That weekend, we don’t go to the park, but we do ride bikes down to the pier at Red Hook. Mom wants to do some grocery shopping at the Fairway, and I’m happy to sit on the bench outside and watch the water. All I can see are seagulls, of course, and they can’t see me anymore, but there’s something nice about sitting on the bench with sun on my face and the breeze from the water rising up to greet me. It’s not flying, but it’s nice. Mom comes out and sits beside me, her bag full of groceries.

“Hi there,” she says.

“Hi. I was just thinking about this bike ride we had to take when you made me go to that weird Y camp. Do you remember that? We rode all the way down here.”

“I’m surprised you remember it. That was years ago.”

“Who could forget a death ride to Red Hook with thirty other eight-year-olds in the middle of summer?”

“So dramatic, my daughter.”

“It was awful!”

“Was it as awful as the overnight?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know, would I?” I grinned at her, just a little. The Y camp was awful—lots of team sports and swimming and walks through different parks in the city. Did I mention the team sports? Lots of them. But the worst part was the overnight. They took all us city kids upstate to “get some fresh air” and “practice wilderness skills.” I lasted exactly the length of the bus ride. We got there and they showed us the tarps on the ground that we were supposed to magically turn into tents. I was with a bunch of girls who had been separated from their other friends, who were in another tent. One of them came over to express her condolences that they’d be stuck with the weird, quiet girl, and said she hoped they’d have fun reading books all day. Then a mosquito bit me. Then I called Mom to come get me.

I sat on a bench by the entrance to the campsite and read a book until it was dark. While I was waiting, Jacob came and sat down next to me. I didn’t really know Jacob—he wasn’t much of a talker either. I knew he was from Queens, and wasn’t very good at sports, and that was about it. He had dreads that fell in his face, mostly because he was always looking down, and he had high cheekbones and big eyes. He looked delicate, like he could break if you touched him, and kind of beautiful, which I didn’t know boys could be. He was short for eight and his basketball jersey sat uncomfortably on his shoulders, like he hadn’t chosen it. He climbed onto the rock next to the bench I was sitting on.

“Hi,” he said. He had never spoken a single word to me before. Now he was sitting here like we were old friends.

“Hey, Jacob.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Definitely.”

He looked down for a second, his hair covering his entire face, and then straight up to the sky. “I want to leave.”

“You should.”

“My dad won’t let me.”

“Why not?”

“He’s the one who sends me to this stupid camp in the first place. ‘It’s about time you learned to play something other than video games, son,’ ” he said, shoulders back, trying to lower his voice to imitate his dad, who I could tell was a tall man.

“Yeah, my cousin plays a lot of video games. My aunt is always trying to get him outside.”

“I don’t like video games; that’s just what he thinks. I’m sitting in my room reading and drawing.”

“Why don’t you tell him that?”

“Yeah, right. My dad would think that was even worse, spending all that time on sissy stuff.” He looked embarrassed.

“I don’t think it’s sissy. I like drawing too.”

“You’re a girl!”

“So?”

“So, girls are supposed to draw and like books.”

“Right, and you’re supposed to like dirt and sports because you’re a boy. That’s dumb.”

“Maybe I’m not a boy. I don’t want to be a basketball star.”

“What do you want to be?”

He got quiet quiet and looked like he might cry. “It’s dumb.”

“Tell me.”

“A poet.”

“I think you’d be a good poet.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not what you seem.”

His smile took up nearly his entire face. “You read a lot, huh?”

“Yeah. Who are your favorite poets?”

“I like Nikki Giovanni and Countee Cullen. Shel Silverstein too, but that’s kid stuff.”

“I haven’t heard of them.”

“You should read them. What do you like to read?”

“I’m reading The Watsons Go to Birmingham right now. My favorite book is Harriet the Spy.”

“I like those.”

“Cool.”

We both got quiet, like we just realized that we were having a conversation with a total stranger who maybe didn’t feel so much like a stranger anymore.

“I should go back, I guess. They might notice I’m gone,” Jacob said.

“They might?”

“It’s not like I take up a lot of space.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I really wish I could leave like you.”

“It’s only one night. You’ll be okay.”

“Did that work when they said it to you?”

I smiled. “Not even a little.” He jumped off his rock and started to head back toward camp.

“Hey, Sparrow,” he called over his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Why not try the truth? “A bird.”

“Cool. You’ll be good at that. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I sat there and watched as the owls and the nightjars took their positions. The only thing better than the owl’s hooting was the roar of my mother’s engine as she pulled into the campsite. She gave me a big hug, no questions asked, and drove me to the nearest diner. I got macaroni and cheese and she got a root beer float, and we drove back home to the superior wilds of Brooklyn. I never went back to the camp.

I spent the rest of the summer at Aunt Joan’s with Curtis. They basically let me read all summer. It was great, but I never got to see Jacob again. I hope he’s okay. I hope the world hasn’t knocked the poet out of him yet. Thinking about that summer, about Mom driving three hours to come and bring me home because she wouldn’t leave me in a tent with evil girls and mosquitoes, about our diner dinner and our long ride home, makes my heart lift just a little.

We’re about to get back on our bikes when I decide to go for it. I give her a big hug. It’s been so long that I’m taller in our hug than I used to be. My head is at her shoulder.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” I say.

“It was a long time ago, honey. But you’re welcome. Anytime.”

We ride home, my legs burning as we go up the hill to our house, Mom going strong despite the heavy load strapped to her back.