Feathered Read online

  For Mum, who flew with grace

  KCP Fiction is an imprint of Kids Can Press

  978-1-77138-681-4 (EPUB)

  Text © 2016 Deborah Kerbel

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of Kids Can Press Ltd. or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance of characters to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where these designations appear in this book and Kids Can Press Ltd. was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed in initial capital letters (e.g., Frisbee).

  Kids Can Press acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative; the Ontario Arts Council; the Canada Council for the Arts; and the Government of Canada, through the CBF, for our publishing activity.

  Published in Canada by

  Kids Can Press Ltd.

  25 Dockside Drive

  Toronto, ON M5A 0B5

  Published in the U.S. by

  Kids Can Press Ltd.

  2250 Military Road

  Tonawanda, NY 14150

  www.kidscanpress.com

  Edited by Yasemin Uçar

  Designed by Marie Bartholomew

  Cover illustration by Simone Shin

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Kerbel, Deborah, author

  Feathered / Deborah Kerbel.

  ISBN 978-1-77138-341-7 (bound)

  I. Title.

  PS8621.E75F43 2016 jC813’.6 C2015-903360-8

  PROLOGUE

  I’m not crazy. I swear I’m not. Ever since I was old enough to remember, I knew I had it in me to fly. I can’t explain it any better than to say it’s a feeling so powerful you shut your mouth and don’t argue with it.

  It’s not because of my name. Daddy once said calling me Finch had nothing to do with flying. He said they named me Finch after a character in a famous book. I don’t remember which book or which character he was talking about and it’s too late to ask now. I guess it doesn’t matter, because Mom took me aside afterward and told me that story’s not true. She said Daddy hadn’t read a book in twenty years and who does he think he’s kidding pretending to be some grand reader. She said they named me Finch on account of how I came out of her belly bald and wrinkled and squawking like a baby bird. I guess I believe Mom. She has big honest eyes that can’t hide a lie for the life of them.

  It’s not about my feather either. Although I’m probably the only girl in the whole world to ever grow one. You think I’m pulling your leg, right? Well, I’m not. When I was three years old, Mom plucked a curly white feather out of my neck. How it got there, they couldn’t figure. After Dr. Nelson examined me and patched up the back of my neck, he told us to quit worrying. He said the feather probably got stuck in there from me sleeping on top of my quilt instead of under it. Harrison has a different theory. He says I was such a dumb kid, I probably ate my pillow, feathers and all. But I don’t think so. Who would want to eat a pillow?

  The feather left a little pink scar on the back of my neck. When I get scared or the loneliness comes over me, I run my fingertip over the tiny scar and dream about the day the rest of my feathers will grow in.

  That’s the day I’ll fly away from here.

  I might be a clumsy kid on the ground, but in the air I’ll be as graceful as a dove.

  CHAPTER 1

  August 1980

  Little House on the Prairie is my favorite TV show ever. I would watch reruns all day if I could. When it’s on, it’s like my real life falls away and all that’s left is Laura Ingalls’s world. In my best dreams, I am Laura. I call my parents Ma and Pa, wear a sunbonnet wherever I go, skip happily through flower-filled fields and put Nellie Oleson in her place whenever she’s nasty. When life gets hard in Laura’s world, there’s always a nice parent or a kind sister to turn to. Yeah, I think everything was so simple back in those pioneer days. It’s like people were so busy churning their own butter and sewing their own clothes, there wasn’t time to waste on stupid problems like mine. Back then, you didn’t have to worry if you were the only eleven-year-old in your neighborhood who couldn’t ride a bike, because back then your family was probably too poor to own a bike anyway. And you didn’t have to worry if you were the only kid in class without a pair of Jordache jeans. And nobody laughed if you didn’t know how to spell astronaut or telephone or vacuum because those things hadn’t even been invented yet! In Laura’s world, teachers didn’t call their students dumb. And Pa didn’t die. Nobody smoked cigarettes until their lungs turned black. And families sat around the table and talked and sang corny songs together every night. If I could beam myself into that TV show, you bet I would.

  I hear footsteps overhead and hobble over without my crutches to dial the volume down, in case it’s Harrison or his awful friend Matt. Although I’m guessing it’s probably just Mom getting up to go to the bathroom. She’s changed so much since Daddy died. The old Mom would never have let me sit inside and watch TV on a sunny afternoon in August. The old Mom would have nattered on about “fresh air” and “sunshine” before she shooed me outside, sprained ankle or not. She would have signed me up for day camp, or planned a picnic, or taken me on the bus to the beach or the zoo, or tossed a Frisbee with me. But this Mom doesn’t seem to mind if I stay inside. This Mom doesn’t say anything when I show up late for dinner. This Mom doesn’t pull out the flyswatter when Harrison calls me names at the breakfast table. This Mom doesn’t even notice I’m here half the time.

  Ever since the funeral last December, she has this empty look in her eyes — like swimming pools drained for the winter. At first, I thought she was mad at Daddy for leaving us. But now I get the feeling she’s scared because she doesn’t know what to do without him. I haven’t told her this, but I’m scared, too. Mom’s the smartest person I know, but she’s never had a job in her life and she has to go out and get one now. I told her she’s smart enough to be a teacher. That sounds like a good job to me. I mean, you get summers off and all. And maybe with a bit of luck, she could teach at my school and take the place of mean old Mrs. Garvin. But Mom says you have to go to a special school for that kind of a job and she doesn’t want to start messing around with homework and books and tests all over again at her age.

  Teacher school. I think that’s kind of funny. I imagine my teachers sitting at a desk like me, doodling on their pencil cases when they ought to be writing down lessons from the blackboard. Can you make a grown-up stand in the corner at teacher school? Or sit in the hall? Or stay for detention? Hey, maybe that’s where my teachers learned how to do it to me.

  Whenever I suggest a new job idea to Mom, she says we have enough insurance money for now and she’ll figure things out if I just quit bugging her about it. Her favorite figuring-out place seems to be the green corduroy chair in the living room. She sits there all day, smoking her cigarettes and staring out the window. Like if she sits and stares for long enough, a job will magically appear. There are days I want to haul her out of that chair and tell her she’s never going to figure anything out sitting there all day. But I’m worried that’ll make her angry. And something tells me it won’t do any good anyway.

  When the final credits are over, I
flip the channel to see what else is on. A news station is doing a report on Terry Fox. He’s the one-legged man with the curly hair who started running across Canada this spring. He’s running to raise money so that scientists can find a cure for cancer. On my TV screen, he always looks so small jogging along those big gray stretches of road. I wonder if he’s lonely running all by himself. I wonder if I would be. Sometimes when I see his picture, I feel like flying out my front door and never looking back.

  Daddy died too soon for Terry Fox’s marathon to help him.

  The news report ends and suddenly there’s nothing left to watch but soap operas and game shows, so I snap off the TV and hobble upstairs for a glass of Kool-Aid. Dr. Nelson said I’m not supposed to be without my crutches for another three weeks, but sometimes I forget them in my room. My room is so messy, it’s easy for things to get lost in there. Even something big like a pair of crutches. The old Mom used to harp on me to clean it up. This Mom doesn’t say anything about it at all.

  When Mom sees me come up the stairs, she waves me over to where she’s sitting in the green chair. My heart gives a little jump. “Yes, Ma?” I whisper, leaning down to get a close look at her. Her skin is the color of ashes and she smells of smoke. I push a clump of matted hair away from her face. Her eyes are like fogged-up windows.

  “Run to the store and buy me some more cigarettes, would you, Finch?” she says, looking at me but not looking at me. She holds out an empty gold-and-silver package and a five-dollar bill. Her hand is shaking slightly and her fingers are cold as she presses them into my palm. “Show them the package so they’ll give you the right one. Okay, honey?”

  She shoos me out the door before I can argue. There’s no mention of fresh air or sunshine. And no time to get my crutches.

  Laura Ingalls’s ma wouldn’t do that, I think to myself as I push open the screen door, blinking hard as the sunlight burns my eyes. I pull my imaginary sunbonnet up over my head. And then I pretend I’m Terry Fox as I limp-run down the street to the corner store. The gold-and-silver cigarette package is a crumpled ball in my fist.

  CHAPTER 2

  The TV set broke today. Right in the middle of the lunchtime news update. One minute a man in a brown three-piece suit was talking about the hostages in Iran and the next minute there was a loud pop and the screen became a fuzzy wall of gray. A weird burning smell came spewing out from behind the TV set, so I grabbed my crutches and limped out of there fast, just in case the whole thing decided to blow up. In the end, that didn’t happen. But I went to make myself a snack before breaking the news to Mom.

  I think about those poor hostages a lot. It’s coming up to a year now since they were captured. Can you imagine not being able to go outside for a whole year? I can’t. And how can they go that long without changing their underwear? I asked Harrison about it once, but he gave me that look that said, Quit bugging me with your stupid questions. So I shut up and didn’t ask again.

  My stomach lets out a soft growl as I limp into the kitchen. The word hostages always makes me think of the word sausages. Is that bad? And then I’m thinking about the big Sunday breakfasts Daddy used to make, and a giant bubble of loneliness swells inside me. Pulling open the snack cupboard, I run my fingers over my feather scar and stuff a Fudgee-O into my mouth to make the feeling go away.

  When I’m done eating, I head to the living room to check on Mom and see if she’s figured anything out yet. But my feet freeze on the edge of the brown shag carpet. Harrison’s long legs are sprawled over the couch and he’s showing off his Rubik’s Cube skills to awful Matt. The way my brother’s fingers spin and twirl over the bright colors of that cube is hypnotic. He makes it look so easy, even though I know for a fact it’s not. I can’t even get three rows to match up, but my brother can get them all. Luckily, Matt’s too busy watching Harrison solve the cube to notice me. I back up and sneak out of the house before that changes, bringing the screen door closed behind me with a soft click. I don’t want another body part to get sprained today, thank you very much. And when Matt’s nearby, you never know what sort of bad things might happen.

  It was only three weeks ago when I had to jump out my window to get away from him (which is how I hurt my ankle). I was watching TV when he snuck up behind me, silent as a snake. I felt something soft and fuzzy sliding up the back of my arm and turned around with a start. There was awful Matt, holding up a dead mouse by the tail and grinning at me with his goat face and his crooked yellow-toothed smile. “Brought you a present, Flinch,” he said, swinging the poor thing back and forth like a yo-yo, bringing the furry corpse closer to my face each time. You can bet I screamed so loud, my throat hurt for days after. Then I jumped up and started to run. Matt chased me, of course. The one time I dared to look behind me, he was on my heels, his eyes glittering with danger. His legs are so much longer than mine, I only got as far as my bedroom before he caught up.

  “Kiss the rat, Flinch,” he said, grabbing my arm and pushing the mouse in my face. “Kiss it and I’ll let you go.”

  My body had switched to full panic mode. Somehow I found the courage to kick him in the shins and yank my arm away. My eyes did a quick scan of the room. As far as I could see, there was only one escape route. And I was positive it wouldn’t fail me. I was born to fly, after all.

  I scrambled up onto my window ledge and pushed out the screen. Running a finger over my scar, I made a wish that the rest of my feathers would come right now. This was the moment I needed them most. “Finch, don’t!” I heard Harrison yell from somewhere in the distance as I hurled myself into the air.

  I remember the smooth feel of the wind rushing over my face and my arms. I closed my eyes, and for a split second I was sure I had done it. I was flying. A second later the ground rose up to meet me with a powerful smash. The boys found me a few minutes later on the grass outside. “You little moron. Get up before Mom finds out,” Harrison snarled, hooking his hands under my pits and pulling me to my feet. My ankle roared with pain and I passed out cold in his arms. But not before I heard Matt hissing his signature warning over my ear: “Better not tell.”

  And of course, I didn’t. Who would I tell anyway? For sure not Mom. The way she’s been acting lately, I don’t even know if she’d hear me. Harrison knew the truth, but he wasn’t about to defend me against Matt, that’s for sure. Matt’s pretty much his only friend these days. He’s not going to give that up, even for the sake of his little sister’s safety.

  Harrison wasn’t always mean to me. For most of our lives, we were really close. It’s only in the past year that he’s turned sour. Like a carton of milk that’s been left in the fridge past its expiration date. I think some of it has to do with losing Daddy. But I think most of it has to do with awful Matt.

  Whenever that boy’s around, every part of me feels sprained.

  In the end, I told Mom and Dr. Nelson that I hurt my ankle falling down the stairs. Mom didn’t question it. I’ve always been a clumsy kid, so falling down a flight of stairs wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for me.

  I head to the backyard, hoping Harrison and Matt won’t find me there. On my way around the side garden, I glance at the house next door and catch a quick glimpse of a little girl’s face in the window. Our eyes connect for the tiniest second before she ducks out of sight. I wait a moment to see if she’ll come back to the window, but she doesn’t. She’s one of two girls who moved in with their parents just last month. Except for moving day, we haven’t seen much of them. Usually it’s just the father coming and going in his navy blue suit and his white Chevrolet. Sometimes the daughters run out to the driveway to greet him or to kiss him goodbye. But then they always disappear right back into the house again. At first when I heard a family with two little girls was moving in, I was so happy. The previous owners were an old couple who didn’t like children, as far as I could tell. Since the minute the moving vans drove away, I’ve been dying to go knock on the door and say hell
o. But Mom won’t let me. “Don’t be a pest, Finch. Give the poor family some time to get settled in,” she said.

  You can bet the old Mom would have brought them a casserole on their first day here. Laura Ingalls’s ma would have, too.

  Harrison said him and Matt saw the girls last week, climbing into the car with their parents. He told me Matt said the mother’s clothes looked funny, like she was wearing pajamas, and that he called them a bad word that makes me hate him even more than I already did. I wish they would come out to play one of these days.

  When I get to the backyard, I pull out my green Frisbee and practice my throw. Daddy bought it for me last year. He said catching a Frisbee was less tricky than catching a ball. He was right. I love tossing it and watching it float through the air like a mini UFO. On the fifth throw, the Frisbee lands under my favorite tree — the big, spreading chestnut that takes up the entire south side of the backyard. When I bend to pick it up, a soft chirping noise catches my attention. There’s a baby bird lying on the grass. Its eyes are closed and its pink featherless body is flailing like a drowning victim. I look up and spot the nest perched on a low-hanging branch. “Did you fall?” I ask, reaching down to pick it up. I cup the little bird in my palm. Its squiggly body feels cool against my skin. I hold it a minute to warm it, then reach up and carefully put it back in the nest with its brothers and sisters. There are four baby birds altogether, each one as naked and fragile as the next. After that, I make sure to throw my Frisbee on the other side of the yard. Just to be safe.

  At dinner, I confess to Mom about the broken TV. “The picture just disappeared. It wasn’t my fault. Honest, I didn’t do anything.” She blinks and sighs.

  “I’ll call a handyman tomorrow,” she mumbles. But I know what she’s thinking, ’cause I’m thinking the same thing. If Daddy was here, he’d have taken care of it. We never needed a handyman before he died.