When I glance back at the guy, I see him looking at us and my hands start to sweat again.
Maybe this was the dumbest idea ever. The last Wolf Day didn’t turn out well, so I don’t know why I thought today would be any different.
“Should we call Uncle Carl?” Birdie asks.
“What can he do? Come get us on his bicycle?” My head is beginning to pound along with my heart.
“What about Rosie?”
“Maybe. But she might just call Patrick.”
“No, Jack.”
“Birdie, let me think.”
“I don’t want Patrick to find out.”
I look around at the two vending machines, trying to decide if we can stay here until the next bus.
Birdie keeps tugging on my sleeve and whispering my name. And then I hear him say, “It’s Patrick. I think that’s Patrick.” And I look up and across the street is Patrick’s truck and there he is, standing with his hands on his belt.
He doesn’t run, but when he approaches us, he sounds out of breath. “What. In the heck.”
He goes to say something else, but a loud bus goes by, leaving us in a hot cloud of exhaust.
“Let’s go,” he says, his voice low and slow.
For one crazy moment I wonder what would happen if we refused or screamed if he tried to force us.
I say, “Please, just let us go. We have tickets.”
“Under no circumstance am I leaving here without you,” Patrick says. “So get in the truck.”
Still, neither of us moves.
“Look. Maybe I should have told you before. Mrs. Spater fell and broke her hip. She doesn’t live there anymore. She had to move in with her daughter. Your mama’s things aren’t there. That whole duplex has been sold.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Birdie is completely frozen, looking down at his rainbow sneakers.
Patrick takes another step toward us. “I mean it, guys. Let’s go.”
He’s so tall he’s blocking the sun.
The dog guy is starting to focus on us and Stella fixes us with narrowed eyes. So my feet walk toward the truck even though I don’t want them to. Patrick follows with Birdie.
When we’re back on the freeway, Patrick says, “We still need to deal with the clothing issue. I was going to wait until we had more time over the weekend, but it’s probably best we go straight to the mall and take care of it today.”
He pauses.
“Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about your mama’s house, but there’s nothing you need up there. If you think you need something, let me know.”
CHAPTER 7 SHOPPING WITH PATRICK
Patrick doesn’t say anything else the entire two-hour drive and Birdie pretends to sleep. When we pull into the mall parking lot, Birdie opens his eyes, but then closes them again as we park.
Patrick blows a bunch of air out of his mouth. “Let’s eat first.”
He gets out and I open the door. Birdie still has his eyes closed.
“Come on, Birdie,” I say. “You have to at least eat. I know you’re hungry.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, you’ll have to come anyway.”
He reaches into his bag, digs around, and pulls out his mad cap and puts it on. Patrick glances at it but doesn’t say anything.
We follow Patrick to the food court and order fried noodles, meat, and vegetables from a fast-food place called Panda Wok. We’re almost finished when Patrick finally says something.
“There are a couple stores we can go to. I want to get clothes that fit. Nothing too baggy. Something good for school. Pants and shirts.” He looks at Birdie. “And a new jacket.”
Birdie puts his chopsticks down.
Patrick stands up. “Are you guys done?”
I’m not sure Birdie actually ate more than two bites. He dumps the contents of his tray in the trash. I do the same and then we follow Patrick down to a store call Kid’s Closet.
“Pants, shirts, jacket, maybe a pair of shorts. This shouldn’t take long.” Patrick blows more air out of his mouth, then strides into the store. I don’t think he was talking to us.
Birdie pulls his mad cap down as far as it will go and crosses his arms. “I’m not going in, not not not.”
“I don’t think we have a choice. Don’t you want to have some say in what he’s going to buy?”
“I don’t want anything from that store.”
“I know, I know.” Patrick looks over at us from one of the racks just inside. I kneel down. “Listen. I know you don’t want to do this. It’s horrible. But I’m going to figure something out, okay? If you do this, I will give you the rest of my Honey Bunny Buns. You can have them all and we’ll come up with a new plan.”
He looks into the store and says, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. We aren’t buying clothes for me. We’re buying clothes for a boy named . . . Norman. And Norman only wears the most boring, unoriginal clothes.” I nod at him. “And Norman can’t make it today because he has a disease where he can’t go outside. And he’s my same height, so I’m doing him a favor.” And then he goes inside and disappears in between the racks.
Birdie tries on all the clothes that I bring to the changing room. Patrick wanders around the store, sometimes picking up a pair of jeans or a T-shirt.
We repeat this two more times, once at a resale shop and once at a place called Caterpillar Kids where most of the clothes seem to be for toddlers. When we are done, Birdie has five pairs of pants, one pair of gym shorts, eight shirts, a sweater, a sweatshirt, a black jacket, and a pair of white-and-navy-blue tennis shoes. Before leaving the last store, Patrick adds a belt and a blue beanie to
