Nest (8 page)

Miss Gallagher is still reading. Now the girl is lost. Even though the swamp is practically in her backyard
and she supposedly plays there all the time, she has no idea how to get home. She’s scared, and lost, and danger is lurking, and there’s no one to lend her a hand.

“Uh-oh,” Dawn says. “Uh-oh, uh-oh.” I think she’s uh-ohing about the girl, but then I see that she’s covered her whole balloon with newspaper.

Suddenly I’m so tired I think my head might crash down on my desk. I raise my hand and ask for permission to go to the girls’ room. I splash my face with cold water and then go into a stall, lock the door, sit down on the toilet, and close my eyes.
Once there was a curly-haired Jewish girl who went into the girls’ room a few days before Halloween and never came out. People searched high and low—neighbors, the kids in her class, detectives with fingerprint powder and sniffer dogs—but she seemed to have just vanished into thin air. Poof
.

When I walk past Joey on my way back to my seat, he whispers, “What are you going to be for Halloween?”

“Poof!” I whisper.

“Wacko,” he whispers, smiling.

Maybe, actually, it wouldn’t be so bad if he wanted to trick-or-treat together. If he asks me what I think, I guess I’ll tell him that I’ll put it in my pipe and smoke it.

“I’ve got to be able to flap. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

I made my wings myself out of cardboard from a Sears box in the basement, but Rachel’s helping me attach them to my arms. With just one strap of cloth per wing, they slip when I flap.

“You’re flapping too hard,” Rachel says.

“No, I’m not. I just need more straps to hold the wings on,” I say.

“Why can’t you be something easy, like a cowgirl or a clown?” Rachel mumbles, but she’s reaching for the ragbag so she can cut me some more strips to make into straps.

“Are you sure you won’t come with me tomorrow night, Rach?” I ask. “You can have all the SweeTARTS and Bit-O-Honeys. I might even split the chocolate with you.”

“Genevieve’s dad makes poison potion, and he told me that he’d give me a sip, even though it’s for the grown-ups. And Ned—that’s her dad—reads from
Frankenstein
with all the lights off except this weird red one that they use every year. Anyway, I’m kind of old to trick-or-treat.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Most kids just go with whoever’s on their street, but we’ve only got the Morell boys. Dawn said I could go with her family, but they start before it’s even dark, since Trent’s only four. And Sally always goes to her grandma’s in Barnstable.”

“And I guess you don’t want to go with Mom and Dad. Or just Dad?”

“Rach, we haven’t trick-or-treated with them since we were tiny!”

Rachel pokes two holes near the top of each wing and threads the strips of cloth in. She pokes two holes near the bottom of each wing and does the same thing. Then she ties the wings to my arms.

“Flap,” she says.

I start off slow, like I’m standing on wet sand and just warming up for takeoff. Flap-flap-flap-flap.

“So far, so good,” Rachel says.

“So good, so far,” I say.

“Try faster,” she says.

I speed up, like I’m about to take off, faster and faster, then
whoosh
, I’m off. I flap around the living room, where Mom is stretched out on the couch, talking with her friend Annie, and out into the hall.

“Oh, birdie!” Rachel yells. “Here, birdie, birdie!”

I flap up the stairs, with Rachel right behind me. I’m running and flapping and flying and laughing, and Rachel’s laughing, too. I fly down the stairs. I fly right out the front door. It’s a bright, chilly morning, a great day for flying. I fly around the hydrangea bush. I fly in a huge circle in the front yard.

“Here, birdie, birdie!” Rachel yells. “Seagull want a cracker?” I turn around, cock my head, and fly right toward my sister. Before she can catch me, I swoop away with my wings spread wide. Now I’m soaring.
I soar down the driveway, up the front walkway, around the house.

I slow down a little so Rachel can catch up. Her cheeks are pink. Her hair is wild.

“You soar, too,” I say.

For a split second she stares at me like I’m crazy. Then she sticks her arms out and she is, she’s soaring, too! We soar around the house two times. We soar single-file down the sand path, because it’s not wide enough for side-by-side soaring.

“Wow, look how tiny our house is from way up here,” I say.

“Just a speck of a house,” Rachel says.

“Just a speck of a town,” I say.

“Ocean? What ocean?” she says. “Oh, it must be that teeny blue spot down there.”

“Hello, Miss Gallagher! I know you’re down there somewhere, but you’re microscopic!”

“Hello, my stupid junior high school! You’re not even a blip on my radar screen. Too bad for you!”

“Yeah, too bad for you!”

We soar together until my arms start to throb.

“Coming in for a landing,” I tell Rachel. One flap, two flaps, three flaps, and I’m down, in front of the dead beech tree.

“Landing gear down,” Rachel yells, and she flaps a few times, too, and plops down next to me in the sandy dirt.

“It’s hard work, being a bird,” I say. My heart’s
pounding. My T-shirt’s wet with sweat, even though this is definitely jacket weather and I’m not wearing one.

“Hard work,” Rachel agrees. She looks at me and shakes her head, her dark wavy hair bouncing around. “You’re a nut-job,” she says, but for the first time in a while, her eyes are really, really happy.

I guess this is a cool party, but it’s all grown-ups and too dark and really loud and everyone’s just sitting around and talking, except for a pirate and the Queen of Hearts, who are dancing in the corner near the blue lava lamp. Not dancing, really, just holding on to each other. I don’t know how Genevieve’s parents know so many people, since they just moved here two years ago, but it’s crowded, too crowded for me to fly. I barely recognize anyone, which is strange, since the summer people left in September and I know practically everyone in town. Maybe Genevieve’s parents have secret party friends they import from P-town and Hyannis.

“Hey, Chirp,” Genevieve says, “do you want to help me pass around the appetizers?” She’s a fairy in a miniskirt and sparkly top. I think she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Her hair is long and wavy, and I bet she can sit on it. Her eyes are blue-green, like the bay when there’s no seaweed churned up in the water.

I follow her into the kitchen, and her mom, who’s a cat in a black bodysuit, says, “Hey, little bird, I think we need to clip your wings if you want to be a waitress like my lovely daughter,” and a man in a rubbery President Nixon mask, who’s helping her open wine bottles, starts laughing like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Genevieve’s mom says, “Just call me Debsy,” and unties my straps, takes off my wings, and sticks them behind a bookcase. She’s holding a plate with rolled-up bacon and white bread stuck with toothpicks. “At this joint, we pay in bacon roll-ups.” She winks at Nixon, who puts his hands on her hips and squeezes. “Payday,” she says, and holds the plate in front of me.

“No thanks,” I say. I’ve never eaten bacon or ham before, since Mom doesn’t feel comfortable with them. We don’t officially keep kosher, but bacon and ham just aren’t on Mom’s radar. She loves clam strips, though. And steamers. And quahogs. Mr. Pialetti at the liquor store calls me Missy Quahog, since Dad came into his store on the night I was born to buy a bottle of champagne, so he knows that I’m a Cape Cod native, and all Cape Cod natives are nicknamed quahogs and know to say it “co-hogs.”

“Hard to find good help these days,” Nixon chuckles, and I think he’s making fun of me. My face turns hot.

“Leave the girl alone, Mr. President,” Debsy says, but she’s giggling while she gulps red wine. She
hands me the plate of bacon roll-ups and a stack of little napkins with ghosts on them that say “Have a boo-tiful night.” She gives Genevieve a plate loaded up with Ritz crackers with cream cheese and green olives. “Go get ’em, girls!” she says, and kisses the top of Genevieve’s head.

Everyone either pretty much ignores us or tries to guess our costumes, which is tricky in my case, since my wings were clipped and I took my papier-mâché mask off because it was too hot. I just look like a curly-haired girl in a white Danskin top and gray Danskin pants and pink sneakers, because seagulls have pink feet.

“Wow, what a beautiful fairy princess!” Prince Charming, who works at the hardware store, says to Genevieve. He has a deep voice and arm muscles and a silky purple cape, and he’s not a teenager but he’s not quite a real grown-up yet, either. He reaches out and runs his fingers slowly through Genevieve’s hair. She blushes and smiles. I feel kind of dorky just standing there, so I keep passing the plate, solo, until it’s empty, and then I go look for Rachel.

She’s not in the living room, and she’s not in the dining room, and she’s not in the kitchen. Upstairs, all of the doors are closed. I put my ear to one. I hear flushing. A devil comes out. I think she works at Flanagan’s. “Your turn, sweetie,” she says. I wait until she goes downstairs, and then I press my ear against
the next door. Lots of laughing and talking. I put my hand on the doorknob and slowly turn it. Like a good detective, I push the door open carefully, carefully, without a sound.

A bunch of grown-ups are sitting in a circle on a bed with a green Indian-print bedspread in what must be Debsy and Genevieve’s dad’s room. Rachel is standing at the foot of the bed.

“Hey, Little Sister,” some guy in a sailor hat says. “Come on in and close the door.”

“Hey, Chirp,” Rachel says. “Come on in and close the door,” and everyone laughs. The room’s smoky. It smells like burnt-black popcorn.

“Does Little Sister belong to you?” Mr. Sailorman asks Rachel. She nods and smiles.

“My name’s Chirp. Rachel, I want to go home.”

“Home?” Mr. Sailorman says. “But the party’s just getting started, Little Sister.”

“We just got here, Chirp,” Rachel says. “We haven’t even heard
Frankenstein
yet.”

“I want to go home,” I say. “I want to trick-or-treat.” Something feels funny, like they’re all on one team and I’m on the other.

“We have a trick we could show you right here,” a pirate says.

“Hey, good idea,” says a lady with a black witch’s hat. “Do you want to see a trick, Chirp?”

I shake my head, because the only thing I want
is for Rachel to leave this stupid party with me. If we move fast, we can probably trick-or-treat at a few houses before everyone turns their porch lights off.

Mr. Pirate lights up a cigarette. He sucks on it and slowly blows smoke into Miss Witchy’s face. Her eyes are closed. She gulps the smoke in like she’s eating food. Then she opens her eyes and blows a wimpy little ring into the smoky air that’s swirling all around her head. Mr. Sailorman claps, but I think it’s just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Can we go now?” I ask Rachel.

“We’ll be reading
Frankenstein
really soon,” Miss Witchy says.

“Hang out for a while, Chirp,” Rachel says. “It’s a cool party. We can listen to
Frankenstein
. It’ll be better than trick-or-treating.”

“Much better,” Mr. Sailorman says.

“We can walk home together later,” Rachel says, but I’m already out the door, and I don’t close it like I opened it, carefully, without a sound.
Wham
. I’m not a detective. I’m a girl at a grown-up party on Halloween with only half of a seagull costume on. I go to the kitchen and get my wings from behind the bookshelf. I go to Genevieve’s room and get my mask off of her dresser. Even though the polite thing is to say
Thank you very much for having me
, I don’t feel like talking to the wine-gulping cat woman, so I wave to Genevieve, who’s now dancing with Prince Charming, grab my jacket, and start my around-the-corner-down-Starling-Lane-left-on-Quonset-Neck-Road-right-on-Salt-Marsh-Lane walk home.

It’s cold and dark, and there are hardly any trick-or-treaters still out, only a few older kids with pillowcases and no-good costumes, like just a straw hat or just a blond wig. It’s hard to walk fast when you’re carrying cardboard seagull wings. It’s hard not to think about ghosts and vampires and men with dripping blood when it’s Halloween night and you’re a gull with clipped wings walking home all alone and the moon is glowing green behind a fat cloud. What I really want is to be on Salt Marsh Lane, almost done trick-or-treating, with Rachel next to me and a big bag of loot that I’m schlepping and about to dump out on the living room floor, with Mom and Dad asking me for chocolate and Sugar Babies. If Rachel were here with me instead of at that stupid party, she’d sing
You can’t always get what you waa-ant
, and I’d sing
You can’t always get what you waa-ant
, and we’d sing together to the end of the chorus, finishing with a nice, loud
waaaaahhhh!
and before I knew it I’d be home, instead of on Quonset Neck Road by myself and needing to pee.