Birds of Summer by Zilpha Keatley Snyder Read Free Book Online Page A

Pardell came around the corner followed by half the class, which was just as well since what Summer was about to say wasn’t very diplomatic. Because she’d suddenly realized why she’d never been anxious to join Christopher’s harem. Why, in fact, the one time she’d really had a chance to join the “Blanket Blotchers,” when Kid had cornered her behind the bleachers after a game, she’d punched him where it would do the most good—and then ran. The thing was—she’d met him too often before. Haley, with her banker father and PTA president mother, thought Kid Christopher was something absolutely unique; but growing up with Oriole McIntyre you knew better. Guys who didn’t care about anything were the story of Oriole’s life. And after a few of them traded your last food stamps for pot and hit you with their handmade belts, they didn’t seem all that charming anymore.
    The class was about Mark Twain that day. There had been an assignment about Twain’s use of irony, and Pardell read sections from some of the papers and asked the class to comment on them. He didn’t identify the writers, which was just as well, since some of the stuff was pretty stupid. But for the most part, he read things he liked. Summer could tell from some of his comments that he was looking for several of the examples that she had mentioned in her paper, so she felt sure he would read hers, but he never did. That surprised her a little because Pardell usually liked the way she wrote, but she didn’t really begin to worry until, as he was dismissing the class, he asked her to stay.
    Haley grinned and whispered, “What’d you do, McIntyre? Turn in some pornography?” but no one else paid any attention. Pardell often asked people to stay to talk about their work. But Summer began to feel definitely uneasy. While Pardell was carrying on as usual—blocking the door while he checked his watch to be sure the elderly and infirm had had time to get off the streets, etc., etc.—she started looking through her binder. She was sure she’d turned in the assignment; but if she hadn’t, it should still be there. It was then she realized what had happened, and, at first, all she could think of doing was jumping up and running out and never coming back. The essay on Mark Twain was right there in the binder pocket; what was missing was a letter to Grant.
    She’d finished the letter during her free period, and it was almost the same length as the essay; somehow she must have gotten them mixed up. The first part of the letter had been like a short story. A kind of a-day-in-the-life-of account of one Sunday when the sun had been shining and Oriole had rescued a baby bird, and she and Sparrow had made up a song about it, and Oriole had planned a picnic lunch. But then it had started to rain and the picnic was off. Big disappointment—so Sparrow went to her bedroom and cried, and Oriole went to hers and got stoned. And there was quite a bit more about Sparrow and Oriole and how much alike they were, and how the things that made you want to hug a cute, dopey, helpless seven year old made you want to scream at someone who was supposed to be an adult, not to mention a mother. “I scream at Oriole a lot lately,” she’d written, “even though I know it’s too late for her to change. It’s too late for Oriole and in a different way, it’s probably too late for me, and pretty soon now it’s going to be too late for Sparrow.” It was a ridiculous letter, and she’d known it while she was writing it. There wasn’t anything she’d ever written that she’d hate so much for anyone to see. Anyone—even Pardell. Or, maybe, most of all Pardell.
    When the last kid had filed out the door, she was standing by his desk with the Mark Twain paper in her hand.
    “Here,” she said putting it down in front of him. “Here’s the assignment. I turned in that other thing by mistake. Can I have it back now? I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “Hey, wait a