Feathered Page 3

  “Detective Kroon came by while you were sleeping. He said to say hi and that he hopes you feel better.”

  Mom looks surprised at this. Her forehead crinkles. “What did you tell him?”

  The way she says it makes me wonder if I did something wrong. “I … I just said you weren’t feeling well.” Then I add, “He wanted to see how we were doing. He said Daddy asked him to watch out for us.”

  Mom’s cheeks go pink and she runs her fingers through her messy hair like a makeshift comb. “You really shouldn’t be telling people my business, honey,” she says, flicking the little wheel of her blue lighter. She does this several times before a flame appears. “It looks like a beautiful day. Why don’t you go outside and get some fresh air?”

  This sounds so much like my old mom that I want to throw myself into her lap and cry with relief. Then she lights that cigarette and turns to stare out the window. The empty look falls over her eyes. And the moment’s gone.

  Through the window, I can see the giant chestnut tree in the backyard; its leaves are shivering in the breeze. My brain starts to think about those poor baby birds, but it’s just too sad, so I make it stop. I think instead about the broken TV downstairs. I wonder if the hostages have been freed yet. I wonder where Terry Fox is running today. I wonder which Little House on the Prairie episode I’m missing. I’ll be upset if it’s the one where Laura puts apples down her dress.

  “Did you call a handyman, Ma?”

  The tip of her cigarette glows orange. Then smoke curls out from her nostrils, like a dragon’s fiery breath. “I’ll do it later,” she says. “And why are you calling me ‘Ma’?”

  I reach for my crutches. “I’m going outside now.”

  Since the TV’s still broken, I take some money from my piggy bank and walk up the street to the movie theater. I buy a ticket for a movie starring the same blonde actress from Grease and find a seat by myself in the last row. I think about school while I wait for the movie to start. I wish I never had to go back. Every year, my teachers say the same things about my writing and spelling.

  “Pay attention.”

  “It’s not rocket science.”

  “Just do it.”

  “Neater, Finch — don’t be lazy.”

  I’m pretty good at reading, but writing is different. My hands never want to do what they’re supposed to do. Some of my teachers have tried to be nice about my writing. But the worst teachers are the ones who make me feel like it’s my fault. Every year since I can remember, Mom goes to the school to talk to my teachers about my writing. And, until Daddy died, she did what she could to help me with my homework. But, as smart as Mom is, even she doesn’t understand why I can’t get the work done the way the teachers want it. When Daddy was alive, he’d sit with me and help me with my numbers and letters on weekends when he wasn’t working. He told me school never came easy for him either.

  Maybe that’s why him and I got along so well.

  Last year was the worst. If there were awards for the meanest teacher in the world, Mrs. Garvin would have won the top prize — no contest. She must have learned some bad lessons at teacher school, ’cause for some reason I never understood, she was only nice to the kids who were popular or smart. She called me slow and lazy and warned me I was going to have to repeat the year if I didn’t smarten up. She did it so much, after a few months the rest of the kids in my class started calling me slow and lazy, too. Somehow I managed to squeak through the year with a passing grade. But it’s safe to say I hate school almost as much as I hate Matt. And that’s saying a lot.

  I decide not to get up when the movie ends. When the usher comes by and asks me to exit the theater, I point to my crutches, let out a fake moan and tell him I’m too hurt to move. He frowns at me but doesn’t argue. I sit there while they roll the movie again. By the time I get up and go home for dinner, I know some of the songs by heart.

  And I’m so hungry, even fish sticks and ketchup sound good.

  CHAPTER 5

  September 1980

  I spend most of the night before the first day of school tossing back and forth under my quilt and worrying about sixth grade. I really hope this year is better than the last one. It has to be.

  In the morning, I hang around on the sidewalk outside my house for a few minutes, waiting to see if Pinky will come out and walk with me. But she doesn’t come and I end up walking to school alone. I get there just in time for the first bell, which shrieks through my ears like a siren. The first thing we’re supposed to do is go to the gymnasium for a morning assembly, where they’re going to announce our teachers for the year. I push my way into the crowd, all of us trying to squeeze through the narrow doors at the same time. Lucky for me, Dr. Nelson gave me the okay to stop using my crutches just in time for the first day of school, which was a relief ’cause I sure don’t need another reason to stick out like a sore thumb around this place. I spot Harrison and Matt on the other side of the gym, but neither of them sees me. I grab a spot on the floor, hug my knees to my chest and keep an eye open for Pinky. But I don’t see her anywhere. Maybe she’s late. Or maybe her parents haven’t gotten around to registering her yet. Or maybe they’re sending her to a Hindu school, after all. I think about Pinky’s wide eyes staring out at me from behind the silver window. And the little golden statue in her living room. I try to imagine what her mother would have been praying for that day. I’ve never once seen Mom pray. Not even when Daddy was sick.

  Karen Simons sits down in front of me. She lives on my street and, up until last year, used to be my best friend. I stare at the back of her T-shirt and think about all the times we used to play together. When we were six, I taught her how to turn a somersault. When we were seven, she taught me how to French braid my hair. I gave her a Barbie doll for her eighth birthday. She gave me a record for my ninth. I was the first person she told when her parents divorced last summer. She was the first person I told about Daddy getting cancer. Then last spring, she up and decided our friendship was over. Just like that, she started caring about clothes and boys and ignoring me. When I asked her why she wouldn’t talk to me anymore, she said, “Get off my case, toilet face.” Now Shawna Frankel is her best friend. The two of them share clothes and secrets and get their hair cut in the exact same style. If you saw them from behind, most likely you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.

  Our principal, Mrs. Fiorini, walks to the center of the stage and taps the microphone. Once we’re all quiet, she starts reading off the class lists in a monotone voice that sounds like one of those robot recordings. She starts with the youngest grades and slowly works her way up. An itchy heat breaks out over my skin while I wait for her to get to the sixth graders and I actually have to sit on my hands to keep from scratching my arms and legs raw. There are going to be two sixth-grade classes this year. One of them is being taught by horrible Mrs. Garvin and the other one’s being taught by a young teacher with feathered red hair who Harrison had when he was my age. I don’t remember her name right now, but Harrison always said she was really nice. You can bet I’m hoping to get in that class. In front of me, Karen flicks her perfectly brushed hair. She turns slightly and catches my eye but quickly looks away like she doesn’t see me. Then she leans over and whispers something in Shawna’s ear and they both giggle. A minute later, Mrs. Fiorini starts reading off the sixth-grade class lists. I hear Mrs. Garvin’s name called. And then I hear my name called. And then I don’t hear anything else ’cause the gymnasium ceiling comes crashing down over my head.

  Not really. But it feels that way.

  How is it possible that I’m in her class again? How am I going to survive another year like the last one? I have to bite my lip to keep from crying right there in the middle of the assembly. I bite it so hard, I taste blood. Lowering my head, I tuck my face into my knees until Mrs. Fiorini stops talking. When it’s time to leave, I take a deep breath and lift my head, staring in surprise
when I see Karen stand to go. Her lime-green T-shirt is stretched over her brand-new bumps. And she’s wearing a pair of Jordache jeans that are so tight, you could count the change in her pocket. What happened to her this summer? It looks like she transformed into a totally different person in just two months. She’s even wearing pink lip gloss. So is Shawna.

  Suddenly I feel like running out the gymnasium doors and not stopping until I’m far, far away from this school. If I had my feathers I’d fly away — fly until my arms give out … or until there’s no sky left. But I don’t. Instead, I pick myself up off the floor and walk out of the gym, following Karen and Shawna up the stairs to Mrs. Garvin’s class. When I get there, I take a seat at the very back of the room. With any luck, maybe she won’t notice me till next June.

  Too bad for me, I have no such luck. Right after attendance, Mrs. Garvin makes us write a paragraph about “What I Did Last Summer.” It’s exactly the same thing she made us do on the first day of fifth grade, which makes me feel déjà vu–ish in a really bad way. Within seconds, the air around me fills with the sounds of pencils scratching paper. I pull a freshly sharpened #2 pencil out of my schoolbag and stare down at the blank notebook page in front of me.

  This isn’t going to turn out well. I know this for a fact.

  But there’s absolutely no escaping it. This is also a fact.

  I adjust my pencil grip while I try to remember all the advice Daddy used to give me.

  Take your time, Finch … Don’t worry about the spelling … Just get your ideas out. That’s what matters most.

  Mrs. Garvin is walking up and down the aisles between the desks, reading over everyone’s shoulders. My hand starts to quiver as I slowly push my pencil across the page.

  This summer I wached Terry Fox running on tv. He is tryng to help find a cuer for canser.

  Don’t rush, Finch, Daddy’s voice calmly reassures me. Take all the time you need … It’s okay if it doesn’t look perfect … You can do it.

  “Five more minutes, people,” Mrs. Garvin warns.

  I think he is reely brave. I hope i can do sumthing brave like Terry Fox won day. maybe I can —

  Mrs. Garvin’s brown penny loafers pause beside my chair. My pencil freezes mid-sentence. “Sit up straight, please,” she says, tapping her twelve-inch ruler against the top of my desk. Her eyes float over my page and she lets out a tired-sounding sigh. “I see nothing’s changed with you over the summer, Miss Bennett.”

  “You can say that again.” Karen giggles from two rows up.

  I feel my face go warm.

  Mrs. Garvin waves her hand over my paper but doesn’t touch it. Like she’ll get cooties if she touches it. “This is unacceptable,” she says, clucking her tongue. “An absolute embarrassment.”

  “Just like her mother,” Karen whispers to Shawna, covering her mouth with her hand. Now my face is boiling hot. I think about the time two summers ago when Karen fell down on her roller skates outside my house and I practically carried her inside and patched up her shredded knees all by myself ’cause there wasn’t a grown-up around to help. I think about all the times Mom would invite her to stay for dinner and make a special dish just for her because she’s picky and didn’t like what the rest of us were eating. I think about all the times we had sleepovers and shared secrets and played Barbies.

  How did someone who used to be good turn bad so fast?

  Before I can stop it, the anger erupts out of my mouth. “Shut up,” I say to Karen. My voice is shaky and doesn’t even sound like mine. Only problem is, Mrs. Garvin thinks I’m talking to her. She sighs loudly and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. The look on her face says, Here we go again.

  Uh-oh.

  Bringing her eyes back down to me, she raises a thick finger and points it toward the door. “To the hallway, young lady.”

  “No, please. I wasn’t —”

  “Now, Miss Bennett.”

  Of course, Karen doesn’t get in trouble for what she said. She never gets in trouble because ever since she turned popular, she’s been one of Mrs. Garvin’s pets. It’s only ten thirty in the morning and already this day couldn’t possibly get any worse. Bypassing my regular spot in the hallway, I go straight to the girls’ bathroom. I lock myself in the end stall, clamp a hand over my mouth and let out a silent scream. When I’m done, I feel a bit calmer. But I’m still not ready to leave the privacy of the bathroom to go sit in that hallway. So I take a seat on the toilet and read over the collection of graffiti decorating the stall.

  Rule the school.

  Jenny loves Davey.

  Down with disco.

  Bikini Fiorini. (This one is right above a doodle of our principal wearing a frilly two-piece bathing suit.)

  It’s only after I finish reading all the graffiti that I realize I’m still clutching my freshly sharpened #2 pencil in my right hand. I hate writing. And I know graffiti is wrong. But something powerful is calling on me to add my own message to this bathroom stall. Leaning forward, I find a nice blank spot and add my own scrawl to the jumble of words.

  I want to disapeer.

  I write it really, really small. Like a whisper in a dark room.

  It’s just a tiny rebellion. But it helps.

  After school, I don’t go right home. Instead, I walk to Pinky’s house and ring the doorbell. I want to ask if she ended up coming to school today. I want to ask her why she never goes outside. And what her mother prays for. But nobody answers. I ring it again. And then I put my ear to the door and listen hard. Call me crazy, but I’m sure I hear someone breathing on the other side. That, and the distinctive squeak of a thumb being sucked.

  “Pinky? Padma? Are you there?” I say.

  And then I hear the sound of bare feet running away across the hardwood floor.

  Why won’t they open the door? Is it some kind of a game? Like a reverse Nicky Nicky Nine Doors?

  I reach into my schoolbag and take out a piece of notepaper, a pencil and the Fig Newtons I saved from my lunch today. From Finch, I write. Then I fold the notepaper around the cookies and slide the whole thing through the narrow mail slot on the door.

  At dinner, Mom tells me she’s got the TV fixed, so I better not go breaking it again or next time she’ll take the handyman’s bill out of my allowance. I gobble down my fish sticks, race downstairs and turn on the TV, hoping to catch up on some of my favorite shows. But instead of Laura, Mary and Nellie Oleson, there’s a breaking news story flashing across the screen.

  It’s Terry Fox.

  He’s crying.

  He has to stop running. His cancer has spread.

  “Now I’ve got cancer in my lungs,” he says into a bouquet of microphones.

  Like Daddy, I think.

  I cry along with Terry for a few seconds. And then I snap off the TV because I don’t want to watch anymore. I feel so sad about this news. I can’t explain why because I’ve never even met Terry Fox, but somehow this feels almost as bad as the day we buried Daddy. Like my heart just broke all over again.

  I go upstairs to my room and shut the door. I reset my clock to 7:00 a.m., close the curtains, lie down on top of my quilt and squeeze my eyes shut. And then I wish really, really hard that when I open them it’ll be this morning all over again. And that this awful day didn’t actually happen.

  It doesn’t work.

  That night, I dream about my feathers. They’ve grown in all white and fluffy and smooth. And I’m happy because it means I’m finally able to fly away. I spread my feathered arms and fly up, up, up to where I think I’ll find heaven … where I know I’ll find Daddy. The air is cold and black all around me and I fly so high, my head gets dizzy. But I keep going. I fly until my arms are tired and feel like they’ll fall off. But I keep going. I won’t stop until I find Daddy.

  I don’t remember what happens after that in my dream. But when I wake up the next morni
ng the muscles in my arms are aching. And my pillow is wet.

  CHAPTER 6

  Next day in Mrs. Garvin’s class, we have to write another paragraph. This one’s supposed to be about “My Sixth-Grade Goals.” As soon as she announces it, I feel that awful itchy heat start to come back and I put my hand up for a bathroom break. Once I’m there, I splash some cool water over my arms and face. Then I go straight to the end stall and sit down, feeling a little bit guilty for lying because I don’t really have to go. I just needed to get away from that awful classroom. I scan the wall for new graffiti, and you’ll never imagine my surprise when I see a message waiting for me right under the note I wrote yesterday. The one about wanting to disappear. There it is, written in bold black marker, as clear as day — a message for me.

  Don’t.

  I stare at the word for a full minute. It’s just one word. But it sparks a little light of hope inside me. I wonder who wrote it. I wonder if it’s a girl my age. Maybe even someone I know?

  That afternoon, I ask Mrs. Garvin for permission to use the bathroom again. “The diarrhea in her brains must be spreading to her butt,” Karen whispers to Shawna as I pass by their desks. I ignore the giggles that follow me as I make my way out of the room. This time I bring a pencil with me so I can write back. I lock myself into the end stall and wait until I’m sure I’m alone. Then I adjust my pencil grip and add my secret thoughts to the message chain.

  I hate it heer.

  I write the words a bit bigger this time. Then I lean back and look at what I’ve done. I’ve never liked writing. But I love the look of my confession on that bathroom stall.

  When I get home from school, Mom’s not in her figuring-out chair. And her car is gone from the garage. I drop my schoolbag in the front hall. My shoulder sags with relief.

  Wherever Mom went, I’m just glad she didn’t take me with her. I don’t like riding in that old car. It makes awful clunking noises and the tires squeal every time it turns a corner. Plus, it’s especially bad on hot days like today when the black vinyl seats bake in the sun and burn the backs of my legs.