My Name Is River (7 page)

Then everybody else, including little Forrest, shouts, “Amen!”

By now, I figure I'm officially known by everyone in Birdsong as Billy's new friend (and added to that just seconds ago, as the girl who doesn't know people in Birdsong hold hands and pray before they eat).

After lunch me and Billy go back across the street to the birding place. He carries the garbage can lid we'll use to make the birdbath. “So,” he says, “what do you think of my last name?”

“It sure is different. I've never heard the name Whippoorwill before.”

Billy stops on the trail, and his eyes grow bigger than fifty-cent pieces. “You've never heard of a whip-poor-will?”

I shake my head and start feeling dumb all over again.

“That's okay,” he says and starts walking. “It's just a name—like the whip-poor-will bird. They blend in with tree bark and dead leaves on the ground, so they can be real hard to see. But even though you can't always see them, you'll know they're there.”

“Okay, Mr. Know-it-all,” I tease, “how do you know they're there if you can't see them?”

“Because you hear them… especially on summer evenings. They sound like they're saying
whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will
.”

“Wow! That's kind of neat.” I'm beginning to think Billy may be right—birds are more interesting than I thought.

We reach the birding place, and Billy sets the lid beside the pole with the wooden bird feeder. “I'm glad we had a plastic lid. Metal would get too hot in the sun,” he says. “Now all we have to do is build a base to keep the birdbath just high enough off the ground to keep stray cats or a fox from catching the birds. The base will be easy to make. We can use rocks again. And we should put a couple inside the lid so it doesn't blow away.”

“You know, Billy, do you think the birds even need a birdbath? There's a ton of water right here in the river. Besides, I didn't think this was going to be so much work. And I definitely don't want to look for rocks again.”

Billy spreads the dirt flat where we'll put the birdbath. “First of all,” he says, “yes, the birds need a birdbath. Even though some of the bigger birds, like ducks and blue herons, love the river, it's too big and dangerous for some of the smaller birds that like to drink and bathe in a small, safe place. And second,” he adds, “getting an A is hard work. But don't worry about the rocks. I'll find them.”

8

Another List

W
e've been working since seven o'clock this morning (with only a half-hour lunch break), so I've been hoping Billy would forget about the new list of things he wants to do. But, of course, he doesn't (bookworms are like elephants—they never forget).

He tells me what's on his list like he's reading from an encyclopedia. “First we need to scatter small pieces of yarn and cloth throughout our ecotone. Birds will use them to make nests. Second, we'll make suet, which is a type of bird food. And third, we need to build several bluebird houses.”

“Are you serious?” I say. “With all this work, we'd better get an A plus, not just an A.”

As Billy sets the last rock on top of the birdbath, I start wondering how we're going to fill it. I think about all the water we're going to need to water our seeds and fill the birdbath. Then I think about how steep and high the riverbank is. The Meadowlark River rushes fast, so it could be dangerous to get water from there. I look at Billy and say, “Are we carrying water all the way from your house?”

“We could,” he says, “but I'm sure there's a way to get it from the river. It would be a lot less work, that's for sure.”

Since I like to work as little as possible, my brain starts spinning ideas faster than a gerbil spins an exercise wheel. “What if we tied a long rope to a bucket and dropped it over the edge of the
riverbank? We could pull up the bucket, like pulling up a bucket of water from a well.”

Billy smiles (he's probably thinking I'm pretty smart too). “Great idea!” he says. “Let's run back to my garage and get everything we'll need.”

Walking into Billy's garage is like walking into an inventor's museum. It's filled with all sorts of old interesting metal and wooden things. There are piles of wood, cans of paint stacked on shelves, hammers and screwdrivers hanging on the wall, and rows of glass baby-food jars filled with nails. Billy reaches for a hammer and says, “This is my dad's workshop. We build things together all the time.”

I can't even imagine how awesome that would be. “You're so lucky, Billy.” I run my hands across his wooden workbench. “When my parents find me, I'm going to build things with my dad too.”

All of a sudden Billy stops rummaging around. “What do you mean, when your parents find you? I thought you said you were adopted. Don't you have parents?”

“I have two,” I say. “Two sets, so I actually have four parents. I just don't live with them. I live with Gram—she's my grandmother.” Billy looks at me like I'm not making sense, so I explain. “I have my real parents, and then I have my adoptive parents. That makes four.”

“I understand why you don't live with your real parents, but why don't you live with your adoptive parents?”

“Well, it's sort of a mixed-up story,” I say, but I decide to tell him anyway. “For some reason, after my adoptive parents had me for six months, they decided they didn't want me anymore. That's when they took off and left me behind. They never came back. Now I live with Gram.”

“So which parents do you want to find you?”

“My real ones, because I figure they never wanted to give me up in the first place… I'm sure they must have had a good reason. But I guess it would be all right if my adoptive parents come back because they'd probably have information about my real ones.”

“Did you ever try finding your real parents?”

“No,” I say and look at him. “I told you I didn't come with much information. All I know is my first name and the birth-date that was on my necklace, which isn't much information to go on. And Gram doesn't know anything either. But I'm not worried about it, because I'm sure my real parents have been looking for me. So by this time they should be getting close. They could show up here any time now.”

“Well, after we finish our project, I'll help you with some research.”

“Maybe,” I tell him.

Billy looks surprised. “What do you mean, maybe? Don't you think that would be a good idea? Birdsong's an extremely small town, so I doubt they'll look for you here.” Billy searches my eyes. “River, maybe you should start looking for them.”

“I told you I don't have to worry about that. Gram says the postmaster knows our new address, so when they get to Punxsutawney, they'll know where to come.”

Billy looks at me the same way Gram does when I talk about my parents finding me—like he doesn't believe it will happen either. Billy shrugs his shoulder and then pulls a rusted red wagon out from the corner of the garage. He brushes it off. “Anyways,” he says, “let's use this to haul our supplies.” Then he finds a rope, an old metal bucket, two green sprinkling cans, and a small, square wire thing hanging from a hook. It looks a bit like an animal cage, but it'd be too small, even for a gerbil. Billy smiles and holds it up like it's a trophy.

“What in the world is that?”

“This is a suet cage,” he says, “a special type of bird feeder. Now, when we make suet cakes, we'll have a way to hang them. Woodpeckers, chickadees, and nuthatches love suet. And,” he adds, “so does my favorite bird.”

“Which is what kind?” I figure I might as well ask because he's going to tell me anyway.

“The bluebird,” he says as he smiles. “They're incredible. And not just because of their brilliant blue feathers and how beautifully they sing, but because their mating rituals are fascinating. Imagine this. When two bluebirds are courting, which is kind of like dating, the male bluebird raises and quivers one wing while he feeds his mate little morsels of food.”

“Hmmm,” I say, “that is fascinating” (but even so, I'm not sure that's my idea of romance). But one thing's for sure—if Billy were a bird, he'd probably have only one wing that worked, so he'd do just fine as a bluebird. The only problem is that even though he could court, he wouldn't be able to fly… and that could be a real turnoff to a girl bird.

As we're leaving the garage, something else catches Billy's eye. He reaches up and grabs it off the shelf. “Awesome!” he says. “I knew we had one somewhere!”

“What is it?” After suet cages and suet cakes, I'm not even going to guess.

“It's a hummingbird feeder! Now we can make hummingbird nectar too!”

I don't know any other guy who knows how to make suet cakes and hummingbird nectar and gets excited about it. Gram would say, “He's a rare bird, and like a T-bone steak, sometimes rare is good.”

9

The Bucket

A
fter the wagon's loaded with our supplies, we race each other to Billy's kitchen. Mrs. Whippoorwill's standing at the sink peeling a tractor load of vegetables. Forrest and two other little Whippoorwills are racing around the kitchen with wooden cars, and the bigger ones are washing vegetables.

“Hey, Mom,” Billy says, “do you have some yarn or cloth we can use for our project?”