“Yeah.”
I don’t know what she means about always seeing me with Birdie. It’s not like he comes to school with me.
Then I realize: She means around town. She’s probably gone by us in the car or something. I sometimes forget that’s the sort of thing that happens in a small town.
“Anyway, I know you’re still kind of new. So I just wanted you to know about Mr. Belling. That, and we’re partners for the poetry project, so maybe we should come up with a time to meet and get started.”
She stares at me like I’m a knot she’s trying to untangle.
“They’re not girl clothes,” I say. “They’re just clothes.”
Her cheeks get a little darker and I feel bad for saying it so forcefully when it was just an honest mistake on her part. “Right. Sorry. I like his sneakers. Anyway, I also like your notebook. The one you had in class? I’ve noticed you write in it a lot. It’s nice to see another person who writes. I have a journal at home. Are you a writer?”
I shove my notebook in my backpack and zip it up. I say “um” again, but even that gets stuck in my throat and nothing else comes out. I’ve literally never spoken to her before this moment and now she’s suddenly here, noticing Birdie and his sneakers and my notebook.
“You should join a club,” she says, smiling. “That’s what I did when I moved here five years ago. I mean, I swear everyone still calls me the new girl, but maybe that’s for other reasons. Joining a club helped with making friends, at least.”
“Can we talk about the poetry project tomorrow?” For some reason this is the only sentence I can get out.
She starts nodding right away. “Yeah, sure. Okay.” She doesn’t stop nodding. “I think my mom is here anyway. All right, talk to you tomorrow, then, Jack. Bye!”
What I want to say is, “Yeah, see you later! And thank you for letting me know about Mr. Belling. And sorry for snapping at you. The poetry project sounds interesting. And no, I’m not a writer. I just write what I see.”
Because that’s the normal thing to say.
I mean, it’s normal to at least say something.
But of course it all just comes out as a nod.
• • •
I was eight when Mama gave me my very first observation notebook. It was striped blue and green with a binding like a real book. Along the spine, in shiny silver lettering, it said: Jack’s Journal.
“And you know what?” she said. “My mama gave me my first journal too.” She looked away from me and down at her lap. It was the first time she’d talked about her mama.
“Whenever my head gets too full and buzzy, I write my thoughts down, and maybe make a piece of toast, and then all of a sudden, I feel lighter. Like maybe I can breathe a little longer. Understand?”
“I don’t have any thoughts like that,” I said.
“Sure you do. I see you looking at everything. Watching people. Both you and Birdie are so quiet. How did I get such quiet kids?” She lightly twisted my nose like she often did with Birdie. “But you know what? Birdie looks in, you look out.”
I remember it was the middle of a Saturday. All of a sudden, our cranky neighbor Mr. Byrne started mowing his lawn and Mama put her hands around her eyes like binoculars. “You look out,” she said again, laughing. It was my favorite laugh, the one when she was in a good mood and she didn’t mind sitting on my bed, legs crisscrossed up against mine like she was my best friend. We both leaned into the window and spied on Mr. Byrne.
“He’s got two different socks on,” I said.
“Maybe we should go buy him some socks.”
“No way.” I was never sure how far she’d take her ideas.
“Come on. We’ll leave them on his porch with a bow on top. We’ll buy all the socks in the store and make sure he’s never in need of socks again. He’ll thank us. He’ll never be cranky. He’ll never file a parking complaint against my friends when they visit.”
“He doesn’t always have mismatching socks.”
“How do you know?”
“Because . . . I watch.”
She scooted off my bed and grinned. “See, I told you,” she said. “You look out.”
She tapped my journal three times with her bright red fingernail. “I might still buy him some socks. Grilled cheese and broccoli for dinner, my little spy!” And then she floated out of my room, toward the kitchen.
I still have that blue-and-green-striped journal. I keep it in an old backpack, along with the ten other notebooks I’ve used since. Of course none of them are as nice as that first one. In fact, most are like the one I have now—small, cheap, and spiral-bound. But they are filled with what I see because I look out.
• • •
When I get to town, Birdie is waiting for me by the Quesadilla Ship, just like we agreed. There’s a couple students ordering quesadillas and Birdie sits off to the side looking through a book. When I stand over him, he doesn’t even say hi.
“Guess what?” he mumbles. “I have to get new clothes now because of Mrs. Cross-Hams.”
“What happened?”
“She convinced Patrick that new clothes would solve all my school problems. And afterward, the only thing he said to me was, ‘We’ll sort it out over the weekend. We’ll go to the mall.’ He didn’t even say bye.”
I don’t waste another second. “Stand up. We’re going to the library.”
Birdie looks up at me. “Now?”
I don’t want to explain yet. I just want to go get the
