MORE STORIES FOR TEENS AND TWEENS BY VALERIE SHERRARD
The Rise and Fall of Derek Cowell*
Random Acts*
Rain Shadow
Driftwood
Counting Back from Nine
Testify
Accomplice
The Glory Wind
Tumbleweed Skies
Watcher
Three Million Acres of Flame
Speechless*
Sarah’s Legacy
Sam’s Light
KATE
The Shelby Belgarden Mysteries Vols 1–6
*If you enjoy humor, these books are very good choices for you.
VALERIE SHERRARD
Copyright © 2021 Valerie Sherrard
This edition copyright © 2021 DCB, an imprint of Cormorant Books Inc.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free 1.800.893.5777.
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities, and the Government of Ontario through Ontario Creates, an agency of the Ontario Ministry of Culture, and the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Title: Birdspell / Valerie Sherrard.
Names: Sherrard, Valerie, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200340786 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200340816 |
ISBN 9781770866133 (softcover) | ISBN 9781770866140 (HTML)
Classification: LCC PS8587.H3867 B57 2021 | DDC JC813/.54—dc23
United States Library of Congress Control Number: 2020950458
Cover art: David Jardine
Interior text design: Tannice Goddard, tannicegdesigns.ca
Printed and bound in Canada.
Manufactured by Friesens in Altona, Manitoba in February 2021.
DCB Young Readers
AN IMPRINT OF CORMORANT BOOKS INC.
260 SPADINA AVENUE, SUITE 502, TORONTO, ON, M5T 2E4
www.dcbyoungreaders.com
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Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Landmarks
Cover
Copyright
Start of Content
Acknowledgements
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*The page links in this ebook correspond to the page numbers in print edition ISBN 978-1-77086-613-3, ©2021 Valerie Sherrard.
In memory of John Ryan Turner
If only we had known
One
WHEN YOU’RE WALKING HOME from school beside a girl who’s promised to give you something you really, really want, getting slugged is about the farthest thing from your mind. Which is why I was unprepared for the palm-slam that knocked me sideways into a recycle bin. It went down without a fight, and took me with it.
“Hey!” That one-word protest should have been me, but strangely enough it was her. My assailant. Izelle of the lightning-quick, came-out-of-nowhere strike.
I scrambled to my feet, resisting the urge to dust myself off. Enough dignity had already been sacrificed to the blue bin.
“You’re joking, right?” she said. “About not having a cell phone?”
That’s the problem if you live in Normal. You think the whole world should sync itself to your way of life.
“Nope,” I said. “I really don’t have one.” And then, in a stroke of genius I added, “We’re what you call minimalists.”
This was not strictly true. But it might let me explain a bizarre part of my life to her, which was something I knew I’d be doing in a matter of minutes.
“Is that like some kind of religion?” she asked.
I listen carefully. So, I’d heard the way she said “religion” and it was casual and curious. No hidden sneer. Safe.
“Yep,” I said, but I knew immediately I’d made a mistake. If she googled it, she’d know I was lying.
“That is,” I backtracked, “it’s not exactly a religion, but some people kind of look at it like it is.”
Izelle stopped walking. Her fists found her hips and her mouth went into a pout that I could easily picture her practicing in front of a mirror.
“Tell me the truth, Corbin — are you some kind of weirdo?”
“Of course not.” That’s true. I’m reasonably average. Her question made me wonder, though, how innocently trusting she was to ask something like that. Would a weirdo admit it? Or even know that’s what they were?
At the same time, I wished I knew her well enough to calm any misgivings she was having. But our contact has been limited to a few weeks and a couple of short conversations.
Izelle is in the class I joined less than a month ago. Grade six at Middling Academy. So far it’s not the worst school I’ve ever had to switch to mid-year. I gave them points right off for not assigning me a buddy like the last place did. At that school the guy they put in charge of helping me settle in had loads of free time to devote to the task since he was essentially friendless. Maybe they were trying to kill two birds with one stone. I don’t know, but it didn’t end well.
That was behind me now, while in front of me was this girl. A girl I know nothing about.
No, that’s not true. I know one thing. Izelle is a chatterer, which is not a trait that hides in a corner and one day jumps out to surprise you. The first conversation we had was kick-started when I asked her where the school computer lab was. She rewarded me with a prattle of information that included stuff about library programs and social groups, and she only paused when she was desperate for air. I almost missed the actual answer — the lab was in a room off the library — in the flood of words.
She’s nice enough though, I guess. That’s more or less “whatever” to me. What matters is that she’s giving me her parakeet. At least, I hope she’s giving it to me.
Before that can happen, she insists on checking out my apartment. The thought of taking anyone there almost made me back out, but I really want that bird.
Not that I’ve been hankering for a bird specifically. I’d take almost any kind of pet, really, as long as it was some kind of company.
It was last week when I overheard Izelle telling her friend Mandy she had to find a new home for her parakeet. I asked her about it later that day, but she said Mandy had dibs on it and she’d let me know if that didn’t work out.
“Sure, okay,” I told her, adding as if it was an afterthought, “I didn’t catch the price. How much is it?”
“It’s free. Bird, cage, cover, toys — everything. My mother says selling a family pet is bad luck.”
Then there was a long and convoluted explanation about why the bird had to be re-homed. Something about allergies — I didn’t actually catch who was allergic before she went on to say her great-aunt had just moved in and her father had switched to a home office, although how, or even if, the aunt and dad parts had anything to do with why the bird had to go I couldn’t say. Since someone else was already planning to take it, I wasn’t exactly motivated to pay attention.
I did catch the bird’s name, which is Sitta.
“You probably think that’s a weird name, right?” Izelle asked. “But it’s meaningful when you know the story behind it.”
I raised my eyebrows, which she mistakenly took to mean “how interesting, please go on.” Whether she needed the encouragement or not — I doubt this very much — Izelle did indeed go on.
“It’s short for the actual, proper name for the Rose-Ringed Parakeet, which is Psittacula Krameri.”
“Huh,” I said.
“You can’t tell from the way it sounds, because the P is silent, but it’s spelled P-S-I-T-T-A-C-U-L-A K-R-A-M-E-R-I.”
“Ah,” I said.
“So, if you drop the P, which is silent anyway, and look at the next five letters, there you have it! Sitta. Cool huh?”
“Mmm,” I said.
Like I said, I’ve wanted a pet for years. A dog would have been my first choice, but I like cats too. Neither had ever been an option. I could have had a fish anytime, but that didn’t interest me. A bird, on the other hand, should be pretty good company, especially when the place gets too quiet. A free bird — now that was perfect. I can usually find a way to scrounge together a few bucks when I need to, but if they’d been charging for the bird and cage and other supplies, it would have been out of reach.
And of course since someone else “had dibs” it was still out of reach until the end of clas
s today when Izelle hurried up to me.
“Hey, Corbin! Mandy’s mother is being unreasonable and won’t let her have Sitta. Do you still want him?”
“Sure!” My head started to race with plans. Izelle broke into them almost immediately.
“I just need to see your place first. You know, to be sure Sitta will approve of it. I might as well go home with you now.”
My brain froze, which explains why my mouth said, “Uh, okay.”
So there we were, on the way to the place I call home. We’d resumed walking as soon as I’d assured her I was not, in fact, a weirdo. A denial was apparently all the proof she required.
And then we were there, climbing the stairs to the second floor, making our way to the last unit on the right.
I’d more or less decided it didn’t really matter if I got Sitta, because my chances were about to go way, way down.
And of course, as soon as the door was open and she’d taken a few steps into the apartment, out it came. The question I’d been expecting.
“Um, Corbin? Where’s your furniture?”
Two
THE SHORT ANSWER WAS: nowhere. Aside from a couple of mattresses, two cushions, and a folding stool that makes sure Mom’s cherished aloe plant gets some sun, we have no furniture. Anyone I brought to the apartment was guaranteed to ask about that. One of the top ten reasons I never invite anyone over.
“Oh, furniture,” I said offhandedly. “Yeah, we don’t have any.”
“You have no furniture?”
“Remember? I told you we’re minimalists?”
“But you have nothing. That’s not minimal — it’s zero!”
I knew by the way she eased back a couple of steps that the nearly-empty apartment was unnerving her.
“Okay, so it’s kind of a strange story,” I said slowly, buying time to think. “And this isn’t something I would tell to just anybody because most people wouldn’t get it. But I think you might.”
Her face relaxed a little.
And then behind us, I heard a door open.
It wasn’t the door to my apartment — I hadn’t closed that yet — so it could only be Mr. Zinbendal, our elderly neighbor across the hall.
Izelle whirled around and offered him a shy little wave.
Mr. Zinbendal was in his usual attire — faded brown pants that sagged in the knees and bum, a pale checked shirt, and a dark gray cardigan that was so loose it could have wrapped around him twice.
He didn’t wave back to Izelle. What he did offer was a heavy sigh and a wrinkled scowl. His usual greeting.
Then he shoved his door shut. Ka-lack!!
I could see Sitta sliding out of reach. Who’d want to see their pet go to a home with no furniture and someone that crabby across the hall? Except, when Izelle spoke, her voice was soft and sad.