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

looked very much like a salesman holding a colorful bunch of enchanted balloons.
    He turned, made sure to be responsible and lock the door to the shop behind him, then let the birds lead the way.
    And what joy the birds must have felt, the wind once again running through their feathers. For a moment the strings disappeared, and they were free.
    â€œNow, now,” said Nashville. “Be respectful. No tangling, we’re not trying to make a maypole here.”
    One bluebird closed its eyes and imagined dipping down the meadow, past the nest where he had been hatched, the shells now crushed to powder, over the churchyard, straight up, until like rain into a puddle, the bluebird merged with bluest sky.
    Nashville took a turn onto the main street of Goosepimple. As he walked, the townsfolk began to take notice and emerge, one by one, from their perfect houses.
    â€œWhy I never,” a man said as he stood with a hose watering his garden.
    â€œI want one,” a little girl said, looking up at her mother.
    â€œMeow,” cried a cat, looking hungrily at the birds.
    Soon, the entire street was lined with onlookers, and the murmurs and questions danced from freshly cut lawn to freshly cut lawn. Heads started popping out of upstairs windows, and it wasn’t long before a reporter for the Goosepimple Tribune showed up with his camera.
    â€œIs this some kind of promotional stunt?” he asked, his flashbulbs popping.
    â€œOh no,” said Nashville. “I just feel one should take a stroll on such a fine day, don’t you? Even if one happens to be a bird.”
    He continued past the candy shop and the five-and- dime, where children pressed their faces against the glass. He finally reached the town square, where, storming across the grass, was the squat figure of Mrs. Craw.
    â€œNashville! What on earth are you doing?”
    â€œI just thought,” he said quickly, “that it’s such a nice day with such a warm breeze, perhaps the birds would like to go for a stroll. . . .”
    â€œHave you lost your mind?” Mrs. Craw shouted, trying to untangle the strings. Her face was so red and round, it, too, looked like a balloon ready to pop.
    â€œYou . . . you . . .” she was so busy figuring out what to yell, she barely noticed that the birds were dragging her heels off the ground. Yes, for a moment it seemed the wee woman could float away like the basket beneath a hot-air balloon, never to be seen again.
    â€œNashville!” she shouted as the birds dragged her toward the shop. “Nashville you are absolutely, irrefutably, indubitably FIRED! ”

W hen Nashville’s father picked him up outside the pet shop, Nashville was standing with a police officer, a reporter from the Goosepimple Tribune , and several of the town’s busiest busybodies.
    Nashville’s father didn’t look very happy at all. His brow was furrowed and creased, the way it always became when he didn’t know what to say to his son. They walked quietly up the hill to the house in the pecan tree.
    â€œNashville,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “I’m not mad.”
    â€œYou’re not?” asked Nashville.
    â€œNo,” said his father. “I don’t agree with what you did, but I think, on some level, I can understand why you did it.”
    â€œI was trying to be a good friend,” replied Nashville.
    â€œAnd that’s great,” said his father. “A bit ill conceived in this case, but a tip-top quality in anyone. But . . .”
    â€œBut?” asked Nashville.
    â€œBut I think,” said his father, “maybe you could spend less time with your bird friends, and more time with your classmates. Invite them over to play. Go to the field and get some grass stains.”
    â€œThe other kids don’t like me,” Nashville said, nearly whispering. “A boy in my class even plucked one of my