Chapter Eleven The Magical Hands That Made Us
Chapter Eleven
The Magical Hands That Made Us
Beverly
If I had a dollar for every time Griffin blindly followed me places, I would have only three dollars. That couldn’t afford me a sewing kit in this economy…but it is nice.
I’m delirious; that’s the problem.
I barely slept after working all night, and when I told Rob that Griffin Harvey was riding with us, I swear he almost fainted. What kind of sister would I be if I denied him this?
I’m still stuck in my overnight thoughts as I drive the five short minutes to Elk Grove Public School.
I consider childhood-development studies, education curriculum, and everything else I’m not qualified to create for the new season of Birds on the Block.
I need actual professionals to help me with this show.
But there’s no time. This is the hole I’ve dug for myself, and I will lie in it with Bernie Bird and the rest of the crew.
And Griffin.
“Griffin, you should come inside,” Rob says, turning so quickly his trombone case almost hits my knees. “My friends would absolutely freak—I mean, want to meet you.”
Griffin blinks. “Oh, uh—”
“We’re just gonna wait out here,” I chime in.
“No,” Griffin says. “No, it’s fine. We can go inside. Maybe we can even play guitar or something.”
So here we are: crunching over melted snow and twigs to take the back door to the school—the same one I used when I was in theater.
It’s a few days before winter break is over, so the school is mostly silent.
The clacks of Griffin’s boots and my platforms on the linoleum echo with the distant hums of the band room at the end of the hall.
Griffin falls behind, keeping pace with Ava instead. His head jerks up, creating a waterfall of brown hair around his thick beard. His hooded eyes focus on mine, and my breath catches. I avert my gaze to another wall.
Griffin has been out of sorts all morning. I don’t know why he agreed to come with us. I’m sure the last thing he actually wants is to meet my little brother’s high school pals.
I call out to Rob, striding happily to the band room. “You know what? How about we meet your friends after? You’re running late anyway.”
Rob laughs. “Not my fault. You needed coffee.”
“Fuel. It’s fuel.” I shoo him off. “Go go go.”
Rob hikes up his backpack again, gives one final longing glance toward Griffin, then hurries to the band room. The door opens, momentarily sending out loud horns and conversation and sizzling drums, before shutting and creating a silent hallway once more.
Griffin clears his throat. “I would have gone inside.”
I wave him off. “I’m not gonna bother you more than we already are.”
“You’re not bothering me.”
“Well, you’re tagging along, though.”
He shrugs. “Like I said, I wouldn’t be productive this morning anyway.”
I tongue my cheek and nod. “Okay.”
I believe him, especially with how deep those creases carve under his tired eyes. He seems to believe me, too, because he nods.
Ava toddles down the hall, entranced by the way her shoes hit the hard floor, their sound reverberating off the white painted brick walls and library mural.
She starts to shimmy in her jacket, wanting it off.
Griffin chuckles, removing it and then tossing the small coat over his bulky shoulder.
Finally, she spots a display case and freezes, slapping her palms against the glass and pressing her nose to it.
Inside are our mascots (go bullfrogs), participation awards from our football team (who never wins), and various photos from performances, including a photo from my senior year’s production of Little Shop of Horrors.
Beau played the lead, still sporting his natural red hair.
I tense as Griffin scans the display case, but before he notices the photo, another voice calls from down the hall.
“Beverly? Oh my God, Griffin! What are you doing here?”
Fran paces over. She’s wearing her usual variation of a cardigan. Buttoned up to the top. Slacks with a little white dusting of powdered donut.
“Ms. Dowdy—” The formality sounds rough on my tongue, but old habits die hard.
“Please,” she says, holding up a palm (also with hints of donut dust). “You’re older now. Call me Fran.” She points between us. “Sneaking around?”
I let out an anxious laugh. “Funny.”
She’s joking. She must be. But when her eyes shoot to the display cabinet, heat rises in my chest.
I’m not that girl anymore.
I’m not Beau’s sidekick.
As if with a mind of its own, my hand reaches for Griffin’s. His palm is large and warmer than mine, making heat spread up to my elbow like magma.
I’m holding his hand.
Why am I holding his hand?
Griffin goes stiff for a moment, then slowly wraps his calloused fingers around mine.
It’s weird.
It’s unnatural.
We hold hands the same way he does with Ava: fingers cupped, not intertwined. He may as well be dropping me off at elementary school. This isn’t intimate. This is nothing at all.
“We’re just waiting on Rob,” I say.
Fran eyes the display case, crossing her arms and leaning in. “Aw, reminiscing on the good ole days?”
“Sure,” I say.
Fran peers through the glass, and I side-eye Griffin. He’s already staring at me—a swirl of the richest mahogany and leather. I look away.
Anxiety skitters down my spine. I attempt to slither my hand out of his, but his palm clutches mine closer. He holds us in place, our hands still cupped together like kids on the playground, as if we’ve decided we’re friends.
Fran gestures to another display case down the hall. “Oh, make sure you check out this other one. We just added it. I think you’ll love it. Your grandpa was a special man.”
“Oh,” I say, choking out, “yes. Thank you.”
Griffin grips my palm tighter.
“Well, it’s good to see you,” Fran says. “I’m gonna get back. Teacher scheduling and all.”
“Right,” I answer.
Fran walks away, but not before stealing one last glance at our clasped hands.
When she’s gone, Griffin loosens his hold, and I finally slip my hand from his.
It’s silent.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Hmm?” I blink out of my heated daze, already missing the warmth of his hand.
“Does it make you uncomfortable?”
My lips part. “What?”
“Pretending to date me.”
Uncomfortable isn’t the word I’d use. Not when I’m still thinking about his roughened fingers grazing over mine.
But one look at the photo behind the glass reminds me I’m standing in the same building where Beau and I snuck around the theater many, many times to do many, many things that teenagers do.
And now I’m here, holding hands with someone else.
Griffin’s eyebrows turn in. It’s concern. I don’t know if Griffin has ever directed that level of worry toward me.
“No,” I finally answer. “It’s not uncomfortable…I mean, yes. I don’t know,” I confess. “I’ve just…I’ve never done this before. Had a fake boyfriend.”
“Well,” Griffin takes a step closer. “Is holding hands fine?”
“Holding hands is fine,” I answer, my mind zipping. Warm palms, abrasive fingers, large hands.
“Anything else?”
“No.” My nose wrinkles at my bluntness. Yes, but also…no? “I don’t know?”
“What about any hard lines?” he asks.
As if on instinct, my eyes dart to his lips and then to the floor.
“Kissing,” I blurt out. “Probably don’t…ahem, want to do that.”
Now why would I say that?
Griffin squints. The vast hallway feels too restrictive now. Maybe it’s the child-sized coat slung over Griffin’s shoulder. Or the way his minty breath feels close yet far.
“I can agree to that,” he says, holding out his hand.
“We’re gonna shake on it?” I ask.
“Yes.”
So, without ceremony, I place my palm in his once more. Slowly, his thumb strokes over the back of my knuckles.
“You have cold hands,” he observes.
I run my tongue over my chapped lips.
“I always have cold hands.”
“B!”
We both jump at the sound of Ava and release each other’s hand. Ava pokes at the other display case down the hall, the new one Fran pointed out.
When we join her, my heart slams down to my stomach, then my toes, rooting me to the spot.
It’s a showcase of Albert Starling, cocreator of Birds on the Block.
Behind the glass is old Bernie Bird merchandise.
Beside him is Penny Pigeon, Finch’s classic character.
Then Hector Hawk. Carmen Crow. Debra Dove.
There are folded vintage shirts, action figures, a bulky digital watch—all featuring the five-bird crew.
“Albert Starling,” Griffin reads. “That’s your grandfather, right?”
“Yeah,” I croak out. “Yeah. He taught me everything I know. We practiced Bernie’s voice all the time growing up. It was the first character I learned. I wanted to be just like him.”
I think I see Griffin’s lips twitch into a smile, but it’s hard to tell behind his thick beard.
“You must have spent a lot of time together.”
“Sometimes. Yeah. He was in California a lot for filming, so he would come back for a bit, then leave for months. Nana would travel with him sometimes, but…I think it affected my mom more than anyone, honestly.”
“She never got into puppeteering?”
“God, no.” I let out a scoffing laugh. “No. She didn’t. One time she told me it wasn’t normal for a dad to be gone that much.”
“She didn’t like that his career kept him away?”
“Maybe.” I exhale and tilt my head to the side. “Well, this town doesn’t have much going for it, but we do have the creator of Birds on the Block.” I bite my bottom lip and shrug. “Or had.”
“Have,” Griffin corrects me.
“Have?”
“They’ve got you. And you’re making it again.”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess.”
“We’re gonna bring it back,” he says. “You will.”
I want to reach for his hand again. He was right. Mine are too cold.
Looking at the glass case makes all this feel so daunting. So overwhelming.
What do I do if Birds fails? Who would I be without all this?
It’s fine.
I just need to work more.
That’s all.
I watch Griffin’s eyes coast over the display case, taking in each individual bird, squinting at the newspaper article for the show. There’s a picture of my grandfather and Finch with Bernie Bird sitting between them. The headline reads The Magical Hands That Made Us.
Griffin snorts. My gaze narrows.
I bet he thinks all this is silly. I don’t, though.
I tuck my cold hands in my pockets to warm them.