Hi, Sparrow, come on in.”

I like this part, the little rush at the beginning. I take in what she’s wearing (olive cargo pants, Converse, a loose-fitting black shirt), silently judge it, like her anyway, sit down, wait for her to sit down; this part is the easy part. We start talking about music. Easy. I tell her about Curtis and the gift cards and listening to Alabama Shakes and the Pixies and Patti Smith all the time.

I can’t tell her the rest, that I’m hungry for more—that these people seem to be keeping me company now that the birds are gone.

“So, tell me about the birds.”

“What does that have to do with music?” She looks at me like, You know. I do know. “Because that’s what’s keeping me company now.” She smiles. “Fine. What about them?”

“When did you turn into a bird?”

“I mean, a lot. I don’t know.”

“Like when?”

“Like all the time!”

“Give me three.”

“Ugh. Fine. How about every day I went into the cafeteria before fifth grade and all this year?”

“What happened in fifth grade?”

“I started to eat lunch in the library with Mrs. Wexler.”

“And then she died?”

“Yeah, this October.”

“So, why did you hate lunch before that?”

“Have you ever been in a cafeteria? It’s horrible.”

“As I recall, they can be pretty stressful places. Why did yours make you call on the birds?”

“Well, you can’t fly in a cafeteria, obviously, but the only thing that made lunch okay was knowing that we’d go to recess for fifteen minutes, and I’d get to fly at least for a little bit.”

“Why was it so bad?”

“Why are you so nosy?”

“Sparrow.”

“What?” My arms are crossed. My legs are crossed. I can feel myself squirming in my chair. I want to leave.

“Why did you hate lunch?”

“Why do you think?” Silence. Expectant eyebrows. Is she for real? “Monique.”

“Who’s Monique?”

“She’s Leticia’s friend.”

“Who’s Leticia?”

“She was my friend, or at least I think she was my friend. We were in Mrs. Wexler’s reading group together. We liked a lot of the same books. We spent lunch together in the library every day until Mrs. Wexler died.”’

“Then what happened?”

“I had to go back to the cafeteria. I haven’t eaten in the cafeteria since the first week of fifth grade. So everyone has their spots to sit in, the geek boys, the not-so-popular girls, the jock boys, and the popular girls, and Monique was their queen. I stood there trying to figure out where I could sit and not bother anyone and not be bothered by anyone. That’s when I saw Leticia. There was a seat right next to her. I walked up to her table, and she said hi and moved over so I could sit and I ended up sitting between her and Monique. We talked a little about some books we liked, and the whole time Monique was moving her elbows out so I had less and less room and saying, ‘What are you guys talking about?’ Leticia said, ‘Nothing.’ I don’t know why she didn’t just tell her we were talking about books. I ate my lunch as fast as I could, but it didn’t matter because we weren’t allowed to leave. Leticia didn’t talk to me much after that; she mostly talked to the other kids at the table. But she was the only person I knew, so I kept sitting there for the rest of the week.”

“And what were they talking about?”

“It depended on the day. Sometimes they talked about boys. Sometimes it was about how weird it was that I was sitting with them. Sometimes it was about how I thought I was better than they were because I knew the right answer in class and did my freaking homework. And then there was the terrible day.”

“What was that?”

“The day my mother packed Oreos in my lunch. She’s a health nut. It was supposed to be a nice surprise.”

Dr. Katz sighs, and closes her eyes; she knows what’s about to come. “Oh, no.”

“Yeah. I opened them up and Monique just starts shrieking, ‘Look, look, the Oreo brought Oreos! The Oreo brought Oreos!’ ”

“That sucks. Monique sucks.”

“Whatever. Girls like her don’t like me. I read books and don’t listen to Nicki Minaj. I’m ‘stuck up.’ ”

“What did Leticia say?”

I look down. I shake my head. I can’t get myself to say the truth—that she said nothing. I hate thinking about it. Hate thinking about her there, laughing with those girls like she never sat on a rug with me in the corner of the library crying about our favorite sad part in a book.

“Did you tell a teacher about what they were doing?”

“No. I told my mom.”

“And what did she say?”

“That they’re just jealous. I have no idea what they’d be jealous of. They think I’m stuck up because I don’t talk to them, but I don’t talk to anyone. And they think I’m a snob because I read all the time. They’d read too if they never talked. Black girls just don’t like me.”

“This one does.” Shelikesmeshelikesme.

“You don’t go to my school, though.”

“You think all the black girls at your school are like that? Even the not-so-populars?”

“They aren’t mean to me, but they probably think the same thing. That I’m a weirdo who doesn’t have any friends. I mean, they’d be right.”

“So, what happened next?”

“I looked up to the windows. There were only a few, right at the top. And I waited for a bird to fly by, and as soon as one did, it started. My skin went cold like goose bumps, but I felt so warm inside, and I felt feathers come, very, very slowly. My bones went light; my face shifted shape. Then I could hang on until we’d be dismissed for recess.”

“And what would happen at recess?”

“I’d find a corner where no one was and sit down on a bench. I’d stare up, and I’d wait. Fifteen minutes isn’t long, but it’s enough. I’d feel my body go up, and I’d join whichever family of birds was closest by—a warbler in the spring or purple finch in the fall or once a northern goshawk—and my feathers would turn the color of their feathers, my feet would go under me, and I’d have that swoop swoop feeling in my heart, and I’d be very, very far away from those girls and those boys and the school and everything.”

“Where would you fly?”

“Wherever they were going, as far as I could get in fifteen minutes. Over all of Brooklyn, the park, the river, northeast over traffic on the BQE, sometimes to Staten Island, even, to look at the houses and the lawns.”

“Northeast on the BQE, huh?”

“Yeah. When I still had Mrs. Wexler, I spent a lot of time reading maps and figuring out where we were going. Once I flew over Governors Island, before they remade it into a picnic area and it still looked like the set of a horror movie, and once I sat on top of the crown of the Statue of Liberty.”

“Sounds like a better recess than most people get.”

“I don’t know. Maybe hanging out with your friends is like that for other people.”

“Maybe. When else would you fly?”

“When Mrs. Wexler died.”

“I bet. When else?”

“Sometimes when we had to go to my aunt’s for holidays.”

“When else?”

“My birthday.”

“When else?’

“When these kids on my block called me a stuck-up bitch.”

“When else?”

“Well, there was that time on the roof about two months back, not sure if you heard about that.”

“Ha!” She smiles. I smile back. I like making her laugh.

“And what led to that?” she asks.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Katz, that’s all we have time for this week,” I say, half joking, half praying I’m right.

“Nice try, Sparrow,” she says, sneaking a look at her watch. “Oh! You’re right. Okay. I’ll see you next week.” I get up to go. “By the way,” she asks, “have you ever heard of TV on the Radio?”

“No.”

“You might check them out.”

That night, I’m blaring TV on the Radio at home. Dr. Katz isn’t wrong—I love them. My knees are making my computer screen bounce; my feet can’t sit still. I watch videos of them on YouTube and can’t help but think that if they’d been eating lunch with me that day with Monique, they would have said something. When Mom comes home, she reaches over and turns off my speakers in the middle of “Happy Idiot” and I don’t even get a chance to tell her about them. She says, “We need to talk.” I nod without turning around, my stomach in knots.

“Mr. Phillips called.” I nod again. I guess he didn’t forget. “Sparrow, turn around when I’m talking to you.” I spin my chair toward her. “He says I need to come in. Do you know what it’s about?” I know, obviously, but I’m surprised anyway.

I look down. “What did he say it was about?”

“Stop playing games with me. What’s going on?”

“I’m not playing. What did he say?”

“That I need to come in for a conference with all your teachers.”

“All of them?”

“That’s what he said. Now, what is happening?”

“I owe some work, that’s all.”

“What does ‘some work’ mean?”

“I’ve been distracted; I just have some things to get done. It’s not a big deal.”

“Don’t you lie to me, Sparrow. I’ve never been called in to school for you before. Don’t try to tell me it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s not. I’ll get it done.”

“Sparrow.”

“Yeah?” I say, hanging my head.

“I don’t know,” she says, and closes the door.

I don’t sleep that night. I play the scene through in my head over and over. Faces of my teachers, distorted with my exhaustion, saying over and over, “Sparrow is going to repeat eighth grade” and “Sparrow hasn’t done work in months” and “What’s wrong with your daughter, Ms. Cooke?” Around 2:00 a.m. I go to the window and stare at the empty streets. I open it, just so I can listen for the birds, even though they don’t want anything to do with me anymore. I try, but I don’t hear anything but a garbage truck and a car alarm, the faraway screeching of wheels down train tracks, the rattle of a bar storefront finally closing. It’s not just that birds won’t come for me anymore; it’s like they’ve disappeared from the entire city. Like we’re all left flightless and I’m the only one awake to notice.

I get out of the house before Mom is out of the shower. I can’t face her. She sends me a text telling me that she’ll meet me at school at three. I walk in the door and up the stairs to first period. Kids rush around me, running up the stairs, chatting as they maneuver down them. It all seems effortless, like a beautiful machine. My legs feel like they’re made out of iron or lead or whatever’s heavier that I’m sure I was supposed to learn at some point this year. I barely get there in time for first period. All morning is like that. My heart pounding in my ears, like I can hear every single blood cell as it swirls around my body. How did this happen? I think back to my colored-in lines, my name on the top of the page, how I used to be shocked when kids wouldn’t have their homework. I used to be so good.

I’ve gone from being my mom’s perfect dream child with 100s on her quizzes and the vocabulary of a geek who reads all the time, to a stranger. A bird child with a breakdown. I wish I cared that I’m letting my teachers down. I wish I felt like I was letting myself down. But I don’t. I don’t care about eighth grade or Mr. Phillips and his thoughts about my “potential.” But I care about Mom, and how hard I’m making things for her. I would give anything to go back to the way that it was, being her perfect baby (maybe a little shy, maybe a little strange) with perfect grades, and taking flight when I needed to. She was happier then. So was I.

I didn’t do the reading last night. I haven’t done homework in two months, it’s true, but I always do my reading for Ms. Smith. On my way in, she puts her hand on my shoulder and says, “I’d like to speak with you after class.” I spend all period trying to figure out how she knew just from my face that I wasn’t prepared. I can’t believe I’ve let her down too. I try to figure out how to get out of this after-class chat. I’ve seen Jayce do it; he just saunters out with everyone else and ignores the teacher calling his name.

“Can I go to the nurse?” I ask, ten minutes before the end of the period. I go sit in my stall in the bathroom until the bell rings. I go to YouTube on my phone, I put on my headphones and watch the video for “Wolf Like Me” until I hear the rush of people in the hallway. I head out of the stall and literally run into Mr. Garfield.

“Hey, there, Sparrow,” he says awkwardly, righting his tie.

“Sorry, Mr. Garfield.”

“It’s okay. I’m looking forward to meeting your mom later,” he says. At that very second, Monique passes by.

“Why are you meeting her mom, Mr. Garfield?” she asks sweetly, and loudly. I notice the gaggle of girls across the hall at their lockers giggling, whispering, admiring her.

“That’s none of your business, Monique.”

“Sparrow’s in trouble? What did you do, little Sparrow? Little Miss Perfect? A parent-teacher conference? Don’t worry, Sparrow,” she says, throwing her arm around my shoulder, “I’m sure they’ll serve Oreos. Unless, wait … are they bringing an ambulance? I hear you need those sometimes.” I feel everyone’s eyes on me now, they’re laughing, hooting, Snapchatting. I throw her arm off me, and storm away from Mr. Garfield’s calls of “Sparrow? Are you okay?”

My feet carry me up to the fifth floor. I know at once where my body’s headed. I watch my hands unlatch the window that opens farther than it’s supposed to; I watch my body bend and ease onto the fire escape. The cold metal feels good on my hands. The roof isn’t as cold as it was last time; there’s no more snow, just puddles from the last few days of rain, and lots of wind.

The wind blows my hoodie straight back; my eyes water against the heavy gusts. I walk right up to the edge. “Come on!” I say, but they don’t come. “Come on!” I shout up to the sky, top of my lungs. “Comeoncomeoncomeon,” I’m shouting and sobbing and my lungs hurt and my throat hurts. They’re going to leave me here; they left me weeks ago. No one’s coming. A strong wind blows behind me, nudging my wet sneakers closer to the ledge. “Get me out of here,” I say between sobs, to no one. I feel my toes curl over the edge. I uncurl them. I stop holding on. One more gust, and I’m gone. I can see my body falling through the air. One last flight. I look down and see where my body would fall. I can feel the final swoop of my stomach, the feathers over my arms, my feet tidy underneath me. And I can see the spot on the sidewalk where I would crash into concrete, into dark.

Storm petrels are rare in the city, and if I hadn’t spent all my lunch periods since fifth grade in the library, making my way through book after book, I would have thought it was maybe a hawk or a seagull. But no, it’s a storm petrel with its wide black wings, soft gray underbelly. Its hard black beak and sweet dark eyes. I’d read once upon a time that storm petrels can appear when it clears after days of rain, but I’ve never seen one. Come on, he says to me. What are you waiting for? Don’t you miss this? Follow me. And he swoops straight down to the ground. I watch him go, my body folding over my legs, arms dangling in the air below my feet, reaching, dizzy at the height. I can’t see him. I imagine my body smashed on the ground at the end of this last flight. I’m not sure that I want to. I’m also not sure that I won’t. I can’t get myself to back away from the ledge, so I lower my body to the rooftop, inch by inch. I lay my head back, my legs still playing with the air, flirting with flight.

In this daze of death and sky, I hear a bell. I scoot my body backward, away from the edge. I remember the sirens as the ambulance came to get me. I remember the surprised look on the custodian’s face when he opened the door to the roof and found me here. I don’t want to go back to the hospital, mostly because I don’t want to put Mom through that again. I swing my body back down the ladder and through the window and down the hall to class. No one asks where I was. No one is staring at the spot on the sidewalk where my body could have been. Mr. Rothman ushers me into class. I sharpen a pencil. I do a Do Now. Kids around me talk and text and roll their eyes. My body is here. My mind is still on the roof, staring at the empty sky.

The bell rings and from TV on the Radio last night to this moment feels like one hundred years. I sit in Mrs. Robbins’s room in a daze, trying to get my feet to stand, to put up my chair, to walk downstairs where Mom will be waiting. Mrs. Robbins turns off the lights. I stand up. “I’ll get your chair,” she says. Mrs. Robbins never gets anyone’s chair. This is going to be just as bad as I think it is.

“Thanks,” I say as I head out the door. I put my headphones on and listen to Patti screaming in my ears. Down the hall. Down the stairs. Mom is waiting, black skirt, white blouse, pearls. She is polishing her sunglasses and she stands by the door to the office. She doesn’t see me at first. Or maybe she just pretends not to see me.

“Hi,” I say. She nods, and takes my headphones off my ears.

Mr. Phillips comes out from the office. “Hi, Ms. Cooke, nice to meet you. I’m Jack Phillips. Come on in.” Swish swish swish. He leads us to the conference room and points out two chairs for us to sit in. “So, I thought we’d talk for a while, and then you’ll have the chance to hear from Sparrow’s teachers. How does that sound?”

Mom nods. Under the table, I see that she’s picking at her nails. She’s not angry (or she’s not just angry), I realize, she’s scared.

“So, we asked you to come in today because obviously this has been a rough year for Sparrow, and she’s had a lot of trouble getting her work in.”

“Since when?”

“Well, basically … ” Mr. Phillips is having trouble finishing this sentence. He doesn’t want to be rude and mention the hospital.

“Since after I came back, Mom.”

He looks at me, grateful. “Yes, exactly. As Sparrow said, it’s been hard for her to get work in during these last few months. But I will also say that it’s not just limited to homework. Sparrow has a lot of trouble in class too.”

“How do you mean?” Mom asks, the edge in her voice teetering over into anger.

“What do I mean, Sparrow?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do. Sparrow has some trouble paying attention in class; it’s as if she’s somewhere else most of the time. Between that and her homework, her grades have taken a real dip this semester.”

“I see.”

“I’d like to bring in a few of her teachers to talk more specifically about what she owes and how she can turn this around. There’s still time, Sparrow.” Of course there’s time, what there’s not is a different me.

One by one, Mrs. Robbins, Mr. Rothman, and Mr. Garfield all come in. They all say the same thing: I’m checked out, I owe work, I need to get every assignment in for the rest of the year or I won’t pass, and there’s the small matter of my participation. There’s a chorus of You’re such a smart girl and You can turn it around and Don’t you want to go to high school? Mom nudges me in the ribs and I sit up and nod, I make promises, I make eye contact. Part of me even believes that I’ll go home and do my homework tonight.

Mr. Phillips bring this funfest to an end, telling me that I can do it, telling Mom to call if anything comes up. He shakes her hand, swish swish swishing out the door, and leaving me alone with Mom.

“I’m sorry,” I say. She’s silent. She reaches for her bag, and pushes back her chair as Ms. Smith comes in. I want to disappear. I hate that I’ve disappointed her too.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Ms. Cooke,” she says, extending her hand. Mom takes it, and manages a smile. “Sparrow is an extraordinary girl.” Mom is stiffening, preparing for the but. She tries to look at me, but I’ve been counting the black flecks in the carpet for what feels like hours now.

“I know it’s been hard for her, but she’s been great in English. Her writing is gorgeous and funny and detailed. She’s a tremendous reader.” I lose count of the black flecks. “She’s creative and talented, and while I know she’s gotten into some hot water this year, I wanted to come by and say that in my class, that’s simply not the case.”

I sneak a quick glance at Mom. She swallows hard, and then smiles. “Thank you,” she says. “I know how much she loves your class.”

“Well, I love having her. Now, Sparrow, I know that you need some extra credit.” I nod. She clears her throat. She’s waiting for me to look at her. I force my head up; it weighs a million pounds, but I do it. “I know you know that I’m in charge of the talent show this year.”

“Ms. Smith, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not going to—”

“Sparrow, you are not in a position to negotiate. You are going to listen to what Ms. Smith has to say.” It’s the first sentence Mom has said to me since last night.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Don’t worry, Sparrow, I’m not going to ask you to perform, I’m not that much of a monster.” She smiles and her cheeks push her black-rimmed glasses up.

I look at her, and I smile too. “What, then?”

“I want you to run tech for the talent show. I would have told you after class if you hadn’t ducked out to the nurse. You’re going to learn how to run the light board; you’re going to help me order the performances and rehearse them and make sure that everything goes smoothly. What do you think?”

“I don’t have to sing or dance or a read a sonnet or whatever?”

“No.”

“She’d love to.”

“I’d love to.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you,” I stammer.

“Thank you,” says Mom, and we all file out. Ms. Smith goes up the stairs to her classroom and we head out into the evening for the silent walk home. Mom doesn’t speak until we’re finally sitting at the island in the kitchen. Mom is a slow burn; she’s not going to let it all out at once. She holds tight to her feelings until they’re boiling over. She likes to be inside when that happens.

“Just say it, Mom,” I say as I rock my feet back and forth on the stool.

“Say what, Sparrow?”

“Just tell me how mad you are at me, what a failure I am, how this isn’t how you raised me, how disappointed you are.”

“Why? Why bother, Sparrow? You’re going to do what you’re going to do anyway, and it seems like it’s been quite a while since you’ve listened to what I’ve had to say.”

“It’s not that.”

“It is that. I’ll tell you what else it is. You can shut me out all you like, little girl, that’s fine. But you’re not going to screw up your future so you can sit in your bedroom and play air guitar. Starting Monday, you’re coming to the office every day after school and you’ll sit with James and you’ll work until I’m ready to come home.” James is Mom’s assistant at the bank.

“I have therapy on Monday.”

“About that. I can’t really see how it’s helping you.”

“It’s helping.”

“Not as far as I can tell. As far as I can tell, you’re not paying attention at school, you’re not talking to me, you spend all your time in your room or staring off to who knows what in the backyard, you still won’t tell me what happened, you still won’t tell me anything, and now for the first time in your life, you’re failing school? Failing, Sparrow. And you’re telling me that therapy is helping?”

I stare at the ground. I feel like I’ve spent all day this way.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Sparrow.” I look up. I look her straight in the face, which is not the best idea. She’ll take it as defiance, which I guess it is.

“It’s helping, Mom. I’m sorry you can’t see it, I’m sorry you don’t like Dr. Katz. I’m sorry you don’t like that I’m listening to angry music all the time. And I am really, really sorry that school is such a mess and that I’ve screwed up so bad. I get that this is a big deal. But the solution isn’t taking me out of therapy; it’s the only thing that helps. You think this is bad? This is nothing.”

“This is nothing?”

“I can’t talk about this anymore.” I get up and go upstairs, knowing that this is the last thing that I should do. She appears in my doorway one minute later.

“You can’t walk away from me, Sparrow.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Things have got to change around here. I’ve let you be too independent. You want to go to therapy so bad? That woman means that much to you? Fine. But every other day you will be at my office after school, working. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good night.” She shuts off my light and closes the door. I’m fully dressed and wide-awake and it’s one of those moments when you just know that things are going to get worse.

And they do. Kind of. I’m scared enough of Mom, and of disappointing her more, that I manage to stay awake in most of my classes for the rest of the week. I go to her office and sit with James after school. James is a nice guy; he’s young and new, just as scared of Mom as I am. I sit on the couch outside her office and watch YouTube videos on my phone. He offers me a snack from the candy drawer that he keeps in his desk. I take some peanut butter cups and stare off some more.

“Where’s Mom?” I ask him, one headphone still on my ear.

“Meetings for the rest of the day, kiddo,” he says. So, I don’t have to worry that she’ll come by to check on me with her neutral face, which is just a cover for her angry face. I don’t have to worry about whether she is more or less angry than she was the day before. And I don’t have to worry about that silence, that heavy, lasting silence that has been following us around since long before she left me in my room with the lights off. I put both headphones on and unwrap the candy. After a few minutes, James is kneeling in front of me.

“What are you listening to?”

“TV on the Radio.”

“They’re dope,” he says. I smile and nod, not taking off my headphones. He reaches up and grabs one off of my ear. “Listen, kid. I don’t know if you know this, but your mom is pretty scary.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“So, if she comes back here and you’re eating candy and rocking out, we’re going to have a serious problem.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not talking about you and your mom, I’m talking about your mom and me. I can’t have her angry at me, short stuff. That’s just not going to work. So, whatever it is that you’re supposed to work on, can you at least look like you’re working on it?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“What are you supposed to be working on?” I hold up my entire backpack with its three packets of makeup work and all of tonight’s assignments. He tries to lift it and then fake falls under its weight. “You better get going, then.”