Moon Shadow: The Totally True Love Adventure Series (Volume 1) Read Free Page B

would read my latest creation to my mom and dad. I wrote about the people in our neighborhood and I made up little lives for them. Once, when I had the flu I wrote poems from the points of view of the various parts of my body, the pain those parts felt and what they would do when they were better, like ballet dancing and singing and eating candy bars. But when my dad died, two years ago, I sort of took a break from writing poetry.
    At the moment, I don’t want to think too deeply about what’s happening with my mother and the mystery man. It seems I have room for only one feeling at a time, and right now that feeling is disappointment. There sure isn’t anything cool in my life to write about.
    While I’m waiting for my mother to come upstairs, Manny chirps incessantly. I open his cage and bring him out, perched upon my hand. He bows his head guiltily, as if he’s being scolded for some mischievous deed. I hold him to my breast and gently stroke his feathers. Sometimes I like to think Manny just might be the earthly manifestation (I love that word) of an angel God has sent to guide me, sort of like one of the three angels who, in the bible, visited Abraham.
    “Manny, you and my dad are the only ones I can trust,” I say, putting him down on top of my dresser. Then I begin to imagine what Manny would say if he could talk.
    He looks at me with one eye, his head cocked. “What’s eatin’ you, kid?”
    “Oh, nothing, it’s just that my mother’s a floozy, I haven’t got my period yet and I lost my best friend. Nothing big, Manny.”
    “Why all the fuss over getting your period? There’ll be inconveniences. What’s the hurry? And give your mother a chance, see what happens.” Averting his eye, Manny stands on one leg and stretches a wing behind him. “Your friend will be back, I know.”
    My dad bought Manny at a pet shop on my ninth birthday. We named him Man-O-War, like the species of bird that flies above the seas, never in its lifetime touching down to earth. I suppose my dad preferred the name because he was a jet pilot in the Navy, but I don’t like to think about that.
    “You don’t understand, Manny. I want to be normal. I want to fit in.”
    “That’s tricky.”
    Pretending to converse with Manny is my little secret. Only Manny and I know about it. It started when I found out my dad had died. People, like my mother, would think I was psycho, mad as a March hare if I told them about it, so I don’t. I’ve also created a fictional story about Manny’s mother and father, about their being from Colombia in South America. That’s why I started studying Spanish two years ago. I want to read Gabriel García Márquez in the original language. Before Manny was separated from his family in the pet shop, Manny’s sister told him that their mother was a distant relative of Márquez. I can’t decide if I believe it or not.
    With Manny cupped between my hands I enter my closet and shut the door. Sometimes, as now, I feel the need to humble myself, like when saints kiss the wounds of lepers. But I’m not doing it for God’s mercy or anything.
    In the darkness, I sit on the floor in a corner behind clothes on hangers and wait for my mother. Manny hops about with his scratchy feet.
    I’m still crying a little. I can’t help it. I know it’s all right because feelings, like crying and laughing, just happen
.
My dad told me so.
    I recall how my dad would make me laugh when he tucked me in at night. He would always read me a story, and sometimes he began by reading the last sentence of the book backwards: “After ever happily lived they and ...”
    “Oh, Daddy,” I would say, and tap his head and he would begin the story anew. Sometimes I would climb on him, like on the monkey bars at the playground. My dad was so strong.
    In those days my mother would help me get dressed. “Put this on, or I’ll have to tickle you,” she would say. I hate to admit it, but I really miss that. And I miss when my mother