Beyond the Laughing Sky by Michelle Cuevas Read Free Book Online Page A

happening,” said Junebug, crinkling her nose.
    â€œOur teacher,” continued Nashville, “Miss Starling, had us each think of a question. And so everyone sat, tapping their feet and pencils, thinking of questions, getting ready to put them into a box. Once they were inside everyone wondered what they said, buzzing there like a box full of bees.”
    â€œSo what was the assignment?” asked Nashville’s father.
    â€œOur assignment,” explained Nashville, “is to answer our own question.”
    â€œHow interesting,” said his mother. “And what was your question?”
    â€œMy question,” said Nashville, “is a secret.” He paused. “Well, a secret until I figure out the answer.”
    â€œOh . . .” said his mother. “And? Do you think you’ll be able to answer it?” she asked softly.
    â€œMaybe,” replied Nashville. “Yes. I think maybe I’ll be able to answer it soon.”
    After dinner, Nashville hurried upstairs to begin work on his wings.
    First, he took out his suitcase of feathers. A whole suitcase! Yes, Junebug had proven to be quite the hunter, and Nashville had exchanged nearly his entire piggy bank for the haul of feathers she’d brought him.
    Next, he started working on the coat hangers, reshaping the wires until they looked like the skeleton of a bird’s wings. He held them against a large, flat piece of leather, and traced the outline. He cut the pieces of leather and some scraps of an old ship’s sail into pieces, each fitting into the skeleton, making them resemble bat wings. But they weren’t supposed to be bat wings, they were to be bird wings, and for that he’d have to figure out the feathers, and this would be the hardest part.
    Feathers, Nashville knew, were more complicated than most folks realized.

    â€œI wonder . . .” Nashville said to the feathers as he emptied the suitcase. “I wonder if you were sad when you fell to the ground. I wonder if you ever thought you’d have a chance to fly again.”

T he next day was saturday, so Nashville rode his bicycle down the hill to what he referred to as his part-time job. This was putting it a bit loftily, since old Mrs. Craw, the tiny but fierce owner of the pet shop, didn’t exactly pay him. She did, however, allow him to play with the animals and birds, which she claimed he had “a real way with” due to his “unique” looks. Nashville liked the job and figured it was one place he blended in just fine.
    That afternoon, like most afternoons, Mrs. Craw left Nashville to watch the shop while she went and played canasta.
    â€œYou’re in charge,” she told him as she left. “I have some imperative vocational commerce in town.” Mrs. Craw was fond of words that were twice her size.
    Nashville liked being alone in the shop. He liked the smell of cedar, and the sound the mice made when they sipped their water bottle. He liked the softness of puppy ears, and the NO FISHING sign in the fish tank. He especially liked the birds—the exotic, bright birds, bopping like jesters in a royal court.
    Nashville looked at the birds in their cages, thinking about how odd it must feel to be able to fly, but not allowed. They looked back up at him and seemed to speak with their eyes. The caged birds seemed to all be asking the same exact question.
    And their question brought up an idea, an answer, in Nashville.
    â€œIt’s a bit crazy,” he said. “But maybe. Just maybe . . .”
    â€œI think we’re ready,” announced Nashville two hours later, holding the ends of the strings. “Here goes nothing.”
    And with that, he flung open the doors to the pet shop. Attached to strings and held by tight knots, the birds flew and spread out. They were like dogs on leashes, except in the sky.
    â€œIt’s working!” Nashville shouted, dancing below. He