Bird Kids (until said otherwise)

Crackling static filled the shabby kitchen. Stained, peeling, yellow paint covered the walls. Dented pots were scattered across the countertop by the far wall. Water dripping from the faucet served as a faint background noise as I sat at the table fiddling with the ancient radio.

Country music filled the kitchen followed by rap and then gospel. “Work, stupid thing,” I muttered as I gave it a few good thumps.

“…and we’ll be right back with more music after this short break.” A different voice came on the radio as a commercial started. “Are you between the ages of twelve and eighteen? If so you may be eligible to participate in a study for a juvenile brain booster at …” As the man droned on I tuned him out. I was about to switch the station when I heard, “You will receive compensation for your time and travel.” I perked up at those words and strained my ears for more. If the radio hadn’t been on and the sink wasn’t dripping you could have heard a pin drop.

“If interested please call…” I leapt off my seat. The phone number was recited once as I glanced around for a pen and paper. “Again, the number is-” Spotting and pen and a pad of paper on a nearby counter I dove for them. Just in time I scribbled down the digits. I also got a bruise from diving over a chair but that’s neither here nor there. Now, the hard part. I just had to convince Mom to actually let me do it.

I waited patiently the rest of that day for Mom to come home from work. Well, pretty patient, anyway. I will admit several times I wanted to hit my head against the wall from angst, but I wasn’t going to mention that. Finally, I heard the sound of a car pull in front of the house.

I hurriedly ran into the living room, jumped onto the couch and flipped on the television. When I heard the front door open I looked up as nonchalantly as I could manage. “Oh, hey, Mom. You’re home. Did you have a good day at work?”

“Nope,” replied my mother as she stepped through the doorway. Sunlight illuminated her weary face and lit up strands of her black hair that draped halfway down her back. That is, until she closed the door. The room became dark as my eyes adjusted. “A customer spilled a drink on me.”

Well, that didn’t sound like good news on my part. “Was it an accident?” I asked.

My mom just stared at me. “Yes,” she said slowly, as if I was mentally slow. I resisted the urge to growl like an agitated bear and instead took a deep breath to calm myself.

“Well, someone could’ve done it on purpose,” I said defensively. Mom only snorted and continued into the kitchen where she dumped her keys onto the table. She ambled over to the fridge and opened the door. From behind her I could see a half empty gallon of milk, a container of leftover pasta, and a bottle of ketchup. Other than that, it was empty.

“I guess we’re having pasta for dinner,” she said as she set the plastic container on the stove.

“Again?” I asked. I tried to keep the whining out of my voice, but after two nights of spaghetti in a row you kind of get tired of it.

“Yes, again,” she said. “You know I don’t make much working at the diner. If you want something different for dinner, get a job, yourself. I know you’ve done some small jobs like babysitting in the past. You could those again or better yet, get a steady part-time job. But until you do, don’t complain.”

I smiled. Here was the perfect opportunity. The microwave dinged and my mother carried my plate over to the table. Noticing my expression she asked, “What are you smirking about?”

“What you just said, about me getting a job.”

“You think that’s funny?” she asked as she poured the two of us glasses of milk.

“It’s just that today I found the perfect job opportunity.”

“Really? What is it?” She closed the microwave door and carried her own plate to the table.

“You know how on the radio they have those commercials for drug testing where they pay you? I heard one today for kids twelve to eighteen.”

Mom didn’t even look up from her food as she replied, “Absolutely not.”

“What? But it’s perfect.”

“And dangerous. You don’t know what kinds of drugs they’re going to be using.”

“Mom, it’s perfectly safe. They won’t do anything risky with us, we’re minors.”

“I still don’t think it’s a very good idea, Anita. They haven’t yet proven that the drugs are perfectly safe. That’s why it’s called a test group. To test if the drugs are safe and okay for use.”

“But this is the best job offer I’m going to get,” I protested. “No one else is going to hire a fourteen year old.”

“That’s your problem, not mine. As I said before, babysit.”

“There’s no one to babysit for anymore. The Randalls moved away, the Velchinsky’s grandma moved in with them, and Smith family hired a nanny.”

My mom rolled her eyes. “Do some yard work.”

“There’s guys lined up to that. I’d never get hired.”

I could tell she was running out of options. “Just let me take the job,” I said as she placed her empty plate in the sink.

“No.”

“Why not?” I felt like a child, doing this, but I didn’t have too many options.

“I told you the reasons why.”

“You know nothing’s going to happen, so you might as well let me do it anyway.”

“Nope.”

“Please?” I pleaded.

“Anita Annemarie, no, and that’s my final answer!”

“But Mom-”

“No buts,” she interrupted. “That’s my final answer, so deal with it.”

“Argh!” I angrily scraped my plate and slammed it in the sink as hard as I could without breaking it. I then stomped into my room, slammed the door behind me, and threw myself stomach first onto my bed.

“Ugh, this is so not fair!” I exclaimed to my empty room. I desperately wanted to talk to someone about how stubborn my mom was being, but since my so called best friend Maddie wasn’t speaking to me, I had to keep my opinions about my mom to myself and to my remarkably small bedroom.

Glancing around my room, I scowled even deeper, noticing the peeling pale pink paint and the mottled flowery yellow wallpaper. I couldn’t even begin to count the many times I glared at my walls, wishing that we lived in a different house, or at least that my mom could afford new paint. The only reason why we actually lived in this ramshackle house and not in a nice apartment was that this house had been left to my mom by my grandma who had died just before I was born. My mother had moved into the decrepit house immediately. When I asked Mom about it she always told me the only reasons she actually moved in, in the first place were that she was eight months pregnant with me, and that my dad had left her as soon as he had found out that his girlfriend was carrying his child.

“Well, I am definitely not going to let that happen to me. My order of things is: fall in love, get married, and then decide to get pregnant.” Call me Miss Goody-Goody or whatever, but I’m waiting to have sex. I’m not going to waste my first time on a boyfriend who’s just gonna dump me afterwards.

I sighed. Thinking about my long-term future wasn’t going to help me now in the present, or even in my immediate future. I struggled to get my thoughts back to the drug test group/mom problem. What could I possibly do to make my mom let me join the group? Sneaking out was out of the question. I would need to have forms filled out that had all sorts of info and my mom’s signature on it. I could easily forge the signature, but I didn’t know my health care important info stuff. I had to somehow possibly convince my mom to let me do the program.

I rolled over onto my back. “Think, think, think,” I told myself, and with each ‘think’ I gently banged my head back against my battered headboard. I snorted as I realized I was acting just like Winnie the Pooh when he couldn’t remember something.

“Oh God, Winnie the Pooh? Why in the heck am I thinking about him? I’m fourteen; the last time I thought about him was ten years ago. Thinking about him now isn’t going to help me.” And neither was talking to myself.

Right then I really couldn’t think of a plan. I couln’t do it behind her back so I guess I just have to be nice to her and stuff, and convince her to let me do it. Somehow.

For the next few weeks I tried being nice to my mom: playing my music quietly (at least quieter than I usually do), going to bed early (which for me in the summer means before midnight), and doing my laundry every few day (usually I get my mother to do it by saying I’m too busy and I’ll make it up to her eventually).

I could tell my mom was really affected by my behavior. The dark circles beneath her eyes lightened slightly and she became more genial and less grumpy. In fact, one day after a particularly hard time at work I massaged her shoulders and hours later she was still smiling.

What I did made her happy, but she definitely knew something was up. Out of the corner of my eye I would often catch looking at me funnily, amused. Even though I knew she was enjoying it, it didn’t make the hard work any easier. I had to keep reminding myself that it would eventually lead to a lot of money, me being happy and new sneakers. Not to mention, better food for dinner.

After two weeks of being nice I asked my mother again. “Hey Mom, I know I asked you before and you said no, but can I please join that drug test group?” Before she could butt in I said in a rush, “I’ll take full responsibility for it. If something happens to me because of it I won’t try and blame someone, it’ll be my fault because I wanted to do it in the first place. Though I really doubt anything bad will happen.”

She spent a few minutes walking around the living room, considering my words. When I couldn’t take the silence anymore I added, “And Mom, I’ve been trying to be good. If you let me join I’ll continue being really good.”

“And if I don’t let you join you’ll be really bad?” she asked, smirking.

“Well…”

“Blackmailer,” she said with a smile.

“So can I please join? Please?” I pleaded. In fact, my mom is practically the only person I say please to. Though of course, I’m always asking her for all kinds of stuff. Speaking of that, “Mom, if you let me join I’ll stop asking you for money.” Not that she actually gives me any. “I’ll have my own money to buy stuff with so I won’t have to ask for yours.”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“You mean I can do it?” I asked, all excited, my hope rising.

“Yes.” Before I could rejoice she added, “But this is your responsibility. If something happens don’t come crying to me. You’re responsible for this. Do you understand me?”

Holding down my immediate delight I replied, “Yes, I understand. Thank you.” I started for my room.

“Wait. I have one more thing to say.”

I turned around, trying to keep my impatience bottled up. “Yes?”

Suddenly stern she added, “If anything goes wrong, I don’t care what you or anyone else says but I’m pulling you out. Also, if you start acting up again and don’t obey my orders even once that’s the end of it for you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered, trying to sound meek and obedient.

Mom rolled her eyes, not fooled by my act. “Get out of here,” she said aridly.

I went into my room, leaned against the closed door and let out a quiet contented, “Yessss!”

Over the next few days my mom went up to the clinic where I would do the experimental group and filled out the paperwork. According to my mom there were tons and tons of it.

“It just never seems to stop. Every time when I think I’ve finally finished, they just give me more. There are also tons of release forms to be signed. Apparently if something goes wrong they’ll try to take care of it, but ultimately we’re responsible.”

Even with all of that, if everything works out as it should (which it will) nothing will go wrong. I kept reminding my mother that. Also, whenever she got annoyed by all the papers and official contracts and stuff I dropped hints that if she didn’t sign everything I would drop the Goody Miss Two Shoes act. All that seemed to convince her to continue.

Eventually, my mom finally finished the never dwindling paperwork and I was all set to join the group. I was told to be at Rothsbey Clinic at 8:00 A.M. on Tuesday a couple weeks later, in the first week of June.