I don’t think two kids can ride alone.
But I look a lot older when my hair is done up.
And Birdie is great at acting.
And persuading too. Birdie could convince Mrs. Spater to bake a whole lemon pound cake for him, even when she was tired.
Maybe he could convince her that we are better off living with her.
That our lives stopped when we left and all we want is to come home.
CHAPTER 5 LOOKING OUT
The next morning is Monday and Birdie neatly arranges his books and binders inside his backpack before we leave for school. He’s got black leggings on along with his favorite purple jacket. I don’t see any jewelry, not even his milk-and-cookies charm necklace, which he wears almost every day.
Birdie says, “Patrick didn’t get home until nine o’clock last night. And now he’s already out in the shed. Is he like a secret agent or something?”
“I guess he’s some kind of mechanic. Rosie says he drives all over Northern California fixing engines that other people can’t fix.”
Birdie says, “The engine whisperer,” zipping his backpack closed.
I’m about to ask him if wearing the purple jacket at school stresses him out, when Patrick suddenly calls from downstairs, telling us it’s time to go.
Birdie puts his Book of Fabulous, which he usually brings with him, in one of his drawers. I offer him some of my toast but he shakes his Honey Bunny Bun at me.
“I hope you’re not eating more than your share,” I say. “It’s fifteen each.”
He rolls his eyes. “What do you think I am? A bun stealer?”
Patrick waits for us on the front step while the truck idles. He locks the door behind us and I’m surprised to find the truck warm on the inside.
When he pulls into my school’s parking lot, he says, “I have a job in the next county and might be home a little late again. There’s roast beef, cheese, and tomato in the fridge.”
I look at Birdie, wanting to tell him that it’s going to be okay. No matter what happens in that meeting with Patrick and Ms. Cross-Hams, I will make sure he’s okay. But Birdie never makes eye contact with me.
“Maybe you should call my cell phone when you guys get home,” Patrick says.
I nod.
I can tell he wants me to close the truck door and get a move on. So that’s what I do. Except I don’t exactly get a move on. I stand there in front of the school steps, with students streaming around me like water around a rock, and watch Birdie disappear in Patrick’s truck.
• • •
My English teacher, Mr. Belling, peers over his glasses at us as he hands out a sheet explaining the details of our next project. Working with a partner, we’re supposed to select a poet, research their life and poetry, and then make a poster to share with the class.
More than once Mr. Belling stops, takes off his glasses, and pinches the bridge of his nose, which is something he does when someone asks a stupid question. It’s the perfect class to write in my notebook because Mr. Belling has to stop so many times and breathe himself calm in the face of many clueless students.
Sometimes, when I can’t think of anything to write in my observation notebook, I doodle in the margins. I draw Birdie’s milk-and-cookies charm necklace, which is probably at Patrick’s house, tucked away in a drawer. I guess he didn’t want to wear it when he knew he’d have to sit through a meeting about his clothes.
I’m not sure how long Mr. Belling has been calling my name when I finally hear, “Miss Royland? Hello? Earth to Jack Royland.”
I look up from my notebook and see Mr. Belling frowning at me. The tall kid in front of me twists his body around, and under his long, blond bangs I see him eye my notebook. I quickly close it.
“I’m trying to inform you of your partner for the poetry project. I hate to think that she’ll have to do all the work because you chose to not pay attention in class.”
Everyone looks at me and I think I even hear snickering.
“I’ve said this before, Miss Royland: Participation is much easier if you’d just pay attention to the front of the class instead of whatever you are doing in that notebook.”
His bald head has gone from white to an aggravated red and the body odor coming off the tall kid begins to suffocate every other thought from my mind. I wish he’d turn around so that his arms are clamped down again, holding in that horrible smell. I don’t know what it is with the boys this year, but they do not smell good.
Mr. Belling finally calls on another student. The boy in front of me turns back around.
When the bell rings, I don’t wait to find out who my partner is. I grab my things and head out the door.
I’m at my locker when a voice behind me says, “It’s not your fault. He always zeroes in on the smart ones in the class.” I turn around and face a girl with huge blue-framed glasses. “I think he’s jealous of the smart students. My mom knows him from way back. She said he’s a frustrated failed novelist who is forced to teach middle school English for a living.”
It’s a girl named Krysten. I don’t remember her last name. But her dark complexion and tons of neatly done braids and blue glasses make her stand out. She’s one of two black students in the whole school.
“I’m Krysten, you’re Jack,” she says.
“Ummm” is all I can get out before she starts talking again.
“Is Jack short for something?”
“Um, Jackie?” For some reason her pointed questions make me second-guess everything I’m saying.
“Oh, okay,” she says. “I was just wondering because my mom’s name is Jacqueline and her friends sometimes call her Jack. Anyway, I just
