life part 1

THE BIRDMEN.

b a c k w a r d

The very first memory I have is of me sitting at school. Quietly. My eyes struggle to see the writing on the chalkboard that appears fast and fluid. Everything past a few feet is fuzzy, like I'm in a dream, not quite awake.

My head aches. My eyes ache. I close them. I lay my head down on my desk, hair spread out wide as a field on the wood.

My name is called. I relay my situation. I'm moved to the front.

It happens again and again. Finally I'm told I might need glasses.

Daddy sits at the big round table, looking at pictures of people on the old square computer. His tired eyes look bored. His tired hands shake slightly and smoke rises from the small tube of paper. It smells strong and ugly. Incense burns on the table, and my nostrils rear. So many smells. Sweat, exhaustion, smoke, pain, incense, defeat, lack of money.

"Daddy." I say it as a statement.

Sigh.

"I need glasses."

His eyes travel down and his arms become Atlas and his head is the world, post apocalypse.

"Yeah," he finally speaks softly gruffly, like a broken machine. "Yeah." Like he's stuck in a rut. "Yeah, we'll do that." Like a messed up lie detector.

"I'm going to work on homework," I tell him softly. "I love you."

"Yeah." Broken. Rut. Lies. "Love ya too."

Once I'm halfway, up, a smash throws itself onto the floor. A curse jumps after it in rambunctious defeat. I know, even then, that he didn't mean what he said. What he meant was Damnit, Why couldn't she have taken the kid too?

s t i l l

The sky is refusing to rain, instead holding the swollen rain in sleepy hands. My skin is wrapped in a black jacket, the hood crouching over my closed, still un-glassed eyes. Jeans are too threadbare, dark denim cold against thin legs ending in red sneakers with shivering feet inside. White cords sneak out of my ears and hides in my pockets, its tiny speakers blasting a sad song about a girl dying into my brain.

My tongue tastes the cold air and my chapped, slightly rusty lips. My bag sits on the cement next to me. Hardly anyone waits near me. I'm the only one who ever waits until the sun has gone down for Daddy to pick me up. Some days I have to catch a ride from whoever drives by first.

My hands clutch a black book, which hold the crudley drawn faces of a world. I open to the next clean page, and watch the birdmen. Tall and thin with wings sprouting from their shoulder blades.

They surround me with their kind bird faces and simple features. They smile at me, and wrap their bird wings around me, chattering with bird beaks and bird eyes. They take me home the second school gets out, whisking me away on their strong backs. We watch movies in our clean suburban house and eat popcorn and watch late night sitcoms. The room smells like love and flickering TV and happiness. On Fridays, the birdmen help me with my homework and we go to the park and eat breakfast at the best places. My favorite is bacon and eggs and pancakes. We buy it every single time.

One day, I will become a birdman too. Wings will come out of my back and my fingers and nose will grow longer. My mouth will be swallowed up in yellow. Talons will tear through my red sneakers and curl around branches and then we will all fly together.

It will be amazing.

But that can't happen just yet.

The smell of exhaust fills the air, and my eyes quiver and shake. Since my eyes don't see it, I have to rely on my smell. I can smell it.

The school is completely empty. I look at my watch. It's 7:06. I get in the car and smile at Daddy, who doesn't even look at me. His eyes are underlined four times, bruise seeping into his pale skin.

Dots line the creases of his elbows.

It's a wonder I still have a home.

"Hi Daddy," I say, pretending I'm with the birdmen. I guess they couldn't pick me up today. Daddy grunts. ''I got a hundred on my test today."

Daddy grunts again.

I set my bag on the floor.

I had a great day Daddy.

WHO WATCHES.

f o r w a r d

I shake my head, looking forward. Our hands are intertwined, ivy climbing up brick walls. Blonde insanity twists its way out of my glassed eyes.

No no no no no.

His hand touches my dolled up cheek, softly. Songs run through my empty mind, and I want to scream. I want to cry. This is driving me insane. He apologizes to my tear. I don't accept it.

My red toes stand on his checkered ones. I cry words of liquid.

He apologizes.

I'm sorry Daddy.

s t i l l

Beer sticks to the air like glue. The news runs endlessly, mouthing on and on about the world and stuff that hardly anyone is paying attention too. My eyes stare at the needles on the table.

Daddy grabs them and stuffs them into his pockets with shaky hands that look much too old. I pretend I didn't see anything.

"Why don't you watch the news, Daddy," I suggest, feeling tired. "I'll make dinner." He sits at the table to look at the newspaper. I ignore it.

The apartment transforms itself into a suburb. The clutter is gone. The couch is brand new. The birdmen are watching the news and I'm making them pizza, not plain old bread. It's delicious. They tell me. I smile. They smile. Our house smells like flowers.

I close my hands and feel my wild hair. It's like a lion. That's what the birdmen tell me. They think it's beautiful. A few years ago, Daddy came into my room with some scissors and trembling hands and cut it all off. I bought a lock for my door a day later with money from Daddy's wallet.

My hands move busily, cleaning off the counter so that I can find the bread I know we have. The trash falls into the rubbish bin like acid rain. A beer can cuts my palm. I wash it off and rush to the bathroom, sticking it under the sink while I try to find the bandages.

Once I come back into the living room, Daddy's gone. So is the computer. And a few hours later, I discover that the bread is too.

I don't eat dinner.

ii.

At school I'm so hungry that I can't stand it. I feel invisible in the crowd of high school. I've know these people since they were young. They only think I'm crazy. Tears grapple with my face all day, like always.

In their defense, I should talk to someone. I should, at the very least, smile at someone. But my lion's hair covers my face all day.

And it isn't as if I don't want to talk to anyone. I do want to talk to someone. He is lovely, hair the color of chocolate with bleached skin and a pointed nose. He reminds me of a lark. A beautiful lark. Every time I see him, words bounce to the tip of my tongue, strong: and then escape in a tiny pitiful sound. Not loud enough to hear. So I sit and watch him and wish I was courageous.

His name is Alex. Short for Alexander. He is fifteen years old. He plays soccer and the guitar and has a voice that is sunshine. He is polite and smart and hasn't looked at me once. But I had never, ever heard him say anything rude. He is perfect.

He is going to be a birdman.

I long to tell him everything about me. About Daddy. About Mommy. About the needles and incense and filth. I want to tell him that he was a going to be a birdman. I want to tell him that I love him. But I just can't. It’s impossible.

Alex has my math class. He sits so far away, all his perfection radiating from every single word that he speaks. I try not to scare him by staring too much. It’s hard. But somehow I manage it.

So only sometimes I stare, dirty hands fidgeting with my blonde hair that halfway hides my face from the world. I do my work and try my best to stay off the radar.

Some days, I think: Maybe we'll have a movie moment.

When I was younger, on one of the many times that Daddy disappeared, I was watching TV and this movie came on. It was about this girl and boy who were in love and didn't know it. It took a really long time, but eventually they realized how they felt. A lot of times, they would run into each other and their stuff would fall down and they would help each other pick it up. Or she would go to a party and he would be there. Or they would start defending each other, or something would accidentally slip out, like, "You're really pretty. I mean!"

Something like that.

But that it could ever actually happen is inconceivable.