Young Writers Society

chapter the second ~ in which i introduce myself in a strange and embarrassing manner to the new neighbor and wash a bird

"Mom! No, no, no! It's freezing! I already can't feel my legs! You have to give me a ride!"

Mom laughed at my protests and gently prodded me outside. Now, not only was I carrying pop for mom, myself and Nick, but also for Emma and Stephen.

"I'll take care of the poor little bird. You go. It'll be good for you."

I sighed and once more wrapped the thin red folds of my cloak around me. I stepped outside and shut my eyes against the cold. Okay, so maybe I had been exaggerating, but only a little. It was cold. As I went out of the gate again, I glanced up towards our neighbors' yard and stopped in astonishment. The house had been for sale for a long time, but nobody really expected it to be sold. It was a huge house, but rather ugly. Its' pale green paint was chipped and worn, and it had badly-shaped trees in the front yard, and there was a chimney sticking randomly out of the top. It wouldn't be worth it to take care of such a huge house for such ugliness.

But now, at last, that old, faded 'for sale' sign was gone! Not only that, but there was a very large moving van sitting motionless and lifeless in front of the house. Who would have bought such a house? I know I wouldn't have. I shook my head and began walking back down towards Safeway.

On the way home, burdened with a large bag of freezing pops banging against my leg, building up fizz and pressure inside themselves for a time when I was wearing my best skirt and they could burst out in a chuckle of messy, spotty brown sugar...what was I saying? Oh, yeah, walking home. Anyway, as once again I passed the big house, I saw that the moving van was actually open now. There was a middle-aged man dressed in a full body-suit of navy blue fabric who was unloading large boxes from the back. The boxes had duck-tape wrapped around them and holes poked in the tops. I frowned. That was weird...it was like he was carrying a bunch of animals in boxes. What else would need breathing holes? The man disappeared inside the house and I walked over curiously. I looked into the dark, cold interior of the moving van and saw tons of other boxes. They were all perfectly still, unmoving. Maybe the holes were just...holes. Poked by some mischievous kid. I had known a few – hem – kids who would do such a thing…not to mention any names, of course.

"Um...hello?"

A male voice came from behind me. I started and turned quickly. Standing in front of me was a guy who looked about my age - eighteen or so - dressed in a black suit. The suit looked...expensive and nice. Although, looking back, I don’t know how I knew it was nice, because I am not one for fancy clothes. I guess it just had a sort of…expensive air about it, if you know what I mean. I had him pegged right off as an extremely rich guy with eccentric habits who had decided to see what life could be like in the middle to lower class. He had small, rectangular, black-framed glasses and wavy, dark brown hair that reminded me of Nicks' hair. I opened my mouth and shut it again.

"Uh...hi. I was just...looking in your moving van to see if you happened to be transporting any marijuana. My father is a secret DPD agent, so I keep my eye out, you know."

I tried to look serious and business-like as I improvised.

"What does DPD stand for?" He asked, his eyebrows drawing together in a puzzled manner, no doubt taking in the Safeway bag of pops and my casual sweater.

"Um...it's, uh...Drug People Discoverer. Or something. Actually I was lying. I was just curious, because I thought that you might have a whole bunch of animals in the back of your van." I looked at him, slightly nervous, to gauge his reaction.

Hopefully he would overlook the fact that I had been sticking my nose into his moving van. I mean, I have a very long nose that tends to stick everywhere, but I generally try to avoid sticking it in cute, rich people’s business. It too often ends in embarrassment. (Speaking from experience, here!)

He looked up quickly, and I saw that he had large, dark brown eyes.

"Animals? Why would you think that?"

His voice sounded too sharp. I frowned slightly, then pointed.

"Air holes. Clothing and china don't need air holes. But that's okay, I mean, I didn't mean to pry. I think we sort of started off on the wrong leg. I'm Sarah Sokol, and I live on that house on the corner, the big white one. Welcome to our neighborhood."

He grinned, and I suddenly noticed that his face was very pleasant to look at.

"I'm Nathan Daniels, and I'm glad to be welcomed to your neighborhood."

We both stood there a moment more in silence, then I looked up abruptly as the blue-suited man came back.

"Well, I'd better let you get back to your work. Welcome again!"

I turned and started back and heard his voice behind me say,

"Thank you. It was nice to meet you."

I waved one hand, then vaulted over our gate again. I never opened that gate unless I could help it. I bounded up the steps and inside.

"Mom! The house next door is sold, and a guy named Nathan Daniels is moving in next door," I yelled again, announcing my presence to the world in general, but mostly to my family.

"Finally! I never thought it'd be sold. We should take some cookies over to him. Is he alone, or with family?"

"I don't know," I called back.

As I went into the kitchen to check on that little bird, I thought the little girl thoughts that I would rather have died than say out loud, such as; I'm so glad the new neighbor is young and cute...I hope he'll be interesting and smart. My family had formed, not without reason, the impression that I was a completely stuffy, sensible middle-aged type teen, wise and mature beyond my years. To a certain extent, this was true...but every once in a while, especially concerning boys - well, I let my imagination run slightly wild. But I never said any of it out loud. I had never been big on showing my emotions, but to show such immature emotions? Not on your great aunty's knicker-bockers, to quote 'The Music Man.'

When I arrived in the kitchen, I was extremely surprised to hear a very strong-sounding trill of sound greet me. I blinked, and walked over to the table to see the little bird lifting its' head feebly and even waving one dirty wing.

"Well, hello there! What are you doing up and about already?"

I asked, fortunately not in hope of an answer, because all I got was a hungry gaping of the beak. I went to the refrigerator and got out more milk. I poured a small amount into one of the faded plastic green bowls that littered our cupboards. I stuck it into the microwave, with its' food-littered door and the broken digital clock blinking a ridiculous hour. While it hummed, groaned and mumbled in our customary microwave way, I went back and surveyed our bird. It seemed to be recovering very nicely from its' late frigid ordeal and was getting stronger by the minute. I wondered at the fact that it was not afraid of me at all, but rather regarded me with curiosity through those unfathomable animals' eyes.

I always felt uncomfortable when I was looking at an animals' eyes - my dog, with his black, gold-streaked, sad eyes - my friends' horse, with those huge, dark, somber eyes that belied nothing of the mischief that went on in her head - and now this bird, the black, pupil-less eyes gazing at me with a birds' emotionless stare. I shivered a little and turned at the sound of the little thin, alarm-clock beep that lets us know our microwave has finished with its' victim. I pulled out the now warm bowl of milk and carried it to the table. With a little gentle prompting from me, the bird struggled weakly to its' feet. I set the bowl down and the bird cocked its' head and looked at it intelligently. Then it leaned over and slurped messily, the milk running down its' beak, a sharp silvery triangle obviously meant for snapping up worms and not drinking milk. However, I was not about to go outside and dig for worms in the frozen ground - especially not with a new cute neighbor just next door.

After it finished the milk, it stood upright again, considerably refreshed. I reminded myself that this was a wild bird, but its' tame behavior filled me with curiosity. It seemed much stronger, even after only four hours inside our house, so I picked it up and carried it to the sink.

"It is time, my little friend, for your second washing."

I turned on the water and let it run for a moment until it was warm. I watched the bird cautiously, but it continued to sit calmly in my hand, as if it understood my intentions and had no objections to them whatsoever. I got the washcloth slightly soapy and wet, then set the bird down into the faded white sink. I started with its' head, carefully washing around the eyes. As I rubbed the dirt and grease off, the birds' true colors started to show.

It was a very strange bird, like I'd never seen before. Its' head was mainly a very pretty greenish blue, but it was dotted with tiny specks of silver and orange. Then there was a black and silver-streaked collar, leading down to the back, which was a white-silver color that was hard to describe. It seemed to shine, even the dim light of our kitchen and the cloudy day, with a pretty silvery sheen. The breast was a mixture of all of the colors put together, blue-green, orange, black and silver. The legs were black, and long for the body. The wings, when unfolded, were white-silver with black tips. The strangest thing about the bird, however, was the tail. The body was slightly smaller than my palm, but the tail seemed disproportionably long. As I washed it, however, I discovered that this was because there were two very long feathers, one just on top of the other. They were very fine, neatly shaped feathers, and were the white-silver of the body. All in all, it was a very pretty, if unusual bird. Not being a deep thinker generally, I stuck my suspicion of weirdness to the back of my head and concentrated on the question of what to do with this suddenly rejuvenated bird.

This one's not quite as funny, but still...we can't always expect a height of wit, can we? After all, some of Shakespeare's lines are positively dull! Not implying any connection between Shakespeare and I, of course.