Boy, Snow, Bird(45)
Looking at this from the outside makes me afraid, as if I’m not Bird at all, and never was. Gee-Ma makes no allowance for me being a middle school kid when she talks to me, but then again I think she’s getting less and less able or willing to fix her mind on exactly who it is she’s talking to. When she calls me “child,” it feels as if she were trying to turn me into a different girl, the one she’d rather have there with her. There. It’s said.
Dad always comes back from Boston with something Snow wants me to have. The stuff she sends isn’t quite right for me—pairs of pink hair ribbons, meant for pigtails, for instance. I wear my hair short. I mean short-short. It looks like a cap of curls clinging to my head and I like that better than braids or bushiness. (Bushiness looks so good, but hurts so bad under the comb. I used to have to go to Tubman Street to get my hair braided. Maybe Merva Fairfax wove blessings or ill wishes into my hair with her nimble fingers . . .) Snow might think this is just a phase I’m going through and that I’ll want to grow my hair out soon. Pink, though? No.
Other things Snow has sent me: papier-maché wings to wear on my shoulders . . . those looked great, but didn’t fit. The straps were too small, or my arms too big. There was also an unusual music box that I found cute in the daytime. My idea of a music box used to be that it was a nice version of a jack-in-the-box—all you had to do was open the lid and the music twinkled out at you and maybe there was a ballerina twirling around in there too. This music box didn’t have a lid. The display case was a wolf, stood on all four paws, and made of cloudy gray glass that looked as if it were full of breath. His head was lowered to the ground and his tongue was sticking out a little bit—you could almost hear him panting. He had a hole right in the middle of him, bigger than his stomach could ever be, really it was heart space, lung space, and stomach space combined. The hole was filled by a little tin doll, painted peach, smiling and wearing a red felt cape. She had a lot of joints to her and you could take her out of the wolf’s stomach and stuff her in again. To hear the music wound up inside her you had to turn a key. I couldn’t do it without wincing. Having to turn that key in her back just to hear thirty seconds of Peter and the Wolf . . . her smile was so hopeful: Ya having fun? Are ya, are ya?
When it got dark, I didn’t like to turn my back on the music box. It never made any moves. I think it was me who changed. At night I tend to wonder where things come from. I’d look at the wolf and at Red Riding Hood with her knees up, not even playing dead, openly living there, and I’d try to think who could’ve made them and what that person meant by it. It wasn’t like the things people make around here, which are just so pretty they make you smile and feel lucky and rich just to be looking at them. The music box was closer to the snake on Mom’s arm. That was another gift that had to be given away in the end, like the wings were. It isn’t Snow’s fault; it’s just that we don’t know each other.
2
dad says newspapers don’t hire reporters with bad grades. Aunt Mia says grades aren’t as important as being able to learn on the job. I know whom I’d rather believe. It’d be nice to get an A for once, but that would mean getting organized and doing all my homework at home instead of scribbling a few half-witted sentences about The Adventures of Tom Sawyer or whatever it is at lunch break an hour before the report is due. I’m not completely hardened. I do still die a little bit inside when Miss Fairfax holds an essay of mine up to the light and asks: “Bird Whitman, do I see mayonnaise? Again?” That leads to me doing more homework in detention, where I work with an eye on the clock and often don’t finish a sentence if it means staying a second longer than I have to. Louis waits for me, and every time he waits he says it’s the last time. He only talks like that to show his independence; the boys in his class see him waiting and say I’ve got him well trained. I just look at him and say: “You’re a pal, Louis.” I tell him I don’t take him for granted. I tell him I honestly don’t know why he bothers with me. And he actually blushes—it’s the cutest thing in the world—and grabs my schoolbag and carries it to our next destination. Class work in class, and homework at home, I’d be a better student and a better daughter if I stuck to that, but I went and had a bad Monday at school and I brought it home with me.
It started at recess. I was lying on a bench listening to Connie Ross going over her half of the poem we’d had to learn for Spanish class: Caminante, son tus huellas / el camino, y nada más; / caminante, no hay camino . . . it was a poem I was falling in love with, I think. I must’ve been, because I’d whisper a couple of lines from it to myself or to the cobwebs: Wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. The poem tells me it’s no big deal that I’m not like Snow. I can be another thing; I’m meant to be another thing.
Connie practiced and then I practiced, and we were excited, we were word perfect, maybe I was going to get my first A grade for this. Louis was a few yards away, playing at being a boxer; he and Jerry Fallon were mainly just sidestepping and jabbing their fists at each other, occasionally taking a dive as one or the other of them got hit by a fake knockout punch. Louis was commentating as well as fighting: “I’m Ah Wing Lee, Oregon State’s Chinese Lullaby, you’re Hubert ‘Kid’ Dennis of Montana, the year is 1933, we’re in Portland and this is our grudge match—yeah, you defeated me once, but once is all you get—you spring left, I spring left—”