Birdspell Page 8

  “The hospital called me,” he answered, getting to his feet and stretching.

  “Why would they call you?”

  “Your mom has me listed as her emergency contact,” he said. “They called to let me know what happened tonight.”

  I let that sink in.

  “Okay, but what are you doing here?” By then my hostility was more forced than felt. I think I put on a convincing front.

  “I’m here, Corbin, because you’re here,” he said. He slipped off his jacket and tossed it on the cushion he’d just vacated. “Anyway, right now, we both need some sleep. You’ll obviously have to miss school tomorrow — we can get everything figured out then.”

  School. I didn’t mention the suspension. Mike was right, the thing I most needed was sleep. Invisible weights sat heavy on my shoulders and my eyes stung from the fluorescent glare of the hospital lights and lack of rest.

  I barely made it to my mattress before I was out.

  Ten hours had disappeared by the time I opened my eyes again. For a second, maybe two, the world was normal. Then the awfulness of last night rushed in — blasts of sounds and sights and smells. Like Pop Rocks of horror exploding in my brain.

  I got to my feet slowly, feeling like I might fall over if I made any sudden moves. Sounds beyond my room told me Mike was in the kitchen. I vaguely registered the fact that he was talking to someone … to Sitta, actually. I should have realized Sitta would have started squawking long before mid afternoon if he’d still been waiting for breakfast.

  I made a quick stop in the bathroom and went to the kitchen doorway.

  “Hey,” Mike said. “This guy was warming up for a protest so I snuck him out of your room and got him some grub.”

  His thumb jerked toward the top of the fridge as he spoke, but Sitta had flown over his head and out into the hall. Probably shunning me over being fed by a stranger while I slept.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said. I glanced uneasily at the frying pan sitting on the burner and the crumb-and-grease-covered plate near it on the counter. I wondered what he’d eaten and how long he planned to hang around here living on food I’d paid for.

  “I called the hospital a while ago,” Mike said. “Your mom had a good night and they’re looking at moving her to Psych, either this evening or tomorrow morning if all goes well.”

  “She can’t sign herself out, can she?”

  “No — they’ve already had a judge sign off on keeping her there. For her own protection. And the doctor’s orders are no visitors for the first week at least.”

  I tried to look disappointed about that, but if Mike was paying attention at all, he probably saw relief instead. A Mom-free week sounded like a holiday, as long as I knew she was safe and being taken care of.

  “Why don’t you grab some breakfast? I’ve got a few places to go, but I won’t be long.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” I told him. “So, thanks and everything, but you really don’t have to come back.”

  Mike took a minute to answer. When he did, all he said was, “I’ll see you in a while.”

  “A while” was almost two hours and I’d started to think he’d changed his mind when I heard a key in the door.

  “Where’d you get a key?” I asked as soon as he stepped inside. When I’d found him there earlier I’d assumed I’d left the place open, but apparently a locked door wouldn’t have mattered.

  “Your mom always makes sure I have a key to wherever you’re living,” he said. “In case of emergencies.”

  “Like last night, when she decided being a mother was too much bother?” I muttered.

  “I don’t think it’s like that, Corbin,” Mike said. He headed toward the kitchen and I noticed for the first time he was carrying three green bags full of stuff. Food, to be exact.

  I followed, more interested in what was in the bags than what excuses he might make for my mother. He sat it all on the counter and nodded toward the bag nearest to me, signaling me to help unpack, which I was only too glad to do.

  My bag had bananas, apples, carrots, onions, coffee cream, and a couple of big bags of potato chips. One plain and one barbecue. It took some self-control not to yank one open and stuff a handful in my mouth. I couldn’t remember the last time I had chips.

  Mike was finishing unpacking the other two bags and I saw, among a bunch of other stuff, that he’d bought hamburger and a package of buns.

  “I was thinking burgers for supper,” he said. “You ready to eat soon?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, as casually as I could. “I’ll wash the frying pan.”

  Twenty-three minutes later I was sinking my teeth into a greasy, still-sizzling burger with cheese and ketchup and a thin slice of raw onion. I fought the urge to wolf it down, which was good because eating slower let me enjoy every amazing bite.

  I wiped my chin with my sleeve when I was done and found Mike watching me, grinning with a bit of meat stuck in his teeth.

  “Want another one?” he said.

  I let him talk me into it.

  Twenty

  “OKAY, SO LET’S TALK.”

  I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to lean back and enjoy the fact that I was too full to budge. When I could move again, I planned to take care of the sprouts I was growing for Sitta and go tell Taylor I was totally available to babysit for the next few weeks.

  “Corbin?”

  “Yeah, sorry.” I forced my eyes open and looked across the room to where Mike sat. He had a piece of wood in his hands and was scraping at it with one of his whittling knives.

  “First of all, you want to talk about what happened last night?”

  “Not really.”

  “It must have been scary.”

  “I guess.”

  “You’ve been living this way for a long time.”

  “I don’t remember things ever being different,” I admitted. “Mom keeps promising it’s going to change, but it never does.”

  Mike didn’t say anything to that. Maybe he thought he should be loyal. After all, Mom is his friend. Or maybe he knew there was nothing he could say.

  “Is your dad still working in Barrow?”

  “No, he finished his research in Alaska months ago,” I said quietly. I knew that from his last letter, which I’d torn up as soon as I’d read it. “Now he’s on some remote Norwegian island.”

  “Still off the grid quite a bit, then?”

  “And halfway around the world,” I said.

  “In any case,” Mike said, “he does the right thing in some ways. Like financially.”

  I shrugged. A “who cares” shrug. My father claims he thinks of me a lot and hopes to spend some time with me soon. But mostly, his letters and emails are about the places and people he encounters on jobs that guarantee he’ll see me, at most, for a few weeks a year.

  “I get why paying support isn’t enough,” Mike told me. “But without it you’d be on the verge of eviction right now, and there are enough problems to deal with without that.”

  “We’re not getting evicted?”

  “Nope. His support payment, and also her child benefit, went into your mother’s account after she crashed, so none of it was spent.”

  “How do you know what’s in my mom’s account?” I wasn’t sure whether I felt uneasy or relieved that Mike apparently had access to our apartment and my mother’s personal information.

  “She gave me her info for online banking,” he said. “That was a long time ago, in case it was ever needed. And there’s a power of attorney too.”

  “So, the rent money’s there?”

  “Yep. And enough to cover a few other things. I feel it’s only fair for you to know what’s taking place, so I’m going to fill you in on everything, okay?”

  When I nodded he went on. “I saw a social worker today — he looked into the file an
d they’ve approved me as a provisional foster parent for you. They’ll even provide some funds toward your care. So, don’t worry about anything.”

  Sitta picked that moment to swoop into the room — like a wingman that could actually fly. His timing was perfect, drawing Mike’s attention away before he saw how his words had gotten to me. And then Mike was talking again and the danger was past.

  “My boss let me have a couple of days off to get things sorted here, but I’ve got to be back at work on Friday. Only thing, my shift starts at 7:00 in the morning. So, you’ll have to get yourself to school. Can I rely on you for that?”

  I laughed. There I’d been all choked up a few seconds ago and now I was like some giddy, over-emotional goof-ball. Mike raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment.

  “I always get myself to school,” I told him. “But actually, about that —”

  I filled him in about the incident last week and the suspension. He asked to see the letter from the school and didn’t look too happy as he read it.

  “I’ll come to the meeting, but this kind of thing can’t be happening,” he said. “Do you get in a lot of trouble?”

  “Never,” I said. “I mean, this is the first time. But don’t worry, I won’t mess up.”

  Except, I almost did, the very next morning.

  Mike and I got to the school a few minutes before the meeting was supposed to start. The office worker had us sit in the waiting area, which was fine except when we were ushered into the conference room where the VP and guidance counselor were seated, I saw that Mack and his parents were there too.

  Mack slid me a triumphant smirk — a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a mocking glint in his eyes. I didn’t react.

  The vice principal, Mr. Fanjoy, leaned forward, his elbows on the long, reddish table, and touched his fingertips together.

  “We all know why we’re here this morning,” he said, sounding like he’d said the exact same thing the exact same way a thousand times before. “We hope to resolve this matter so that this young man,” he paused to nod at Mack, “can feel safe, which he has every right to do.”

  Mack smirked again.

  That was when I was close to saying or doing something that would have made the situation much, much worse. And the VP’s next comments didn’t do anything to calm me.

  “Moreover,” Fanjoy continued. “We hope to impress upon you, Corbin, that bullying is not, and will not, be tolerated in the halls of Middling Academy.”

  I saw, through my growing fury, that Mack’s father was staring at me, the way you do when you’re trying to intimidate someone. His mom, on the other hand, seemed to be carefully avoiding so much as a glance in my direction.

  “Does Corbin have a history of bullying behaviors?” Mike asked suddenly.

  “No, and we’re hoping to keep it that way,” said VP Fanjoy.

  “It really seems out of character for him,” Mike said mildly. “I can’t help but think something precipitated his actions. Not to excuse what he did, but it does make me wonder. Would the other boy, perhaps, have any incidents of aggression on his record?”

  “We obviously can’t disclose another student’s information,” Fanjoy said. He looked just a little less sure of his control of the meeting.

  I noticed that my heart rate, which had begun to race, was slowing again, and that I was feeling a whole lot calmer.

  “Anyway, I believe an apology is required here,” Fanjoy said. “And I must warn you, Corbin, that any further incidents of this nature will not be so easily resolved.”

  I got to my feet and took a step toward Mack. He shrunk back, although I don’t know if that was an act or if he was genuinely afraid. You’d think it would be satisfying to think he might be scared of me, but the truth is, it bothered me a little.

  “Mack,” I said, “I’m sorry, man. I never do punk stuff like that. Actually, I think I might have had a fever or something that day — but, like I said, that’s not who I am. It won’t happen again.”

  I stuck my hand out and offered a friendly smile.

  Mack glanced back and forth at his folks, who both nodded encouragingly. He reached his hand forward hesitantly and I shook it good and firm.

  And I was back in class.

  Twenty-one

  WE WERE FINISHING AN amazing supper of chicken fajitas one day, when Mike mentioned we’d be grabbing takeout on the way to the hospital the next afternoon.

  “I imagine your mom will be glad to finally have a visitor,” he added, picking a piece of lettuce off his shirt and popping it into his mouth.

  “I thought she couldn’t have anyone for a week,” I said, taking my plate to the sink. Even as I said it, I realized it had been a week, which hardly seemed possible.

  “Oh,” I said.

  “The days go by pretty quick when you’re busy, huh?” Mike said.

  Apparently. And there really had been a lot going on. I’d babysat Molly for Taylor on Thursday and again on Friday. That was when I finally met their mother, who told me right away to call her Sandra. She came home from her job as a dental technician a bit early, walking in on me lying on the floor performing a skit with some stuffed toys. Molly was giggling and clapping. Sandra paid me herself that day and gave me a few extra bucks. (Money I didn’t have to spend on food. It’s amazing to be able to save what I earn, at least for now.)

  “It’s great to have someone reliable to help with some of the babysitting,” she said. “Taylor really deserves a break. Some weeks, when her dad’s on the road — he’s a long haul trucker, I don’t know if Taylor mentioned that to you or not — but anyway, it’s been a lot for her, especially the evenings I’m taking my courses.”

  “Courses?” I said.

  “I know, I know. I already have a career, right? And it’s not that it isn’t satisfying, to some extent, but for a while now I’ve wanted to do more. So I finally took the plunge and signed up to get my counseling degree.”

  That sent a red flag up instantly. As nice as Sandra was, I made an excuse and got out of there quick. The last thing I needed was someone analyzing me!

  Mike wasn’t in the apartment when I got home a few minutes later, and it was weird how glad I was to hear his key in the lock shortly afterward.

  Saturday, Mike announced we were going shopping and the two of us piled into his pickup and headed out. I assumed we were getting groceries, so it was a shock when we pulled up at a place where they sell used furniture.

  There were huge rooms full of stuff in there, and I couldn’t believe how cheap some of it was. Mike made the final decisions on what we got, but he asked my opinion and went with a couple of the things I liked. We came home with a futon and beanbag chair for the living room and a table with four chairs for the kitchen. The table is small, which is just right for now, but it also has a leaf to make it bigger.

  The next day we got invited to eat at his folks’ house. Well, his place too, I guess, since he rents a basement apartment there. We had roast chicken with stuffing and gravy and potatoes and peas and a while later his mom served warm cherry pie and ice cream. And it wasn’t even a special occasion.

  Then when we left, Mike said he had to grab something from his place, and when he came back he was lugging a blanket-covered smart TV.

  “There’s no cable or anything at the apartment,” I told him.

  “There will be tomorrow,” he said with a grin.

  I’ve been trying to relax and enjoy all these changes and not worry about later. Besides, I can’t help feeling optimistic — as though the worst stuff is over with and things are going to be better from now on.

  As crazy as it sounds, I have this theory that Sitta brought good luck with him. Not just by being there for company, either. I keep remembering how he said, “Spell. Spell,” the night Mom went into the hospital. And yeah, that was a bad night, but so much has turned around since
then. It really feels like something magic, something good and lasting is happening.

  Speaking of Sitta, Izelle was impressed — way more than the modest furnishings deserved, to be honest — when she came for her Monday visit with him.

  “Look at this place!” she said. “This is great! What changed your mom’s mind — you know, about the carbon footprint and everything?”

  “Actually, she’s sick again and a friend of hers is staying here,” I explained. “He thought it would be nice to have something to sit on.

  “Sitta likes it too,” I added, although that was mainly made up. Sitta hadn’t expressed an opinion one way or the other.

  Izelle’s eyes lit up at that and she launched into one of her non-stop talking jags. I kind of like when she does that because it requires so little in return. An occasional grunt, nod, or murmur and she’s good.

  She chattered away, jumping from subject to subject like a linguistic gymnast. As usual, she accompanied herself with hand gestures, graceful little sweeping motions one second and vicious air stabs the next.

  And while I was watching and half listening to her, it occurred to me that Izelle has become a friend.

  It’s been a while since I had a friend. A real one anyway. It’s strange, how she snuck into that spot without me even knowing it was happening.

  As I was thinking this, her words trailed off and she gave me a curious look.

  “What?” she said.

  I blinked at the question and said, “Huh?”

  “You’re looking at me weird.”

  And I don’t know why, exactly. Maybe all the good things that had been happening came together in a way that made me feel invincible at that moment, or maybe I saw how unfair it would be to her if it all fell apart and I just disappeared with Sitta one day, but something shifted inside me.

  I started talking. I told her everything. The truth about my mother, about how we lived, how often we moved — the words just kept coming and coming. When I finally stopped, she had everything she needed to reclaim Sitta, turn her back, and treat me like the liar I’d been.