Rrish, rrish, riiish.
I pedal down Crape Myrtle Road.
Rrish, rrish, riiish.
Orange blossoms spangle in the trees. I slow way down; in fact, I stop. I walk my bike through the gravel edge of the road and up to the barbed-wire fence that holds in the orange trees. The creamy blossoms breathe softly, wisps of their light orangey fragrance washing the air. If factories could make air fresheners that really smelled like this, nobody would ever be mad or fight or do anything bad—that’s how pretty orange blossoms smell.
Bees murmur through the trees, landing for seconds on the blossoms, then flying off to the next. They sound like gangs of tiny motorcycles. A big black-and-reddish-orange butterfly darts over, and just as the word “monarch” forms in my mind, I realize this “butterfly” has a long needle beak, feathers, and sash of neon red around her neck. Against the green leaves and white flowers, the little bird stands out beautifully. I watch, just staring, thankful for this moment. Some people go their whole lives without once seeing a hummingbird in real wildlife. Counting this one, I have now seen two. I click its picture by blinking and file it in my mental notes.
“Ruby-throated hummingbird.”
I shriek and almost impale myself on the fence. “Emily DeCamp,” I say, snatching my bike up from the scrabbly grass.
She stands there like I shouldn’t be surprised to see her. Her blue Magnolia skirt comes to just above her knees, and tucked into it is her stiff, white button-down top. Her arms hang at her sides, one hand holding her notebook. Springy hair bounces down her neck, under and over her collar, and even covers part of her face. Bees could get lost in it.
“You’re coming to Magnolia.” She says this like it’s a fact, but her voice comes out rushed. The eye that I can see through the hair beams with hope.
“No, I’m not. I go to Palm Middle.” I grab both my bike handles and roll slowly out to the road. Emily DeCamp follows me.
“I saw your mother in the office last week.” She consults her notebook.
I glance over. Emily DeCamp’s handwriting is a perfect rhythm of cursive loops and dips that flow from side to side in unwavering margins. I am impressed. “Let me see that.”
She clutches it close.
The March breeze envelops us both in the perfume of the orange blossoms, and Emily DeCamp and I take in a deep breath at the same time. We walk on the correct side of the road, which is the side facing the cars, so you can see them when they hit you, as my dad likes to say. My bike rasps as we go, but Emily doesn’t mention it. I hadn’t planned where I was going, but this is where I seem to have ended up.
“Your mother was at my school today again.”
I shrug my shoulders.
Emily DeCamp sneaks another look at her notebook.
Why does she always have that thing? “Why do you always have that thing?”
“I’m going to be a writer.” She sticks a finger through her hair and pushes her glasses up. “I’m on the yearbook staff.”
We stop directly across from her house.
“I have to practice my flute now,” she says. “Are you getting a new bike?”
So she did notice the rusty hacking of my old boy bike.
“Since you won the lottery, you could get a new bike like Amanda’s.”
Is she a mind reader? That’s the first thing on my list. “How did you know?”
A sliver of eyeball considers me through the hair. “I am observant,” she says. “But don’t worry, you won’t need to ride your bike to Magnolia.” Her head swivels left, then right, then left again.
“I’m not going to Magnolia,” I yell to her back as she crosses the street. She hops up the curb and over the stepping stones to her porch. “I go to Palm Middle!” Up the porch steps, through the screen door. “Scratch that part out of your notebook—my mom was just visiting. I’m not going to school there.”
Weeds wind around my ankle, prickling my skin. I trample them. Emily DeCamp is wrong. I’m not going to her school. I get on my bike and pedal home.
Rrish! Rish! I rish people would listen to me.