“Come on. I have to find something for a school project.” Which is true, but I have no intention of still living here when it’s due.
We walk three blocks to the county library and spot the head librarian, Ms. Perkins, right away.
Birdie loves her, probably. I think it’s because she’s got a totally unique style and doesn’t seem to care about what other people think of her. Like today it’s a long denim skirt with laced-up leather hiking boots and a beaded necklace. Her gray-and-black braids hang down like twin snakes and her necklace clinks together as she leans to grab more books out of the book drop.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. A two-for-one special,” she says when she spots us.
She starts toward the door and we jog to catch up.
“So you’re back,” says Birdie.
“Indeed,” says Ms. Perkins.
“And your sister in San Francisco. How is she? What’s San Fran like? Are you glad to be home?”
The small black mole on her tawny forehead goes up as her eyebrow raises. “What did you eat for lunch? Not another convenience-store donut, I hope.”
“Honey Bunny Buns are buns, not donuts,” he says.
I open the door and Ms. Perkins nods her thanks and Birdie follows her to the back.
I head for the computers with Internet.
On the bus website, I find the FAQ page, where I read that there’s something called an Unaccompanied Child Form.
Children between the ages of 12–16 who travel unaccompanied must have a completed Unaccompanied Child Form and pay full fare.
There’s a bus leaving for Portland tomorrow morning at 7:45 a.m.
We have to be at the local bus stop in front of Uncle Carl’s apartment by 6:52 a.m.
I take out my notebook.
**Observation #777: Inventory of Things at Mama’s House
Her sequin bag.
The nail polish army.
The smooth wooden egg.
Birdie’s little vanity, which lit up.
Mama’s shiny gold-and-pink kimono.
The painting of a fat cat in a tuxedo.
The drawer with our favorite takeout menus.
Our huge ticking banana clock (in hall bathroom).
My dollhouse that was actually a lumberjack cabin.
Pillows Mama made that looked like cheeseburgers.
The Tokyo Tower hat rack Mama found at a garage sale.
Mama’s record player that she bought with her own money at 16.
Mama’s Swan Lake musical jewelry box, with a twirling crowned swan.
Perfume, jewelry & all the pretty things Mama decorated herself with.
Miss Luck Duck, our best lamp, which sat by the front door like a sentry.
• • •
When I look up, Ms. Perkins is walking toward me.
I take the poet project information sheet out of my backpack and pretend to study it.
“Jack. This is for you.” She hands me a little plastic envelope that says What They Said Bookmarks.
There are three bookmarks inside, each with a writer’s face and a quote. The package says it includes Oscar Wilde, Maya Angelou, and C. S. Lewis.
“Thank you.”
“So, Belling’s got you doing poetry?” she asks, glancing at the information sheet.
“Yup.”
“Usually I know the poet project has started when all the kids come in looking for poetry books. No other reason that many seventh graders would come to a library looking for poetry. The rush hasn’t happened yet, though.”
“It’s not due for a while. We just started.”
“Eager beaver?” She looks at me with an eyebrow raised and then she studies the list of poets. She hands the paper back to me.
“Have anyone in mind? I’m sure you do. Big reader and all.”
“Not yet. I don’t read a lot of poetry.”
“Would you like some help? Or suggestions?”
I look over at the computer screen, which I never closed, and hope she doesn’t notice.
“Maybe another day,” I say. “I have a lot of other homework today.”
She nods and studies me for just a moment and then says to go find Birdie. “He was a little too hyped up from the souvenir I bought him.”
I tell her thanks again for the bookmarks, but she’s already marching away, headed toward someone who needs help at the automatic circulation desk.
I find Birdie sitting on the floor, engrossed in a book with a picture of a crazy-looking dress that’s covered in what looks like fresh flowers and moss. “Did Ms. Perkins get you a souvenir too?” he asks.
“She did. See?”
He looks over at the bookmarks and I see a yellow pen in his hand that says I ♥ SF. There’s clear fluid with a little cable car that moves when he tilts his hand.
“What’s that book about? The clothes look different,” I say.
“It’s fashion. By Alexander McQueen. He was a designer.” He glances over at me. “He was a man, but he made dresses.”
He turns the page and there’s a picture of a white shoe that looks like it’s carved. Birdie makes his body into a giant comma as he leans close to the book. “Do you think that’s bone? It looks like bone.”
“A shoe made of bone?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s outrageous and singular.”
“Outrageous and what?”
“Singular. Ms. Perkins said it means ‘unique.’ This book was on her monthly display: The Outrageous and Singular.”
He flips through a few more pages in silence and then says, “Ms. Perkins said her sister is sick.” His voice is barely a whisper. “She didn’t tell me at first but I kept asking questions about her trip. Now I feel bad because maybe she didn’t want to talk about it.”
I bump his shoulder with mine. “Hey, it’s all right. She knows how you get when you eat too many Honey Bunny Buns.”
“Yeah, my stomach hurts again.”
I pat him on the knee. “I know. Sometimes it’s hard for you to stop eating them.”
“How come it’s impossible to make friends in this town?” he asks.
I think about what Krysten said, about seeing Birdie and me around. I always figured we stood out because we were new, but I had no idea how much.
We really don’t fit in here.
“What do you think of buses?” I ask him.
“They’re okay,” he says. “Sometimes buses smell.”
“What do you think of a long bus ride? Like maybe nine hours long with a couple breaks.”
I explain about the bus schedule and
