“Are you still mad at me for getting you into this?” asks George as we walk to our first interview.
“Yes,” I say.
George smiles, not at me but to himself, which makes me doubt everything—whether I can write, whether I am really mad.
“She is,” echoes Theo, who is walking next to me.
Theo has asked to come with us.
“I’ve read all of Ashley’s books,” says Theo.
We walk on.
“There’s Ashley’s house,” says George.
I am quiet, and George looks over to me.
“You’re scared, aren’t you?”
Now I really hate George because he knows.
Ashley’s house looks out over the water.
ASHLEY
George knocks on the door.
“Come in!”
We open the door and walk into a room filled with toys and paintings, and puppets almost as tall as Theo.
“I’m out here,” calls Ashley.
He’s in his painting room, and he turns and smiles.
His face is the same color as George’s face.
“Welcome to my world. I was born far away, and when I came to visit the island one day I knew I wanted to live here forever.”
“Yes!” says Theo fervently.
“You too?” asks Ashley.
He peers closely at Theo.
“You too?” he repeats in a kind, understanding voice.
Theo nods.
“I’m Theo,” my brother blurts out as if he can’t help it. “I’ve read all your books.”
“Then you deserve a look at the book I’m working on now,” says Ashley.
“George has told me you are his best friend, Louisiana. Loo ees ee anna.” He sings my name. “Beautiful name.”
He stretches out his words.
His voice is music. I feel the way Theo sometimes feels—tears in my eyes, moved by Ashley’s interest and understanding of Theo.
And his kindness.
When we say good-bye to Ashley, Theo walks backward, still looking at Ashley’s house.
“You’re very quiet,” says George.
I take a deep breath. “I’m writing in my head,” I say. “I can do this.”
“I know you can,” says George.
“We could begin the piece ‘His voice is music,’ ” I say.
I put out my hand without looking at George, and he takes it.
We walk down the road, holding hands.
Theo still walks backward.
George and I, Theo, Dahlia, and Marco all traipse up the hill to visit Billie. Dahlia has brought her large sketchbook.
“She’s a friend of my mother’s,” says Dahlia. “I want to draw her so I can paint her with a bird and more.”
“A bird and more?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” says Dahlia with a strange, happy look.
Dahlia doesn’t knock at the front door. She beckons us around the house. There are many trees. I can hear a fountain in the backyard.
And then there is Billie in a chair, with birds everywhere—at her feet, on the chair, on the ground around her, on the low limbs of trees.
Billie, slim with hair less red than mine, waves a hand at Dahlia. When we walk into the yard, a cloud of birds flies up in a tree, peering at us. But one stays.
“This is Louisa and Theo,” says Dahlia. “You know George and Marco.”
“I do. Hi there.” She points. “This is Kiki, the mother of many of those looking at you suspiciously. Do you want to feed her?”
Billie pours some birdseed into my hand. “Just hold out your hand. She’s a chickadee. They’re very tame.”
I am startled when Kiki flies to my hand. I feel her tiny feet on my palm. I hold my breath as she stays there for a moment, then flies away with a seed.
Billie smiles at the look on my face.
“Can I do it?” asks Theo.
“Sure. Here’s some seed.”
“The birds have always come here.” Three flock to Theo’s hand. His eyes widen at the feel of them.
“Here come the titmice, Marco. They’re more timid, but they’re beautiful in the hand with their big black eyes.”
“I can see the eye,” says Marco. “My father says crows are very smart.”
“Angelo is right,” says Billie. “They come from time to time. They left my mother and father gifts when they fed them. And I have a basket full of them. They’re on the table.”
The other birds fly down, and Billie feeds them.
In the basket are shells, many beads, a child’s red barrette.
“The birds and I are kind to one another,” says Billie.
And then there is a huge cloud of birds around us all.
And as Marco holds out his hand, a cardinal comes, picks up a seed, and flies up to the tree.
“Ah, a treat for you, Marco,” says Billie.
Marco doesn’t say anything, but stares up at the tree, looking at the cardinal.
Even though there are dozens and dozens of birds fluttering and cheeping around us, this seems to me one of the most peaceful and calm places I’ve ever been.
We walk home. George looks at me.
“First line for today?”
“A bird and more,” I say. “Those were Dahlia’s words.”
“You are good at this.”
“I know.”