“You’re coming too?”
“We’re both covered in your blood. I need to get it off me too.” This was way too mortifying. If I could crawl into a hole and stay there for the rest of my life, I would.
He let go of me and he took off his shirt. The black of his shirt had covered the amount of my blood on Greer. A rust colored stain covered his skin. I turned my head down to the water. If I dared to look at him, I would be staring at his chest and then the blood.
He noticed my blush. “Hey, I promise I won’t look. You aren’t the first girl I’ve camped with. I’ve camped with over fifty before. I didn’t look at them, and I won’t look at you.”
When I hesitated, he added, “Go ahead and wear your clothes in at this point; they’re covered with blood too. I have a shirt you can wear in the tent. Come on.”
When we made it to the waist-deep water, he let go. The clothes were heavy as I carefully lowered myself to a crouching position. I put my head back into the water, and the cold liquid stung the back of my head again. I didn’t dare use my hands to clean it. It hurt too much, so I let the water do the job, barely moving.
Finally, I relaxed and came back to myself. I was okay. Sore but okay. Greer had sewed up my head, but it was okay. My shoulder had open wounds, bleeding but okay. I was okay because of Greer. He splashed in the water and without meaning to, I turned to see him. His shirt was off so he could clean it. True to his words, he faced away from me. His back was lean, defined with muscles. I wondered how I had missed his body in those shirts.
Greer turned around and our eyes locked. We stood staring at each other in silence until I said, “I’m done.”
Greer nodded and came over, a pile of clothes under his arm. Oh, my... he was only wearing his underwear. I went blotchy again and immediately turned around.
“I’m here to help you get back.”
“I’m fine,” I said, struggling not to look at him. To prove the point, I took one stumbling step towards the shore.
“Waverly, we have a long way to go. You can’t make a big deal out of boxers—we’re sharing a tent. Now really, let me help you.” He pulled my arm around his waist.
I forced myself away, tripping again into the water.
“Are you pigheaded or modest?”
“Neither,” I said, pulling my clinging shirt away from my chest.
“Right.” He took my waist and kept me upright.
At the tent, Greer carefully bandaged my shoulder wound and handed me one of his black shirts. “It won’t fit, but it should cover you.”
When he left, I threw my sopping wet clothes outside the tent and slipped on the shirt. It hung down to my mid-thigh. When I went out to collect my clothes and wring them out to dry, I discovered that Greer had already done it for me, and I assumed that he’d left again to make another phone call.
Okay by me. I’d had enough for the day. I was embarrassed, hungry, and in pain, but I needed sleep more than anything. I unzipped the tent and sat on the paper-thin sleeping bag. Air filled the mattress, making it a comfortable seat.
That bird attacked me. I knew, just knew, that bird was one of my uncle’s. He probably kept birds of prey to control Manon’s birds. That’s why they never misbehaved.
Manon’s birds were probably terrified of the larger birds. I understood that. I remembered my chorus class junior year. Ms. Kitchner was mean, boring, and meek, all at the same time. A terrible combination for a teacher. We never behaved all that well. Her voice cracked every time she yelled. Old Crackling Kitchner. There wasn’t a lot of respect there, and most students acted accordingly. That was, until three kids took things too far by lighting a folder on fire to get her to really crackle. The principal suspended them, and then he hung out in the back for a few days to settle us down. You show control, and suddenly everyone remembers how to behave in school. I’m sure all the birds of prey had to do was kill just one small bird in front of them and suddenly, they’re all singing in harmony like a chorus finely tuned and scared.
Like a chorus.
I nearly fell over as the answer to the mystery became clear. I clenched my stomach in pain. If I hadn’t felt like throwing up before, I was close now. The reason the birds were always perfect, the reason they never bit her… Oh dear lord. Manon was not who she appeared to be because she had to know the truth, the awful, terrible truth. Those birds weren’t born birds. They were people!
I placed my hands on both sides of myself so as not to fall over.
“Waverly, you okay?” Greer called from the other side of the tent.
No. No. No. “Yes.” My voice shook.
He rushed into the tent and knelt beside me. “You look about ready to fall over.”
Claudette was right. If Manon had ever cared about me, she would have told me the truth. “I’m okay,” I squeaked out.
Greer gently wrapped his arm around my shoulder, careful not to touch my wound. “You need to lie down before you fall over.”
He helped lower me down. “You don’t look so good. Is it the pain?”
Pain? Like the pain Lothaire felt? The pain all those people must have felt being turned into songbirds. I nodded.
Greer grabbed his bag. “I thought you might have a hard time sleeping with that wound.” He handed me the canteen and placed a
