Birdie (3 page)

Birdie

It is the sudden
emptiness that wakes me up hours later. It feels cold and vast and when I open my eyes the side of the bed that Mom had occupied is vacant. She’d even taken the time to smooth down her half of the quilt. I close my eyes as a tear leaks out. I lay that way for some time before I force myself up and to the window to confirm that the Ford Ranger is gone. Then I lay back down, feeling numb. 

I knew then it didn’t matter whether she stayed a few minutes, a few hours, or a few weeks after arguing with Tim. She was never staying. Even as she told him ok out on the porch, I now knew that if I had looked out that little rectangle window next to the trailer door, I’d have seen on  her face what it looks like when your mother decides to abandon you.

Breakfast is quiet. There is a counter with three large barstools that serve as the eating area in the trailer. There's room for a fourth but no fourth barstool in sight and I briefly wonder what happened to it.

Tim is trying not to watch me over his mug of coffee but nothing is on. Not the radio or the television, there's no newspaper in front of him. There's nothing else to watch.

He clears his throat. "I would say something stupid like she'll be back soon if I thought it would help but you seem like a smart girl."

I take a sip of my own coffee. I'd spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling and conjuring up random memories, ones that had nothing to do with my mother. Like the time Darla pushed me over on my roller skates because we both learned to do it at the same time. She was nine and I was six and I picked it up immediately and she got upset and shoved me.  I also thought about the time Kelsey
told me a joke just as I took a big gulp of root beer at the mall and I laughed so hard it came back up my nose, stinging it. My face was a mess of root beer and snot when Trey Donovan walked by, forever cementing my mortified state around him for the remainder of the school year.

What I didn't think about was my mom comforting me to sleep before slinking out to be with Robert Smalls. I didn't think about the years I spent at the end of Howard's irritated wrath. I was blamed for every broken glass. If my slippery fingers didn't produce the break themselves, then it was my distractive presence that was the cause for the accident. I didn’t think about the way Mom hushed me and shooed me and tiptoed me around Howard to keep the peace. I didn't think about how Mom needed a man to make her feel worth something. The man's feelings, wants, and needs consumed Mom's energy and I was folded and bended to accommodate. I have too many wrinkles as a result and it's time to smooth them out.

I put down my coffee and clear my throat. "She's not coming back," I say. "You don’t need to say anything.”

He nods but his eyes are concerned. We both fidget with our mugs and I’m thinking this might be just as hard on him as it is for me. I decide to start.

“I was at the top of my class in Houston. I can finish the school year and then I'm out of your hair. I've applied at four colleges and for scholarships. I'll get my own place. I just need a bed to crash in while I finish. You won't even know I'm here."

Tim looks relieved. "That sounds like a good plan. I work the swing shift at the station. Four to midnight most nights so you won't see me much. But don't worry about staying here. The room is yours. I know we don't know each other..." He blows out an uncomfortable sigh. "We're family, okay? I haven’t seen your mom since she was hiding out in this town pregnant with you and I may be out of practice because I haven't had any family in years, but I'll try."

"Okay," I say.

"Okay," he parrots. A nod. An agreement. I stay out of his way, he stays out of mine. We're the most arms-length of relatives. I make a mental note to check out the places he mentioned to Mom that were hiring. If I am going to occupy his space, I am going to contribute something.

We take a few more sips of uncomfortable coffee in silence before he mutters something about errands and I mention taking a walk and we part ways.

Wes

I pull up to
Shenoah High and put my truck in park with a sigh. I can see my dad's Beamer from here. I hate when he visits. I hate that the principal is his weekend golf partner. I try and shake off the grumpiness as I close my door and sling my backpack over my shoulder. Whatever my dad's faults, they're nothing like that girl's dad problems from the diner the other day.

Rachel finds me immediately and sidles up to me as I walk across the parking lot to the school. As far as girlfriends go, I couldn't ask for better. She's popular but doesn't flaunt it, just accepts it. Her hair is blonde, lighter than mine and falls past her shoulders. She normally keeps it off her face with one hair accessory or another but when we're making out, I let it go because it smells delicious and I like the way it brushes my cheeks.

Right now she smells like cigarettes and I make a face. She doesn't smoke all the time, but when she hangs out with Gretchen before school they usually sneak one in her beat up station wagon.

"Last one, I promise," she says, noticing my face. She always says that. "The chem test is today. I’m a pile of nerves.  It helps calm me. Notes?"

"In my locker, walk there with me."

One thing that irritates me about Rachel is how easily grades come to her. She doesn't take notes in class, opting instead to skim mine on test day and sails through with perfect scores. Me? I write down every god damned word, look back at them frequently while I do the homework,
and
I cram several days in a row before test day.

"Ugh. I hate that you wear a baseball cap to school. It's so small town," Rachel complains, swiping at my head. She’s tall, but I’m taller and she has to hop a little to bat at it. I smile and lean my head out of the way so that all she gets is air.

"We live in a small town. I match."

"But not for long," she says meaningfully and my face clouds over. Sometimes it feels like she and my dad are in on it together. My father has been pushing me to apply at Bowman.  Leave Shenoah, go to a fancy school where they churn out pedigree politicians, spend a few years in Washington, then return to the town and ascend the "throne" which other cities call a mayor. My family line is notorious for that. I thought with my older brother Grant filling those shoes, I'd be off the hook but nope. I shoot Rachel a look that screams
Don't go there
and she immediately changes the subject.

"We've got a new student."

"Yeah?" I don’t care, but I prefer this topic to the last one she broached.

"Yeah. Lacey got pulled to show her around. It's weird, huh? We never get new students. We get pass-throughs. No one actually stops and says, 'Yes. Let's live here.' "

I shrug. I hate when she puts the town down like we're too good for it. "Well, this girl did."

"No, her crazy parents did," she says, laughing as Bryce and Clay walk up.

"Chem test," Bryce says with wide eyes.

I shake my head. "Dude, if you don't pass..."

"I know, I know. Baseball's out."

I shove him in the shoulder. "You reek of someone who didn't study." His non answer says it all. "Geez, Bryce. I'm on my way to my locker. You can share the notes with Rach."

"I'm beyond notes," Bryce gripes.

"You need to break up with Amy," Rachel says disapprovingly. "You spend all your time attached her mouth when you need to study."

"That's like walking away from daily blow jobs."

"Bryce! Gross! More than we needed to know!" Rachel blanches. "Ugh." She leans up gives me a peck. "I'll get the notes myself. I can't do locker room talk before coffee."

Bryce turns to me. “You heard we got a new student?” he asks. All worries of the chemistry test are cleared from his face.

“You’re the second person to tell me and I parked my truck five minutes ago.”

“Sherrif Dobson stopped by during my office hour yesterday to register her,” Clay speaks up. His red curls glisten with newly applied gel. I envy him too. He took all his required honors courses last year leaving his senior year open for bullshit slots like office attendant hour and school gym monitor. It makes me wish I’d finished my rebellious stage in middle school instead of wasting my sophomore and half my junior year.

“Looks like the sheriff had some skeletons in his closet!”” Bryce whoops. “Who knew he had a kid?”

“I think it’s his niece,” Clay corrects. “For some reason, she’s come to live with him. And she’s a senior.”

I shoot him a puzzled look. “What normal senior switches school so close to graduation?”

Bryce wags his eyebrows. “The kind with skeletons.”

We reach my locker. I swirl in my code and pull it open. Rachel has come and gone. She’s taken my chemistry notebook and replaced it with three of her oversized text books. I grunt as I shuffle them around to get out what I need. Her locker is tucked away in the science building, a far walk from our usual hangout spots between classes, so she adopted mine early on in our relationship. A bright pink lipstick imprint is left on the bottom of my magnetic To-Do list notepad on the door. I rip it off before Bryce or Clay spot it and grin. A dirty joke between us.

“First one to bang her gets forty bucks.”

I tuck the note into my pocket and turn my head. I missed a chunk of the conversation about the new student and from the last tidbit I heard, it sounds like it devolved into an idiotic, dick-swinging contest.

“She’s not going to sleep with you,” I say.

“You don’t know that.”

“No one wants to sleep with you.” It’s more than ribbing amongst friends. Bryce hasn’t had much luck with women. His stomach hangs over his waistline, his skin is in a constant pus explosion on some area of his face, and he does stupid shit like bet his friends he can nail the new girl first for forty bucks. It’s no wonder he doesn’t want to give up Amy. Amy Stanton with her sad puppy eyes, limp curls, and constant need for reassurance. She’d be a lot prettier if she didn’t wear her desperation to be popular like a body suit.

“Not everyone can bag Rachel,” Bryce complains.

“Do not ever use my girlfriend’s name and ‘bag’ in the same sentence again,” I warn him. “And I’d never take that bet. Besides the fact that Rachel would kill me, I don’t take from the less fortunate.”

“Haha,” Bryce responds dryly. “Clay, you in?”

Clay gives him a bewildered look. “Standards, man. Call me old fashioned, but I’m not one to sleep with someone sight unseen. She could have warts. Or a crazy huge overbite. Or thinning hair.”

“Who has thinning hair?”

My father’s voice snakes around us, coming from some random side door, an interruption in our unadulterated male teenage talk. Bryce and Clay become the poster boys of stiff posture and politeness. I let my shoulders hunch a little and my expression tightens defensively.

“My grandmother, Mr. Lott,” Clay says smoothly.

My father wags a playful finger at him. “She’s a nice lady. Focus on her winning attributes.”

Yep. This is my dad’s version of being funny. Only a rod-filled rectum politician like my dad could still manage to drop “focus” and “attributes” into a joke.

“Principal Barr gave me a peek into your file, son. Keep up the good work.” My father claps a heavy hand on my shoulder before strolling away with the principal. My face relaxes more with each step he takes. The bell rings. We’re late now. But it won’t matter. Because I’m the mayor’s son. Bryce and Clay will ride that pass with me. I can feel it, how close on my heels they are as we shuffle a little more quickly to class.

Birdie

Esther Norris has a
lot of hair. It’s bottle blond, teased in the front and sprayed into a style that looks like it’s blowing in the wind except that’s its frozen that way and this afternoon, there is no wind. It’s four. It’s Tim’s day off but left for an extra patrol shift hours ago and I’m sitting on his lone lawn chair out front because the inside of the trailer has become too small after two solid days of being in it. I have in my lap a book he left on his coffee table.
Shield Protector
by Frank Simmons. A sci-fi book I had every intention of skimming in boredom but twenty minutes in, has my eyes glued to the passages.

Except when I’m glancing at Esther Norris.

Esther is Tim’s neighbor. First, I notice her in the trailer next door peering out from small window blinds. Even in those short glimpses of her face, I can read her hot pink frown.

Then, when the window doesn’t produce enough information to satisfy her curiosity, she takes up watering her small windowsill garden by her front door. She’s heavyset but stuffs what she can into short turquoise shorts and a yellow tank top.

After a couple more obvious glances, she moves her watering can to Tim’s front door. He has a cactus. She sprinkles it with some water.

“Sometimes when he gets real busy, I look after his plant,” she lies.
Sprinkle, sprinkle
.

I squint up at her. The sunlight is behind her, giving me a silhouette of her sprayed hairstyle and ample curves.

“I’m Esther Norris.”

I hold out my hand and she shakes it. “Birdie.”

Without invitation, she turns on her heel and grabs her own lawn chair, pulling it over to where I’m sitting and crossing her legs at the ankles. I wait for her next question before I decide if I like her. Her next question will tell me a lot about her.

“Do you have a library card?”

I raise my eyebrows at her. Not what I expected.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“Well, I want to ask what you’re doing in the sheriff’s trailer, but that’d be rude. So I asked a nice question instead.”

“I don’t,” I say. “Not to a library around here anyway.”

“Too bad,” Esther replies. “All Dobson has are those crummy futuristic books you’ve got there. The good stuff’s at the library.”

“I saw it on my first day in town. The library. I ate at that diner next door.”

“Raleigh’s? Good food. One of the few decent places to get a meal.” We pause. I don’t know what to say to this woman. I didn’t sit out here to beg for company. Suddenly, the air feels very hot. It sticks on my skin. Fidgeting in my chair doesn’t help. It only causes my sweat beads to band together and run rivers down my neck.

“Let’s go get you one,” she says, standing up. She strides over to her own trailer calling, “Just gotta get my purse.”

There is no room for no. I even open my mouth to form the words, but close it again as I watch her retreat into her home. It has to be a sad story indeed when I’m contemplating hitching a ride with a middle-aged nosy woman I’ve known for the space of two minutes to the library in a town with a population smaller than my last high school because I seriously do not have anything better to do.

So sad, I need tissues.

I bound back up the trailer steps feeling excited for the first time since my birthday. I open the door hesitantly because the trailer doesn't feel like home and every time I'm in it, I feel like a guest. Quietly, I start shuffling through cabinets in an attempt to piece together dinner. I find lettuce and a tomato and croutons but not much else for a salad. I dice the tomatoes and chop large chunks of lettuce and toss them with some olive oil and lemon juice that I squeeze from one of those plastic containers that look like a lemon. I also find frozen chicken breasts that look like they have grill marks painted on them. Those I warm in the oven on a cookie sheet. I shake my head the whole time I put together this paltry meal. As soon as I have some money, I’m going with Tim to the store. I glance at the clock. Five forty-eight.

I must have not been as discreet as I thought because Tim joins me in the kitchen from his room in the back and leans against the counter.

"So, you were out when I got home," he asked.

"Yeah, I met your neighbor. Esther. She got me out of the house for a bit."

"So where'd you go?"

"To the library on the main road. I got a job there."

The look Tim shoots me with is pure astonishment. "You’ve been here for four days and you got a job?" he sputters.

I smile and bite my lower lip as I nod. "Yep. I start tomorrow. Three days a week after school and Saturdays."

Tim's look transforms from astonishment to glistening pride. "I think I like you," he says solemnly.

I motion to my efforts. “Dinner,” I announce.

He surveys my food and grimaces. “Yeah, Tuesday nights I just pick up tacos from the stand down the street. I’m sorry, I’m used to living alone.”

I wave it off. I don’t want to remind him of his new burden. I made this dinner in an attempt to feel useful. “Tacos are fine. I mean, if that’s what you usually do.”

Tim gets up and walks around me to grab two plates and two glasses from the cupboard. “Chicken and salad is better,” he declares in a determined voice.

As we eat, the look on his face tells me chicken and salad is
not
better, but he forges on, bite after bite as we chew our meal in silence.

“So what was Mom like in high school?” I finally ask, breaking the silence. I picture Mom’s yearbook photo in my mind. Maybe Tim can flesh it out a little for me.

He spears a piece of chicken and holds it up, pausing to look at me pointedly before eating it.

“Do you want the glittery version or dirty truths?”

My whole life has been a glittery façade, a show for everyone while inside our house we swallowed the dirty truths. Even now, curtains are still being lifted. I’m still swallowing. I decide the best way to weather something is to know what I’m weathering.

“I’ll always want truth,” I answer and Tim nods.

“Our mother died when we were kids. I was eleven, she was nine. Our father drank from bottomless beer cans and had a stiff hand when he was good and sloshed. It wasn’t easy. High school was painful for her. She numbed it with acceptance. Or what she thought was acceptance.”

He sighs and sets the bite of chicken down on his plate. His fingers curl into fists and uncurl like the memory is hitting him on the inside and he is frustrated that he can’t hit back.

“She was pretty. Guys were always hitting on her. Every time she started dating someone, she thought for sure he loved her. I got into a lot of fights defending her.” He shakes his head. “She left the first chance she got.”

“Did you know Howard?” I ask.

“I only met him once. I went down to Houston right after they were married. And I met Darla once. Your mom came back here after Howard kicked her out.”

“Kicked her out?”

“When she was pregnant with you. She refused to give you up. So he kicked her out. Your mom and Darla stayed with me. But Howard took her back a couple months before you were born.”

“Why?”

Tim shrugs. “Because he loved her enough to try.”

I recall Howard’s coldness. The way we were rarely alone together. His distant looks when I was the topic of conversation at the table. His eyes glowed when Darla talked about making an A on a test but they were cool and aloof when I mentioned a paper I nailed or won ribbons on a school project. His detachment made me push harder to impress him, to break through the wall.

I never did. But all that pushing set me up to roundhouse kick these last few months of school and get on with my life.

“When do you think I can start school?” I ask.

“I went up there today to see what you needed since you’re eighteen. You just need proof of address. My landlord, Mr. Griffin, is out of town until Thursday so when he gets back, I’ll add you to the lease and stop by the school office on Friday.”

“So, Monday then.”

Tim nods.  “Monday.”