Told by Manda
My brother decided to call the duckling Sven…but the name didn’t work out. Actually, a lot of things about the duckling didn’t work out at first.
The most obvious problem was Mom. Not surprising. We’re talking about a person who screams when she sees an ant. As I predicted, she lost her mind when she got home from work and first saw the duckling—even though by then I’d made Shady and Pouya put it in a cardboard box and take it outside.
Mom wouldn’t go near the box. Like she was afraid the duckling might flap up and peck off her nose. And okay—I’ll admit that at first, I’d been scared of it too…but once it wasn’t popping out of a backpack and giving me a heart attack, it was completely harmless and totally cute.
When Pou’s maman, Lili, came to pick him up, she summed it up perfectly as she reached into the box and gently stroked the duckling’s head. “Hello there, little one. Aren’t you all that’s good in the world?”
Sven stole everyone’s heart like that, right from the start. Everyone’s except Mom’s. She said Shady and Dad had to take the duckling back on their way to Shady’s therapy appointment—end of story. But when Dad and Shady got to Dixon Creek, the mother duck turned her back on Sven, who I guess already smelled too much like humans. And when Dad told Dr. Nugget how Shady had made sounds out loud in front of people outside our family for the first time in years, the therapist had an idea.
“An emotional support duck?” Shady and I heard the crash of a pot or pan hitting the stove. “Is this the kind of garbage we pay him a hundred and eighty dollars an hour for?” Mom said.
Shady glanced toward the heating vent, which was carrying sound from the kitchen to the basement bathroom. The duckling had been banished there as soon as they got home from therapy. I could see the worry all over my brother’s face, so I tried to distract him.
“Look!” I started lining frozen peas up along the side of the tub, where we’d made the duckling a shallow lake. It scrambled up the side to grab each one, slipping back down every time with a splash.
Upstairs, Dad was saying something, but his voice was too low and even to make out.
“Do you think Dad can talk her into letting me keep him?” Shady asked. His voice came out a little scratchy, since it was one of the first things he’d said out loud in hours. (He never talks to Dr. Nugget. I guess they just stare at each other for an hour?) “Maybe if I promise to do everything the duck needs and take care of him completely?” he went on hopefully.
I know. Shady talking—just like that—it’s strange, but that’s how it is. At school, at the doctor’s office, when our grandparents visit from Vermont: Shady doesn’t make a sound or say a single word. But when it’s just him and me, or my parents—when he’s completely comfortable—he talks as easily as any other kid.
The fact that he can talk makes his not talking all the more confusing to people. Some of our relatives even take it personally, but I know it’s not a choice. I tried not talking for a whole day once, but I barely made it to ten in the morning. It was like holding my breath, only my thoughts were the trapped air needing to burst out. Nobody would choose to live like that on purpose, day after day.
“I’d even take him on little ducky walks around the block and tuck him into bed at night.”
“Right,” I said. “Because Mom would be all about letting a duck use the good linens.”
And here’s one more thing that people might be surprised to know about my brother. Underneath all that anxiety, he’s got a wicked sense of humor and a way with words. For example:
“I’d call him my little splashy-washy-ducky-wucky.” Shady flipped his hair off his face, Pearl Summers style. He looked up and grinned at me, then fed Sven another pea. “Isn’t that right, my sweetie-wheety-webby-feety? Are you my bitty-whittle teacup duck?”
I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it. Ever since Pearl Summers had been mean enough to uninvite Shady to her seventh birthday party (because, in her words “We’re playing the telephone game, so…”), making fun of her in private had been one of my and Shady’s things. Laughing at her pom-pom-on-a-string of a dog made us feel a little better too. I mean, they were both a lot to take.
I’d know. I used to babysit Pearl when she was in first and second grade. She once tried to convince me that she was actual royalty because she had a two-level, castle-style princess bed in her room. I’m pretty sure she seriously believed it. But like, no, honey. That just means your parents spoil you rotten, so now you think you’re better than everyone.
“I’d even pay the vet bills,” Shady offered. “Out of my allowance. They might say yes.”
“They might.” I didn’t want to be the one to disappoint him. “It’s not impossible.” I looked at Sven sadly. Shady did the same. I think we both knew it was never going to happen.
I’d spent my entire life begging for a kitten or a puppy. In fifth grade, I won a black swish-tailed fish at Meghan’s birthday party. I named her Hepburn. Mom and Dad made me give her right back. So, a duck? A wild animal? No way.
As if to confirm it, Mom’s voice came through the vent again. “Where’s the research?” Another pot slammed upstairs. “It’s insane. Plus, it’d be just one more thing to make other kids think he’s weird. Did Dr. Nugget even think of that?”
The basement bathroom has spiders. Mom never uses it. Obviously, she didn’t know about the vent and how easy it was to hear conversations in the kitchen. Still, I hated her a little bit for what she’d just said. And the fact that it was true didn’t make it any less awful. Actually, just the opposite.
I closed the air stopper on the vent. “It’s too hot in here anyway,” I said, being careful not to look Shady in the eye. Then I had an idea. “I wonder if he can catch them.” I threw a few peas toward the duck. The first three splashed into the water, but once I sort of arched the peas up high enough, Sven spotted them in time and was able to gobble them right out of midair.
Before long, the duckling was catching every single one—even if it had to race from one end of the bathtub to the other to do it.
“Here, Sven!”
Shady tossed a few more peas. He was grinning and his eyes were bright, which made me almost regret throwing the peas in the first place. The more attached he got, the worse it was going to be when Mom and Dad sent the duckling away.
“Guys! Dinner!” Dad’s voice came from the top of the stairs.
“Come on,” I said. But instead of getting up to follow me, Shady leaned over the edge of the bathtub, holding out his hand. The duckling swam over and rubbed the top of its head against Shady’s palm.
“What if he gets scared while we’re eating?” Shady asked. “I bet he’s never been alone before.”
“He’ll be okay,” I said. But no matter how I tried to reassure him—by saying we’d leave the light on, by putting on music from my phone to keep the duck company, by promising Shady dinner would only take ten minutes if he ate fast—my brother wouldn’t budge from the bathroom floor. And when Shady decides to be stubborn, his stubbornness is legendary.
“Dinner!” Dad called again, louder. “Now.”
I went up alone. “I can’t get him out. You try.”
But Mom and I were nearly done with our Salisbury steak pies when Dad came back to the table, alone.
“Leave him!” he said when my mom started to get up to try dealing with the situation. “He’ll come up when he gets hungry enough.”
Mom didn’t look happy, but there’s a certain tone my dad gets sometimes that you just don’t argue with, even if you’re my mom.
Anyway, Dad changed the subject.
“So, Manda…” he started. “I saw Oscar Lebretton at a lunch and learn today. You know, Matthew’s dad?”
I knew Matthew Lebretton. Vagueishly. He’d sat in front of me in math the year before. He wore a leather jacket, even in the summer.
“Apparently he just joined a film club at school. His dad says they’re studying the classics—like Citizen Kane and Breakfast at Tiffany’s. They’re working up to making films to enter into some kind of contest.”
I knew all about it. Ever since I’d watched the 1939 version of The Wizard of Oz with my uncle at a rerun cinema, I’ve been addicted to old films. There’s something so clean and classy about them. Like, who needs to sit through two hours of explosions and cheesy dialogue when you can get the same drama from a single longing look between Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind?
Mr. Maloney started the Film Fanatics club because of a contest from the National Film Society. There was going to be a weeklong international student cinema fest in New Orleans next year, and rumor had it the winner got to go—all expenses paid. A bunch of kids at school were already desperate to win, including my friends Carly and Beth. Not because they cared about cinema. They were mostly in it for the free trip. And (probably because they figured I could help them win), they’d been trying to talk me into joining with them. But, as cool as it sounded, I knew I couldn’t. And, honestly, I didn’t really want to anyway. I wasn’t a school club person.
“Why don’t you sign up?” Dad said. “You love old films.”
“I don’t know. They meet after school, so…” I took a sip of milk.
“So…what’s the problem?” Dad asked, but all it took was a look from Mom across the table to remind him what the problem was.
“We could ask Angie Murray to watch Shady and Pouya,” Dad said. “How often does the film club meet? Once a week? Didn’t Angie just do her babysitting course?”
Angie Murray lives two houses down. Her voice is so loud that she practically yells when she talks, and once, at a neighborhood garage sale, I’d caught her teasing Shady by trying to make him talk into some old walkie-talkies and then pretending they were broken.
Luckily, Mom didn’t even consider it.
“I don’t think Shady’s ready for that quite yet,” she said.
“Well, I don’t accept that,” Dad answered.
“Excuse me?” Mom tried to level him with a look.
“How is Shady supposed to get ready if we don’t push him?”
“Dr. Nugget specifically said we shouldn’t try to force him into new situations,” Mom countered.
“And Dr. Nugget also specifically said we should let him keep that duck. So you’re going to pick and choose from his advice now?”
Mom was boiling. I could almost see the steam coming out her nose holes.
“It’s okay.” I hated it when they argued. “I don’t really want to join anyway. I can just watch movies at home. It’s no big deal.”
And it really wasn’t. Shady was more important. School was a nightmare for my brother. Except for Pouya, kids ignored him or, worse, teased him—especially after he’d wet his pants at the beginning of fourth grade. His teacher had insisted that Shady had to make some kind of hand signal if he wanted permission to go use the bathroom, and he had been too scared to do it. You’d think signaling his teacher would be no big deal, but it breaks Rule Number 2, which is that he does everything he can not to call attention to himself. Although, in this case, it totally backfired. Just try wetting your pants in fourth grade without everyone noticing.
By the time he got home, Shady needed someone he could trust and talk to, and I was one of his only options. I wasn’t going to abandon him with Angie Murray. And even if I did join Film Fanatics…and on the off chance I did win the trip, there was no way I could leave him for a week to go to New Orleans. So what was the point of signing up?
Dad had his eyes locked on Mom. “Look. All I’m saying is, the things we’ve been doing aren’t working. So maybe it’s time to try something new.” He turned to me. “You’re joining that club, Manda. I’ll write you a check for the registration fee after dinner.”
Mom glared at Dad across the table.
“Manda, if you’re finished, would you go upstairs?” Her voice was balanced on a thin edge between anger and tears.
I nodded and cleared my plate.
It took hours, and there were raised voices. It was already past Shady’s bedtime when Dad came and got me. He asked me to come down to the basement, where Mom was waiting outside the bathroom door.
Dad knocked, then went in, but Mom stayed a safe distance back. Sven was out of the tub now, curled in my brother’s lap in a towel, fast asleep. I could tell from Shady’s eyes that he’d been crying.
“We’ve agreed to try keeping the duck,” Mom said. At those words, my brother’s face lit up. “Provided it’s healthy and doesn’t cause problems,” she went on. “It needs to be checked by a vet. And it stays outside or down here in the bathroom.”
Shady stood up and handed me the swaddled duckling, then stepped past Dad and threw his arms around Mom. Thank you is one of the things he just can’t seem to say—even to us—but the message was there in his arms. “I’ll take such good care of him,” he said instead. “You won’t have to worry about anything.”
“And, Manda, we’ll try having Angie babysit Shady and Pouya once a week so you can join the film club,” Mom said.
At that, my brother shot me a panicked look, and I shot one right back, but in the end, his happiness about the duck seemed to outweigh his worry about Angie. Maybe mine did, too, because with the duckling now nestled in my arms, I felt calmer than I would have expected about the whole thing.
Mom sighed. “Now come and get ready for bed. Both of you. It’s getting late.”
The next afternoon, a lady with a long, gray braid stopped by. She was a wildlife specialist from a mobile animal clinic that Dad found online. She went to the basement bathroom to see Sven, and when she came back up, she pronounced the duckling healthy and told us how to look after it.
“No bread,” she said. “Bread is very bad for ducks. Lots of veggies, like the frozen peas you’ve got downstairs. Corn is good too. No citrus fruit. And you’ll need to pick up some special feed called duck crumble. You can buy it from a farm-supply store or order it for her online.”
Shady, who’d been taking notes, looked up. The question was in his furrowed eyebrows.
“Her?” I asked.
“It’s a female duckling.”
And that was how we ended up with our first family pet—which wasn’t a pet, exactly. She was a service animal. An “emotional support duck.” And her new name was Svenrietta.
