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  CHAPTER 12

  When I was a kid, I made mud sundaes. I'd turn the hose on some dirt, mush it up real good, and then slop it into a plastic cup. That was the ice cream. Then I'd dribble more mud on top for the chocolate sauce. Next came some dry grass—the sprinkles—and last of all a rock for the cherry on top.

  My life right now is like one of those sundaes. Mom being in rehab ? That's the pile of mud. The hassles with Aunt Mindy are the grass, and now the weirdness with Alan is the rock sitting on top of the whole mess.

  I haven't seen him since last week, but I can't seem to get him off my mind. I'll be dreaming about the Professor, and all of a sudden it's Alan I'm kissing. Then, right in the middle of it, he turns back into the Professor again, and all I want to do is get away from both of them. I decide the only sane thing to do is stay clear of Alan for a few days. I feel lousy for lying, but I call Valerie and tell her I've got the flu.

  Only problem is, if I don't hang out at On the Wing, I've got no excuse to avoid Aunt Mindy. It's been over a week since our fight, and I'm still mad at her for talking bad about Mom. I have to live with the woman the rest of the summer, though, so I wish I could rewind the whole scene and erase the part where I said I hated her. Lying in bed on Wednesday morning, I decide as soon as she gets home from work, I'm going to tell her I'm sorry.

  She beats me to it. When I drag myself out of bed at eleven and shuffle into the kitchen to see if she's left any coffee, I find a note waiting for me on the table. Stevie, it says, I surrender. I'm getting off early. Let's go shopping.

  I haven't been to Northgate Mall in like a million years—it's the kind of place Mom wouldn't be caught dead in. But after Rick's lecture about my clothes, this time I decide to take Aunt Mindy up on her invitation. Plus I'm hoping a shopping trip will give me a chance to patch things up with her.

  I have to admit it's kind of fun taking it all in: the dorky mall walkers in their matching tracksuits and blinding white cross-trainers; the snotty-nosed kids dragging their moms into Toys R Us; the smell of popcorn, Starbucks coffee, and cinnamon rolls.

  "Let's start at Macy's," Aunt Mindy says. She wants to buy me a new "outfit." With her taste in clothes, this could be scary. We take the elevator up to the junior department, where they've got techno music playing so loud the floor throbs.

  She homes in on a faceless mannequin in low-rise jeans and a T-shirt the color of strawberry ice cream. "Isn't that adorable ? You'd look so cute in that."

  The getup is so generic I could gag, but I try it on to make her happy. When I come out of the dressing room with price tags dangling, she gazes at me like I'm a bride showing off her wedding dress. "Oh, sweetie, that's darling."

  I study myself in the full-length mirror and decide there's a good reason I never wear pink.

  I veto everything in Macy's junior department, so she drags me into another store. And another. And another. Just when I've decided that if I have to try on one more so-called cute outfit I'll keel over and die, she halts in front of a shop window and points. "Look, Stevie. It's you."

  The mannequin is posed in a position no human being could actually get into, with her legs too far apart and her arms stretched behind her back. But it's what she's wearing that gets my attention: a pair of tight gray denim pants with pockets outlined in white stitching and a black top that shows a triangle of skin under one side of her collarbone.

  Aunt Mindy grabs my arm and pulls me into the store. "You're trying it on."

  For once I don't argue. I tell the saleslady my size and slip into the dressing room she starts for me. I try the pants on first. Perfect: tight enough to show off my butt, but not so tight I can't sit down. Then I put on the top, and I'm in love. It looks even better on me than it did on the mannequin. It hugs my boobs but doesn't make them look too big, and the triangle hits me just right, so the strap of my black lace bra peeks through.

  I can't wipe the grin off my face when I come out to show Aunt Mindy. She claps and says, "Let's get you some shoes to go with it."

  By the time we leave the shoe store, I'm feeling lightheaded. I've got a bag with the pants and top in it under one arm and a shoebox with a pair of chunky-heeled clogs under the other. I can hardly believe the amount of money Aunt Mindy signed for on her credit card without guilt-tripping me once.

  When I stop at the window of Body Jewelry Plus to look at belly button rings, she says, "Go ahead and browse for a while if you want. I need to pop into JCPenney." She glances at her watch. "I'll meet you at the Starbucks in the food court in, say, twenty minutes."

  I've snagged a table along the far wall and am halfway through my caramel latte by the time Aunt Mindy arrives. She hustles over carrying a JCPenney shopping bag. When she sets it down on the table, I peek inside.

  "What'd you get?"

  "Nothing interesting. Just socks and underwear." She takes the bag from me and stows it under her chair, but not before I catch sight of something small, black, and lacy.

  I'm tempted to give her a hard time, but she just spent a couple hundred bucks on me. "Thanks for the clothes," I say instead, swiping up the foam that's stuck to the sides of my cup. "They're awesome."

  "My pleasure. It was fun."

  There's some kind of jazz music playing, saxophone and drums. I keep time by tapping the bottom of my cup against the table. I know I'm stalling. Finally the song ends.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "About the other day. I shouldn't have said that."

  "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have said anything against your mom. I only wish she ... Never mind. I'll quit while I'm ahead." She sticks out her hand. "Truce?"

  I shake it. "Truce."

  There's not much to say after that, so she finishes her mocha in silence. I pretend to be lost in an article about all-ages clubs in The Stranger.

  She sets down her cup, fishes the bag from under her chair, and slings her purse strap over her shoulder. "You ready to get out of here?"

  I make a show of needing to finish the last paragraph. "Sure."

  I follow her out of the mall, watching her hips sway under her skirt. I'm sure that lacy black thing was a thong, and now it's impossible to erase from my mind the ridiculous picture of it riding up her crack.

  A couple of days go by. I know I can't stay away from Alan forever, so one morning I jump the bus back to the old neighborhood. But the closer I get to On the Wing, the less ready I feel to face him. I decide to get off at 8th and 85th and walk for a while, give myself some time to figure things out.

  It's a perfect day for the way I'm feeling. The sky is heavy and gray, and mist clings to the tops of the evergreens. The gas-station-attendant's shirt I've got on over my tank barely keeps out the chill. A skinny guy with a ponytail lounging in front of the Sundown Tavern waves his cigarette at me as I pass. The smoke burns my nose and makes me think of Mom. I wander over to our apartment. Well, it's not really ours anymore. They evicted us when Mom went to rehab since she didn't pay the rent. Aunt Mindy didn't pay it either. She thinks we can find a better place when Mom gets back, and she had our stuff put in storage.

  I stand and stare at the white Corolla with bird poop on the back windshield that sits in Mom's old parking spot. If it wasn't for me, we'd be together in the apartment right now. But wishing isn't going to change anything, so I turn away, pass the Chevron station and the McDonald's and take a right onto Holman Road.

  Traffic whizzes by, leaving a haze of stinky exhaust. A couple of cars honk at me, but I don't bother to look up. I don't know how far I've walked—miles, probably—and I can feel the beginning of a blister on my left heel. It starts to sprinkle as I cross 3rd and then Greenwood and finally hang a right on Aurora, home of used car lots and sleazy motels.

  As I walk I go round and round in my head. Should I tell Alan about the Professor ? I haven't heard from him since the day I turned down his invite to the beach, so I'm starting to wonder if there's anything to tell. Why hasn't he called me? And what would I do if Alan tried to kiss me again?

&n
bsp; I'm so lost in thought I almost don't notice the crow lying on its side in the corner of a parking lot. As I get closer, it struggles to drag itself a few inches along the asphalt, panic in its beady eyes. One wing sticks out at a weird angle.

  I kneel beside it. "It's okay, little guy. I'll take care of you." Then I strip off my shirt and gather the crow inside. Alan or no Alan, I've got to get this bird to Valerie.

  It feels like a million miles to On the Wing. Rain soaks the shirt in my hands, and the crow inside it is so still I'm starting to wonder if it's dead. By the time I finally get there, my teeth are chattering.

  Even though I can't wait to get out of the rain, I hesitate outside the back door. Then I feel the crow struggle underneath the shirt, and I know I have no choice. I open the door and step into the cage room.

  The birds greet me with squawks and chirps, but I don't see Alan anywhere. Valerie's not around either. I stand in the middle of the room, holding the crow and shivering, not sure what to do.

  Then I hear voices from the living room. One is Valerie's, the other I don't recognize.

  "He could definitely present some challenges for you," the unfamiliar voice says.

  I tiptoe into the kitchen and peek through the half-open doorway. Valerie's sitting at the dining room table opposite a big lady with long, dark hair and too much makeup.

  "I don't know how much you know about his background," the lady says. "This kid has moved around a lot."

  Valerie must be taking on a new volunteer. I squeeze closer to the doorway so I can hear and see better.

  The lady reaches into her briefcase and pulls out some papers. "These are the reports from the families who have fostered him. They all cite angry outbursts and incidents of cruelty as reasons for terminating care. It's going to require a lot of patience to take him on."

  Valerie takes the papers but doesn't look at them. "He's had a hard life, but he's a wonderful young man," she says. "I've seen plenty evidence of that here. What he needs is a stable home, and I believe I can provide that for him. He's been unofficially living here for the past few months, anyway."

  They must be talking about Alan! I squeeze even closer.

  "We appreciate that you're willing to take in an older teenager. Most people want babies, or at least little kids. But the older ones need just as much love and care. Maybe more, sometimes. So many of them get pushed out of the foster-care system the day they turn eighteen and end up homeless or in jail. Or worse."

  "I've heard that. And that's the last thing I'd want for him."

  The lady smiles. "We know you have a unique relationship with Alan, so we're hopeful the adoption process can go smoothly."

  She's adopting him? I back up so fast I bump a china teacup off the counter. It hits the floor and smashes to bits.

  "What was that?" the lady says.

  Still cradling the crow in one arm, I drop to the floor and hurry to gather up the pieces.

  Valerie rushes into the kitchen. "Stevie! Are you okay?"

  I know my face must be turning a million shades of red. "I'm sorry. I'll buy you another one."

  "I don't care about the cup." She pulls me to my feet and looks me up and down. "Oh, honey, you're soaked. You shouldn't be out in this weather, especially with the flu."

  I hold out the shirt. "I came to bring you this crow. I think it's hurt pretty bad."

  "Everything okay?" calls the lady from the living room.

  Valerie pokes her head around the doorway. "Fine. But can we finish up another time? I've got a bit of a situation here."

  She takes the bundle from me as gently as if she's picking up a baby. "Now, young lady, let's get you out of those wet things. There's a robe hanging on my bedroom door. Change into that, and we'll put your clothes in the dryer."

  When I come back to the cage room hugging my wad of wet clothes, Valerie's got the crow laid out on the old wooden desk she uses for an examining table. She pulls on a pair of latex gloves and peels away the shirt like she's unwrapping a fragile Christmas present.

  The crow just lies there. Only the rise and fall of its chest tells me it's still alive.

  "I hope I didn't hurt it."

  "You did a great job." She turns it over, running her hands along its drooping wing. "But I'm not sure there's much we can do."

  "You can fix it. You fix all the other birds."

  She touches the wing again and shakes her head. "I'll do everything I possibly can, but it's in pretty bad shape. You shouldn't get your hopes up." She wrestles off the gloves. "The dryer's in the basement, right as you come down the stairs. While you're tossing your clothes in, I'll get this crow into a basket. I want to work on that wing later, but right now it needs dark and quiet."

  I could use a little dark and quiet myself. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around what I overheard.

  ***

  "It's about lunchtime," Valerie says when we meet back in the kitchen. "Why don't you join me for some leftover chili?"

  We take our steaming bowls to the little table in the living room, and Valerie shoves a stack of magazines aside. She hands me a sweaty can of Sprite." Bon appétit."

  We spoon up our chili for a few minutes in silence. It's rich and spicy, with little chunks of meat in it.

  Finally I can't stand it anymore. "Are you really adopting Alan?"

  She chuckles. "I was wondering how much of that conversation you heard."

  "I didn't mean to. I—"

  "That's okay. Yes, I've started the adoption process. He needs someone to love him. And since my son's been gone..." She picks up her can of Sprite but doesn't take a drink. I think about the photo in her bedroom, the boy with Valerie's eyes.

  "The one with the baseball glove?"

  She takes a deep breath and answers the question I don't know how to ask. "It was a small-plane crash. He and my husband were both killed."

  I'm sorry.

  She looks up at me and smiles, but the smile never makes it to her eyes. "It was a long time ago. He was right around Alan's age when I lost him. So you see, I need Alan as much as he needs me."

  I try to imagine what it would be like to have Valerie take care of me, and for a second I feel a twinge of jealousy. Then I shake it off. What do I have to be jealous about ? I've still got Mom.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Fourth of July is Mom's favorite holiday. Not because she's patriotic or anything—she just likes to set off fireworks. Last year was our first Fourth in Seattle, so we celebrated by buying a whole bunch of fireworks cheap, at one of those stands out on the reservation. Roman candles, sparklers, fountains—Mom bought them all.

  We didn't know much of anybody back then, so we had our own little party in the alley behind the motel we were living in. We chugged a beer, then Mom set off the fireworks. I can still smell the gunpowder and see the way she waved her arms and whooped and cheered when those pretty colors lit up the night air. I was nervous she'd burn herself or the cops would hassle us. But looking back, I think of it as one of our top-ten good times.

  So when I start hearing the boom and sizzle of fireworks Saturday night around eleven, I wish I could bring that good time back again. Aunt Mindy invited me to some barbeque, but I can't imagine hanging out with a bunch of people I don't know when the only person I really want to be with is Mom.

  On Monday Aunt Mindy reminds me she's taking a couple of days off. Oh, joy. She has these big plans to plant a vegetable garden in the backyard. She's out there Tuesday afternoon in her shorts and sports bra, digging in the dirt, when I put on my new duds and head for the library.

  Rick walks into the conference room and sets his bag on a table. "Let's see what you've got for me today."

  I pull out my latest drawing, which is of a backyard with a swimming pool. He has me do a new drawing every week, and I'm definitely getting better at it. He makes me put in the measurements of everything now; I've gotten better at that too.

  He leans over to study it. "Good work with your measurements. Now let's go o
ver what you know about volume." He scoots his chair closer to mine. "You say here the swimming pool is ten by twenty-five feet, with a depth of five feet. Let's imagine the pool is empty, and you want to know how many gallons of water you'd need to fill it. You remember the formula I gave you last week?"

  I nod. I'm really trying to pay attention, but I've just noticed that he's wearing a new cologne.

  "So what's the length times the width times the depth?"

  I look up at him. "Let me guess. You've got a new girlfriend, right?"

  "Huh?"

  "You know. The cologne. The haircut."

  He laughs. "Now, hang on a second. We're here to talk about your education, not my love life." He taps the drawing with the eraser end of his pencil. "Have you come up with the answer yet?"

  "So, who is she? Some Microsoft babe?"

  He holds up both hands. "Whoa. Getting a little personal, aren't we ? Let's get back to your drawing."

  We work on volume equations for the rest of the session. When the time's up, he gives me my homework, and then I pack up my stuff.

  "Have a good week with your new hottie," I say over my shoulder as I'm leaving, just to bug him. I expect him to tell me to give it a rest, but he doesn't say a word.

  I turn around. I never saw a black guy turn red before, but I swear his cheeks are pink.

  "Okay, Stevie. We were going tell you," he says.

  For a second I stare at him. And then it all makes sense: the haircut, the new cologne.

  The thong?

  I read somewhere that seeing your parents have sex could damage you for life. Now I know that imagining your aunt doing it—especially with your tutor—is even worse.

  "We should talk," he says, but I'm out the door. I take the long way back, trying to wrap my head around the whole thing.

  I have to admit I sort of had this fantasy about Rick getting together with Mom. Not that I'm dumb enough to actually think it would work. But Mom really needs a guy like him, and I ... Forget it, I tell myself. Just file that one under "Things That Are Never Going to Happen."