Flyaway Page 4

  When I wake up the next morning, it's after eleven. Aunt Mindy's car is gone, so I wander into the kitchen in search of caffeine. There's a note waiting for me on the table. Stevie, it says. At the studio, back by 11:30. Please load dishwasher and take out trash. We're meeting with tutor at noon. Love, M.

  I crumple the note and toss it in the garbage. Then I remember my plan with Tonya, and suddenly I'm as jumpy as if I'd just knocked back a triple mocha. I decide to skip the coffee and go get dressed. I'm going through my clothes, trying to figure out what to wear, when I find Alan's card in the pocket of my jeans. Things have been so crazy I'd almost forgotten about Tweety Bird, but now I picture the way she struggled in the dirt and hear her shrill cry. I squint at the address on the card: 8503 30th NW The bird clinic must be near that funky little coffee shop right along the 48 bus route. I'm thinking I should head over there someday and check on her. Then I remember Alan's stupid smirk and toss the card on the closet floor.

  At 11:35 I hear Aunt Mindy come in. A couple of minutes later, there's a knock on my door.

  "You're not wearing that!" she says when I open it.

  I look down at my cutoffs and off-the-shoulder peasant blouse. "Obviously I am." I don't know what her problem is. She doesn't exactly look stunning in her leggings and baggy sweatshirt. I head out of the room.

  She's right behind me. "Didn't you read my note? We're meeting with your tutor in twenty minutes. And by the way, I thought I asked you to load the dishwasher." She messes with the elastic on my blouse, trying to get the sleeves to cover my shoulders, and then railroads me into the kitchen.

  I twist away from her hands. "Excuse me, but maybe I have other plans. My friend Tonya's picking me up at one."

  "I'm sure we won't need more than half an hour with the tutor. Now get going on those dishes."

  "Fine." I monkey with the front of the dishwasher until it opens.

  "So, Richard Brown sounds like a nice guy," she says as she hands me a plate.

  "Who's Richard Brown?" I'm trying to figure out where to put the thing.

  "No, right there." She stares at me and then rolls her eyes. "Oh, I forgot. June doesn't believe in dishwashers." She shows me where to put the silverware. "Mr. Brown is your new tutor. Mrs. Watkins called yesterday afternoon and said he's agreed to work with you. He comes highly recommended."

  "What do we have to meet him for, then?"

  She grabs a box of dish detergent from under the sink. "You pour this in here. I want the three of us to get to know each other before you two start working together."

  I try to imagine what this Mr. Brown guy is like. Probably some gray-haired grandpa-type who does volunteer work as an excuse to get out of the house.

  "Now just close it and push that blue button. I'm going to change." She looks me up and down again. "Honestly, Stevie, I wish you'd wear something decent. You look like—"

  "What?"

  "Never mind."

  I punch the button on the dishwasher and then slide my blouse even further off my shoulders.

  Imagine my surprise when we walk into Starbucks and this handsome black dude stands up to greet us. I mean, this guy looks like a movie star. His hair's a little on the gray side, but his skin is so smooth, and his eyes slant at the corners like a cat's. He's wearing these cool rectangle-framed glasses, and a diamond stud sparkles in one ear.

  I can tell Aunt Mindy notices him too. She fumbles with her sunglasses, and when he goes up to the counter to order, she raises her eyebrows at me and whispers, "You lucky dog! I wish I needed some tutoring."

  I look away. There should be a law against old people flirting.

  He comes back with our drinks. As he leans over me to set my white chocolate mocha on the table, I can smell his spicy cologne.

  After a couple of minutes of stupid conversation about the weather and how much coffee everyone in Seattle drinks, Aunt Mindy says, "So tell us, Richard, what brought you to tutoring kids?"

  "Please. Call me Rick," he says with a smile. "When I quit my job at Microsoft a few years ago," he says, trying to talk over the guy at the next table who's yakking away on his cell phone, "I was practically a millionaire."

  A millionaire tutor? I fold my arms across my chest. Yeah, right.

  He looks at me and laughs. "I know. My mama didn't believe it either. My daddy worked all his life, punching that clock until the day he died of a heart attack, and here I was, retiring at thirty-five.

  "At first I really lived it up—traveled some, bought high-end furniture, collected wine. That was fun for about a year, then it started getting old. My whole life was about having a good time."

  "Sounds okay to me!" I say.

  Rick sips some foam off his cappuccino. "I know it sounds good, but believe it or not, having nothing but free time actually gets pretty boring."

  I roll my eyes.

  "Anyway, I decided I needed to do something more productive—something to help other people. I had kind of a difficult youth myself. We moved around a lot, so it was hard making friends. When I did, it was usually the wrong kind. I was lucky enough to have a mentor who turned me around before I ended up in trouble. That's why I decided to work with kids. Give something back, you know ?"

  Aunt Mindy's being totally embarrassing, staring at him with this weird look on her face. I can guess what's going through her head: rich hottie and nice guy—what a combination! I'm actually starting to think he's kind of a dweeb. I mean, why waste your time tutoring loser kids when you're a millionaire? Why not buy yourself a yacht and a mansion and a killer home-entertainment system? Still, I can see why she likes him. I bet Mom would go for him too, especially with him being rich and all.

  While I slurp the last drops of my mocha, he and Aunt Mindy get down to business and work out a tutoring schedule. He's going to meet me in the conference room of the Northeast Library at one o'clock every Tuesday and Thursday. They tried to make it nine, but I talked them out of it. If I'm going to be tutored, I need my beauty sleep.

  As Rick shrugs on his suede jacket, he looks me right in the eye and smiles. "It's great to meet you, Stevie. I think we're going to get along fine."

  We all walk out to the parking lot together. When he slides into his black Maserati and turns up the R&B, I'm suddenly sold: If I have to have a tutor, it might as well be a handsome rich dude with a mega-sweet ride.

  I've just finished wolfing down a PB and J when I hear a honk outside. I race out the door before Aunt Mindy can bug me about my clothes again and climb into the back seat of Mr. Nyberg—a.k.a. Mike's—Explorer. Country music jangles on the radio. Tonya turns around and snaps her gum at me.

  "I told Mike we might do a little shopping after the movie," she says with a wink.

  "Hello, Mr. Nyberg," I say. "Thanks for picking me up."

  He smiles at me in the rearview mirror. "No problem." Even though the air conditioning's on, his round face looks pink and sweaty. He's nice, but I can sort of get why Tonya's mom ran off with another guy.

  "Jesus, Mike, I can't stand this crap." Tonya fiddles with the radio until she finds some rap. I watch his face in the mirror. He grimaces and uses his fingers to comb a few strands of hair over his bald spot, but he doesn't say anything. After twenty minutes of dodging through Saturday afternoon traffic, he pulls up in front of Pacific Place on Pine Street. Sunlight glints off high-rise windows, and the sidewalks swarm with shoppers.

  "Have fun, you two. Call me when you're done."

  "Thanks again, Mr. Nyberg," I say. We wait until his car disappears, then sprint over to First Avenue and catch a bus heading south.

  The bus crawls through downtown. Grime covers the windows, but I can still make out the snow-capped peak of Mt. Rainier looming over the city like a giant scoop of vanilla ice cream. It's maybe fifteen minutes later when we finally roll past a corner market with some old guys sitting in front, smoking cigarettes. I pull the buzzer, and we get out at the next stop.

  "So, I heard there's, like, a ton of crime in this ne
ighborhood," Tonya says in a really loud voice as she follows me around the corner and down a narrow side street. "Crack dealers and stuff. On the news the other day—"

  "Shut up," I hiss, and elbow her in the ribs. A couple of guys in baggy jeans and oversize jackets check us out from across the street. I stare at the rundown houses, hoping I can remember which one is Drake's. Finally I recognize his red truck. It's parked in front of a house in the middle of the block.

  The place is just as trashy as I remembered it. The porch sags, and the white paint has mostly peeled off, leaving patches of gray. A rusted-out toilet with no lid squats in the middle of the front yard.

  Tonya's eyes go wide. "Awesome."

  We sneak to the side of the house and hide behind an overflowing garbage can. Tonya holds her nose and makes a gagging sound, but I hardly notice the smell. Through an opening in the curtains, in the window right across from where we're hiding, I can make out someone pacing.

  "That's her!" Tonya whispers.

  I tiptoe from behind the garbage can and crouch under the window, then raise myself so my eyes are just above the ledge. It's Mom all right. She's wearing her usual tight jeans and low-cut tank, and her dark curls tumble over her shoulders. But she looks thinner than I remembered, and dark circles sag under her eyes. Without her little pot belly she looks even younger, and I can see why people sometimes think we're sisters.

  "Stevie!" Tonya says.

  I glance back at her. She points to the window and makes a knocking motion with her hand.

  I shake my head. Drake's truck is here, so chances are he is too. I turn back to the window and watch Mom move toward the sink, pick up a glass from the counter, and then continue pacing.

  "Stevie!"

  I look over my shoulder at Tonya again.

  "Do something," she mouths.

  I turn back to the window, and I'm trying to decide if I should get Mom's attention somehow, when a Buick blaring a bass beat that shakes the street pulls up in front of the house. I dive behind the garbage can and watch the car door open.

  A pumped-up guy in a wifebeater and sweats, with a silver hoop in his nose and tattoos up and down both arms, swaggers up the lopsided steps and knocks at the door. Mom hurries to answer it, and he disappears inside the house. Then I see two heads, his and Mom's, show up near the side window. I sneak back under the ledge.

  "Stevie! Get back here!" Tonya says. But instead I raise myself up and peek over the ledge again.

  The guy reaches into the waistband of his sweats and pulls out a wad of bills. He hands them to Mom. She swipes at her nose, and her hand shakes as she counts out the money. Then she opens a drawer and passes him a little plastic bag. I can barely make out the chunks of milky rock inside.

  The guy struts back to his car and peels away from the curb, trailed by the boom, boom of the bass. I'm still tucked under the window, wishing I could reach out and touch Mom's bare arm.

  Then someone else appears. Drake. I've only seen him a couple of times, but I'd know him anywhere. He looks like he just got out of the army: military haircut, biceps bulging under the sleeves of his glaring white T-shirt. But it's his smile I see in my nightmares, tortoise lips stretched over crooked yellow teeth.

  Mom hands him the bills. He stuffs them in his pocket and runs his hand across his buzzcut.

  Then she starts talking to him and stroking his arm. Even from where I am, I can see the hungry look in her eyes. When he reaches into his pocket and goes to the rickety kitchen table, she follows him like a starving puppy.

  A mirror, a razorblade, two lines of white powder. He sucks one up his nose with a straw, then hands the mirror to her.

  I'm trembling as I lower myself from the window. I tell myself it's not what I think, that Mom would never do that.

  But I know. I know in the deepest part of me, the part that hasn't learned yet how to lie.

  CHAPTER 6

  After dinner, which I can barely choke down, Aunt Mindy says she has something she needs to talk to me about. The last thing I'm in the mood for is one of her hissy fits, but of course she gets her way.

  We sit in the living room. I'm scrunched into one corner of the couch, and Aunt Mindy perches on the love seat next to me with some papers in her lap. The lemony odor of furniture polish hangs in the air. I trace the stripes on the zebra pillow, wondering what she's going to jump down my throat about this time.

  "I guess you know I've been doing some research on crystal meth," she starts out, tucking a dark curl behind her ear, "so we might as well talk about it."

  I keep my eyes on the pillow.

  "I'm sure you know it's a very addictive drug; doesn't take much at all to get hooked."

  I scowl at her. "You hear a rumor about where Mom works, and now you think she's addicted? That's lame."

  "Granted, we don't know for sure she's using crystal. But if she is..." She shakes her head. "I know your mom, Stevie. She's got what you'd call an addictive personality. Food, cigarettes, men ... she never knows when to stop."

  "Shows what you know. She quit smoking six months ago."

  Blood rushes to her face. "I thought I saw ... Never mind. Like you said, we don't have enough information yet, but I think some of the signs are there. Just the fact that she'd go off and leave you for almost a week—that's not normal behavior."

  I open my mouth to argue, then shut it again.

  Aunt Mindy holds up the papers, which I can see she printed off the Internet. "I've also been doing some research on meth rehab clinics, just in case. Apparently one of the best programs in the country is in Oregon, right near where your uncle Rob lives. I talked to him about it this afternoon—"

  "You told Uncle Rob?"

  "It's expensive, but between the two of us, we could pull it off, if it comes to that. We both want what's best for June."

  I throw down the pillow. "You're insane! And how would you get her to go ? Tie her up and drag her there ?"

  "Of course not." She takes a deep breath. "We'd do an intervention."

  We learned in Health Ed an intervention is when you get in an addict's face and force them to admit they're screwed up. Mom would just love that. "Good luck. You don't even know where she is."

  I get up to leave, but she grabs my hand. "I need your help, Stevie. You've got to tell me anything you know. Anything. Any odd behavior you remember, anyone new she's been seeing."

  The awful picture flashes through my mind: Mom in the window of Drake's house. But I've already decided it wasn't really Mom. Not like an alien took over her body or something. But like the Mom in the window isn't the Mom I snuggle up with to watch wrestling when she has a Friday night off. She's not the Mom who strokes my hair while I tell her whatever's bugging me, and she's definitely not the Mom who's going to make our lives better in the not-too-distant future.

  "Please," Aunt Mindy says. "This might be our only chance to help her."

  I let myself imagine, just for a minute, that Mom could really go to that place and come back okay. But then I think about who she is. She lives in rundown places and drives beat-up cars partly because she has to, but mostly to show people she doesn't give a crap. She can't keep a job because she hates being bored, and she gets into trouble because she can't stand anyone telling her how to live. "Honey pie," she always tells me, "we're free spirits. You and me, we live by our own rules." That's what I love about her.

  "Stevie ?" Aunt Mindy says. "Will you help me ?"

  I look her right in the eyes and make my voice tight, sharp, and cold.

  "No."

  I stumble into the guest room and slide under the covers. All I want to do is go to sleep, but my mind is on overdrive. When I finally do doze off, I have these bizarre dreams: Rick making out with Mom in the back seat of his Maserati. Aunt Mindy crushing Tweety Bird's head with the heel of her shoe. I even start to have the one about Mom wrapping me in the blanket. She leans over and kisses me, and then she whispers in my ear, "I'll take care of you." I jolt awake and remember what happen
ed at Drake's. And I don't feel taken care of at all.

  I spend all day Sunday avoiding Aunt Mindy. Tonya calls me on my new cell and says I should come over, but I tell her I'm busy. When she asks me what the deal was yesterday, I tell her Mom and Drake started making out, and I wasn't about to talk to Mom with that jerk around. I couldn't tell her what I really saw. No one in the world, not even Tonya, would understand.

  But when Monday morning comes, I decide I can't stand to spend another day hanging out in the guest room. As soon as I'm sure Aunt Mindy's gone, I jump out of bed, throw on some clothes, and, ignoring her stupid list of chores, race out to the bus stop. The old neighborhood is calling me.

  It's one of those mornings that cons you into thinking it's already summer, where the Olympic Mountains look like gray and white cutouts against a perfect blue sky. If there's one thing I love about Seattle, it's the mountains. The two ranges line up on either side like they're guarding the city, the Cascades to the east and the Olympics in the west. But my favorite is Mt. Rainier, which towers in the south like a bouncer at the front door, daring anyone to get by.

  I sit on the nearly empty bus and close my eyes, pretending I'm up there, hanging out by some alpine lake. But the haven't-had-a-shower-in-two-weeks stink from the old man two rows behind me kind of spoils the illusion.

  The bus barrels down 85 th, past the street that winds behind the cemetery. The street where I found Tweety Bird. Once again I picture her, so lost and helpless, and I decide seeing her again, making sure she's okay, would be worth the risk of running into Alan. As soon as I spot the little coffee shop up ahead, I ring the buzzer. The driver lets me off on 30th Northwest, and I head north, searching for anything that looks like a bird hospital. It's an ordinary neighborhood with houses and driveways and kids playing in front yards—not the kind of place you'd expect to find a clinic.

  Then I see the sign. It's on a wooden post in front of a boxy gray house that looks like all the others on the street. On the Wing it says, and in smaller letters just below, Bird Rehabilitation Center. Before I can change my mind, I march to the front door and ring the bell.