I describe how I’ll dress up like Mama or some kind of adult. I tell him that maybe if I can make my hair like Janet makes it, I might be able to pull it off. And that it will cost almost all the money I have saved, but it will be worth it to find Mama’s things and convince Mrs. Spater to take us back.
“Maybe I’ll have to dress up in a disguise,” he says, a smile on his face. “Like a costume.”
“Totally. But we’ll have to get ready early, though. The bus comes at six fifty-two. I’ll leave a note for Patrick saying we walked to school.”
“Are you sure we can ride a bus like that alone?”
I hope that I am making the right decision. “Yes. Tomorrow is going to be a Wolf Day.”
**Observation #778: Outrageous & Singular
Mama would have called Birdie’s Alexander McQueen book—WONDERFUL. SPECTACULAR. Maybe MAGICAL.
Uncle Carl would love it too. He’d turn it over in his hands & then open it up & look at the pictures & say, “But do they make it in a size 36?” or “Do they sell it at the Walmart?” or “I bet that’s itchy business for the lower half.”
I bet Patrick would look right through the book like it wasn’t even there. Or he’d put it in the trash & then head off to work or into the silo shed.
CHAPTER 6 A DOG WITH SNEAKERS
The thing about Wolf Day is that there isn’t actually a wolf involved. It started five years ago when Birdie thought he saw a wolf in Mrs. Spater’s backyard. I was pretty sure it was just a coyote, but Mama said, “Well, sometimes it’s good to have a Wolf Day—a day when wild and unexpected and spectacular things can happen. You believe in them. And not just that, but you chase after those wild and spectacular things no matter what your brain might say about what’s ‘probably true.’”
So after that, we had Wolf Days. On a Wolf Day we’d do something unexpected and then follow wherever the day took us, saying yes to every spectacular thing, believing it would lead to something else magical. One time we learned how donuts are made. Another time, we ended up at a bat mitzvah celebration.
And we always found little souvenirs to remind us of where we’d been, like a real-looking wooden egg we got from a family we helped move who had a bunch of chickens in their backyard.
At night, we’d always wait for the wolf. We’d sit silently in Mrs. Spater’s backyard with mugs of hot chocolate and we’d stare into the trees and bushes and hope for some magic. Sometimes it was hard to be so quiet, but Mama said it was important to experience the silence as the night sky swallowed us up.
All I saw that first Wolf Day was the flash of a wild eye and the swish of a gray-brown tail. I know it was a coyote.
I guess the wolf is one of those things that you know isn’t true, like the tooth fairy or something. And yet, there’s still a very small, secret part of your brain that holds on to the possibility that it might be true because it’s magic.
Really it was Mama’s magic that made it work.
In a lot of ways, every day was Wolf Day with her.
• • •
In the morning, I wake Birdie up at five thirty. It is totally dark and Birdie jerks awake and immediately says “Jack?” in a sleepy voice.
“I’m here,” I say, switching on the flashlight. “Are you already packed?”
“Yeah.” He rubs his eyes.
“How long will it take you to get dressed and ready to go?”
“Half an hour?”
“Okay. We’ll eat Honey Bunny Buns when we get to the bus station, okay?”
He nods again and says, “How come you’re using that flashlight?”
“I’m worried Patrick will somehow see our room lights. Now remember, bring only what you can carry yourself. I’ll have my own stuff to deal with. I’m not sure if we’ll ever be back here.”
My heart skips a beat saying that out loud.
“I know. You told me last night.” Birdie switches on his own flashlight and gets out of bed. I go back to my room and finish my hair. When I’m done, I check my small duffel bag and backpack. I have to leave some clothes and books behind, but there’s nothing to do about that. We still have to walk to town, take two buses, and then once we’re in Portland, take the city bus to Mrs. Spater’s.
I help Birdie get his bags down the stairs and lock the back door behind us with the hide-a-key.
As we walk along the side of the house, I already know Birdie is going to be too cold, but he insisted on wearing his zebra-print leggings and skirt, along with his purple jacket. He has his hair separated into two short pigtails and wears a silver-and-turquoise beanie, which I’ve never seen before.
“Rosie found it at the thrift shop,” he says. “Don’t worry, it’s washed.”
I put my finger to my lips as we pass in front of the house.
I hold Birdie’s hand the entire way to town. Every few steps I look behind us thinking I’m going to see Patrick’s truck. But we don’t see anyone. It’s like everyone except Birdie and me has suddenly disappeared or maybe been put under a sleeping spell.
Mama used to say that she could feel a Wolf Day coming on, like watching someone slowly swim to the surface of the lake or a pool after diving deep. They’d get clearer and clearer until finally, at some unpredictable moment, they’d break the surface of the water and there they
