Chapter 9 Bird
BIRD
We were supposed to hang out yesterday, just the two of us. Kayla promised when she dropped me off at home Saturday night, because she could tell I was pissed at her. But Sunday came and she kept pushing it later and later until she canceled on me altogether.
I wasted the very last day of summer break waiting on Kayla. She said her parents wouldn’t let her go out but I know, somehow I just know, she was lying. She bailed on me to be with Dade, after not seeing me all summer and being completely absent during my reading when I really needed her.
So last night I called Paige, who is—or was—next in line to be Kayla’s best friend.
She was always more her friend than mine, always in unspoken competition with me over Kayla.
So when I told her I was concerned, about the weight stuff, the obsession with this guy, the bailing, the edges of her that have sharpened this summer, I thought she’d have the inside track on what exactly happened.
The silence on the other end of the line stretched out and I had to say, “Hello? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” she said. “Kayla’s pretty much dead to me, Bird. I don’t know what’s wrong with her and… I really don’t give a damn anymore.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask Kayla. I’m done. And honestly, as long as you’re friends with her, I’m done with you too, so… sorry if that seems mean.”
And then she hung up.
I didn’t ask Kayla. Instead I called Brianne, the fourth and final person in our inner circle—we always called her Switzerland because she’d never take a side in any argument, debate, or fight.
Just so she didn’t make anyone mad at her.
Annoying us all with her endless “I’m neutral” mantra.
I called and called and called. For a solid ninety minutes I got a busy signal.
Someone must be online at her house, or else having an epic phone conversation.
But I couldn’t keep waiting. So I walked there at dusk, twenty-five minutes away, and when I arrived, Little Miss Neutral wouldn’t even let me in.
She told me that she too is no longer talking to Kayla. Which means she’s not too motivated to talk to me, either, I guess.
“I don’t understand,” I said, as we stood on her front steps. “What happened with you guys this summer?”
“Dade,” she answered. Resolute. No back-and-forth, no middling. No Switzerland.
“What did he do?”
“It’s not him-him. It’s her with him.” She shook her head and looked off at the trees and the setting sun. “You’ll see. She’s just been so mean ever since she got with him.”
“Okay, but can you give me something more concrete? An example?”
“You want an example?”
I nodded.
“When we complained about her constantly hanging out with him and talking about him and ditching us, she told Paige that she—and I—are both fat asses who, I quote, ‘have never even been kissed,’ so we have no right to lecture her about her relationship.”
I felt my face flush with embarrassment. For her, for me, I don’t know, but there was some shame mixed in too. I didn’t want to believe it. It had only been a couple of months, how could she have changed so much?
“I’m sure she didn’t say that—did Paige tell you that?”
“No, Kayla did! I was on the phone listening from the other room. She said it, Bird.” Her voice was shaking, and I could see her eyes glistening with tears before she scrubbed them away.
“Me, I know what I look like and I know no one wants to kiss me, okay? I don’t care.
But Paige—she knew—Kayla knew that was the cruelest thing she could’ve ever said to her. ”
After I didn’t agree to cut Kayla out, they wouldn’t let me sit with them at lunch today. So I went to find Kayla instead. I wanted to sit her down and have a heart-to-heart. But I found Jessa first.
Now Jessa sits here next to me, staring, but not responding. Part of me starts to wonder if she’s high again. “Jessa?”
“Yeah?” she answers, her voice soft, wispy.
“I mean, don’t we?” I ask again. “Need to break them up?” Another part of me is wondering if she thinks I’m a terrible person for even suggesting it.
Okay, maybe some small part of me is also wondering about her and Natalie—whose name I discovered after looking up her and Jessa, whose name is actually Delphine Jessamine, in last year’s yearbook.
Wondering if they’re a couple, replaying that smoky kiss from the bathroom.
The bell rings, jolting me out of my thoughts. I start to stand up, but Jessa’s still sitting there. I follow her eyes over to our friends, who are reluctantly detangling their bodies. When I turn back to her, she’s looking up at me now.
“Count me in.”
She stands up too, and we don’t say anything as we start walking down the sidewalk toward the quad. We don’t say anything as we enter the double doors at the back entrance and pass through the brand-new metal detectors. We don’t say anything as we walk up the stairs and toward the technology wing.
Then, suddenly, we both stop in front of room 204.
“So,” we say at the same time.
“So…” she begins again. “Guess we’ll talk later?”
“Yeah,” I agree. “See you.”
But then we both attempt to enter the door and bump into each other.
“This is me,” I tell her.
“Journalism?” she asks. “With Rivera? Me too.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t look so shocked,” she says. “What did you think, I’m only interested in taking ceramics so I can just sit around and make a bunch of bongs all semester long or something?”
“No,” I lie, as I make my way into the classroom, which is set up with four large wooden tables in the center, and a row of computers lined up along the back wall under a bank of windows.
She scoffs as she walks behind me, muttering, “Bullshit.”
“Welcome!” Mrs. Rivera says as we join a handful of other kids, spaced out at each table, including Paige and Brianne, who are currently looking at me, their eyes sending clear messaging that I’m not to even attempt to sit with them. “Take a seat, any seat.”
I set my bag down at an empty space at an empty table and Jessa sits down right next to me.
I guess I must look shocked again, because she says, in that patented sarcastic tone I’m already coming to expect from her, “What? This seat is taken or something?” She looks all around, like, I don’t see anyone begging to sit next to you.
Shaking my head, I wave my hand. “All yours.”
“Thanks,” she says quietly. “Dade was supposed to be taking this class with me, but he dropped last minute to take drama with Kaay-la. Drama,” she repeats.
“Do you have to say her name like that every single time?”
“Excuse me, but I was having a private conversation with myself.”
“Fine.”
I pull out my notebook and favorite gel pen and when I open the cover—with admittedly too much force because I’m already annoyed as hell with Jessa—the snapshot of Silas and Kat goes flying out, skidding across the table and onto the floor.
I duck under the table, but I can’t get to it.
Jessa reaches down and picks it up from where it landed beneath her chair.
As she sits back up, she holds the picture carefully at the corners, studying it, then looks over at me.
“Do you mind?” I snap, holding my hand out.
She lets go, and as I place it back in its spot inside the cover, I tuck it more securely into the binding.
“Who are they?” she asks.
I glance over at her, my heart thump-thumping too fast. “None of your business.”
“Well, they certainly seem cooler than you,” she quips, and I’m surprised at the ping in my chest. It hurts because deep down it feels true. Maybe they were cooler—no, better, braver—than me, and they took me in as some sort of lost puppy.
“Elizabeth?” I hear in the background, my pulse like the ocean rushing in my ears at the forefront of my awareness. “Elizabeth Nardino?” the voice says.
“What?” I answer, too roughly, too rudely. Especially when I turn my head to see that it was Mrs. Rivera who said my name.
“A simple ‘here’ will suffice,” she says, and checks my name off her sheet.
Beside me, Jessa laughs, silent except for the staccato breath escaping her in huffs.
“Delphine Jess—” Mrs. Rivera begins, but Jessa raises her hand, instantly pulling herself together to correct the teacher.
“Actually,” she interrupts. “Hi, Mrs. Rivera, that’s me. Jessa.” Then she twists in her seat to address the rest of the class. “It’s just Jessa. If you could call me Jessa, I’d appreciate it.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Rivera responds with a smile as she scribbles down the note for herself. “Jessa. Good to see you again.”
And now I’ve missed my chance to tell her my preferred name. Great. I’m Elizabeth for the whole year now.
“Elizabeth,” Jessa whispers, leaning closer to me. “You know, you could really stand to loosen up a bit.” She pinches her thumb and index finger together and brings her hand to her mouth. “If you know what I mean.”
“Shut up,” I whisper back, but I can’t not be trapped by the playful glimmer in her eyes, holding me there. She shrugs and looks away, finally releasing me from her gaze to open her messenger bag, because of course she’s too cool for a backpack.
We go around the room, introducing ourselves, everyone taking turns to tell the class why we signed up for this particular elective, what we hope to get out of the course.
There’s a freshman whose name I forget already who has no idea how they ended up registered for this class.
A junior whose parents made them sign up.
Another senior who says they’re trying to beef up their college application.
Paige looks at me when she says, “I signed up by accident last year.” She signed up because of me.
Brianne says something more appropriate: “I think it’s interesting to hear both sides of a story, and I guess that’s what journalism does. ” Switzerland strikes again.
Mrs. Rivera nods in response, smiling. “Very true.”
When it’s our table’s turn, Jessa goes first.
“Music is pretty much my entire life. When I’m not listening to it, I’m thinking about it.
When I’m not thinking about it, I’m writing about it.
I’m going to be a music reviewer—that’s kind of the only job I’ve seen myself doing.
So, that’s why I’m here. I want to learn more about how to get started doing this professionally. ”
“Very good,” Mrs. Rivera answers, smiling even wider. “Well, seeing as this is your fourth year of journalism, I think you’ll have a lot to offer others in this class, Jessa.”
I definitely didn’t peg her for the teacher’s pet type.
Mrs. Rivera looks at me now, impatience radiating off her. I’m never getting a second chance at my first impression with her. “Elizabeth?”
“Oh, it’s um, Bird. My name, I mean. I go by Bird.” I hear someone at another table snicker—Paige, no doubt. Mrs. Rivera doesn’t make a note of it. “I—I—I w-wanted to take this class because I’m a writer.”
She’s looking at me like I’m supposed to have a better reason.
“Well, I write poetry, and I figure I’ll never be able to make a living doing that, but maybe I could still write as a journalist as like a backup plan.”
Mrs. Rivera’s smile is tight. “Okay,” is all she says, and somehow I feel like my reason for being in this class is even worse than the kid who just showed up here because it was randomly listed on his schedule.
She hands out the syllabus as she starts talking about the first-semester project. A zine.
“Who knows what a zine is?”
Jessa raises her hand and doesn’t wait to be called on before answering, “It’s a handmade magazine—people make them about all different kinds of topics. You can photocopy the pages and leave them around for people to find.”
“Exactly, Jessa.” Mrs. Rivera beams. “Can you tell us where you’ve seen some zines?”
“Well,” Jessa begins, looking around like maybe she’s as surprised as I am that she’s holding the teacher’s attention in this way.
“I know I’ve seen them around at coffee shops, like Six Roots.
Um, the record store has some good ones sometimes, about music, bands, that sort of thing.
The Rainbow Rabbit has some queer ones that are pretty cool. ”
I hear someone cough out the word “dyke” and it brings on a sudden flush of anger, bubbling up in my chest. I look over at Jessa, and she’s staring down at her battered composition notebook covered in duct tape and permanent marker.
For a second it seems like she might crack a bit, her icy exterior showing the slightest fracture in the tremble of her lip.
“Great, that’s great.” Mrs. Rivera is clearly pleased and clueless about the cruelty happening. Either that or she’s ignoring it. “Anyone else ever see a zine out in the wild?”
I raise my hand immediately, before I’ve even had a chance to gather my thoughts.
“Elizabeth, where have you seen a zine?”
“I—” I begin, but I’m not prepared to answer yet.
I haven’t lined up my words in the proper order, but they’re there.
I know they are. I can answer a simple question like a normal person.
“O-over the summer, I did a creative writing workshop for high schoolers up in Rhode Island, and…” God, why do I sound like I’m bragging instead of explaining?
“And, and there were zines all over campus. In the libraries and the student union and at the art building and…” My voice just fades out, like a stupid song that doesn’t know how to end.
“Right,” Mrs. Rivera says. “Well, this zine project is meant to ease us into the practice of journalism. It’s meant to be fun. Creative, and a way to practice collaboration. Which means…” she pauses. “I want you to partner up on this one.”
Reluctantly, I turn my head to look at Jessa. She’s returned to herself and is now pointing back and forth between us. I’m nodding along, agreeing, because ironically, she might be the closest thing I have to a friend in here.
While Mrs. Rivera talks and puts up grainy slides on the projector, Jessa flips her black-and-white composition notebook to a blank page and scrawls out in black marker:
ANY IDEAS??
For the zine? I write back.
She clicks her tongue and whispers, “No,” pulls the notebook back, and starts writing again.
HOW DO WE brEAK THEM UP?
I don’t know. Maybe we get them to do things together we know they’ll hate?
I look over to see her reaction; she’s nodding as she reads.
Then she reaches over, pen in hand, to write something underneath, but I can’t quite tear my eyes away from her face.
Not until she looks up and sees me staring at her.
She slides the notebook closer to me and taps her pen against the paper.
PERFECT! DADE HATES SOOOO MANY THINGS!