“And hey, listen guys. No more top secret run-away-on-a-bus kind of plans, okay? I mean, I know I’m not the world’s most perfect uncle . . .”
My eyes burn again and I don’t want to ruin our meal with crying, so I just say that our only top secret plan is his proposal, nothing else.
If we can just help him make the proposal super special, I know Rosie will say yes. Because Birdie’s right. She could totally make more money if she parked her truck by the high school. But she doesn’t.
On our way out of the mall, Birdie eyes the gumball machines and Uncle Carl takes a quarter from his pocket and puts it in and out pops a plastic capsule. Inside is an adjustable ring that has a cupcake on it. Birdie smiles as he puts it on his finger. “A first-class find,” he whispers. Then he holds my hand and swings his arm, which he hasn’t done in a long time. Uncle Carl smiles down at us.
Then the bus comes and it almost feels like a Wolf Day as we ride it back to town.
**Observation #781: Birdie’s New Clothes
Birdie walks around like a rain cloud now.
His face is a storm.
His clothes are black, blue, gray, dark green.
But when he puts the cupcake ring on his finger,
it’s like a rainbow appearing in the sky.
You don’t see the rain clouds anymore.
You look at the rainbow and smile.
CHAPTER 9 SUSPENSION
I’ve been avoiding Krysten ever since the Tuesday bus failure, I don’t know why. But she corners me at my locker the next day after school.
“Hey, Jack. You got a minute to talk about the poetry project?”
I say “Umm . . .” as I grab my books and close my locker door. I really need to get to the school library so I can research the balloon ride. I’m not ready to see Ms. Perkins at the regular library yet.
“We could go to the Quesadilla Ship and get something to eat first. I saw you there yesterday. Maybe my mom can drive us and then drive you home after we’ve made some plans for the project. I’d really like to get started. I love poetry.”
“I have to go to the school library.”
“That’s okay. I’ll walk with you. I have time to kill before my mom comes. So, have you thought about who you want to research for the project?”
“Umm . . .” I hate that I get like this around people at school. I pick up the pace as we weave our way through students heading in the opposite direction, toward the parking lot.
“Do you have a favorite poet?” she continues. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the easy, open smile on her face.
“Elizabeth Bishop?” I don’t know why Mama’s favorite poet pops out of my mouth.
“Nice, a female poet. I don’t know about her. What’s her poetry like? Can you recite something?”
I shake my head. “She was my mama’s favorite, not mine. I don’t know a whole lot about her . . . But I do have one of her books.” As soon as I say this, I realize that it’s not true. That book is gone, just like almost every other book I used to own.
“Oh, good. Maybe bring it with you next time we meet.”
I nod, even though there’s no way I can do that.
Krysten says hi to every teacher we pass, and about ten other students. When we get to the library she asks the librarian how her dog is doing after its hip surgery.
While she’s busy, I go to an open computer and find the website for White Mountain Balloon Rides. I print out all the pages I think Uncle Carl might need, including one about special anniversary or birthday rides.
When I finish, I go to wave bye to Krysten, but she follows me out. “So you’re friends with Rosie, the owner of the Quesadilla Ship?” she asks.
I nod because I’m not sure if friend is the right word. I would love to call her Aunt Rosie, my soon-to-be-aunt Rosie, my very first aunt in the whole world.
“She’s so cool,” says Krysten. “I love her pepperoni quesadilla. It’s genius. It’s like a quesadilla and a pizza had a baby.”
I can’t help but laugh. “That’s exactly how Rosie describes it,” I say.
The ice between us isn’t exactly broken. But Mama used to say that when making new friends, all you needed was one tiny little crack. And then there was enough space for a friendship. Mama was like a professional at making friends. I think she made a new friend every day of her life.
When we get to the school gate, Krysten gives me her phone number. I tell her I don’t have a cell phone, so I can’t text her, but she just shrugs. “Call, text, mail, or send a messenger pigeon. I don’t care.”
We agree to meet at the regular library on Saturday. “I’ll do some research, but I think your idea is going to be great. Find your book if you can. Maybe your mom has more?”
Then she’s waving at me and getting into her mom’s mint-green car.
I wave back and watch them go, wondering how on earth she just did that. How did she get me talking about Mama when I barely know her?
I head to Uncle Carl’s, my hand in my pocket, squeezing Krysten’s phone number tight.
• • •
When I get to the apartment, Uncle Carl is rushing from his room to the kitchen, and I can smell something burning. Birdie isn’t here yet.
Uncle Carl opens what looks like a toaster oven.
“That’s new,” I say.
“Let me tell you, it says right on the box that this contraption can bake a cake, but this is the third time I’ve tried and look at it.”
The cake is a dark brown blackish color.
“What’s the cake for?”
“Well, I remember seeing on some show years ago a wedding proposal
