Bird (2 page)

We sat in that tree in the middle of the field under the waxing moon. Suddenly he said, “You know, stars are like jewels. But they don't twinkle like you think. What your eye perceives as twinkling is the light waves refracting through the layers of the atmosphere.”

The way he spoke, he sounded like a teacher. A good teacher. Maybe that's why I decided to ask a question, not like in school. “Refracting?” I asked.

“The light bends,” he said. “At a lot of different angles, depending on the layers of atmosphere, and that refracting light changes how we perceive the position and size of a star.” His voice hung in the space above me. “The only way to see the stars as they truly are is to get above the atmosphere. Into space.”

There was no breeze that night, just a thin layer of moist air that hung around us, like the entire earth was listening in.

“I never thought about stars like that.”

John laughed, and it was a short, nice laugh. “Just wait until the Perseids show up.”

“The what?”

“The Perseids. A huge meteor shower that takes place in August.”

I had never seen the Perseids before, or even heard of them, and I said so.

“It's okay,” he said. “Most people can't see what's in front of them if they don't know what they're looking for. But once you know what you're looking for, you wonder how you
didn't
see it. Just wait: Once you see the Perseids, you'll see them every year, guaranteed.”

“How do you know so much about stars?” I blurted out.

I heard the smile in his voice. “I'm going to be an astronaut when I grow up.”

John was so different from the other kids in Caledonia. Most kids around here want to be mechanics or nurses or take over the family business. I almost told him that I was going to be a geologist when I grow up, but I didn't. Instead, I was quiet. If you give up too much of yourself, too fast, then someone can just up and take it away. And a person like me, without too much of my own to start with—well, you need to be careful with what you got.

I don't know how long we sat there, but sitting in that tree felt different this time around. Maybe I was getting too old. Or maybe it was just strange sitting there with someone else.

I climbed down after a while, and he climbed down after me. I saw him for the first time clearly in the moonlight, and it was then that I realized why I couldn't see him all that well before: His skin was dark, dark as the night sky.

“You're McLaren's nephew?” I blurted out. My mouth was too fast for any politeness. Mr. McLaren is as white as white could get.

John smiled, and his teeth shone like tiny rows of moons. “Sure am. I'm adopted. Raised by white people. It's not as bad as it sounds.”

I wasn't sure if he was talking about being adopted or being raised by white people, but I nodded as if I understood. He held out his hand, and I took it and shook it, just like the grown-up I was becoming. I was surprised at how firm his grip was, like we were going to conquer the world.

It was the best handshake ever.

But handshake or no handshake, as my shoes crunched against the gravel on my way home, I wondered about how I could meet someone named John on this night. As Dad says, there are no coincidences in life. Which is a fancy way of saying that when things are meant to happen, no matter how mysterious or crazy or impossible, they're going to happen. And I think he's right.

CHAPTER TWO

EARLY
the next morning, when the sky still looked like a stained-glass window, I went to the cliff. To get there, you need to walk down County Line Road, then turn left onto the unmarked dirt road that curves by the swale that collects water when it rains. There's a footpath about a hundred yards away, one that, if you go early in the morning like I did, would drench you with the dew that dangles off the long grasses. There's a huge granite boulder that sits strong and tall and proud by the cliff, and it watches over the fields and houses and hills in the distance. After that, the drop-off comes suddenly.

I decided not to tell my parents that I'd met a boy named John, and that I found him in a tree. I've long grown used to not telling them really cool things, because they usually don't get excited, anyway. Once, I found this great arrowhead in the backyard, and I ran inside to show it to them, and instead of wondering how old it was or what tribe made it or asking if I ever wanted to be an archaeologist, Mom looked at me sternly and said, “Throw that outside. You know better than to come in here with dirty shoes.”

It happens all the time. Something cool happens, and they just block it out. It's as if Bird was the only cool thing that could ever happen, and now that he's gone, nothing else can ever be great or incredible or mysterious.

When I saw the boulder, I slowed down. The air was moist and still. I was the only thing that moved. Today is the day I add another rock, I thought, and pride swirled in my chest. I searched around in the grasses until I found one that wanted to come out of the earth and wiggled it back and forth and dug around the sides until I had it in my arms. It was bigger than the others, which made me happy, too. I was getting stronger.

At the edge of the cliff, beside the massive granite boulder, was a circle of eleven stones. They were large stones, like loaves of bread, eleven of them sitting in a circle so wide I could do cartwheels inside it. I got there, told the eleven there was going to be a new one and they all needed to get along, and arranged them how they wanted to be.

Twelve. Just like me.

Even though it's not good to have favorites, I have to admit that I did. I found my seventh-year stone by accident; I stubbed my toe on it that first summer when I didn't know any better and was wearing flip-flops. I was going to pick it up and put it where it couldn't get hurt when I realized that I had to keep digging around the sides; it was much larger than it looked at first. It also had these strange swirls of pink in it, which I liked.

Or take my tenth-year stone. That one was a gift, really, like the earth heaved it up into my arms, looking nice and new and pretty, with quartz angles jutting out in every direction when I peered at it closely. I couldn't hold it too tightly or I could cut myself, but that's precisely what I liked about it.

My circle sure looked different with the twelfth-year stone there, in a way that made me proud. Outside the circle and down a ways, where the soil got thicker and loamy, was a row of saplings that grew from seeds that I planted last summer and sat with when it rained. On the other side of the circle lay an area of upturned earth.

The middle of the circle was empty.

The sun crept up and over the hills to the east. I paused at the circle, slipped off my shoes, and stepped inside. The dirt was loose and cool and whispered against my feet. I faced the rising sun and lifted my arms, as if I were drawing that ball of fire up from the earth and into the sky. There I was, encircled by rocks, at the center of the universe. And everything—from the dried-up riverbed to the limestone cliff outcroppings on the other side, even the glowing sky—watched me.

I closed my eyes as I stood in the circle, my back muscles relaxing, my arms stretched out, settling into their openness. I didn't know how long I stood there, but I listened to everything I could, to the mice rustling through the leaves, to the bending grasses, to the hollowness of the air over the cliff.

The sounds of home.

After a good, long while I stepped out of the ring of stones, my body lighter. I scanned the ground, as usual, looking for pebbles. I had to go a little farther from the circle, as I had found all the nearby pebbles a long time ago. I rummaged by the base of some grasses until I had five in my hand. Then I went over to a little crevice in the boulder, grabbed the thick, short stick I'd stashed there, and kneeled down in the area just outside the circle, in the upturned dirt where I'd buried the others.

I made five holes, wrapped my fingers around the first pebble, and held it close to my mouth. “My birthday was horrible yesterday,” I breathed into it, and my throat tightened as I spoke the words aloud. “It always is.” Then I put the pebble in the hole and covered it up, patting the dirt lightly.

I took the second one, the pinkish one. “I want more,” I whispered to it. I paused. It wasn't like a “I'm shopping and want to buy things” more, but something else. I couldn't figure out the words I wanted to say after that, so I just put the pebble in the ground.

I had buried quite a few pebbles for ponies. Well, ponies and scratch-n-sniff stickers and fireworks. That's what I'd first wanted when I started digging like this. Every time I put a pebble in the ground, something in me released, like the earth was holding my question or worry or secret and giving it an all-around hug. The earth could hold as many pebbles as I wanted to give it, and thinking about that felt so good that I buried pebbles every time I came. Couldn't stop if I tried.

I know people would call me crazy if they found out that I come to this cliff. I know that my parents would be angry and disappointed and afraid. But even though I've tried to stay away, this place calls me back as if it has a voice of its own.

Something is here.

Dad thinks the cliff is haunted by duppies. Maybe Bird's duppy is here instead of in heaven, where it belongs. But after coming here for four whole years, I think there are just some things no one is able to explain, not even Dad or Mom or mayors or priests. They think they know, but they don't.

I held the third stone in my hand. “There is this boy named John,” I whispered. “I've never seen him around before—”

I paused. The hairs on my neck stood on end, in a wrongness kind of way.

Something awful was happening. Something really, really bad.

I didn't think about what it could be. I jumped to my feet and sped down the footpath, toward home.

I found Grandpa in the living room, slumped over on the floor, the TV blaring out some game show. Dad and Mom had gone by now, Mom to her part-time clerical job in Caledonia's town hall, Dad to sell gadgets at Max's Appliances three towns over, the only store like that for more than sixty miles.

“Grandpa!” I cried, shaking his body. He was cold. Unresponsive.

I felt my eyes grow wide. “No,” I whispered.

I dashed through the house, looking for the case that held his diabetes emergency kit, which contained a vial of glucose that could save his life. I crashed into the bathroom and yanked open the medicine cabinet. It wasn't there. I ran into Grandpa's bedroom, even though I wasn't supposed to go inside, and rummaged through his nightstand, then his dresser drawers, then his closet. I was nearly ripping apart with fear: Even if I called Dad or Mom, it would take a half hour for them to drive home. An ambulance, too.

I spun around in a circle, my eyes searching furiously for the kit. Then I saw it: a small, clear box with a syringe and a vial inside. It was only the size of a pencil box, much smaller than what I had been looking for. In my panic, I had yanked it out of his nightstand and hadn't seen it fall to the ground.

I snatched the kit and ran back to the living room. I had seen Dad give Grandpa this shot only once, a long time ago, when he didn't think I was watching. Dad had injected the glucose in Grandpa's arm, deep into the muscle. I clenched my teeth, pulled the syringe out of the box, stuck it into the vial, and drew up the clear liquid. Then I plunged the needle into Grandpa's arm and injected the glucose into his body. Wild applause filled the room. I jumped and turned around. A participant on the game show had just tripled her money and won a trip to Bermuda. She was screaming and crying and waving her hands in the air.

I ran to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed 911.

By the time the ambulance got to our house, Grandpa was already starting to move. I showed Mr. Williamson and Mr. Brendle, the town's two part-time paramedics, into the living room. They lifted Grandpa onto a wheeled bed and put him in the ambulance; his skin was a shock of color against the perfectly white sheet. I let my eyes linger on him, which felt weird since I never really let myself look at him. His body was lean but muscular, his chin firm, his cheekbones pointy and no-nonsense, and his short, wiry hair just lightly tipped with gray. I was amazed at how strong he looked, even in an ambulance. Maybe he thought he was strong enough to stop worrying about his blood sugar level, even though he should have known that if he let it drop that low it could kill him.

“Jewel?” Mr. Williamson was looking at me, tugging on the dark blue cuffs of his shirt.

I jumped. “Yes?”

“I said, how long was he unconscious?”

“I don't know. I wasn't home.”

Mr. Williamson made a puzzled face. “You weren't?”

“No. I was at the cliff.” The words came out just like that, like a tsunami was crashing out of my mouth.

Mr. Williamson straightened, and his face went hard. “The cliff?”