Sparrow: Chapters 11–16

We got there and they showed us the tarps on the ground that we were supposed to magically turn into tents.

One of them came over to express her condolences that they’d be stuck with the weird, quiet girl, and said she hoped they’d have fun reading books all day.

I sat with my back against the couch as she sat above me, comb in hand, towel on my shoulders. She made two plaits on either side, milkmaid braids is what she calls them.

“What is it, Sparrow?” Mom in a rush is not the epitome of patience.

“I’ve been distracted; I just have some things to get done. It’s not a big deal.”
“Don’t you lie to me, Sparrow. I’ve never been called in to school for you before. Don’t try to tell me it’s not a big deal.”

I don’t sleep that night. I play the scene through in my head over and over. Faces of my teachers, distorted with my exhaustion, saying over and over, “Sparrow is going to repeat eighth grade” and “Sparrow hasn’t done work in months” and “What’s wrong with your daughter, Ms. Cooke?”

Kids rush around me, running up the stairs, chatting as they maneuver down them.

I don’t care about eighth grade or Mr. Phillips and his thoughts about my “potential.” But I care about Mom, and how hard I’m making things for her.

I try to figure out how to get out of this after-class chat. I’ve seen Jayce do it; he just saunters out with everyone else and ignores the teacher calling his name.

I go to YouTube on my phone, I put on my headphones and watch the video for “Wolf Like Me” until I hear the rush of people in the hallway. I head out of the stall and literally run into Mr. Garfield.

I can’t get myself to back away from the ledge, so I lower my body to the rooftop, inch by inch. I lay my head back, my legs still playing with the air, flirting with flight.

In this daze of death and sky, I hear a bell. I scoot my body backward, away from the edge.

“How do you mean?” Mom asks, the edge in her voice teetering over into anger.

She tries to look at me, but I’ve been counting the black flecks in the carpet for what feels like hours now.

“Ms. Smith, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not going to—”
“Sparrow, you are not in a position to negotiate. You are going to listen to what Ms. Smith has to say.”

“I don’t have to sing or dance or a read a sonnet or whatever?”

“Thank you,” I stammer.
“Thank you,” says Mom, and we all file out.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Sparrow.” I look up. I look her straight in the face, which is not the best idea. She’ll take it as defiance, which I guess it is.

So, I don’t have to worry that she’ll come by to check on me with her neutral face, which is just a cover for her angry face.

I look around my table, and everyone seems completely fascinated as Ms. Smith introduces the book, telling us about Fitzgerald’s life and asking us for a definition of materialism.

My packet of worksheets, my impending academic doom, the hospital, Dr. Katz, even Mom, it’s not that they feel far away; it’s that they feel like a foreign language, an alien planet.

My packet of worksheets, my impending academic doom, the hospital, Dr. Katz, even Mom, it’s not that they feel far away; it’s that they feel like a foreign language, an alien planet.

I guess Dr. K is feeling funky, rocking her yellow-and-green Roos and a yellow-and-red shirt that I think is what batik means and a leather vest. With fringe.

“Yep.” She smiles. “I want to talk about something from last time. Why the roof?” I think about my most recent visit up there and shudder a little inside. I know I should tell her. I will. I will.

I keep going deeper into the park, past the soccer fields and the dog beach and the baseball diamonds and the people riding horses in the middle of the afternoon, to the lake my mom used to take me to when I was little. I guess it’s technically a pond, but it’s got swans and geese and it reflects the blue sky and the big puffs of white clouds.