Friends of a Feather by Lauren Myracle
“Me too!” Taylor says. “And I’ll be a race-car driver.”
Beside me, John tugs on his hair. I can tell he’s thinking that he might want to be bald, too. Lexie tells everyone that if she was bald, we could see her bruise better, and Taylor says, “Shut up about your bruise already!”
“Hey!” Lexie says.
“Taylor, we don’t say ‘shut up’ in this classroom,” Mrs. Webber says. “You know that.” She picks up the egg timer she uses for time-outs, and Taylor says, “Aw, man.” Then he calls Lexie a weenis. I don’t know what a weenis is, but it’s a word that makes everyone giggle and talk out of turn.
Mrs. Webber closes her eyes.
Elizabeth raises her hand and doesn’t wait to be called on. She cries, “Mrs. Webber, Mrs. Webber, Lester escaped again!”
“What?!” Mrs. Webber says. Her eyes fly open. “No. Please tell me he didn’t.”
“He’s not in his aquarium,” Elizabeth says, pointing. “He’s gone!”
There is a madhouse of girls squealing and drawing their legs off the floor and onto their chairs. John squeals and pulls his legs up, too. His knees bang the bottom of his desk, and a container of pens and pencils goes flying.
Chase and Taylor and Lexie get out of their seats to look for Lester. So do other kids.
I go to Joseph and say, “Let’s look behind the bookshelves. He likes dark places.”
We go, and we look, but Lester isn’t back there.
Joseph sets off to search somewhere else, but I grab his wrist.
“Um . . . we should keep a lookout,” I say. “Just in case.”
Joseph pulls his eyebrows together. Then he lets them relax. He slides his back along the wall and sits down.
“Taylor is loud,” he says.
“I know,” I say, sliding down next to him.
“Even louder than he used to be.”
“I know.”
There is chaos all around us, but Joseph and I have the book nook to ourselves. We watch people shriek and run around.
“Does Lester escape a lot?” Joseph asks.
“Not a lot a lot. Maybe once a week.” I straighten my legs. “Mrs. Webber keeps trying to give him away, but nobody will take him.”
“I would, except there’s no way my mom would say yes,” Joseph says.
“Same with mine,” I say. “And it’s too bad, because Teensy Baby Maggie needs a pet, but oh well.”
“Huh?” Joseph says.
“Teensy Baby Maggie,” I explain. “She needs a pet.”
“She does? Why?”
For a second I can’t come up with an answer. Why does Maggie need a pet?
I almost say, “Because I said so,” but that’s the kind of thing a kindergartner might say, or even a preschooler.
“She just does,” I say.
“What would she do with it?”
“Be nice to it. Feed it crackers. I don’t know.”
“Feed it crackers?”
“That part’s not important. The important part is that my mom said no to five thousand of my good ideas, but guess what? She said yes to a bird!”
Joseph tilts his head. “Why a bird?”
“Why not a bird?”
“A parrot?”
I’m getting frustrated, and my fingers tighten into a fist. “Not a parrot, because parrots don’t live in the wild. My mom’s one rule is that I have to catch the bird myself.”
“Huh? How?!”
“Agh! I don’t know! Maybe with a butterfly net! But if I do catch a bird—” I open my fingers and press them hard on the floor. “I mean, when I catch a bird, I get to keep it.”
“Cool,” Joseph says. He hesitates. “But . . . I thought you were giving it to Baby Maggie.”
“We’ll share. Also, Lexie thinks I can’t, so I have to catch one to prove her wrong.”
Joseph doesn’t get it, I can tell. Then I remember that he doesn’t know about our recitations last week. Mrs. Webber made us do an act of kindness, and I wanted my kindness to be a pet for Maggie, only it didn’t work out. The bird-catching bit was part of my speech to the class, but Joseph didn’t hear my speech.
I press the back of my head against the wall.
Joseph really was gone a long time.
He missed a lot.
I don’t mind helping him catch up, and I don’t mind all his questions. Not truly. I do mind everyone else in the world hogging his attention . . . but that isn’t happening this very second, so why do I feel like there’s a hole in my chest?
I feel this same way at bedtime every so often, after Mom and Dad kiss me and say good night and then go away. It’s a feeling of being lonely, and it comes to me with a shock that I miss Joseph.
I miss him even though here he is beside me. I DON’T KNOW WHY.
I look at Joseph. Joseph looks at me.
“Found him!” Chase proclaims, holding Lester in the air.
And yay for Lester, I guess, but I still feel lost.
CHAPTER FOUR
On Wednesday, I come up with an idea. Actually, two ideas.
First, I go to my closet and pull out my secret candy bag, which is filled with candy from birthday parties and Halloween and Valentine’s Day. It’s basically filled with any candy that comes my way, and I don’t even have to eat it to get the “feel better” feeling it gives me.
I like to feel how heavy it is and gaze inside at the different colored wrappers. I like to dribble fun-size Snickers and Dum Dums and Jolly Ranchers through my fingers. It’s like I’m a pirate and the candy is my gold.
This morning, I dig around in my candy bag until I find my special cinnamon lollipop. The lollipop part is round, like a Ping-Pong ball, only it’s red instead of white. Its wrapper says, “WARNING! CONTAINS FIERY CINNAMON FLAMES!”, which is how I know what flavor it is.
I go downstairs and put the lollipop in my backpack.
Now for the second part of my idea. I root through the junk drawer until I find the long stretchy Ace bandage I like to use when I’m wounded. I find Winnie, give her the bandage, and stick out my arm.
“Will you?” I ask.
“Oh my gosh,” she says. “Please tell me you’re not pretending to be Maxine.”
“I’m not!”
“And yet you want me to wrap your arm up like you’ve got a cast.”
Yes. Well. But I’m not pretending to be Maxine. I’m just being someone—me—with a broken arm.
Winnie snorts and takes the bandage. “Forearm, elbow, or both?”
“Both.”
Sandra glances over from the sink. She’s loading the dishwasher since Mom is upstairs with Baby Maggie. “Why are you pretending to have a broken arm?”
“Because of Joseph,” Winnie says, answering for me.
My face gets hot. “No.”
“Yeah-huh, because he’s getting all the attention and you want some, too.”
“No! I hate attention!”
Winnie and Sandra look at each other. They laugh.
“Sure, tiger,” Sandra says. “Whatever you say.”
I clamp my lips together. What I’m going to say is nothing, because I’m mad at them, because they’ve gotten me all confused again.
When I had the idea of bandaging my arm, I didn’t think, Ha-ha, and now I will steal all of Joseph’s attention!
I thought, Ooo! If I show up with a broken arm, then at least half the class will switch from Joseph and his red hat to me and my cast. Half will bother him, and half will bother me, which means the bothering will be split between us. Which means more of Joseph will be up for grabs. Yeah!
“Hey, it’s your arm,” Winnie says. “You can do whatever you want.”
I know I can, but she doesn't understand. It’s not me doing whatever I want. It’s me trying to even t
But I’m almost totally positive that the real reason for my cast is to get more Joseph-time for me, and more Ty-time for Joseph. More Joseph-and-Ty-time, period.
Winnie circles the bandage up and over my arm. She tugs the end tight and tucks it under the top layer. “There. Beautiful.”
Sandra comes over. She nods her approval and says, “We should sign it.”
“Ooo, yeah,” Winnie says.
Sandra grabs some Sharpies, plonks them on the kitchen table, and calls me over. Winnie joins us. I’m still a little bit mad at Winnie for not knowing the truth of what's inside me, but I sit down with them at the table.
“L-o-l-a” Sandra writes on the bandage, using fancy, loopy cursive.
“Who’s Lola?” I say.
“It’s to give you an air of mystery,” Sandra says. “‘Who is this Lola?’ your friends will ask. ‘Is she French?’”
Winnie puts her hand to her chest. “And you’ll gaze off into the distance like this”—she makes her expression dreamy—“and say, ‘Ah, oui. Lola, mon petit chou! How I miss her!’”
“What’s a p’tee shoe?” I ask.
“A cabbage,” Winnie says. “And now, some normal names.” She picks a red Sharpie and writes “BOB” in blocky capital letters. With a green Sharpie, she writes “Al.”
“Al?” Sandra says. “Who names their kid Al?”
“Who names their kid Lola?” Winnie says. Switching to a blue Sharpie, she writes “Serena.” She twists my arm over, and Pamela, Melyssa, and Jenny all sign my cast. Jenny adds “Feel better!” and throws in a smiley face.
I admire my cast. It looks awesome.
“Now listen, Ty,” Winnie says. “Nobody’s going to believe you actually broke your arm.” She holds up her finger. “But! They might believe you sprained your wrist or something.”
“What’s your cover story?” Sandra asks.
I tap my chin. The last time I wore my bandage, it was because I was a spy who’d gotten bitten by a poisonous earwig right on the ankle. Earwigs like arms just as much as ankles, I bet.
“A believable cover story,” Winnie says.
“But—”
“Ty . . .” she says.
So no earwigs. Fine.
Oh! But yesterday after school, I did some bird-catching in the backyard. It was because of Chase and how he captured Lester and thrust him into the air, crying, “Found him!”
I imagined doing the same thing, only with a bird instead of a snake, and without the thrusting part, since squeezing a bird tightly isn’t a good idea. I made up a whole movie in my head of how it would go.
First, I would cup the bird gently and hand it to Joseph.
“Here,” I’d say.
“Wow,” he’d say. He’d look at the bird, and then he’d lift his head and look at me. His expression would be happy and there wouldn’t be any weirdness between us at all. “Wow, Ty. Thanks!”
When I think about it now, my movie doesn’t make much sense.
But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up on catching a bird.
Yesterday, I did all kinds of creeping and leaping and being-sneaky-ing, but all I ended up with was a scratch on my arm.
Scratches are real, though. Realer than earwigs.
I tell Sandra and Winnie that my scratch is my cover story.
Sandra says, “Hmm.”
Winnie says, “Yeah, because I didn’t see any scratches when I wrapped you up.”
“There is one,” I assure her. “I snuck up on this one very cute bird, and I did a flying tackle, and I landed on a stick.”
“Birds are hard to catch,” Winnie admits.
“Sticks, on the other hand . . .” Sandra says.
“At school, make it more than a scratch,” Winnie says. She purses her lips. “Tell them you bruised your bone.”
“Can you do that?” I say. “Bruise your bone?”
“Sure,” Winnie says. “Happens all the time.”
Mom comes downstairs carrying Baby Maggie. “Girls? Ty?” she says. “Shouldn’t you be heading to school?” She notices my bandage. “Oh, honey, what happened?”
Sandra, Winnie, and I answer at the same time:
“Gangrene,” Sandra says.
“Just a flesh wound,” Winnie says.
“I bruised my bone,” I say.
Mom takes it all in. “Ah. So the bandage is just for fun.”
“No,” I say. “You don’t need to take me to the hospital, but my bandage is not for fun.”
Changing the subject seems like a better idea than trying to explain yet again, so I hop up, grab my backpack, and say, “Hey, what’s a weenis?”
Mom, Sandra, and Winnie swivel their heads toward me. Maggie grabs a handful of Mom’s hair.
Dad jogs down the stairs wearing his man shoes. He glances from face to face. “What’d I miss?”
“I asked what a weenis is,” I say.
“The tip of your elbow,” he answers.
Mom and the girls swivel their heads toward him.
“For real?” I say.
“For real,” he says.
Winnie scrunches her nose. “Weenis means the tip of your elbow?”
“Joel, how on earth do you know that?” Mom says.
“Sweetheart, I know everything,” he says. He winks at me. I grin.
Sandra puts down her phone, which she’s been tapping on. “Holy moly, it does. I just looked it up.”
So now I’m armed with my giant lollipop, my broken arm, and my weenises. Two of them, since I have two elbows.
I’m prepared for anything.
CHAPTER FIVE
I want to give Joseph the giant lollipop right away, but when I get to school, Mrs. Webber has already started morning meeting and I have to scurry to sit down with the others. The kids sit on the floor and Mrs. Webber sits in the chair from her desk, which she rolls to the center of the room. These days, she asks someone to crawl forward and lock the wheels, because last week her chair rolled out from under her. She fell backward, and her wooden clog flew off her foot and hit Lexie smack in the head. That’s how Lexie got her bruise.
Mrs. Webber launches into her “Here’s what we’re going to do today” speech, and I scooch toward Joseph.
“Look,” I whisper, holding out the arm with the cast on it.
His eyes widen. He reaches out to touch the bandage, then changes his mind and draws back his hand. “Are you okay?”
“I bruised my bone.”
“Your bone?”
I catch Mrs. Webber glancing at us, so I sit up taller and put on my Good Listener face. “I’ll tell you later,” I say out of the side of my mouth. “Be sure to sit with me at lunch.”
He gives me a thumbs-up.
After morning meeting, we do math. Then comes reading time. I sit at my desk and read Sink or Swim, which is about a brother and sister who fall into fairy tales and do funny things. Joseph is at his desk reading Darth Paper Strikes Back. Taylor is at the computer and taking one of the tests that says either yes, you really did read a certain book, or no, you didn’t and you only said that you did.
“I passed!” he says when his score flashes up on the screen. He sounds amazed. “Mrs. Webber, Mrs. Webber, I passed!”
“Taylor, that’s wonderful,” Mrs. Webber says. She gives him a smile, because reading isn’t easy for him. She says, “Class?”
“Hooray, hooray, hooray!” everyone cries. That’s what we do when anyone passes a reading test.
Taylor beams. I’m glad for him. Then something hits my cheek, and my fingers go to my face. Ow.
What was the thing, and where did it come from?
I hear a whistle. It’s L
I reach down and scoop up a small paper airplane. It’s a good one, with sharp creases, equal-sized wings, and a pointy nose that’s pointy even after crashing into me.
I’m impressed, because I am not the best at making paper airplanes. Instead of zooming through the air, my paper airplanes do nosedives or sad, floppy loop de loops. I’m good at other things, though. I can fling a playing card so fast that it slices through a Kleenex. Also, I can make George Washington’s head turn into a mushroom by folding a dollar bill a special way. And I know how to make paper airplanes. They just never turn out right.
Lexie whistles again. She pretends to open a book, which is her silent way of saying, Unfold the note, stupid-head.
Oh. Okay. I unfold the paper airplane. It says, What happened to your arm? xxx, Elmoneyfreshdogg.
Right away a second paper airplane zings me. This one says, Is that your fake bandage? We’re not allowed to bring toys to school, you know. xxx, Moo Moo.
My ribs tighten and I don’t look her way. I forgot that she and I played with my Ace bandage one time when she came home with me after school. I wrapped her ankle up. Then she wrapped my ankle up. Then I wrapped her face up like a mummy, only with room for her to breathe. Then she wrapped me up like a mummy, only without room to breathe.
But bruised bones are real. They happen all the time. And Ace bandages aren’t toys.
“Aren’t you going to answer?” Lexie whispers.
I read my book. Or, I stare at the pages anyway.
Since it’s a warm day, Mrs. Webber says we can eat lunch outside. I hurry to my backpack and dig out the giant lollipop, which I stick in my front pocket. It makes a lump. Then I grab my sack lunch. I’m careful to use my good arm and not my hurt arm, in case anyone’s watching. But I’m no longer sure the bandage was a good idea.
“Is your arm okay?” Joseph asks after we claim a picnic table. “Does it hurt?”
I wave off his question and pull out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
He pulls out a Go-GURT.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “I have a small flesh wound, but no one’s worried about gangrene.”