8

MEET BIRCH

The Internet isn’t any help. I look up Adam Flossdrop to see if he has any social media accounts I don’t know about or has been mentioned somewhere, but I find nothing. Not that I was really expecting to. My brother isn’t a big computer guy and has never been into posting stuff online — he’s old-fashioned that way. But the past few months, Adam hung out at the meadow a lot with his newly secret notebook, so I’m going to look there for him next, in real life.

The meadow is this big expanse of grass on one end of our neighborhood, some of it pretty tall and meadowlike. Our duplex is on the opposite side of Sunrise Boulevard, basically halfway between the meadow and Scoops. Anyway, lots of people go to the meadow to read or fly kites or hang out on blankets in the sun. Some people are doing those things right now. And luckily, with my hood on, no one seems to notice that I’m secretly Bee Girl. The perfect disguise.

But unluckily, none of the people at the meadow right now are Adam. So much for my plan.

I remember when we used to come here together every summer. We’d lie on our backs watching the sky. Doing nothing. It was like the ultimate rebellion in uselessness. One time, Adam showed me how to whistle with a blade of grass. He plucked one, lined it up between his thumbs, and blew, his cheeks puffed.

“That sounds like a kazoo,” I said. “Or a goose.”

“Yeah, a goose in a lot of pain,” said Adam. It took a few tries, then he did it again. “That one sounded like a fart.”

“That’s gross,” I said.

“But it’s true.”

“Yeah, it’s kinda true.” I paused. “Do you think Dr. Flossdrop has ever farted?” I asked.

“Yes, but I’ve never heard it. Or smelled it. A Dr. Flossdrop fart is like a rare mushroom that only thrives in very particular conditions, too rare for most humans to sense or smell.”

I plucked my own blade of grass and put it between my thumbs. Pulled it taut. Puffed my cheeks and exhaled.

Nothing happened. Adam told me to cup my hands more.

Finally, it worked. My whistle was higher pitched than his.

“Yours sounds like Aunt Mildred on helium. Bonjooooooouuuuuuuur!”

I whistled. Adam whistled. We whistled at the same time in a hilarious clash of sounds like party horns. People looked at us, but we were laughing so hard we didn’t care. We were our own little meadow orchestra. We were everything.

But now I’m all alone. Except for you-know-what on my head. And with no idea how to make them go away.

Last night, I stayed up knitting in bed as long as I possibly could. When I eventually got so tired that I had no choice but to lay my head on the pillow, I did so carefully, thinking only of being stung on the delicate ridges of my ears. But the bees didn’t sting me. They also didn’t leave, even to hover like when I was in the bath. It took me hours to relax, especially since I didn’t want to toss or turn.

In the morning, they were still there — despite me having left my bedroom window open as an invitation for exit. I didn’t have to look to know. I could not only hear them, but feel them, sense them, like fingernails grown out too long. Impossible to ignore, but something you can live with. Sort of. If you absolutely have to.

Now, in the meadow, I climb up a small hill by the fence at the perimeter. I take this hidden moment to retrieve one of the extra knitting needles I always keep in my back pocket, remove my hood, and scratch my scalp for ten seconds of relief. But when I replace the hood, my head is immediately a hot, itchy hive once again.

Way out in the middle of the meadow I spot a tall, lanky boy with binoculars held up to his face. He’s acting very strange. He keeps pointing those binoculars in what seems like my direction. Then straight up in the air, then straight back to me again. The boy’s neck cranes up, then over, then down toward me every time.

Binocular guy appears to be coming closer. I try to act natural and ignore him, but there’s nowhere for me to go what with the fence behind me. I’d like for the grass to magically grow even taller and encompass me completely. I mean, he looks twelve years old, but maybe he’s an undercover operative here to investigate my bee situation. Anything could happen at this point.

Agent Binoculars get closer and closer. The rest of him looks normal, if a little plaid — plaid red-and-blue shirt, faintly plaid tan-and-red shorts — but his face looks like a giant mutated fly on account of the binoculars.

But then he takes them from his eyes and places them around his neck. He’s now only two feet away, and without binoculars, I can see his eyes. They’re kind of greenish-silver and remind me immediately of the ocean.

This tall, plaid-wearing boy is looking at me like he’s on a field trip to a natural history museum, and I’m a stuffed woolly mammoth. Something you can ogle and maybe even touch and it won’t care because it’s stuffed.

I adjust and secure my hood. I don’t appreciate being stared at, and I definitely don’t appreciate how he’s reaching out his hand to possibly pet me.

I jump and yell, “Who are you?”

“I’m Birch,” the boy says.

For a moment, I freeze in place. But then I realize I need to get away from this guy. I shimmy a little to the side, inching elsewhere.

Birch takes a small step in the same direction I moved.

I step.

He steps.

I step.

He steps.

Then we both step in sync until we’re circling each other, boxers in a ring.

Finally, I have to put a stop to this. “Stop!” I shout. “What are you doing?”

Birch suddenly seems to realize that the answer to my question is that he’s been staring at me, but he doesn’t say that of course. “Bird-watching,” he replies.

“Bird-watching?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t see too many birds.”

“Well, that’s the problem, actually. Once in a while one flies overhead — I’ve seen a hawk, two crows, and a few mourning doves — but I have to spot it midflight, and all that spotting is making me dizzy. There are no trees in this park for larger birds to rest or nest in. Actually, there are hardly any trees in this whole neighborhood.”

Of course I take this as an insult and a challenge. “There are too trees here.”

“Really? Great! Where are they?” Birch’s eyes get really big. They have faint circles around them from the binoculars.

While I want to defend my neighborhood, the truth is I can’t think of anyplace — within walking distance anyway — that has a whole bunch of trees. Maybe that’s why Dr. Flossdrop wants to plant them here at the meadow.

“There’s a skinny tree out front where I live,” I finally say.

“Cool,” says Birch. “Me too.”

“And there are some along the sidewalk down there.” I point across Sunrise Boulevard, in the direction of Dr. Flossdrop’s office and the duplex.

“What kind of trees?”

“The tree kind,” I say.

Birch nods like that was an actual answer.

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“You’ve never heard of it.”

“Try me,” I insist.

“It’s a little town up north.”

“Well, Birch, is it called Oak?”

“Ha. Close! Redwood City.”

“You’re joking,” I say.

“Nope. So who are you?”

I begin counting the plaid squares on his shirt.

“What are you doing?” I hear Birch asking me.

“Nothing. Zinnia. My name is Zinnia.” Here we are, a flower and a tree.

Birch grins. “Well, Zinnia, are you from Rosemont? Bellflower??”

“No. I’m from here.”

“Cool.”

Birch doesn’t protest anything I say. It’s as if, in addition to his eyes, his mind is also like the ocean. It’s wide and open, and you can throw whatever you want into it, and it will swallow it up without resistance. Which I find pretty weird.

“OK, bye!” I start to walk away, across the meadow and toward the street, but Birch follows. And keeps talking.

“There are actually a lot of trees in Redwood City,” he says. “And there’s water too. Birds love water, especially egrets and cormorants. That’s why I bird-watch. There are tons of birds there. And we have the best weather in the world, actually. There was a scientific test, and we tied as the best-weather winner with two other places in the whole world. That was a long time ago, but I think it’s still accurate.”

I walk a little faster, approaching the crosswalk. Birch with his long, tall legs keeps up.

“Who made you?” I ask him.

“My parents, I guess. Actually, they’re naturalists.”

“Wait a minute. They go around naked?”

Birch stops following me. He stands back there, laughing the binoculars around his neck into a shake. “No. They’re into nature. Science, trees, rocks. Stuff like that.” He’s still talking pretty loudly even though he’s caught up to me again.

“Lemme guess. Birds?”

“Yes, my parents like birds too,” he says.

Finally, the pedestrian light turns green and I take off, making sure my pace doesn’t mess with the placement of my hood. Birch crosses the street too.

“Um, can I ask you a question?” he asks.

I don’t answer. I get to the other side of Sunrise Boulevard, one hand on the knitting needle in my back pocket like it’s a sword I could use to defend myself with if necessary.

Birch asks anyway. “How did you get those bees to stay on your head?”

I stop and gape at him. Maybe he has X-ray vision and can see through my hood. I mean, the lines in his green-silver irises are kind of lit up, which may be a sign.

I try unsuccessfully to play it off. “What bees?”

“Ummm… how do I put this?” Birch scrunches his face, looks off in the distance, and then back at me, pointing his finger vigorously toward my hooded head. “Maybe you don’t know this, but there are, well, honeybees, I think. On top of your head. Or in your hair, I guess?”

I’m stunned. I can’t even move. Only the bees under my hood stir, their constant scurrying aggravating whiz. “Birch, that’s absurd.”

I take off again, this time practically running.

“You can’t even see my head!” I yell behind me, clutching my hood to keep it from inching down.

I can hear Birch’s footsteps behind me.

“I can’t see them right now, of course,” he says. “But I did, back in the meadow. I think they’re about the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I make a wish for Birch to stop talking and wander off somewhere to contemplate his naturalist discovery.

But of course he doesn’t.

“And, actually, I’ve seen a lot of cool things. The giant sequoias, for example. A webcam of a baby eaglets’ nest. And one time, at the beach, a seal who’d washed up on shore was getting rescued. That was really cool. But not as cool as this.”

Birch has seen my bees, but there’s no way I can trust a stranger enough to admit he’s right. How can I trust anyone ever again after NML betrayed me? After Adam cleared out without a word? No thanks.

“Are you following me home?” I ask the bird-watching, me-watching spy over my shoulder.

“No. I’ve decided to call it a morning myself. My uncle’s probably ready for lunch. When I arrived last night he promised we could have junk food because my parents never let me have any. My uncle says they eat like squirrels. He wants me to try eating like a human during my visit. Or maybe like a bear. He kind of reminds me of a bear, actually.”

Birch continues to trail me.

Right beside the duplex’s oleander hedge, I crouch down like I’m going to retie my shoelaces. I hope he’ll proceed without me.

Nope. Birch stops too.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.” He stands there and waits for me to finish pretend retying my laces.

I stand back up and gesture to the duplex. “Well, this is my place. Bye, Birch!”

“Actually, this is my place too.”

The two of us simultaneously step past the hedge, but at that, I stop short.

“What? Wait a minute. What’s your uncle’s name?”

“Lou. I’m staying with him this summer because my parents think he’s lonely. I’m here to keep him company.”

I stare at him. “I can’t believe this. You’re my neighbor.”