Ship of Souls

of the cafeteria. “We’ll see about that,” she says, then gets up and carries her tray over to the trash.
    The noise level in the cafeteria seems to drop a notch as Nyla walks down the main aisle and out into the schoolyard. Some of the freaks get up and follow their leader. Others stay and finish the crappy school lunch. A quiet girl with long locks slides along the bench and asks if I can help her with her math homework. I say, “Sure,” and think maybe I really do belong here with the rest of these outcasts.

6.
    A fter school I decide to skip the library and head straight to the park. I haven’t been on my own much lately, and while I like making new friends, I’m not going to get used to their company. Here today, gone tomorrow. That’s what people are like.
    Birds are different. Some birds migrate, but there are plenty that stay in the city all year round. I don’t have to go to the park to find them—pigeons are everywhere, which is probably why they get kicked around so much. I think pigeons are beautiful—that iridescent ring around their necks looks just like a rainbow. But that’s one of those things I’ve learned to keep to myself. Otherwise kids’ll call me a wuss or a punk—or worse. When I’m in the park, there’s no one around to tease me for liking birds. They’re related to dinosaurs, you know, which makes them really ancient. And raptors—they’re some of the fiercest predators around. I saw a hawk tear into a live rabbit once—blood and guts everywhere! Bird-watching’s definitely not for the faint of heart.
    Today I head deep into the park, away from the sports fields and the playgrounds that attract other kids. Spring’s coming, and we changed all the clocks last weekend, so the days are getting longer. Only a few patches of dirty snow are left in the park, and all the dog poop people never bothered to scoop shows up now as uneven clumps of thick green grass. If you look closely—and watch where you step—you can see tiny purple shoots poking up here and there, proof that life’s stirring underground. My mom used to love crocuses. Purple was her favorite color. Seems like each new season brings fresh reminders that she’s gone.
    The ravine’s a good place to spot birds, and with no leaves on the trees yet, it’s easy to find their nests and track their movements. Male birds usually have brighter colors, so the challenge is to find their mates. Mostly I listen for their calls because my eyes aren’t great these days. I was supposed to get my eyes checked last fall, but then Mom went into the hospital, and my vision wasn’t anyone’s priority anymore. I guess I should tell Mrs. Martin because sometimes it’s hard for me to see the board at school. But for now I just sit close to the front of the classroom and squint when I can’t see clear.
    It’s dim in the tree-filled ravine, so I take my time heading down the concrete stairs that are built into the steep slope. I’m watching my feet, not the trees, and that’s how I notice an injured bird huddled in a pile of dry leaves not far from the steps. It’s cooing like a mourning dove, but it’s got the wrong coloring. I stand still and try to figure out a way to reach the bird without startling it. As soon as I step on those dry leaves, the bird might panic and try to fly away. I can’t see whether its wings are damaged, but that’s the only reason a bird like that would be on the ground instead of up in a tree.
    “Hey, there. I’m D.” I figure a little small talk can’t hurt, especially if I use a soothing tone of voice. “Looks like you could use some help. Can I come over there?”
    “Yes, please do.”
    I blink my eyes a couple of times even though it’s my ears that are playing tricks on me. I could swear that bird just talked to me! Then again, I hear my mom’s voice all the time. Maybe there’s just something wrong with me.
    I push that thought aside and go on talking to the injured bird. It must be some kind of dove because it’s pure white. I’ve seen white pigeons before, but this bird’s smaller. Maybe someone released it at a wedding—people get married in the botanic garden all the time, and that’s not far from here.
    “OK,” I say as I take my first step toward the bird, “I’m coming over there now. Don’t mind all the noise—it’s just these dry leaves, no need to be alarmed. I’ll move real slow, like this. See?”
    The dove coos some more, but it doesn’t flinch as I