Most of the clothes are plain solid colors because Birdie can’t stand clothes with tractors or sports equipment or superheroes on them. He says they all just look the same so why bother? He doubts Norman would bother. “He has bigger things to worry about.”
But Birdie does get one striped button-down shirt that he says is “okay, maybe a little loud for a person like Norman.” It’s gray and has black, blue, and light green stripes. He’s not wild about the colors, but I’m pretty sure it’s the one thing that keeps him from crying right there in the middle of the store, no matter how much he’s doing it for “Norman.”
As we walk through the mall toward the parking lot at the other end, in the window of Scare Monkey, I spot Band-Aids that look like real strips of bacon. I point to them and whisper to Birdie, “A first-class find, for sure,” and smile a little.
He doesn’t smile back, but he stares at them as we walk by. Then I see him looking around, just a bit at first, then more and more intently as we pass by different shops. And that’s when I know I’ve got him playing the best game Mama ever made up.
• • •
Nobody could ever come up with games the way Mama did. Our favorite was something we called the First-Class Quest of the North Pine Shopping Center. Sometimes Mama and I would call it “The Quest,” but Birdie would always insist that we use the full name.
The game was all about finding the most interesting thing or person. A first-class find. We always finished the game at the Vietnamese restaurant. First, we’d spend thirty minutes walking in and out the shops like the tiny Asian market and the dollar store and the Bubbles Pop Laundromat and the Happy Hair Store, even the parking lot. We’d stay together and weren’t allowed to talk to each other. Then, when time was up, we’d go to Phô Tasty Bowl and after we ordered, one by one we had to say our top three best finds. Mama would draw a map, like a reverse treasure map. Each spot where we found something interesting she’d put an X along with a couple words to describe it, like “Wasabi Kit-Kats” or “baby with detergent in laundry basket” or “press-on-fruit nails.” Then we’d make our case for why our find was the best. The one with the first-class find was allowed to choose our dessert and get something from the quarter toy machine, which usually had little plastic ninjas or little plastic cats.
At some point, I think maybe two or three years ago, Birdie started drawing the map and I started writing down everyone’s interesting thing, along with each person’s points for why it was the best, and Mama would watch us with glisteny eyes.
This game probably seems stupid, but Mama got really sarcastic-silly, saying things like, “Guys, I don’t think you’ve considered the repercussions for planet Earth if we didn’t have light-up rainbow wigs with attached unicorn horns. The consequences could be . . . devastating.”
Then Birdie would mime devastating by throwing his head back with his hand across his forehead.
And there was something about walking around silently for thirty minutes and playing this secret game that no one knew about that made us feel indestructible.
The last time we played the game, about a month before Mama was gone, Birdie won with a ring that had a tiny ballerina on it under a clear plastic dome. “The tiny ballerina dances on a tiny spring when you move your finger,” Birdie said. “And it has a tiny pink foil skirt. Everything is tiny tiny tiny and cute cute cute. And just . . . perfect.”
Maybe it wasn’t the greatest or most interesting thing, but somehow Mama and I knew that Birdie had won this one. I think it was his face as he described it. He gazed down at his hand like he could see the ring on his finger, like he could see the tiny tiny tiny pink foil skirt.
He never did get the ring, but it didn’t matter. We left the shopping center like we always did, stomachs full of hot Vietnamese broth and minty spring rolls, feeling like we had the best family in the universe.
• • •
We’re leaving the crowded mall when Birdie stumbles over one of the big store bags and a man almost runs into him. Now that it’s almost dinnertime, the mall is crowded. The man says, “Watch it!” and then looks up at Patrick, who walks over to Birdie. A kid about Birdie’s age stands nearby and I’m almost certain I’ve seen him before.
“Patrick,” says the man. “Last place I’d think to find you.”
Patrick takes the large bag from Birdie’s hand. He doesn’t smile. “Ross.”
The kid stares at Birdie. I finally recognize him and his dad, Ross, Janet’s mom’s friend. It’s Teddy, a student in Birdie’s class who used to bother Birdie when we first moved here. Teddy tugs on his dad’s shirt and whispers something to him. Ross looks over at Birdie and then at Patrick and says, “Clothes shopping, old friend?”
“Just a few things,” Patrick answers. “We’ll see you later.”
Patrick tries to turn Birdie away, but Ross continues. “My son tells me that this kid is a distraction in class. Makes it hard for Teddy to concentrate.”
Patrick puts his free hand on his belt and frowns at Ross as he says in a low voice, “I hope that won’t be the case in the future.”
Ross kind of laughs. “I hope you aren’t serious right now, with this kid standing here, wearing that. It isn’t Halloween and even if it was, it still wouldn’t be right. You need to straighten that boy out quick. I’m talking to you, Patrick.”
Birdie steps closer to me and I grab his hand.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” says Patrick. “So why don’t you go on your way.”
Ross laughs again and then smirks. “What’s going on, man? What’s
