A tisket, a tasket.
Use the dust to mask it.
I wrote a letter to the one,
And on the way I dropped it.
I dropped it. I dropped it.
And on the way I dropped it.
A little girl picked it up
And put it in her pocket.
“How are things going with cross-country?” Wren’s dad asked Simon’s dad around a mouthful of enchilada. “You have any good races scheduled for this year?”
“You bet.” Mr. Barker reached across the table to pass Wren the salsa. “Simon and I are training for a 10K in July.”
Wren scooped a mound of salsa onto her plate. Running a 10K sounded like a kind of punishment. She was glad Simon was at the opposite end of the table, with their parents sandwiched between them. She crunched into a chip and replayed the scene in the gym over in her head for the millionth time. Was there a special breed of bird that, when threatened, produced a defensive cloud of gas that obliterated people? At least a skunk-bird made more sense than people appearing and disappearing into blue smoke. She wished everyone would hurry up and finish eating so she could get somewhere by herself and examine the packet of papers that the bird had dropped.
“Wren, you could join Simon’s cross-country club!” Her mom’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Wouldn’t that be fun? Jogging together is a great way to get to know people. And maximize your potential.”
Wren choked down a laugh. Her mother wouldn’t be caught dead running. “Can we not talk about this now?” she asked, hoping that Simon wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. “Besides, the Science Olympiad is social.”
“All the more reason to build off this great foundation, Wren. I just want you to be well-rounded, sweetie.” Wren’s mom was using her I-mean-business voice, and Wren wasn’t ready to find out what voice she’d use if she knew about the bird hallucination or whatever it was. Wren’s mom turned to Simon’s dad. “Last month I twisted Wren’s arm to take a babysitting training class with other girls her age, and this month I’ve made an agreement with her: a one-hour limit on her computer time until she’s found something social to do.” She patted Wren’s hand. “It’s like I always say: No girl is an island. People need one another.”
Wren’s face flamed with heat, and it wasn’t because of the spicy salsa. The babysitting class had been a fail. A whole weekend spent making forced conversation with kids she’d never met before and would never see again. If her mom was hoping for social development, she’d have to aim somewhere else. All Wren walked away with from that class was a hazy understanding of emergency CPR and a sore stomach from where her partner had practiced the Heimlich maneuver.
“Great idea,” Simon’s dad said. “That’s the biggest challenge about unschooling, isn’t it? Finding opportunities to meet other kids? Simon has some trouble with that, too.”
Wren made herself look at Simon, but he was examining his fajitas as though he’d never seen a tortilla before.
“The college has a bunch of clubs.” Wren’s dad wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I could pull some strings and see if they’d let younger students participate.” He leaned back and put one arm around Wren’s mom’s shoulders.
“That’s an interesting idea,” Simon’s dad said. “They could give each other moral support.”
“Sure,” Wren’s mom said. “Simon and Wren could really maximize their potential together.”
Wren poked a fork at the remainder of her burrito. I’d rather go running. Her parents usually weren’t this focused on what she was doing. They were busy with work, and Wren was busy with whatever she was studying, and once in a while they played a board game together. Until a few months ago, when the neighbor who’d lived down the street from Wren her entire life said, “You have a daughter? How come I’ve never seen her before?” And, while Wren’s mom was perfectly content to let her maximize her educational potential on her own, she was now obsessed with Wren’s social development.
Wren wished she could make her mom understand that she was happy being by herself, but it seemed like her mom had seen too many movies in which the smart, quiet girl dreamed about being pretty and popular. Sure, Wren spent a lot of time alone, but she never felt like she was missing out. She could read whatever books she wanted. She could stay up late puttering around her favorite astronomy forum. She could watch old sci-fi reruns on TV. Wren had lots of plans for her time, and none of them included clubs at the community college, cross-country running, or Simon Barker.
Wren’s napkin slipped off her lap, and when she reached down to retrieve it from under the table, she noticed an odd mark on her sweatshirt. One side of her hoodie was covered with black dirt. She brushed at the stain, but instead of getting better, the spot seemed to grow darker, and even worse, little bits of soot transferred onto her fingers. Wren rubbed her hands together, and in the dimness under the table, the dust flared with blue-green light. Exactly like the cloud around the bird woman.
The papers! They seemed to be giving off the same strange dust that the bird had emitted. Dinner or not, she had to look at them now. Wren snatched her napkin off the floor and slid back up into her seat to find that her parents and Simon’s dad had started debating the merits of the new mayoral candidates. She reached a tentative hand into her pocket and discreetly pulled out the bundle, which sparked with little blue lights as she unfolded it.
Keeping it low in her lap so the others wouldn’t notice, Wren began to read the paragraph centered on the first page:
Once I saw a little bird
Come hop, hop, hop.
So I cried, “Little bird,
Will you stop, stop, stop?”
And was going to the window
To say “How do you do?”
But he shook his little tail,
And far away he flew.
There was nothing else. No explanation, no pictures, nothing but the silly rhyming words. The next poem was just as bad:
Away, birds, away!
Take a little and leave a little,
And do not come again;
For if you do, I will shoot you through,
And there will be an end of you.
Was it supposed to be poetry? Literature had never been Wren’s strong suit, but even she could tell these were no good. She skimmed through more rhymes and was halfway done with the packet when she finally stumbled across one she recognized:
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
There your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveler in the dark,
How I wonder what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
Wren’s mom had sung this to her when she was a little girl. It used to be her favorite. Wren flipped to the back cover. As if it had been added later, one more poem was written in shimmery ink:
’Twas once upon a time,
When Jenny Wren was young,
How expertly she played and how prettily she sung.
The Ancient and Honorable Guild of the Fiddlers invites
Jennifer Wren Matthews
to join their number.
You are expected at Pippen Hill tomorrow.
Sapiens dominabitur astris.
Wren rubbed her thumb over the embossed letters. Was this some sort of practical joke? Nursery rhymes and a guild of fiddlers? This day kept getting weirder and weirder. Her thumb was black, as though bits of the poems were sticking to her. Wren folded the papers, sending a shower of blue sparks to the floor, and tucked them back in her pocket. That was when she noticed that Simon Barker was staring at her, his gaze flicking between her face and the smudges on her hand.
“You got the poems, too?” Simon said in a near whisper, glancing at the grown-ups, who were distracted by their political debate. Wren’s surprise at him speaking directly to her was soon overcome by the sight of his left hand, covered with the same clinging, shimmery dust.