Patrick sighs again and hangs the towel by the sink. “Now that you live here, there’s going to be some changes.” He calls Duke, who stands at the sound of his name, and they head out of the kitchen. Right before he goes out, he stops and says, “On Monday, I’ll drive you guys to school. I’m going to speak to Birdie’s teacher. We’ll get it sorted out. She has some ideas.” Before I can think of anything else to say, he and Duke go, leaving me standing next to the mounds of dough.
Mama always let Birdie wear what he wanted. He never wears skirts or dresses to school because he says they aren’t comfortable for dodgeball, which is another thing Birdie likes. Even still, most people do notice that Birdie doesn’t dress like most boys. But his pink and purple shirts, rainbow shoes, and leggings covered in pink donuts, and everything else, have never really been a problem.
Of course, getting Birdie to go to school has also never been a problem.
I press my finger into a doughy heap. It is soft and still warm from being kneaded.
I want to smash it into nothing.
**Observation #774 Old Bedroom Inventory
81 books: novels, comics, biographies, reference books, and 6 poetry books, which I rarely opened (all from Mama)
11 observation notebooks
4 plants, left over from a science fair project
4 strands of twinkling lights on a fake palm tree from Birdie’s 7th birthday party
1 Swiss Army knife
1 Treasure box of rocks and shells
9 board games, plus one I made when I was 8
1st place ribbons: 6th-grade science fair, spelling bees & math league
1 bean bag chair (for reading)
1 banker’s lamp (found at a garage sale) on a small white writing desk (which Mama found on the side of the road, sanded down, and painted)
1 life lived freely (even if my room was half the size of the one at Patrick's)
CHAPTER 3 THE TORNADO
To say that Janet Rosweiler is my best friend is a little bit of a lie. I guess it’s better to say that she is my only friend. She was the first person I met after Patrick drove Birdie and me to California from Mama’s.
Janet lives with her mom in a house that’s really a double-wide trailer on a two-acre plot of land. It sounds bad, but it’s actually pretty nice. There’s a big oak tree and six big cedars and the first time I saw it, my chest ached thinking of home. Janet has her own room and her mom has two jobs and like four boyfriends, so she’s barely there. Which means Janet basically has the place to herself.
I’ve walked to Janet’s from town probably twenty times and never knew Patrick lived right down the street. Birdie and me would even explore the nearby nature reserve, which stretches almost to Patrick’s backyard, and still we never knew.
This morning, Sunday, Patrick and Duke left before the sun was up. Birdie was still in his room when I slipped a note under his door reminding him I was going to Janet’s. My tennis shoes make little crunching noises as I cross the gravel driveway to her trailer door. I’m starting to doubt if she’s awake even though she made me promise to come by at nine a.m.
“Hey loser, don’t you have anything better to do on a Sunday morning?” Janet yells from a window.
“Ha! You’re the one who told me to come early,” I yell back.
“God, your hair is a DISASTER. I should take a ‘before’ photo. Get in here.”
Lucky, a dog Janet found behind the Stop-and-Go, barely lifts her head from a nap. I hope they aren’t waiting for her to become a watchdog.
I walk in, looking around.
“She’s not here,” says Janet. “It’s Sunday morning, meaning last night was Saturday night, which is Ross’s night, so she’s probably at his place as if I care. You want some Froot Loops and a smoke? My mom forgot her cigarettes. Again.”
I sit down to her bowl of cereal, ignoring the cigarettes as she begins brushing my hair. Janet is fourteen, a year and a half older than me, but she started smoking when she was ten. Now she says I’m already behind on my smoking career by more than two years. I don’t know if I totally believe her, though, because I’ve never once seen her actually finish a cigarette.
Janet sighs. “I can’t believe you go outside looking like this. Seriously, why am I even friends with you?”
“Because I helped get your cell phone out of your mom’s locked car. And because I sometimes do your English homework.”
“Okay, okay, okay. Whatever. Now tell me. What is Patrick’s house like? I can’t believe you live there now. I’ve always wondered about the inside. And what’s with the giant round thing in the front yard?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s a shed.” I swirl the cereal bowl. “Birdie says it’s an old grain silo.”
“Oh my God—Birdie. Is Patrick actually babysitting him?”
“No.” I tell her about the note I found this morning that said Patrick had a quick job in town and would be back later.
“So Birdie’s all alone doing what? He could have come with you, you know. The kid knows more about hair than you do.”
“He’s sleeping.” That’s not really true. I heard him moving around in his room, but Birdie’s not a big fan of Janet. He calls her “an acquired taste, like sushi.” I have no idea where he gets these phrases.
Janet goes to her room to find a spray bottle and her stand-up mirror. When she returns, she stops in the doorway and does that thing where she pops her hip out and then scowls. “Okay. Spill it.”
“What?”
She walks over and sets the mirror in front of me and then starts in on my hair again. “Is it that bad? Patrick’s house?”
I shrug. “I mean, it’s just such a big house
