FOR MY PARENTS—ALL FOUR OF THEM
KATHY DAWSON BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
Text copyright © 2020 by J. M. M. Nuanez
Illustrations copyright © 2020 by Jessica Jenkins
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Ebook ISBN 9780399186790
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Nuanez, J. M. M., author. | Birdie and me / J. M. M. Nuanez.
Description: New York : Kathy Dawson Books, [2020] | Summary: “Ever since their free-spirited mama died ten months ago, twelve-year-old Jack and her gender creative nine-year-old brother, Birdie, have been living with their fun-loving uncle Carl, but now their conservative uncle Patrick insists on being their guardian, which forces all four of them to confront grief, prejudice, and loss, all while exploring what ‘home’ really means”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019020270 (print) | LCCN 2019022239 (ebook) ISBN 9780399186776 (hardcover)
Subjects: CYAC: Brothers and sisters—Fiction. | Loss (Psychology)—Fiction. | Sex role—Fiction. | Uncles—Fiction. | Home—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.N7 Bi 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.N7 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
COPYRIGHT
1 HOW TO MOVE AGAIN
2 DINNER WITH A CLAM
3 THE TORNADO
4 THE LONG WAY TO TOWN
5 LOOKING OUT
6 A DOG WITH SNEAKERS
7 SHOPPING WITH PATRICK
8 THE PROPOSAL
9 SUSPENSION
10 WHEN TO USE THE MICROBLASTER
11 GIFTS
12 CRACKS IN THE ICE
13 A DRASTIC THING
14 ISLANDS ON THE LAKE
15 PICKING UP THE PIECES
16 AN ENIGMA
17 ONE ISLAND NEXT TO ANOTHER
18 A SMALL WOODEN THING
19 BRIGHT SPOTS IN THE DARK
20 WHAT HOPE LOOKS LIKE
EPILOGUE JOURNAL ENTRY NO. 1, DECEMBER 13
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1 HOW TO MOVE AGAIN
Today is Saturday, the day we usually eat Honey Bunny Buns for breakfast and read the back page of the newspaper with Uncle Carl while he drinks coffee and smokes on the porch. The back page is the section of the newspaper that has weird news about things like two-headed llamas or people who get themselves stuck in air-conditioning vents or pets that are accidentally sent through the mail and survive.
But today isn’t just Saturday. It’s also moving day. And right now my little brother, Birdie, is on the couch waiting for me to open my eyes. I pretend to sleep, but even in the half-light, through squinted eyelids, I can see he’s got Mama’s old purple eye shadow on and a towel draped around his head like a glamorous headscarf.
“Jack,” Birdie whispers. “Miss Jackie Jack Jacko.”
“I’m sleeping. You should too,” I say.
“I can’t sleep any more.”
He creeps across the couch, down to my futon, and lays his head next to mine. The smell of Dr Pepper lip gloss fills the air. In my ear he says, “I’ve got a stomachache and it’s probably critical. I don’t think we can move today.”
I open one eye. “Critical?”
Birdie leans toward me and whispers, “Critical is the worst stage.”
“You’re not critical,” I say, sitting up.
“Okay,” he says, “but I do have a stomachache.”
I peek out the dusty blinds. Patrick will be here to pick us up in two hours. “I do too, Birdie.”
Birdie straightens his towel scarf and rewraps it under his chin and says, “Do I look like Audrey Hepburn? With my scarf?”
“Who?”
“Audrey Hepburn. You know. Charade. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. My Fair Lady.”
I wait for him to say something about Mama and her obsession with these old movies, but he doesn’t.
“You’d look more like Audrey Hepburn if you had sunglasses,” I say. “But it’s not bad.”
He smiles a little, but unwraps the scarf and drapes it over his head like a lampshade. Then he takes a fashion magazine from the coffee table and opens it on his lap. “Maybe we should go to the library today,” he says.
I don’t say anything because even though he might pretend that today will be like any other day living with Uncle Carl, I see that he’s already packed his backpack and two duffel bags. Birdie’s only nine, but he knows there’s nothing we can do about this move. Uncle Carl messed up too many times and now we have to move in with our other uncle, Patrick.
• • •
Two hours later, Uncle Carl comes out of his room in his shiny gold boxing robe. He salutes us, and then leaves the apartment with his empty coffee mug. His first cup of the day is always the free coffee from Juan at the Stop-and-Go down the street. He told us that him and Juan have an understanding. I don’t know what exactly they understand, but as long as Uncle Carl brings his own mug, he comes back with free, steaming-hot coffee.
Birdie puts one magazine down and picks up another.
I try writing in my observation notebook, but my pen doesn’t write anything except a giant question mark with a lopsided circle as its dot, which I color in until my pen starts to run out of ink.
I make a second piece of toast because Mama used to say that toast was good for stomachaches and other ailments like sadness and nervousness and writer’s block. But after eating it, my stomach drops when I see Patrick’s truck pull up.
Birdie must hear the engine, because he looks up from his magazine and says, “But Uncle Carl isn’t back from the Stop-and-Go yet.”
“I think I see him now,” I say.
Uncle Carl and Patrick meet on the sidewalk and stare at each other, and for just a
