Flyaway Read Free Page A

seat, and then saunters across the street like he owns it. His faded jeans hug his thighs, and from the way he fills out his green army jacket, I can tell he's been working out.
    "Look, Stephanie—"
    "Stevie."
    "Stevie. You don't know what to feed this bird or how often it needs to eat. I bet you were going to give it a cute little name, weren't you?"
    I hadn't thought about the feeding thing. But I was thinking of calling her Tweety Bird, after my favorite cartoon character.
    "What makes you the bird expert?"
    "I work at a bird rehab clinic, okay? Someone put in a call about this robin, and I've been observing it for the past hour. By the way, you don't just pick up a baby bird without waiting to see if its parents are around. A mother bird always comes back for her babies, unless she's hurt. Or dead." He tilts his head, and the sun glints off his dark lenses. I hate not being able to see his eyes. "The clinic's got incubators, aviaries, the works. Which I assume you don't."
    He's making me feel like such a moron I want to punch him in the nose, and I can't imagine why any bird clinic would hire a reject like him. But I have to admit, it sounds like he's a lot more set up to help the bird than I am.
    "Fine. Take it, then."
    He moves toward the bird and wraps one hand around it with a quick motion so the bird's head sticks out between two of his fingers. He holds it toward me. "Only safe way to pick up a bird."
    Big friggin' deal,
I feel like saying. "What's wrong with giving a bird a name?" I ask instead.
    He motions me to follow him across the street to his car. He opens up the passenger side and then nods toward the back seat. "Open that box."
    Even though I hate him bossing me around, I lift the lid off the shoebox that sits on the torn vinyl seat. Inside is one of those green plastic baskets strawberries come in, filled with wadded-up toilet paper. He sets the bird on the toilet paper, and I realize it's a nest.
    "You don't want to get attached to a wild bird," he says as he slips the lid back on the shoebox. The bird chirps inside. "You name it, you'll have a hard time letting it go. Well, I'm going to get this bird over to the clinic." He smirks at me. "Sorry to steal your pet."
    He gets in the car and turns on the engine. I kick the ground, making a brown gash in the grass. As I head back to the other side of the street, I call, "Her name's Tweety Bird!"
    He sticks his arm out the window and tosses a card at me. "Come by the clinic sometime. You might learn something," he says. Then he peels away.
    I watch till his car disappears before I pick up the card.
On the Wing: Bird Rehabilitation,
it says in small black letters.
Valerie Harrison, licensed wildlife rehabilitator.
It lists an address and a phone number, which I barely look at. I shove the card in my pocket and head toward the apartment. Just the thought that Mom might be there makes me walk faster.
    Â 
    Our apartment is in a little complex across the street from a McDonald's and a Chevron station.
    A couple of guys stand out front, staring under the open hood of a truck. "I told you the choke's shot," one of them says as I walk by. Then he tosses a cigarette butt into the street. They smell like beer.
    Each unit has its own number painted on the front door. Ours is number 11. I check out our window. The blinds are partway open. I don't remember if they were like that when I left, but I hurry to the door and fumble with my keys. "Mom," I call. I can't get the door unlocked quick enough.
    The orange shag carpet glares at me, and the vacuum's still parked in the middle of the living room. My note to Mom sits next to her ashtray, exactly where I left it.
    I slump onto the couch and stare at the water stain on the ceiling, the one that always reminds me of a spider. Then I notice the answering machine is blinking. There are a couple of calls from Alex, wondering why Mom hasn't made it in to work.
Delete.
Then a call from Mrs. Watkins, my counselor at Ballard