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  She moves toward me, puts her hand on my arm. "Oh, Stevie, you got yourself worked up over nothing. Now why don't you get ready for bed, and we'll talk in the morning? I promise. We'll go out for breakfast and order French toast." She smiles and pats my cheek. "I know you love French toast, don't you, honey pie ?"

  Honey pie. I feel myself starting to crumble under the weight of her promises. It takes all my strength to pull away. "I don't want any French toast."

  "Then what the hell do you want ?"

  Her question and the look on her face stop me in my tracks. What do I want ? I want her to ask me if I've had dinner and whether I've done my homework and how was my day at school. I want her to hassle me about the future and am I going to go to college and what do I want to be when I grow up. I even want her to get on my case and tell me I better not drink or do drugs, or else. But most of all I want her to want to be with me.

  "I want you to start acting like a real mom."

  She stares at me and opens her mouth, then shuts it. A horn honks outside. She opens the front door a crack. "Hang on!" she calls.

  She turns to me with tears in her eyes, and for a second I see the Mom from my dream.

  "I wish I could do that, baby," she whispers. "I really wish I could." She opens the door wider.

  "If you leave, I won't be here when you get back."

  But she's already gone.

  I hurtle down the front steps. "Mom!"

  Drake's truck is idling at the curb, wipers sweeping the windshield. He pushes open the passenger door.

  I grab at Mom's arm as she clambers in. "It's him or me!" I yell through my tears.

  "Quit it, Stevie. Go," she tells him, and slams the door.

  I pound against the side of the truck. "Him or me!" I scream.

  Drake looks at me now and smiles. I've got her, his smile seems to say. And one of these days, I'm going to get you too.

  The truck tires squeal as he pulls away.

  I stare after them until they turn the corner, and then I run back into the house, down the stairs, into the basement. I pull my heart-shaped box from under Mom's bed.

  This time it's empty.

  I hurl the box across the room. When it hits the wall and cracks in two, I yell the worst words I can think of. I swear at Mom and I swear at Drake. But most of all, I swear at me. I should have made Mom stay in rehab, should have stayed home more, should have watched her closer, should have kept my stupid mouth shut...

  In the middle of yelling and swearing and pounding on the bed, I stop.

  And then I know: It wasn't Aunt Mindy messing with my mind, it was Mom. She was going to leave rehab whether I asked her to or not. She never wanted to be saved.

  I go up to the living room and grab my cell. I dial the number. It rings once ... twice ... and then Aunt Mindy picks up.

  "Stevie ? Is everything all right ?"

  My voice cracks. "I need you to come get me."

  My mind is empty and clear as I pack up my stuff: jeans, sweaters, swishy gypsy skirts. Tanks, camis, midriffs, bikinis. I start to throw in my plaid boxers, but I decide to leave them behind. They're not the kind of thing I wear anymore. Plus, I need to save room for my notebooks.

  I can't really think about the future. I can't really think past this minute. But I'm going to need those notebooks if I decide to go back to school, if I decide to be an architect.

  I haul my bag upstairs and then hold my breath and listen for Aunt Mindy's car.

  CHAPTER 20

  When Aunt Mindy pulls up, I snatch my bag and fling the front door open before she even has a chance to knock. "Let's go," I say.

  She doesn't ask questions. She pops her trunk and tosses my bag inside. The Smooth Jazz station plays as we drive. The music is so corny I could puke, but I don't complain. I stare out the window at the street, shiny wet under the streetlights, and the dark shapes of houses and trees.

  "I'll make us some tea," she says once we get to the house. I go to stash my stuff in the guest room. My room. The bed is all made up, waiting for me, and everything smells clean and fresh.

  I prop myself against a pillow, and she hands me a steaming mug of peppermint tea. The first sip burns my tongue. I take a second sip, then drink it down in big, scorching gulps.

  Aunt Mindy watches me from the foot of the bed. She's thrown a purple bathrobe over her clothes.

  "You ready to tell me what happened?"

  I wrap my arms around my knees and scrunch up tight. "Mom's using again."

  "How do you know? Are you sure?"

  "She took off with Drake. And the hundred bucks you gave me is gone."

  "Could one of your housemates have taken it ? Or—"

  "She's been staying up all night again. She's acting weird and her nose runs and..." I'm shaking so hard, I can't finish my sentence.

  "Oh, sweetie, you're shivering. Let me get something to warm you up." She hurries out of the room and comes back with a blanket.

  It is soft and white, with blue flowers. She tucks it around my legs and feet.

  A new memory strikes me. It's so strong that I can't speak. I'm a little girl again, seeing a kind face hovering over me, feeling the warm weight of the blanket on my body.

  I sit up, push it off me. I feel myself slipping, falling, not wanting to believe what my heart knows is true. "You took this blanket from Mom."

  "No, your grandma gave it to me a long time ago." She makes me lie back and smoothes it over me again.

  "Then Mom must have had one just like it."

  "I don't think so. She wouldn't even touch it. She was always jealous your grandma gave this one to me, and she got the plaid one."

  I shake my head. "She cuddled me in this blanket once a long time ago. She told me not to worry and that she'd take care of me."

  Aunt Mindy's voice is soft. "You remember that?"

  I nod and trace a blue flower with my finger, still hanging on to the hope that the memory was about Mom.

  She catches hold of my hand. Tears shine in her eyes. "When you were really young—two, three maybe—your mom took off. We were living together then, sharing an apartment. This was back when we all lived in Helena. I woke up one morning and she was gone. No note, no phone call. Nothing. I was so scared. I thought something terrible must have happened to her."

  I feel cold, colder than I've ever been in my life. I pull the blanket tight around me.

  "I didn't know the first thing about looking after a little kid. I was trying to figure out who I could get to take care of you, thought maybe I could bring you up to Uncle Rob's for a while. Then you woke up and started crying for your mom. And when I saw your sweet face all screwed up tight, looking so lost and scared, I knew I couldn't pass you off on anyone else. That's when I got the blanket out of the cupboard and wrapped you up in it. I knew you loved those pretty blue flowers." She lays her other hand on top of mine. "And that's the day I decided that no matter what, I'd always be there for you."

  I'm afraid I'll fall apart if I look at her. The blue flowers on the blanket blur. "But she came back," I whisper.

  "Yes, she came back. Six months later. It's probably silly, but I'd started to think of you as my own. Then she showed up, said she'd found a job in Billings and wanted to take you with her. I wished so much I could hold on, but I had to let you go. After all, you were her little girl." Aunt Mindy drags the heel of her hand across her cheek, wiping away the tears. "When the chance came up to open the studio in Seattle, I took it. I had no idea that ten years later, when June ran out of options, she'd follow me here." She touches my cheek. "But I'm glad she did."

  The past years with Mom rush back at me. All the times it was just me and her whooping and dancing and dreaming about the future. All the times we had to pick up and move, the schools I had to leave, the friends I had to say goodbye to. All the cramped, ugly apartments, the greasy, cardboard meals, the thrift-store clothes. All the nights I spent alone.

  "I'm never going back." I throw myself onto Aunt Mindy's l
ap and bawl and bawl. She holds me and strokes my hair. When there are no more tears, I lie there, trying to take in a quiet breath.

  She leans over me and whispers in my ear. "Don't worry, Stevie. Everything is going to be okay."

  Two weeks later, the day before school starts, Aunt Mindy takes me shopping at Northgate Mall. I pick out a few pairs of jeans, some T-shirts and skirts, a couple of sweaters. Nothing fancy, just regular stuff. For once I want to look like everybody else. Well, okay, like everybody else who's got black nail polish, a belly button ring, and a Tweety Bird tattoo. Aunt Mindy was fine with the tattoo as long as it's in a place I can cover up. Which it is, unless I'm wearing a bikini. Or low-rise jeans and a midriff.

  On the way out of the mall, we pass Victoria's Secret. The mannequin in the window is wearing a super-low-cut black lace tank and a short leather skirt. Her hip juts out to one side, and her head's thrown back like she's laughing. She looks so real—and so much like Mom—I have to swallow back the lump in my throat.

  "Come on, Stevie," Aunt Mindy calls. "I've got to get back to the studio."

  I look again. This time I see nothing but a woman made of plastic. "Coming," I say.

  Aunt Mindy and I talked about me going back to Ballard High, but I decided on Nathan Hale, which is right in her neighborhood. I walk the halls in my jeans and sweaters and no one knows me. No one whispers about Mom. After all the school I missed last spring, I thought for sure I'd be way behind. But thanks to Rick, math actually seems easy.

  When I see the notice in the Daily Bulletin about the Architecture Club, I think, Me, in a club? But Rick said to take myself seriously. And an Architecture Club sounds pretty serious. So one Thursday after school, I show up at Room 318.

  When I open the door, about twenty guys stare back at me. I never thought of architecture as a guy thing, but obviously it is. Then a hand pops up above the sea of baseball-cap-covered heads.

  "Over here." The hand waves, making silver bracelets jangle.

  I slide into the seat next to the only other girl in the room.

  "Hi," I say. "My name's Stevie."

  Even though Aunt Mindy thinks I should focus on school, I'm not about to stop volunteering at On the Wing. Every weekend I take an early bus to help Alan with the first feeding.

  One rainy Saturday at the end of September, I walk into the cage room to find him behind the counter, cutting up salmonberries. His dark hair falls over his face, hiding his eyes.

  "Hey," he says without looking up.

  "Hey, yourself." I hang my raincoat by the door and slide around to his side of the counter. "Need any help ?"

  "Not really," he says, but he hands me a knife.

  Neither of us is big on early morning conversation. For a couple of minutes the only sound in the room is the rhythmic chop, chop, chop of our knives on the cutting board. The berry juice stains my fingers yellowish-orange, and the tart smell tickles my nostrils. When we reach for a berry at the same time and our hands touch, I shoot him a smile.

  "Who are these for?" I ask.

  "The cedar waxwings. We just moved them to the aviary."

  We chop for another minute or two, then he says, "That should be enough." He mixes the berry pieces with some dry food, loads up a feeding tray, and puts on his sunglasses. "I'm going to take these out back."

  He doesn't ask me to come along, but I do anyway. The rain has stopped, and the sun peeks through the clouds, making the wet grass sparkle. When we let ourselves into the first aviary, the birds greet us with their usual chirps and caws. Tweety Bird perches on a branch and tilts her head, watching us through beady eyes.

  "So, how's the school thing going?" Alan asks as he sets the bowl of dry food on the aviary floor. A jay swoops down and starts to peck at it.

  "It's okay. You're lucky you don't have to go."

  "Yeah, I guess." He empties the water dish and refills it. "I kind of wish I was, though."

  "You're kidding me, right ?"

  He laughs. "Yeah, I know, it sounds lame. The thing is, the birds are great, but..."

  "But what?"

  "Well, I guess I miss being around people."

  "So why don't you go back to school?"

  "Valerie wants me to, but ... I don't know. There's no way I could face going back to Ballard High. Not after what happened with Jeff Taylor."

  He's never talked about it before, but I try not to show I'm surprised. "Yeah, I heard about that."

  "Well, I had to do something after the crap he pulled on me," he says. Then his body tenses up, and he gets that don't-mess-with-me look in his eyes. He transforms into the old Alan right in front of me.

  I don't really know Jeff Taylor, but he always seemed like an all-around nice guy.

  He must see the question on my face, because he says, "Yeah, I know. Jeff's great. Until you have to live with him."

  "Wait a second. You lived with Jeff Taylor?"

  He fills a syringe and lures a crow off its branch. "Yep. Foster family number eight. The Taylors probably thought taking in a foster kid would fast-track them into heaven." He's leaning over the crow, so I can't see his face. "Little Prince Jeff wasn't so hot on the idea, though."

  He finishes feeding the crow, then puts down the syringe and peels off his latex gloves. "He started doing stupid crap—swiping my stuff, breaking things around the house and blaming it on me. Mostly I ignored it. But then he..." He swears under his breath and turns away.

  It takes him a minute to calm down, but he finally tells me the story: How Jeff found the photo of Alan's mom, the one he always kept under his pillow. How he said she looked like a whore and then ripped it into little pieces. How Alan had found the Playgirl magazines jammed behind Jeff's dresser and knew exactly how to get back at him.

  When he's done, he takes a deep breath. "It was the only picture I had of her." He looks at me, and his voice breaks. "If I'd known he'd ... that he'd end up in the hospital, I never would have done it. I tried to visit him, tell him I was sorry, but they wouldn't let me in."

  I watch him gather up the feeding supplies. I still don't like what he did to Jeff, but at least I can halfway understand it. He's about to unlatch the door ofthe second aviary when I put my hand on his arm.

  "You should go to Nathan Hale. My aunt could probably help get you in."

  "I don't know." He won't look at me. He lets himself into the aviary and sets down the feeding tray.

  I follow him inside. "It would be so awesome. We'd see each other every day."

  "I'd be like the world's oldest eleventh-grader. People would think I'm a retard or something."

  "No way. They'd think you're cool."

  "Yeah, right."

  "I'm serious. I mean, you're smart and funny and..."

  Finally he cracks a smile. He slides his sunglasses to the top of his head. "And? Go on."

  I punch him in the shoulder. "Fish for compliments, why don't you?"

  "Hey, I almost forgot. This is for you."

  He reaches into his pocket and gives me a square wooden box that fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. "Tweety Bird" is carved into the lid.

  I breathe in the smell of fresh wood and then run my finger over the rough letters. "You made this?"

  "I thought you'd want something to remember your robin by. Go ahead, open it."

  I slide off the lid. A single gray-brown feather nestles inside.

  I take it out and brush it against my cheek. "Thanks." I know I'm going to keep the box, and Tweety Bird's feather, forever.

  Alan's eyes are deep and dark, and I feel like I could gaze into them forever. But his lips are closing in on mine, so I shut my eyes, and we kiss long and soft and slow, birds chirping in the background.

  On a Sunday afternoon two weeks later, Valerie, Alan, and I pile into Valerie's car. In the trunk is a big cardboard box, and in that box is Tweety Bird.

  "This is the place," Valerie says, and she pulls into a small gravel parking lot at the north end of the Arboretum. Aunt Mindy and Rick, who
've been following us in his Maserati, pull up next to us. We step into a scene that looks like a postcard. The rolling lawns of the Arboretum are deep green, but the leaves on the trees have turned brown and gold. A blue sky stretches over gray water, and above it all, the mountains show off a dusting of white snow. The air smells sharp and fresh.

  "Stevie tells me she found this robin near the Crown Hill Cemetery," Rick says as he helps Valerie unload the box from the back of the car and set it on the grass. "Why are we releasing it here instead of back where she found it?"

  "Lots of flocks pass through here on their way south," Valerie says. "We're hoping this robin will join one."

  Aunt Mindy hooks her arm through Rick's. "That makes sense."

  Honking fills the air as a flock of geese flies overhead. They head out across the water and the whole flock turns, never breaking their V-formation. It's like they've got some computer chip inside, telling them exactly what to do.

  Alan hasn't said much all morning, but when I glance his way, I catch him staring at me. I'm glad I wore one of my new pairs of jeans and my favorite baby blue sweater. He motions me to the box.

  "You want to do the honors?"

  He makes it sound so simple, but I can hardly imagine opening that box and setting Tweety Bird free.

  "Why don't we do it together?" Valerie says.

  We squat near the box. Alan, Valerie, and I take the corners; Rick and Aunt Mindy find a spot on one side. Rick grabs the lid and slides his other arm around Aunt Mindy's waist. It's crowded, but I can't help feeling there's someone missing.

  "On the count of three," Alan says. "One..."

  Even though the morning is chilly, I break out in a sweat. What if Tweety Bird doesn't know what to do? She'll probably sit in the bottom of the box till we force her out.

  Two...

  I look up. Alan's brown eyes reflect the gold of the leaves. He says the last number right to me.

  "Three!"

  The second we lift the lid, Tweety Bird flits away and lands in the tree right next to us. She preens her feathers with her beak and cocks her head from side to side.