Flyaway Read Free

anyway. I catch the number 71 bus downtown and then transfer to the 48, which will take me to the Ballard neighborhood.
    It's a long ride, but I don't mind. I've been riding Metro ever since we moved to Seattle last summer, so I'm pretty used to it. Of course, if I had a car, I could get around a lot faster. I've been bugging Mom for months to let me get a learner's permit, but whenever I bring it up she just blows air through her lips and says, "What do you need that for? You already know how to drive." It's true, back in Montana she'd let me take the wheel if she'd had too many beers, as long as we were off the highway and there weren't any cops around. But I doubt that's the kind of practice the driver's license people have in mind.
    As the bus gets closer to our neighborhood, the houses turn into dumpy apartments. I get off at 8th and 85th and head toward our street.
    After passing the Four Spoons Cafe, I hang a right on 9th and take the shortcut through the cemetery. Most people think cemeteries are creepy, but I think they're cool. I like to imagine those dead people hanging out under the grass, talking about what goes on up here. Who knows, maybe they're watching out for me.
    I turn onto the skinny street that borders the west end of the cemetery and pass the place I call Crow House because the old lady who lives there always sits on the porch in her bathrobe and talks to the crows. She's not in her usual spot today, but there are plenty of crows around. A fat one perches on the telephone wire and caws at me. It sounds so sassy I put my hands on my hips and caw right back.
    Chirp!
From behind me comes a high-pitched cry that's definitely not a crow's. I turn my head in the direction of the sound, but all I see are the blackberry bushes growing over the cemetery fence.
Chirp!
This time I look down. A baby bird with only a few scruffy feathers staggers in the dirt near my feet. It wobbles, then flails its wings and falls over.
    I kneel beside the bird. "Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you."
    It trembles and chirps even louder.
    There's no way this bird is going to survive on its own. It's so small and helpless and so close to the road, I know it's just a matter of time before it gets flattened by a car or mauled by a cat. I inch closer and hold out my hands. "It's okay. I'll take care of you."
    "Hey! Don't touch that robin!" The guy's voice is a low growl.
    I turn. I didn't notice the silver Honda parked across the street before, but now I see a guy about my age staring at me through the open driver's side window. Glossy dark hair falls across his forehead and frames his angry jaw. With that voice, he makes me think of a pissed-off grizzly bear in sunglasses.
    "This bird is lost or something," I tell him.
    "What do you know about birds?"
    Wait. I know that growl. I study the guy more closely and realize I also know that face. And those sunglasses.
    It's all coming back. Alan Parker got expelled back in October for spray-painting "Jeff Taylor is a faggot" in big black letters on the front of the school. Even before that, he had a reputation as the meanest kid at Ballard High. He was the guy who tripped the special ed kids and made them fall on their faces. The guy who wrote an essay for the school paper calling the rest of us "sheep." Some girls thought he was hot, but when I look at him, all I see is a world-class loser.
    "Hey, did you hear me ?" he calls.
    I don't answer.
    He looks me up and down and smirks. "I remember you. Ballard High. I heard your mom's a babe. Keep meaning to go downtown and check out her act one of these days."
    I'm used to kids saying stuff like that, so I pretend not to hear.
    "You're Stephanie, right?"
    "Stevie." I'm careful to keep any hint of friendliness out of my voice.
    He nods toward my feet, where the bird sits huddled in the dirt, trembling. "Now, get away from that bird."
    "I'm going to take it home ... I mean, to my aunt's."
    He swings open the car door, unfolds his body from the