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  It's a long ride, but I don't mind. I've been riding Metro ever since we moved to Seattle last summer, so I'm pretty used to it. Of course, if I had a car, I could get around a lot faster. I've been bugging Mom for months to let me get a learner's permit, but whenever I bring it up she just blows air through her lips and says, "What do you need that for? You already know how to drive." It's true, back in Montana she'd let me take the wheel if she'd had too many beers, as long as we were off the highway and there weren't any cops around. But I doubt that's the kind of practice the driver's license people have in mind.

  As the bus gets closer to our neighborhood, the houses turn into dumpy apartments. I get off at 8th and 85th and head toward our street.

  After passing the Four Spoons Cafe, I hang a right on 9th and take the shortcut through the cemetery. Most people think cemeteries are creepy, but I think they're cool. I like to imagine those dead people hanging out under the grass, talking about what goes on up here. Who knows, maybe they're watching out for me.

  I turn onto the skinny street that borders the west end of the cemetery and pass the place I call Crow House because the old lady who lives there always sits on the porch in her bathrobe and talks to the crows. She's not in her usual spot today, but there are plenty of crows around. A fat one perches on the telephone wire and caws at me. It sounds so sassy I put my hands on my hips and caw right back.

  Chirp! From behind me comes a high-pitched cry that's definitely not a crow's. I turn my head in the direction of the sound, but all I see are the blackberry bushes growing over the cemetery fence. Chirp! This time I look down. A baby bird with only a few scruffy feathers staggers in the dirt near my feet. It wobbles, then flails its wings and falls over.

  I kneel beside the bird. "Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you."

  It trembles and chirps even louder.

  There's no way this bird is going to survive on its own. It's so small and helpless and so close to the road, I know it's just a matter of time before it gets flattened by a car or mauled by a cat. I inch closer and hold out my hands. "It's okay. I'll take care of you."

  "Hey! Don't touch that robin!" The guy's voice is a low growl.

  I turn. I didn't notice the silver Honda parked across the street before, but now I see a guy about my age staring at me through the open driver's side window. Glossy dark hair falls across his forehead and frames his angry jaw. With that voice, he makes me think of a pissed-off grizzly bear in sunglasses.

  "This bird is lost or something," I tell him.

  "What do you know about birds?"

  Wait. I know that growl. I study the guy more closely and realize I also know that face. And those sunglasses.

  It's all coming back. Alan Parker got expelled back in October for spray-painting "Jeff Taylor is a faggot" in big black letters on the front of the school. Even before that, he had a reputation as the meanest kid at Ballard High. He was the guy who tripped the special ed kids and made them fall on their faces. The guy who wrote an essay for the school paper calling the rest of us "sheep." Some girls thought he was hot, but when I look at him, all I see is a world-class loser.

  "Hey, did you hear me ?" he calls.

  I don't answer.

  He looks me up and down and smirks. "I remember you. Ballard High. I heard your mom's a babe. Keep meaning to go downtown and check out her act one of these days."

  I'm used to kids saying stuff like that, so I pretend not to hear.

  "You're Stephanie, right?"

  "Stevie." I'm careful to keep any hint of friendliness out of my voice.

  He nods toward my feet, where the bird sits huddled in the dirt, trembling. "Now, get away from that bird."

  "I'm going to take it home ... I mean, to my aunt's."

  He swings open the car door, unfolds his body from the seat, and then saunters across the street like he owns it. His faded jeans hug his thighs, and from the way he fills out his green army jacket, I can tell he's been working out.

  "Look, Stephanie—"

  "Stevie."

  "Stevie. You don't know what to feed this bird or how often it needs to eat. I bet you were going to give it a cute little name, weren't you?"

  I hadn't thought about the feeding thing. But I was thinking of calling her Tweety Bird, after my favorite cartoon character.

  "What makes you the bird expert?"

  "I work at a bird rehab clinic, okay? Someone put in a call about this robin, and I've been observing it for the past hour. By the way, you don't just pick up a baby bird without waiting to see if its parents are around. A mother bird always comes back for her babies, unless she's hurt. Or dead." He tilts his head, and the sun glints off his dark lenses. I hate not being able to see his eyes. "The clinic's got incubators, aviaries, the works. Which I assume you don't."

  He's making me feel like such a moron I want to punch him in the nose, and I can't imagine why any bird clinic would hire a reject like him. But I have to admit, it sounds like he's a lot more set up to help the bird than I am.

  "Fine. Take it, then."

  He moves toward the bird and wraps one hand around it with a quick motion so the bird's head sticks out between two of his fingers. He holds it toward me. "Only safe way to pick up a bird."

  Big friggin' deal, I feel like saying. "What's wrong with giving a bird a name?" I ask instead.

  He motions me to follow him across the street to his car. He opens up the passenger side and then nods toward the back seat. "Open that box."

  Even though I hate him bossing me around, I lift the lid off the shoebox that sits on the torn vinyl seat. Inside is one of those green plastic baskets strawberries come in, filled with wadded-up toilet paper. He sets the bird on the toilet paper, and I realize it's a nest.

  "You don't want to get attached to a wild bird," he says as he slips the lid back on the shoebox. The bird chirps inside. "You name it, you'll have a hard time letting it go. Well, I'm going to get this bird over to the clinic." He smirks at me. "Sorry to steal your pet."

  He gets in the car and turns on the engine. I kick the ground, making a brown gash in the grass. As I head back to the other side of the street, I call, "Her name's Tweety Bird!"

  He sticks his arm out the window and tosses a card at me. "Come by the clinic sometime. You might learn something," he says. Then he peels away.

  I watch till his car disappears before I pick up the card. On the Wing: Bird Rehabilitation, it says in small black letters. Valerie Harrison, licensed wildlife rehabilitator. It lists an address and a phone number, which I barely look at. I shove the card in my pocket and head toward the apartment. Just the thought that Mom might be there makes me walk faster.

  Our apartment is in a little complex across the street from a McDonald's and a Chevron station.

  A couple of guys stand out front, staring under the open hood of a truck. "I told you the choke's shot," one of them says as I walk by. Then he tosses a cigarette butt into the street. They smell like beer.

  Each unit has its own number painted on the front door. Ours is number 11. I check out our window. The blinds are partway open. I don't remember if they were like that when I left, but I hurry to the door and fumble with my keys. "Mom," I call. I can't get the door unlocked quick enough.

  The orange shag carpet glares at me, and the vacuum's still parked in the middle of the living room. My note to Mom sits next to her ashtray, exactly where I left it.

  I slump onto the couch and stare at the water stain on the ceiling, the one that always reminds me of a spider. Then I notice the answering machine is blinking. There are a couple of calls from Alex, wondering why Mom hasn't made it in to work. Delete. Then a call from Mrs. Watkins, my counselor at Ballard High: "Ms. Calhoun, we need to discuss Stevie's attendance, blah, blah, blah ... Delete.

  And then Tonya's voice comes blaring out at me: "Stevie, it's me. Guess what ? Mike's going out of town. You know what that means, so call me back, okay? And get yourself a cell already."

  Yes, I know what that mea
ns: Tonya and her caveman brother, Doug, are throwing another drunken party. Last time he barfed all over the back deck. No, thanks. Delete.

  I move away from the phone and notice a couple of unopened bills lying on the floor below the mail slot, including one stamped "Past Due" in big red letters. Whenever Mom starts getting bills like that, it's not long before we have to find a new place to live.

  I'm about to leave when I notice Mom's bedroom door is shut. I'm positive I left it open when I went in to get the vacuum. I stand there not knowing what to do. If she's asleep, the last thing I want to do is wake her up. And if she's awake, she might not be in the mood for a visitor.

  But then again, I'm sure she'd want to see me. She might even perk up and say, "Well, there you are, honey pie. Come give your old mom a hug."

  I knock on the door. "Mom?" There's no answer, so I crack it open.

  The room is dark and empty, but the covers on Mom's bed are rumpled. I lay my cheek against her pillow and breathe in her scent. She's been here; at least I know she's alive.

  Then I notice the drawer of the little table by her bed is open. I slide it out a hair further. The dog-eared envelope where she stashes the grocery money sits on top of her lacy bras and panties. It's empty.

  I get this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I just know I have to check. I go into my bedroom and feel under the bed till I find the heart-shaped metal box where I keep my treasures: a reddish rock from Grandpa's ranch in Montana, a shell I found on the beach in Carkeek Park, a bird's egg wrapped in cotton. And my money. I had forty-five dollars I'd saved up from babysitting in there. Now it's gone. Not only that, the egg is broken and the inside of the box is coated with yellow slime.

  For a second I'm so pissed I want to slam the box against the wall. But only for a second. Mom never takes my money unless there's a good reason, like that time she borrowed fifty bucks to cover rent. She probably needed it for one of those bills, and she'll pay me right back as soon as she gets her check. Or maybe they accepted her application to sell jewelry at the street fair, and she needed it to pay for a booth or something. It's me I should be pissed at, blaming Mom when all she's trying to do is make things better for us. Still the sick feeling won't leave me, and I wish my money was still there.

  I rinse out the box in the bathroom sink, tuck it under my arm, and slip out the front door, locking it behind me. It's gotten even cooler outside, and the two guys are still poking around under the hood of the truck. I sprint to the bus stop just in time to catch the number 48. I make the transfer downtown, but I'm working so hard to come up with other reasons my money might be gone, I miss the stop in Wedgewood and have to walk five blocks back to Aunt Mindy's.

  She wasn't supposed to be home till six-thirty. But here it is, the middle of the afternoon, and her spotless white Camry is parked in the driveway.

  CHAPTER 4

  Aunt Mindy is waiting for me on the living room couch with her arms crossed and her mouth pressed into a thin line. She's changed out of her workout gear into a pair of designer jeans and a tight blue T-shirt. The heat's cranked up to about ninety degrees, and little half-moons of sweat peek from under her arms.

  "Hi," I say over my shoulder, as I head for the guest room, trying to sound cool and casual.

  "Stop right there. Where have you been?"

  "Where do you think? School."

  She crosses her arms over her chest. "School."

  "I was feeling better, so I took the bus."

  "That's interesting, because your counselor says you haven't been to school all week."

  I swallow. I feel like I'm perched at the top of a roller coaster, about to drop.

  "And here I rescheduled my interview so I could pick up your homework."

  Pick up my homework? Who does she think she is, my mom? I start to walk away, but she stands and comes after me.

  "June lets you get away with this, doesn't she ? She lets you cut school."

  "And your point is...?"

  "And I see she lets you mouth off too."

  "Whatever."

  She grabs my shoulder. "Don't 'whatever' me. And by the way, you went off and left the door unlocked."

  I jerk away so hard I jab her with my elbow. "Get your friggin' hands off me!"

  "Hey, watch it! If you were my kid—"

  "Well, I'm not! And quit blaming everything on Mom!" I storm into the guest room, slam the door behind me, and throw myself face-down on the bed. For a minute it's quiet. Then I hear the tap, tap of Aunt Mindy's sandals approaching the door.

  "Stevie?"

  I bury my face in the checkered quilt.

  "Stevie, can I come in?"

  "Shut up!" I snatch the vanilla-scented candle from the little table by the bed and hurl it at the door. It hits with a thump.

  "Stevie, please."

  I don't answer, and pretty soon her footsteps click off into the distance. About ten minutes later, the front door slams.

  The quiet in the house isn't cozy anymore—it suffocates me. I lie there with my fists clenched and stare at the ceiling. I should just get out of here, go stay at the apartment. But no doubt she'd find me and drag me back. I decide the only way I'm going to get through this is to keep my mouth shut as much as possible.

  When there's a knock on the door maybe half an hour later, I open up to see Aunt Mindy standing there in sweats and running shoes, damp curls plastered to her forehead.

  "I went for a run," she says. "Always makes me feel better."

  I keep my face blank.

  "I'm starving. There's a great little Chinese place on Fifteenth. How does that sound?"

  I'd kill right now for a corn dog, but whatever. "Sounds okay."

  "Great," she says. "I'll hop in the shower."

  The restaurant she picks is crowded and dark and stinks of incense. The hostess smiles at Aunt Mindy and shows us to a table in the back.

  "This is one of my favorite places," Aunt Mindy says. "I usually come here alone, so it's nice to have company."

  I stare at the weird names on the menu: Moo Shu this and Goo Goo that. "What is this stuff ?"

  She laughs. "I bet you haven't had much Chinese. Your mom's always been a burgers-and-fries kind of gal."

  What's wrong with burgers and fries? I think. But I stick to my plan and stay quiet.

  The waitress slides a pot of tea onto the table between us and turns over our cups. They look like miniature white cereal bowls.

  Aunt Mindy pours herself some tea. "I remember one time, way before you were born, I took your mom to a little Chinese place that had just opened up in Helena. She stared at the menu like you're doing, with her forehead all wrinkled up. When the waitress came to take our order, June said, 'I'll have the Egg Foo Yung.' But when the food arrived, she took one look at it and said, 'What is this crap ? I thought I ordered eggs.'" Aunt Mindy chuckles and shakes her head. "She expected it to be a plate of eggs and hash browns, like in some diner."

  If we weren't in a restaurant, I'd throw the pot of tea at her. So Mom isn't all cultured and sophisticated. She's still worth a million Aunt Mindys.

  The waitress comes to take our order.

  "You should try the Kung Pao Chicken," Aunt Mindy says.

  I mentally stick out my tongue at her, then I turn to the waitress. "Give me the Egg Foo Yung."

  When I finally give up on chopsticks and ask the waitress for a fork, I can see why Mom was surprised. Egg Foo Yung tastes nothing like eggs. It's actually pretty good—these spongy, spicy little pancake things with yummy brown sauce all over them. I start to wish I hadn't worn my tight jeans.

  I'm hoping we can eat in peace, but no. Aunt Mindy has to tell me stories about when she and Mom were girls, back on Grandpa's ranch in Montana. She makes a big deal about all the times she saved Mom's butt when they were kids. "I spent so much time keeping June out of trouble, you'd have thought I was her mom instead of her little sister," she says.

  I've got half a mind to get up and leave, when all of a sudden s
he gets quiet. "Stevie," she says, "I owe you an apology for what I said back at the house. I never should have criticized your mom."

  I pick up one of the chopsticks and poke at the pool of sauce on my plate. I wonder what she's up to now.

  "We've always had different ideas about raising you. But you're not my daughter, so I had no right to say what I did."

  I use the chopstick to paint pictures: a heart, a bird, a tree.

  "Truth is, I love your mom. If I get mad at her sometimes, it's just because I worry about her. She never quite seems to get her life off the ground."

  I knew it. I knew she couldn't say something nice about Mom without twisting it around. I grip the chopstick so hard I'm surprised it doesn't break.

  The waitress brings the check and a couple of fortune cookies, but Aunt Mindy doesn't seem to notice. She locks her eyes on mine and says, "You need to get back to school, Stevie. If you screw up high school, you'll be crippled before you even start your life. I don't want to see you end up ... having regrets."

  I know exactly what she's thinking. She doesn't want me to end up like Mom.

  "I made an appointment for us to see your school counselor tomorrow. We'll talk to her together, okay?"

  I let the chopstick clatter onto the plate. "Forget it."

  "I'm afraid it's settled. Mrs. Watkins is concerned about your future, and so am I."

  "I'm not going to—"

  "Unless you want me to bring CPS into this."

  Sometimes I want to strangle her. "Fine. I'll talk to her."

  "Good." She smiles. She just loves getting her way.

  She picks up the check and starts rummaging in her purse. "There's something else I wanted to talk to you about. While you're staying with me, I expect you to pitch in around the house. This weekend we'll make a list of chores you can be responsible for."