Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(9)

Fifteen is for the things we carry; sixteen’s for when we put them down.

Seventeen’s all the lies and shadows; eighteen’s the waters where we drown.

Nineteen has always been unclear to me. Odd numbers are usually less forgiving than even numbers, but ten’s for the Devil his own self, and after that, the evens turn a little kinder. I don’t know, I don’t know. I think nineteen is for an unasked question, which would make twenty for an answer you won’t want. It fits together. It feeds itself. A good rhyme—a good equation—should feed itself. But if I’m wrong about nineteen, I’ll be wrong about twenty, and if I’m wrong about twenty, there’s no saving the math. I’ll have to start again.

Starting again won’t bring David back. I stare at the crows around my birdbath, glossy and black and unaware that my heart is broken, my heart is breaking, my heart is an eggshell with nothing left inside, and for the first time, I hate them. I hate what they are to me, what my mind makes them into. I hate that they have seen David every day of their short and feathered lives, have watched him through the window while I prepared their food, and still they don’t care. He’s gone, and they don’t care.

Screaming, I run at the birdbath with my arms up, making a monster of myself when they have only ever known me for a mathematician. The crows look at me in avian bewilderment until I get so close, and then they fly! Fly! Black wings beating against the air, black feathers sheeting down to litter the lawn like accusations, and I have nothing left to count, and I am alone. Here, and always, I am alone.

There are twenty feathers. Twenty corvids, twenty feathers: twenty is the answer, but the answer’s still unclear.

I fall asleep sitting in the grass at the base of the birdbath and don’t wake until morning, when the dew is sticky on my skin and the croaking of the crows who watch me, wary, from the fence filters into my consciousness. I sit up. They look at me accusingly.

“I’m sorry,” I say. There are seven of them, a secret to start the day, lined up and watching me.

My mother is already gone, off to the hospital to be with Carl. I do not want to stay here alone, in this house where David isn’t, and never will be again. I wash. I gather my things. I walk to the bus stop. I wait.

Two more corvids appear, a Steller’s jay and a big, glossy raven. Nine. Again, nine. I consider turning around and going back inside, where I may be alone but at least I won’t be out in the world. I am still considering when the bus pulls up, when the door hisses open, and my feet carry me onboard as much out of habit as anything else. The bus goes, and I go with it, bound for school. I watch the windows as we go. There are no more corvids to be counted.

First period has already begun when I arrive on campus. I consider going to the office to tell them I’m here, and dismiss it as a bad idea. The rules say that if I’m going to be late, my mother needs to contact the school and excuse me. I am sure she hasn’t contacted the school, not when she didn’t notice me sleeping in the yard, not when she has a son to mourn and a husband to fret over. With no call, there will be no waiting slip to explain my tardiness. Better go straight to class, to let my teacher decide what to do with me. I ghost through the halls, and no one stops me; no one sees me go. I might as well not be here at all.

My teacher is at the front of the room when I open the door. She turns toward the sound and stops, going very still, like a bird confronted with a cat. It’s odd to think of myself as a predator, as something that consumes.

“Brenda,” she says finally. “I didn’t think you were going to be joining us today. Do you have a note from the office?”

“No,” I say. “To have a note, your parent or guardian must contact the school to explain your reasons for tardiness or absence. My parent or guardian did not contact the school. May I sit?”

She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose like I have pained her. “Brenda, you know I can’t let you join late if you’re unexcused. Can you call your mother and ask her for a note?”

“No.”

She lowers her hand and frowns at me. A giggle runs though the class. “Why not?”

I am told that my tendency toward brevity when asked direct questions is troubling. I can see it now, in my teacher’s face. “She’s at the hospital with my stepfather,” I explain politely.

My teacher’s eyes flare with sudden alarm. “Is everything all right?” She probably isn’t supposed to ask that. Even as a student, I’m meant to have privacy.

I don’t mind. Privacy is for people with something to hide. I’ve never had anything to hide. I’ll tell anyone who asks what I’ve counted. “No,” I say. “My stepfather had an accident. My little brother was in the car with him. David died. Carl didn’t. Please, may I sit down?”

The class isn’t giggling anymore. The class is staring at me in wide-eyed horror, their looks of sympathy and dismay mirroring the teacher’s. Belatedly, I realize that this may have been a bad decision, that they may see my presence on campus as proof that I have no real feelings. They already whisper that about me. It hurts. My feelings may not look like theirs do, but that doesn’t make them any less real.

“I’m sorry,” I say, before my teacher can answer me. “This was an error. I’m sorry.”

Then I turn and walk out of the classroom, back across the campus, out to the street. There’s no bus this time; it will be at least a half hour before the next bus comes. I don’t want to wait here, visible from the school windows as I stand at the bus stop, while the students whisper and point. I set my feet to the sidewalk. I start walking.