Hummingbird, page 5
“You won’t hurt me unless you push me off a hill,” I said. He made a sound like an almost-sort-of-maybe laugh. Then he began pushing my wheelchair.
At the speed of the slowest snail on earth.
“HATCH!” I hollered.
“What?!” he shouted. My wheelchair came to a jolty stop. “What’d I do?”
“Nothing,” I told him. “But school starts at eight a.m. Not five p.m. You can go faster.”
“Okay,” he said. “Right. Okay.”
And he started moving again. Turtle-paced this time. But at least it was an improvement.
A school bus’s air brakes hissed against the sidewalk behind us. I heard the the bus door creak open, then dozens of sneaker soles flopping down on the sidewalk. Kids were stepping out of the bus. One of them could be my future BFF! So I sat up straighter. I pushed my hair behind my ears and pulled my heart-shaped sunglasses down over my eyes.
Suddenly, the kids were all around me, walking in herds and whispering things to one another. I only heard snatches of the words they were saying fear and hope … the woods … the wish.
“Did you seeeee the feathers?” one little girl squealed excitedly, running up to her friend and throwing an arm around her shoulder. They giggled and skipped inside the school, pigtails bouncing. I’d never had a friend like that when I was younger. But now, everything was about to change.
I smiled when people passed by.
I even waved, once or twice, when they made eye contact. I felt extra brave.
And bold!
And my jacket was sparkling. This was the moment I’d dreamed of!
But … nobody was looking at me at all, really. They weren’t staring, which was nice. But nobody smiled back at me, either. Nobody said hi. Every student moved in a wide circle around Hatch and me. Like there was some invisible stink-bubble force field keeping them away. Partly, I knew some people were jazzed up about the feather-flakes.
But there was something else, too. I could feel it in my heart, and it hurt.
“Does this seem weird to you?” I asked Hatch.
He hesitated but answered truthfully. “Yeah … the teachers told everybody about you.”
“What about me?”
We were so close to the huge double doors now. But Hatch was taking a slow millennium to get there.
“They told everybody that you’re new here and that you start today. And that you’re … fragile. To be careful around you.”
“Oh,” I said. My heart sank into the vicinity of my sneakers.
“They didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Hatch said, keeping his voice low. “They didn’t want people to avoid you.”
“But that’s what they’re doing,” I said, almost whispering. “That’s what they’ll do.” I didn’t say this like I was angry. I wasn’t. It’s just a fact.
“Not for long,” he said. “Once they get to know you, they won’t.”
I appreciated that Hatch was trying to be nice. But even he has no desire to get to know me. Why would anybody else? All morning, my excitement—my hope—had felt like a birthday balloon getting bigger and bigger in my chest as I got closer to Macklemore. But now that floaty feeling inside me was starting to … deflate. I knew Macklemore might not be exactly what I imagined. But what if it was nothing like I imagined?
I closed my eyes and listened to the birds:
Fragile!
That’s what the ravens
in the treetops hollered when they saw me.
Fragile. Fragile. Fragile,
croaked the bullfrogs in the woods,
loud and proud for me to hear.
Fra gile
is even what my heartbeat sounded like.
And in the space between beats, I wondered if I’d made
a bad decision.
But Hatch kept pushing
closer to the door.
There’s a place for me here, I told my heart.
There’s a friend for me here.
There’s magic in these high walls.
These high, beautiful walls. Macklemore School looked like a place that had fallen out of a fairy tale. From the foundation to the tall castle spires, the whole building was made of faded brick. Fluffy curtains of green ivy waved around some of the windows. The border of the tall double front doors was made of white stone. And delicately carved into that border were …
“Hummingbirds,” I said.
“Where?!” Hatch shouted. My wheelchair stilled.
“Uh … carved around the door.”
“Oh. Those.” He sighed. “I thought you meant … Never mind.”
Real hummingbirds are tiny, adorable, and lightning fast. But the birds carved into the stone had wings taller than me, bent in front like they were holding the doors wide open with their strength. They looked mythical and wild.
“Hummingbirds are considered good luck charms in the state of Tennessee,” I told Hatch. “Did you know that? My grandpa says if you see a hummingbird, everything can change for the better.”
“I believe it,” Hatch said. And then more softly, so low I almost didn’t hear: “I’m counting on it.”
I have a feeling very few places in the world actually look as magical up close as they do in someone’s imagination. But Macklemore came really close.
The floors were worn and wooden. The hallway walls were brick, same as the outside. And since most students were still unloading from the buses, or grabbing breakfast in the cafeteria, those halls were mostly empty. I had plenty of time to observe every corner of them since Ms. Pigeon pushed even slower than Hatch Malone.
We passed a trophy case, a pencil machine, and a wall devoted to second-grade artists who’d cut their names into the shape of butterflies.
VELMA,
PARMA,
DESHON,
AMIR.
Every name on the wall had wings. That felt so right to me.
I felt butterflies inside me, too.
“This is the beginning of the biggest adventure of my life,” I told Ms. Pigeon. “I keep reminding myself that it’s okay to be afraid and excited. I call it freak-cited.”
“Mm-hmm” was her only answer. I’d tried to make some easy conversation with Ms. Pigeon since we’d met in the office. But she didn’t seem to want to talk. Everything Ms. Pigeon said was quick, to the point, and a little trembly sounding. This surprised me, because Ms. Pigeon herself actually looked very fun. She wore a neon-blue T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Her gray hair was pulled away from her face into a tight ponytail, like she was ready to have a good time. I imagined her with a smile as bright and bold as the colors she was wearing, but I hadn’t actually seen her smile yet. No matter how much I smiled at her.
So I mostly kept my thoughts to myself as we rolled on down the hallway. When my flutters felt too intense, I focused on the truths ahead of me:
My future BFF is here somewhere.
Change happened, and here I am!
“And here we are!” she said, and sighed like she’d been holding her breath for the past ten minutes. Taped to the door in front of me was a paper sign that read:
MR. JOHN WATSON’S SIXTH-GRADE ADVENTURERS
“You’ll like him,” Ms. Pigeon said. “Everybody likes him. He’s probably the best teacher we’ve ever had here.”
“I can’t wait to meet him!” I said, reaching for the doorknob.
“No, no!” she said, reaching over me. “Let me do that.”
My shoulders slumped a little, but I managed to hold back my frustrated groan. I figured it would be obvious that I could open a door by myself. I can do most things by myself. I thought Ms. Pigeon would just be there for a little help early on, while I got settled in to Macklemore. But now I wondered if it would feel more like she was babysitting. At the same time, it was really kind of her to help. I didn’t want to be rude!
Don’t overthink it, Ollie-bird. That’s exactly what my grandfather would say to me if he were here and not chasing wild birds in the Smokies. So I smiled and said, “Thanks.”
Mr. Watson’s room was quiet in a comforting way: The way warm sunshine on a lake is quiet. The way an old library is quiet. The way a hug is quiet. If it’s possible for a room to give a hug when you walk into it, Mr. Watson’s classroom did that. Since it wasn’t time for school to start, there were no students in there yet, besides me. Which was kinda nice, actually. I was thankful I didn’t have to make a grand entrance, for one. But it was also nice to meet the room this way. My heart had time to settle in.
“It smells like oranges and crayons,” I said. The back wall was one big bookshelf that I couldn’t wait to explore. Another wall was full of handwritten poetry and sketched self-portraits. I couldn’t wait to add my face to it. Everything looked normal. Except one big box in the front of Mr. Watson’s class. Underneath the dry-erase board, nestled beneath a red-glowing heat lamp, were a bunch of chicken eggs.
“I was not anticipating this,” I said, leaning over to get a better look.
“I think you should go into every room anticipating two things,” said a kind voice behind me. “Anticipate making new friends. And anticipate miracles. That right there is a box full of chicken-egg miracles.”
Mr. Watson, leader of the sixth-grade adventurers, was leaning against his desk in the far corner of the room. I hadn’t even seen him when we first came in. I’d been too dazzled by bookshelves and an egg box.
“Welcome, Olive!” he said as he ambled toward me. Unlike Ms. Pigeon, his smile came easy. It was as bright and friendly as his yellow sneakers, the kind of smile you feel in your heart as soon as you see it.
“Hello,” I said, with a quick wave. “Not to be cheesy or anything, but it’s my greatest dream to be a sixth grader here.”
“I’m so glad to hear that!” he said. And then he looked at Ms. Pigeon and said, “We can take it from here, Barb.”
“You sure?” Ms. Pigeon asked, then whispered, “I’m kind of afraid to let her out of my sight.”
I almost laughed because, one, why was she whispering? I could hear her. Also, two, how far did she think I’d be able to get?
“Positive,” Mr. Watson assured her. “We’ll holler if we need anything.”
I heard Ms. Pigeon let out another sigh of relief. Or maybe I was the one who was relieved; who knows?
“I can push myself in here?” I asked once she’d disappeared out the door.
“How about this,” said Mr. Watson. “You do whatever you feel comfortable doing. Unless you ask me to help, I won’t interfere. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said. And then I had to ask, “Why are you hatching chicken eggs in here?”
“As a reminder that miracles are all around us,” he said. “We’ve got chickens about to hatch up front. And back there around the bookshelves there’s a cocoon almost ready to split. You won’t believe how exciting it is when we’re reading a book together one day and BAM! Chickens! Butterflies! It’s important to keep an eye out for everyday miracles. Especially right now.”
“Why now?”
Mr. Watson sat on the edge of the desk in front of me, clasping his hands in his lap. He lowered his voice and said, “Have you seen the feathers falling all around town?”
“Yes!” I said, wheeling closer to him. “And I’m glad you called them feathers. My mama is convinced they’re some kind of sleet, but I’m an amateur expert at birding. I learned the skill from my grandpa. Merlin Goad? You’ve probably heard of him. He’s the most famous person in the state of Tennessee, besides Dolly Parton and Little Debbie. What I’m saying is that I know a feather when I see one.”
Mr. Watson nodded as I talked, listening very carefully to me, which I appreciated. “Have you asked your grandfather what these particular feathers mean?”
“He’s on an important mission,” I said, adjusting my wheels slightly. My sequins were reflecting on Mr. Watson’s face and making him squint a little. You should never be afraid to shine, friend. But be prepared to adjust that shine for people who aren’t expecting it.
“You might want to get in touch. Because some people think those are more than feathers.” Mr. Watson lowered his voice to an almost-whisper: “Some people think there’s magic in the air right now.”
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck went prickly stiff. “What kind of magic?”
I startled when the bell buzzed through the overhead speaker.
“I’m sure we’ll talk about it in class today,” Mr. Watson said to me. I don’t know if it was something about his voice or his kind smile, but I knew that my heart liked him. And I knew I couldn’t wait to hear about this feather-magic, either.
“A quick question, Olive—do you want to introduce yourself today? Or will that make you too nervous?”
“Way too nervous,” I verified. I pulled my heart-shades down over my eyes. “I’d kinda like to blend in.”
“No problem,” he said. “Your desk is up front over there. I’ve got you surrounded by some really kind students, including your brother.”
“Stepbrother,” I clarified.
And as if my stepbrother had been summoned from the depths of CoolKid Land, the classroom door flung open. And in he bounced. And I do mean BOUNCED. I knew he was wearing Coach Malone’s special sneakers before I even saw his feet on account of how close his head got to the ceiling.
“Everything go okay with Ms. Pigeon?” Hatch asked as he walked alongside me to my desk. Mr. Watson had already pulled out the chair so I could roll underneath it, which was super kind.
“I guess,” I said. “I think she’s really anxious about pushing me places. Sometimes people hear that I’m fragile and treat me like a stick of dynamite.”
Hatch didn’t smile. Or laugh. He just nodded and slid into his desk beside me. Then he pulled out his comic book and fidgeted with his hoodie sleeves, the exact same as he does at home. But here’s what was weird:
Hatch didn’t talk to anybody else who came in the room.
Not the guy who sat behind him.
Not the girl with long braids who carried a zebra-striped backpack.
Nobody. Not a single, sneaker-wearing soul. All the other kids talked to one another. But Hatch didn’t say a word.
This surprised me loads considering Macklemore is the place where Hatch Malone is Mr. Popularity. He’s in every club, so he says. His friends come to the house all the time. So … where were they now?
Then again, this was a weird day for everybody. The feather-snow had folks completely rattled.
Eavesdropping is a skill I’m good at and happen to enjoy greatly. And I kept hearing the same words whispered all around me, tossed out like birdseed for my curious ears: fear and hope … the woods … the wish.
On a gust of banana-perfume wind, a group of girls burst through the classroom door. They were all dressed alike: denim shorts and cropped T-shirts and Macklemore jackets. They wore pink scrunchies around their wrists and laughed almost completely in unison. I felt a familiar little tug down in my heart: I would love to laugh with them. I would love to have friends I could roll into the room with, already knowing some incredible secret.
Hold on and hold tight, I reminded my hopeful heart. Your future BFF is here somewhere, too.
And then, just before the late bell buzzed through the speakers, a girl with wings walked through the door.
She wore a T-shirt and denim overalls with a constellation of enamel pins stuck to the front: a rainbow, a taco, a piece of pizza, and a heart (my signature!). She was East Asian with black hair that she wore in a loose braid over her shoulder. She carried her backpack in one hand and a toolbox in the other. And on her back, she wore a pair of wide, glorious cardboard wings. She shrugged out of them easy, as if she’d done it a billion times before, and slid them carefully into the basket underneath her desk.
Which was right beside my desk.
Her notebook made a slapping sound when she tossed it down in front of her. She’d used an eraser to draw her name thick and cloudy across the front.
GRACE ALICE CHO
ENTREPRENEUR
I’d never met anybody gutsy enough to wear wings as part of their everyday outfit, but I knew I wanted to talk to someone who did. I might even want to be friends with someone who did.
“Your wings are dynamite,” I said just as she flipped open her notebook to start writing.
She startled like I’d just woken her up from a daydream. And maybe I had.
“Sorry to bother you,” I added quickly. “I just think they’re super swanky.”
“Thanks!” When she smiled at me, I saw a flash of silver braces. “The wings aren’t actually mine, though. I just made them for someone else to wear.”
“If you made them, they’re yours.”
She threaded her fingers together, considering my words as if I’d said something truly profound.
“I like that,” she finally said. She pulled an index card out of her notebook and handed it to me. “I’m Grace, by the way.”
The card had the same info as her notebook, with a couple of additions:
GRACE ALICE CHO
ENTREPRENEUR
CUSTOM DOGHOUSES FOR YOUR K9 BELOVED
& OTHER ARTISTIC NEEDS
* OFFICE LOCATED BACKSTAGE, FOSTER AUDITORIUM
“Wow,” I said. “I’ve never met someone who builds doghouses. Or makes wings.”
“The wings are for the school play,” Grace informed me.
“A play sounds fun.” And it really did—I love theater! Mama always says I’m destined to be an actress, and I agree. Mostly, though, I was just excited to be carrying on a conversation with someone my own age. Felix will be so proud when I tell him. So will Grandpa!
Maybe Grace Cho is my future BFF!
“All right,” Mr. Watson said, walking to the front of the classroom. “Everybody dig out a pen and turn to a blank page in your journal. After what happened this weekend, I know you’ve got a lot to process in your journals. First, I wanted to make sure you know that we have a new friend up front today. Her name is Olive.”
The tips of my ears felt prickly and warm. This must be what happens when twenty sixth-grade adventurers stare at the back of your head at the same time.
