

I shrug. “That girl that’s been hangin’ out at the paper gave it to me.”