Birdie's Book Read Free

hook shaped like a snake and dropped her gloves on the hissing radiator painted gold. While she pulled off her snowy boots, I set Belle down on a table whose top had sheet music glued to it. I pulled off my gloves and dropped them on the radiator, too. Then I hung my matching spring green jacket on a snake hook beside Mo’s and kicked my own boots off to join hers.
    Mo smiled at me as she tossed her keys into a basket next to a dusty violin bearing the inscription
Aventurine
. There was something familiar about that word. Was it the name of a long-lost family member my mother mentioned once? Was it a color?
    Mo snatched up my suitcase again, carrying it effortlessly up the circular staircase. Her big feet in droopy socks clomped on the steps. I almost giggled at the thought that her plants might tighten up all their roots from the vibration. I picked up Belle and followed, my feet barely making a sound.
    I stopped at the crescent-shaped landing halfway up the stairs. It was crammed with old musical instruments webbed with spider’s lace. A clarinetrested on the floor next to a broken music stand.
    â€œI know people who would be tempted to give that clarinet a little nudge and watch everything come tumbling down,” I said to myself; then I realized I’d actually said it aloud!
    â€œI suppose those are people I would never invite into my home,” said Mo.
    I reminded myself to stay quiet until the jury was in on whether or not my grandmother was a certifiable C.O.B.
    â€œDo you play?” I asked.
    â€œThese old things? No. I need to fix them,” she said, nodding toward the instruments. “I have a working violin and guitar,” she added.
    We climbed the rest of the stairs and Mo turned around, announcing, “This room was your mother’s. You may move things around if you want. I left it as it’s always been, figuring she’d be back to change it herself someday.” Mo swung open the door and stepped back.
    Neon pink bedroom walls were plastered with posters of old pop bands. Above the headboard, on the sloping ceiling, were two posters of a teenage boy with shoulder-length blond hair parted down the middle. I checked out the signature at the bottom of the poster.
    â€œWho’s Leif Garrett?” I asked.
    Mo sighed and playfully rolled her eyes. “He was a singer who was popular for a while. Oh, your mother had such a crush on him.” She smiled ruefully. “Closest thing to a plant I could get her to as a teenager was this Leif.”
    I found myself truly grinning (braces and all) for the first time in weeks. It was just the kind of joke
I
would make! “So she
did
have fun when she was a kid,” I said.
    Mo looked around the room as if she were hunting for an answer. Then she said, “Probably more than she remembers, Birdie. She’s forgotten so much, left it all behind.”
    My good mood vanished, and suddenly and terribly, I missed Califa and my friends. I missed my dad. I even missed my mom. I put Belle on the nightstand, willing the tears to go away before they spilled over.
    â€œTomorrow, let’s transplant Belle into new … uh … clothes,” Mo suggested. “But I must say, I’m very fond of the hat she’s wearing now.”
    I could tell Mo knew I was sad. But I was still feeling cautious, and I sure didn’t want to start crying, so I said, as lightly as possible, “Thanks.”
    I picked up my suitcase and tossed it on the bed.
    â€œI’ll leave you to it,” said Mo. And with that, she headed out the door. I could hear her big feet
thump-thump
ing all the way down the stairs.
    I sat for a minute, gathering my thoughts. I liked my grandmother. I had to repeat this to myself to make sure I wasn’t just imagining things. I
liked
my grandmother. Yes, I liked
my
grandmother, my very own Granny Mo. I liked her a lot. I even liked thinking about calling her the name she wanted me to, Granny