“What does she remember?”
Tally didn’t want to talk about it, Ava could tell. “She lived with her dad’s grandmother for a while. Then I guess she got kicked out or something. Sometimes she lived on the streets. Sometimes in foster homes. What does this have to do with you?”
Ava felt the blue, blue sky pressing down on her. Maybe Tally’s mom remembered her past; maybe she didn’t. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that Tally’s heart hurt. Tally was lonely and full of pain.
The words Ava needed were right there, if only she could grab them.
She jogged forward and grabbed Tally’s forearm. “Tally, wait up.”
Tally shook Ava off. “What?!”
“You said my family’s weird,” Ava said. “I said you’re right.”
“Fantastic,” said Tally. “And I care because . . . ?”
“Because I think you’re part of my weird family. I think your mom is my dad’s little sister.” She took a breath. “Tally, we’re cousins.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Emily, Age Thirteen
“You’re going to win, you know,” said Klara.
“Oh, please,” said Emily. It was the beginning of May, and she and Klara were lying on their backs at City Park. They’d turned in their Academic Olympiad projects that afternoon, and Emily felt light and airy. She thought of starfish and snow angels. She imagined rising into the sky.
“You oh, please,” Klara countered. “You’re, like, the smartest girl in our grade.”
“First of all, ha. Anyway, I didn’t even answer the final question, the one about freedom or whatever.”
“Freedom of expression: Is it worth fighting for?” Klara said in a stuffy, scholarly voice. “What does it mean to be ‘free’? Illustrate using examples from the past, present, or future.”
Emily groaned.
“You wrote something,” Klara said.
“I wrote nothing.”
“You left the page blank? For real?”
“I didn’t leave it blank. I drew a picture.”
“Shut up,” Klara said. “Are you serious?”
Emily let the sun warm her skin. “I am as serious as a . . . oh, I can’t even think what I’m as serious as.”
Klara laughed. “No. Way. Emily, you’re brilliant without even meaning to be.”
“Um, not following.”
“Instead of writing some boring essay about how important freedom of expression is, blah blah blah, you freely expressed yourself, and you did so by actually illustrating . . . whatever you illustrated.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not.”
“It’s just a dumb contest,” Emily said. “Honestly, I don’t care about winning.”
“Winning would be fun, though,” Klara said.
“I guess. But if it came down to me winning or you, I’d pick you.”
Klara said, “Awwww. Brilliant and selfless. Practically perfect in every way.”
Emily rolled onto her side and propped her head on her palm, debating whether to bring up something that was gently but insistently tugging at her. With Klara, as with Nate and her mom, Emily had decided early on not to intentionally invade her thoughts.
Sometimes things slipped through anyway, and beneath Klara’s breezy manner, Emily sensed a thrum of worry.
And you are her friend, Emily told herself. Friends look after each other.
She cleared her throat. “Hey, Klara, I feel like something’s on your mind.”
Klara stared at the clouds.
“Are you okay?” Emily pressed.
Klara rolled onto her side to face Emily, matching her head-on-palm position. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Know when something’s wrong. If I’m worried or upset or whatever, you always know.”
Emily shrugged and reminded herself to hold back as best she could. Hold back, but also be there for Klara—a tricky mix. “You do the same for me.”
“I try.”
“You do,” Emily insisted. She hesitated. “So, something is wrong?”
“Not wrong, really. But do you know that old lady, the crazy lady everyone calls the Bird Lady?”
“I know of her.” The Bird Lady was homeless, Emily knew that. In fact, the Bird Lady was possibly the only homeless person in all of Willow Hill. “My mom tells me to stay away from her.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s my mom. Because the Bird Lady . . . well, she doesn’t exactly wear stockings and pumps and ‘proper’ grown-up lady clothes, does she?”
Klara laughed. “I suppose not.”
“I once saw her wearing a dress made entirely out of candy bar wrappers.”
“That’s impressive, actually.”
“I thought so, too!” Emily swiped a strand of hair off her face. “My mom says she should be institutionalized.”
“That’s harsh. Do you?”
“I think she’s her own person, and I’m okay with that. I also think—know—that my mom is as far from okay with that as possible. In my mother’s perfect world, everyone would act appropriately, think appropriately, and absolutely dress appropriately, always. And my mother would be the one who got to decide what was appropriate or not.”
Emily saw the Bird Lady in her mind, scattering birdseed for the ever-present birds that flocked around her. “If the Bird Lady were really someone to fear, I don’t think the birds would trust her.”
“Like how dogs have built-in jerk detectors?” said Klara.
“Animals are better judges of character than humans, some people say.” Emily furrowed her brow. “But what’s going on? Did something happen that involved the Bird Lady?”
“Well, yeah,” Klara said. She gave a puzzled smile. “Yesterday I was at the flower garden by the senior center, where the gazebo is. I was reading Slaughterhouse-Five and trying to get some sun, so I don’t look like such a codfish now that summer’s coming.” She wiggled her toes, drawing attention to her slim, pale legs.
Emily, with her pale skin, would stay codfish white all the way through August. Codfish white or lobster red.
“Anyway, the Bird Lady just kind of . . . appeared and plopped down beside me, out of the blue,” Klara said. “She was wearing a bright-orange jumpsuit, like what someone doing roadwork might wear.”
“Ah,” Emily said. “Was she doing roadwork?”
“She mentioned my Wishing Day, and how it’s coming up soon.”
“In two weeks. Mine too.”
“Yeah,” Klara said, nudging Emily’s foot. “But how did the Bird Lady know?” She twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “She said to be careful what I wish for.”
“Ooo, because you just might receive it?” Emily said. She made spooky fingers. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Then she took my book—just took it out of my hands—flipped to a certain page,
