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Authors: Kristen Chandler

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BOOK: Girls Don't Fly
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When a bird pulls out its feathers because it feels miserable.
 
 
Melyssa glares at me over her toast. “Could you please stop chewing so loud?”
“I’m not chewing,” I say. “You are.” I mark my place in my biology book with a sticky note.
“Well, why is it so loud in here?”
Somebody got up on the wrong side of her stomach. I say, “Are you okay?”
“Do I look okay? I feel like I swallowed a microwave.”
Mom isn’t in the room, or Mel would get up and do jumping jacks to prove how fine she is. If Mom smells a cramp, Mel will have to go back to bed.
“What’s going on?” I say.
“I can’t take this anymore.”
“Which part?”
“The part where my brain drowns in boredom. The part where I can’t even wear my shoes, I’m so huge. It’s like being in jail from the inside. I want my body back!”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That sucks.”
Mel throws her toast on the plate and it skids off onto the table. I put it back on her plate, but I don’t wipe up the crumbs. That would be obnoxious.
She says, “How are you doing on your proposal thing?”
I scan the entry to the kitchen to make sure no one is listening in. “Turns out I don’t know jack squat about writing a science proposal.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“Say what?”
“I promise not to actually write it. If you will please, PLEASE, let me help you do something that doesn’t involve shopping for a baby, learning about babies, babysitting, or having someone probe my fat swollen bod.”
I consider this for a minute. This is my project. I want to do it myself. But Melyssa does look demented with boredom, and she’s a genius at making people give her money. At least she used to be.
“No writing. It has to be mine.”
Her face squeezes into a smile. “No writing. I promise.”
We head for my old bedroom and close the door. Melyssa revs up her laptop while I unload my backpack onto the floor.
Mel says, “The first thing we need to do is come up with a thesis so you can stop carrying around the library on your back.”
“I’m writing on cormorants.”
“That’s not a thesis, it’s a topic.”
“I’m not in seventh grade. Are you going to lecture me?”
“Are you going to listen?”
I hand her my outline for the proposal. “This is what I’ve done so far.”
She reads slowly and talks to herself. Melyssa is an audible thinker. If she really gets going, she sounds like Mr. Magoo. When she finishes she says, “This is a mess.”
I start putting my books back in my backpack.
She laughs. “Relax. It’s not an irreversible mess. But you’re trying to cover too much. You can’t write about everything that has to do with these birds. You need a niche.”
In spite of how badly I hate having her criticize me, I know she’s right. “Everything on the Galápagos is about niches.”
“Yeah. And you’re going to need something that you can really research. If you’re planning on winning this thing, which you sure should.”
“I thought you said my proposal is a mess.”
“God didn’t make the world in a day.”
“Yeah, but I don’t have four and a half billion years.”
“You won’t need it. You just need a project that you can actually research successfully, that is geared to your strengths, and that will appeal to your audience.”
“Is that all?”
“Who is your audience, by the way?”
“I don’t know. Some foundation.” I give her the sheet that Pete handed out the first day.
She mumbles like Mr. Magoo again while she reads over the paper. Then she fiddles on her computer for a minute. I go back to reading.
In a few minutes she says, “Does he look familiar?” She turns the computer around. There is a trim, gray-haired man in a business suit facing me.
“I think he was in the slide show Pete showed us. How did you figure that out?”
“I looked up the foundation that’s donating to the university. It’s here on the second signature sheet in the little tiny print that says you can’t sue anybody if you don’t win or you fall off the boat or something.”
I look at the sheet. “You mean ‘the Rocky Mountain Science Institute of Biodiversity and Sustainability’ gave you that guy? He looks Wall Street.”
“His name is Kenneth Whitehead. He’s the CEO of the institute. He’s also the guy who wrote that book
God Power!
”
“The guy funding the scholarship is a creationist?”
“No. He’s a businessman. A very rich businessman. Don’t you ever pick up a newspaper? His book was on the bestseller list for about a decade.”
“I’m in high school. I don’t read the bestseller list.”
“Fine. He made piles of cash selling his business management book and now he goes around promoting this idea that God wants to make you rich. He’s all about getting the Christian work ethic back in the schools and workplace.”
“Why would a God-in-the-schools guy want to fund a foundation that studies the Galápagos Islands? That doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t. And you might want to look into that before you write your proposal.”
She takes back the laptop. “He grew up around here. Well, in the city. Says in his bio that he did his undergrad at the university while working night shifts at UPS, then got into Stanford for his PhD in business. So he’s no dummy. His company teaches businesses how to use the golden rule to make filthy lucre.”
“I thought Jesus was poor.”
“Maybe he was doing his internship. I think God has mansions of gold.”
“But why would Mr. Whitehead fund this program?”
“Maybe it’s that ‘local boy makes good’ thing. Wants to help other kids going to crappy schools.”
“But the foundation is called Biodiversity and Sustainability. That doesn’t sound much like
God Power!
Or making money, for that matter.”
“Let’s look at your assignment sheet,” says Mel.
We both read over every printed piece of paper Pete has given me.
“I’ve got nothin’,” says Mel. “This looks legit. Straightforward undergrad field research. The only weird thing about it is that they’re offering the spots to Westside kids.”
“Oh, who cares? What does this dumb guy have to do with cormorants?”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of getting money to go to school. You have to know how to sell yourself.”
“Can’t I just sell the proposal?”
“Okay, Pollyanna. You read about birds. I’m going to read about Mr. Moneybags.”
In a few minutes she pushes away her laptop and lies back on her bed.
“You getting sick?”
“No. Maybe,” she says.
“Thanks for helping me with this.”
“I haven’t helped you yet.”
I look at her on the bed and I still can’t believe the mound on top of her is a baby, partly because nobody ever talks about it.
“How come you don’t want to know what flavor this kid is?”
“I like surprises.”
“Well, he or she ought to be perfect for you then.”
She tips her head up. “Maybe I don’t want to get attached to it.”
It takes a minute for me to get my breath back. “Are you thinking about giving your baby up?”
“I think you need to ask that guy who’s advising you, Pete, to tell you about Mr. Moneybags. Ask if there’s an angle on this. If you need to sound like a Christian, you’re going to have to work on one of those fairy tales you’re so good at with the boys.”
“Mom and Dad will freak.” I want to say that I’ll freak, but that seems too judgmental.
“The bit you have about the cormorants’ wings is good. It’s specific.”
“Mel, I’m serious. Have you told them you’re thinking of giving it up?”
She tries a few positions to get comfortable on the bed but fails. “It’s not Mom and Dad’s call.”
I sit with my legs crossed and keep my mouth shut.
She looks at me again. Her face is hard but calm. “Seriously. Who wants me for a mom? I’m about as mature as Carson, and a whole lot meaner.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“No,” I say. The idea that Mel could give up her baby has never occurred to me. That’s what fourteen-year-olds do. Nearly twenty is middle age for getting pregnant around this town. But Melyssa
is
mean and immature sometimes. She can also be tough and wonderful. Like how she’s helping me with my paper right now. And how she didn’t even get mad when I asked to borrow her car. “I’m just thinking about how weird it would be for someone else to have your baby. Like, they’ll adopt it and then it would start doing math and writing poetry and being sarcastic, just like you, and you won’t be there.”
“I know,” she says.
“Have you thought of asking Mom and Dad to take it?”
“I know Mom’s planning on it, but she’s not as young as she thinks.”
I nod. This is way out of my league. “What does Zeke think?”
“It’s not Zeke’s problem,” she says. “He’s off doing whatever he wants.”
“That must be hard,” I say.
“Oh, who cares? It just means I can make up my own mind.”
She hands back my outline and my assignment sheets, then drops over on the bed. Her tiny arms and legs curl around her big stomach. It seems like all that’s left of her is baby. “I’d rather be writing a proposal to go to the Galápagos Islands for the summer,” she says.
I tuck the papers back in my backpack. “Yeah.”
25
 
Crepuscular:
 
The kind of animals that hunt at dawn or dusk, like some birds and rats.
 
 
I’m scrubbing the tables on the marina patio today with Pete’s help. It’s a little early for a picnic, but Ranger Bobbie and I agreed it looks bad when people come to the office and see last November’s ketchup on the tabletops. Bobbie also agreed that Pete would love to help me.
“So how do you know Mr. Whitehead?” I say.
“Who?” says Pete, turning to me.
“Mr. Whitehead. You showed us a picture of him in your slide show.”
“Yeah. I did, didn’t I?” He frowns and rubs his chin. I can’t tell if he’s bothered by the question or by having to clean. “He’s an old family friend.”
“Really? He doesn’t seem like your type.”
“He isn’t. Why?”
“I want to research my audience.”
“He isn’t your audience. A panel of professors will select the proposals.”
“Why do college professors care about proposals from high school kids?”
“They get paid to. Two of the profs come on the trip.”
“But why does Mr. Whitehead care enough to pay them? Isn’t he like a God-in-six-days kind of guy?”
“You’re writing to scientists.” Pete’s not just bothered, he’s mad.
“But it seems like it’s important that we’re writing for a group of people funded by the author of
God Power!
”
“Look ... Mr. Whitehead is a deep pocket. He doesn’t tell the scientists what to think. Any of them.”
Pete goes out to the parking lot without another word. I go back to work inside. I have filing to do. There’s a lot of junk to throw out, but some of the stuff seems pretty confidential and important, stuff you maybe shouldn’t let just any high school student handle. But then again this place isn’t exactly the CIA.
At five o’clock I don’t see Pete. I call his cell to make sure it’s all right if I leave. I get no answer. I tidy up the desk. I vacuum. No Pete. No Bobbie. I don’t have any keys to lock up, so I wait. Mom will have been gone for an hour by time I get home. I know the boys are going to lose it if I don’t get out of here soon and start dinner.
At five-twenty the phone rings. Technically we’re closed.
I say into the receiver, “Great Salt Lake State Marina. How may I help you?”
“Yes. Yes. Is this the marina?”
“Yes.” I get that about every fifth call, but people aren’t usually so desperate sounding about it. “How may I help you?”
“We’re still out on—” The sound cuts out, then I hear a lot of wind.
“Are you out on the lake?” I say. It’s nearly dark outside and cold as all get out. I haven’t seen anyone coming or going since I got here. Too windy. I look out the window. It’s really windy.
His voice comes back. “Our boat capsized ... duck hunting. 911 was busy!”
How can 911 be busy?
“Are you in the water?” I ask.
BOOK: Girls Don't Fly
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