Strange Birds: Chapters 30–40

A dim light shone from the sconces that lined the hallway, and she watched as a figure in white seemed to float toward her.

All the muscles in Aster’s body tightened as she waited for the ghostly apparition to reach her.

Of course, she wanted the crystal. She still wore the azabache, the little black stone, that was bought for her when she was a baby. It was supposed to ward off el mal de ojo.

Sabal Palms Seventh Grader Succumbs to Dog Bite.

Sabal Palms Seventh Grader Succumbs to Nighttime Horse Trampling. Special Pulitzer Prize Awarded Posthumously.

The three girls came out of the darkness like nocturnal forest creatures and got to work.

Right now, we keep it on display in the house for all visitors to enjoy, but we’d like to eventually have the hat stored in a temperature-controlled space where it won’t continue to deteriorate.

“Being an activist isn’t like moving from one job to another or changing shirts. It’s something you always are.”
“I meant, when you were out doing stuff,” Aster clarified, pouring two glasses of milk and setting one in front of her grandfather.

“A group of us had a sit-in in front of the president’s office. This was when I was a student. They had finally, grudgingly, integrated the school, but it was just integration on paper because, for the most part, things were business as usual. The president of the school wasn’t doing much to make sure anything changed. We had demands, and he wasn’t listening. So, we had to force him to listen.”

“A group of us had a sit-in in front of the president’s office. This was when I was a student. They had finally, grudgingly, integrated the school, but it was just integration on paper because, for the most part, things were business as usual. The president of the school wasn’t doing much to make sure anything changed. We had demands, and he wasn’t listening. So, we had to force him to listen.”

There was no fanfare after the decision had been made.

Mr. Castillo shook his head as the meteorologist talked about Hurricane Cara, churning in the Caribbean.

She looked at the three statues that sat on the bookshelf next to the television. Saint Barbara, la Caridad del Cobre, and the beautiful wood-carved Lady of Regla looked back at her with their sad, serene faces.

Our Lady of Regla and La Caridad saying, sadly, accept your fate. Be a good niña. And then Saint Barbara in her red cape, lifting her sword into the air valiantly, not going down without a fight.

The streets were empty of cars. The leaves on the Bailey palms made an eerie rattle-rattle-rattle like fold-out fans swaying in the wind.

“Let’s relax,” Aster said, pulling a bobby pin out of her hair and handing it to Lane. “No sense getting agitated with one another. If we can’t unlock it, we leave.”

“How did you know?”
“Just my keen observation skills,” Ofelia said proudly.

Ofelia’s mom told her that her grandmother back in Cuba would spank her with a wooden spoon when she misbehaved. Ofelia imagined the harsh pelting of rain felt something like that.

Lane had been standing close enough to the edge that the force of her throw caused her to lose her footing. Her arms flailed in the air cartoon-like, Ofelia thought, as if she were trying to grab the rain or the wind to stop herself from falling.

She could now see that Lane had landed on the mangrove roots. She thought she heard a muffled cry.

Then she began the descent.
“What are you doing?” Aster yelled.
“I’m going down there,” Ofelia said.

Ofelia stood between her parents, chewing on a fingernail with a somber look on her face.

She had gotten a quick look at her the night of the accident, but the woman had been shrouded in a rain cloak, under a huge umbrella, so all she saw was a dark, mysterious figure being helped into the ambulance with Lane.

Mrs. McAllister had spread out what looked like a dossier of their summer activities: the bandanna left on a flamingo’s neck when they planted the plastic birds outside the Floras House; a newspaper clipping of Ofelia’s letter to the editor; a box of brownies where their sticker had been slapped; and two photographs.

It appears they have been on some kind of...mission to sabotage the Floras?

Aster gave her grandfather a sheepish look. Her grandfather covered his face with the palm of his hand and shook his head.

“Do you really believe they would condone the killing of animals?”

“It’s one thing to stop coming to meetings, but conspiring to steal the hat?”

“I do believe in giving girls second chances,” Mrs. McAllister said, looking at Mrs. Garcia. “You and your girls have been exemplary Floras. But does she want to have the experience?”

“It sounds like you’ll be working off your shenanigans.”

“It’s good to see young girls being passionate about important things. Perhaps they just need a little help channeling that fervor.”

She wondered what would have happened if her grandfather had been able to get in touch with the reclusive woman on his own. Maybe she never would have met the group because she wouldn’t have wanted to get onto the DiSanti property so badly.

“You know how to preheat an oven?” Aster feigned shock.

When she arrived at the library, Aster made a beeline for the reference shelf, but Mastering the Art of French Cooking wasn’t in its usual place.

At the market, Aster purchased the shallots and two sole fillets she needed for dinner, then walked home, thinking about the postcard in the cookbook.

Then she collected the empty box and ushered Mrs. DiSanti and the Floras, including Cat, offstage.

Olive’s mother took the girl by the arm and practically dragged her toward the exit.

It had been easy to forget that Lane was leaving, but now the reality loomed in the tree house.

The Strange Birds of Sabal Palms: A Story of Friendship, Truth, and Subversive Cream Puffs.

On the back of each she wrote the fears and requests for protection as incantations for the girls.