The Milk of Birds by Sylvia Whitman Read Free Book Online Page A

though not really me, since Jimmy didn’t know anything about me, about how I felt, which was awful since Dad had just married Sharon andMom was on autopilot. I thought if he pressed hard enough, he could squeeze out that awful feeling or at least change it, like coal into diamonds. We had just learned about that in earth science. Black crumbly coal turned into shiny sharp diamonds—I couldn’t get over it. Forget that whole caterpillar into butterfly routine. I made Mom put some real coal in a garbage bag in our driveway so she could run over it with her car.
    â€œRemember when you caught me and Jimmy Ladd kissing?” I ask.
    Emily shudders. “Why did you let him . . . chomp on your face?”
    â€œI like alligators. Remember you said, ‘What are you doing, K. C.? Every time a guy opens his mouth you stick your tongue in.’ ”
    Emily shakes her head. “Thank God Jimmy Ladd got suspended.”
    â€œHe thought it was some big secret, smoking cigarettes in the bathroom. Ha. He was even dumber than I am. He always reeked.”
    â€œWhere’d his mom move?”
    â€œNew York. She had a brother there. She was probably hoping he’d whip Jimmy into shape. Like you did me,” I say. I put my head on Emily’s shoulder. “When a tree leans, it rests on its sister.” I sigh. “I am so going to fail.”
    â€œYou got that right.” Air-dribbling past us, Chaz gives a thumbs-down. Jerk. As soon as Jimmy left, Chaz spent a year trying to feel me up. Now he tells everyone in our math-for-dummies class that I’m a slut.
    â€œShut up, you haboob ,” I yell. The word tastes as sweet as a sourball in my mouth.

    Dear Nawra,
    My letter is going to come soon, I swear. I hate this gap. I want to know what you’re doing TODAY (which is May 28—sorry, I always forget to put that). Mom reads everything Save the Girls sends us, so I asked her what’s taking so long. She says Saida Julie flies back to your capital, Khartoum, every month—we measured with fingernails in our world atlas, and it looks about six hundred and fifty miles. Students there who speak English and Arabic do the translations. Good move. Here we can’t even find enough people who speak Arabic to tell the Iraqis we’re sorry, we really just meant to help.
    Where was I? Mom says I have a mind like a kite; it follows the breeze.

    Those haboobs sound awful. My granny lives in Florida, and she sometimes gets hurricanes, but those are wet. The Midwest gets tornadoes, which spin around like some hand blender from hell, picking up cows and cars and people who didn’t make it to the basement. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen The Wizard of Oz . I showed your letter to Emily, and she saidduring the Depression a drought hit the Great Plains, where farmers had plowed up the grass and roots, so all the loose soil dried up. Then the wind whipped up black blizzards, and so much dust was flying that fish choked to death in streams and some cities had to turn on their streetlights in the middle of the day.
    At least I’ll get a Dust Bowl question right on the SOLs. We just took the history and science ones. Speaking of science, you know what happens when you run over a gazillion charcoal briquettes with a car? A lot of black dust, no diamonds, and a flat tire.
    I’ll write more later.

    Dear Nawra,
    I hope you don’t mind a wad of miniletters. Save the Girls limits me to one envelope a month. My mom’s been reading your letters to me, which I hope is okay. She’s better at deciphering the handwriting. Tell Adeeba her Arabic looks really cool! Do you get both letters too—mine and the translator’s?
    Do you have a picture you could send me? I’m the one on the left with the glasses and the wavy hair. There’s this ancient song, “Brown-Eyed Girl,” and whenever it comes on the car radio, Dad turns it up really loud and