Bird

“See you tomorrow, Lex!”

I turned toward Hanna’s voice, extending my arm in the air for a wave. “Bye,” I mumbled softly, knowing she would not hear me. I turned back toward the hallway, shoved my hands into the pockets of my coat, and rolled my eyes. Hanna was only nice when her other friends weren’t around, and that would be perfectly fine with me if it weren’t for the fact that those other friends made a habit of calling me names. In the cafeteria, Hanna snickered along with the rest of her dimwitted friends while they chanted different bird names, mocking my nickname. It used to upset me, and one time, it even made me cry when someone found out that Bushtit was the name of a coastal bird in the United States. But eventually, I became used to the constant ridicule and realized that the longer I ignored them, the quicker they were to shut up. After all, it wasn’t my fault that people had been calling me Bird since before I could remember. I didn’t create my nickname, in fact, I didn’t disapprove of it, but in the treacherous world of junior high, it seemed to be the only aspect of my character that they could somehow hold against me. And so they did.

I sighed heavily, pushing my thoughts aside as I approached the front door of the school and saw the rain. I pressed my hand against the cold window, peering out at the sky. While the rain was only falling in a light drizzle, the clouds were the color of burnt charcoal, meaning the precipitation would surely get worse on the walk home. I glanced at my watch to check the time. It was only 3:38. Cheerleading practice ended early, and mom didn’t get off work for another fifty-two minutes. I bit my lip, checking my watch again, as if the time had magically jumped forward in the few seconds since I had last looked.

I looked down the hallway, to the doors at the high school end of our tiny school. In the distance, I saw Hanna sitting on a bench in front of the administrative office, presumably waiting for her older sister to drive her home. There was one option, to ask Hanna’s sister Bailey for a ride, but did I really want to be stuck in a quiet car with her? No, I instantly thought, it would be far too awkward. I began tapping my foot on the linoleum, staring out into the rain. In the few moments that I had been standing near the door, the drizzle had picked up to a downpour.

The sudden sound of a shutting door startled me. I glanced up just as Ms. Hammond, the elementary school secretary, locked the door to her office and jiggled the doorknob for good measure. In the middle of the main hallway, the janitor was pulling out the sturdy metal gate that divided the school. The metal rattled, creating a blurry division between me and the rest of the school. Through the diamond-shaped slots on the metal gate, I watched as Hanna ran out the door at the opposite end of the hallway toward her sister’s car.

“Is your mother on her way, sweetie?” Ms. Hammond asked.

I turned toward her voice, looking down to meet her eyes for a brief second before she turned to watch the rain. She was a very small woman, so short that many of the elementary teachers often mistook her for one of their students. While I was pretty tall for my age--standing at a solid five-foot-two--I had towered over Ms. Hammond for several years. I went to school in the building that this woman worked every single day, yet for some reason, as we stood in the empty hallway beside one another, this minute detail felt brand new.

“She’s working until 4:30 today,” I said quietly.

I watched from the corner of my eye as Ms. Hammond slowly drew the hood of her rain jacket over her head and tightened the drawstring to her chin. She had been staring out the window, watching the downpour, ever since she walked up beside me. I knew by the determined look on her face that she was ready to go home; and while she would stay and wait with me until my mother got off work--both because it was required and she was nice enough to do so--I hated being a burden on anyone.

I jumped as the janitor, half a hallway behind me, finally managed to clamp the giant padlock on the division gate, waiting for Ms. Hammond to say more. But she only continued to stand there, like a statue, as if her body had lost the ability of movement at all. After several silent seconds in which I contemplated my options again, Ms. Hammond looked up at me. “You know I’ll stay with you as long as I need,” she said softly, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “You’ve always been one of my favorite students.” Although the past few minutes had led me to believe otherwise, her smile was completely genuine.

I felt myself smile back, taking one last overwhelming look out the glass, where the rain continued to fall in heavy sheets along the roadway and the large expanse of grass beyond the school doors.

“Actually, I think I’m going to walk.” My decision was abrupt, but my conscience couldn’t help but think that poor Ms. Hammond was only offering to wait with me to avoid sounding impatient. She asked me several times if I was sure I didn’t want to wait, that she would offer me a ride if she were allowed, that my jacket was too thin and I might freeze, but I politely declined her suggestions.

I took a long, deep breath before pulling my hood over my head and walking out into the storm.
I truly didn’t mind the rain, but the chill wind that came along with it had me shivering within the first steps. Oh, Ms. Hammond, she was always right. I wrapped my arms around myself, attempting to tuck my hands into my sleeves. I looked up at the darkening sky, the raindrops splattering my face and rolling into my shirt. I immediately ensured my jacket was zipped up all the way, ducked my head, and continued to walk.

When I crossed the road to the sidewalk, I stopped long enough to turn around and see Ms. Hammond ducking into the warmth and dryness of her car. Her tiny frame slid into the seat with ease, her umbrella closing and disappearing inside. She shut the door and quickly pulled out of the parking lot, eager to get home, just as I had assumed.

Despite the fact that my own decision had put me in this unfortunate situation, I sighed before turning on my heels and continuing on. The walk from school to home and vice versa was like clockwork to me, a redundant activity that was stapled in my brain. I was almost positive I could walk it blind, not that I would ever gain the courage to try. While my dad assured me that he could leave work for a few minutes every day to drive me and to and from school, the same situation arose as it had with Ms. Hammond: I felt that making my father leave work to drive me, when I could just as easily walk, was a burden. And that was something I was scared to be.

Ever since I hit fifth grade, unless the temperatures were dangerously hot or cold, or some other random circumstance hindered my overall safety, I chose to walk. It was only seven blocks away, and I just so happened to never be alone. Mattie, my best friend since practically birth, lived clear across town, but he chose to walk with me anyway. He claimed it was no problem, but almost every morning when I stepped outside, Mattie would be red-faced and nearly sweating on the front porch--worn out from running from his house to mine. But hey, that’s what friends are for, right? I knew I was lucky to have such a great friend, and even more grateful that I had a friend at all. Today, as a matter of fact, may have been the first day all year where Mattie wasn’t able to walk me home. Not by choice, of course. He had an orthodontist appointment to get his braces tightened, so he hadn’t been at school. But I knew that if he were here, or if he had the option to skip out on said appointment, he would be right by my side, trekking through the rain with me.

Yet here I was: alone.

A loud grumble of thunder sent a shiver down my spine, the flashes of distant lightning visible in my peripheral vision. While the rain had slowed in the past few blocks, the rest of the storm was coming in full force. I glanced up and watched the charcoal clouds roar through the sky.

I was actually terrified of storms, but for some reason, they were far more frightening in the dark. Walking through the empty streets of our small town while thunder and lightning burst around me was a little bit unnerving, but the fact that the sun was just a few clouds away made me feel so much better. It was on those dark nights, when the sky was so black it almost disappeared, when you can hear the thunder roar all around you, and every once in awhile, you can see the brief, threatening flash of lightning; but ultimately, it’s much harder to see it coming for you without the comfort of the light. Those were the moments when these storms--the wretched beasts of nature--scared me to the core.

Quickly, I huddled under the abandoned bus stop shelter on the side of the road, in front of where the old city hall building used to be before it burned down years ago. I tried my best to wring the water out of my hair and my jacket sleeves, giving myself a short break from the pouring rain. I pulled the hood of my jacket tighter around my chin and wiped the wet hair out of my eyes, shivering with every move I made. It was freezing, but luckily the torture was close to over.

I glanced up to take note of where I was. I was almost halfway home, right around the corner from Crowley Road, which wrapped in a deep curve along the woods on the edge of town. It was isolated, a road that many of the high school kids liked to stop on to chug their beer and make-out. I always wondered how it even came to be, why the builders of our town decided to add on this one road, that wound by the woods but ultimately led to the same destination as the numbered town streets. There were no houses or businesses on Crowley Road, just a quarter-mile stretch of asphalt and gravel shoulders that slithered right along the edge of the brush. The only landmark was a broken park bench that sat in the small alcove marking the entrance to the rarely-used hiking trails that weaved through the woods. The sequestered location of Crowley Road was random and out of place in a crowded town like Greenburg, where just a step to the left put you in the neighbor’s yard. Not to mention the fact that walking along the dark mouth of the woods alone was unsettling, to the say the least. But it happened to be the quickest route to my house on a dead end street a few blocks away, a route that Mattie and I took almost every single day. Today of all days, when the storm was raging and I was desperate to get home, Mattie wasn’t with me, which would leave me to walk creepy Crowley Road all by myself.

I looked to my right, to the jumble of city streets full of houses and people and occupied space. It was a more comforting option, but it would surely add another five minutes or so to the walk. I was already cold and soaking wet, did I really want to stay out in the rain longer than necessary?
Ultimately, I decided that I wanted to get home as soon as possible, to curl up in a ball on the couch wrapped in my favorite afghan. This thought alone drove me to take the road less traveled by, down the secluded expanse of Crowley. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jacket, braced myself for the rain, and ran back into the storm.

Rather than walking on the sidewalk, even closer to the eerie edge of the wood, I decided to walk along the road. I was close enough that the high branches of the trees blocked some of the wind and rain, but I still chose to walk faster. I hiked my backpack further on my shoulders and picked up my pace, determined to get down the road, cross another street, and cut through two backyards to reach my front door. I was so close, yet so far away.

Another low growl of thunder filled the air, giving me goosebumps. When the thunder ended, my goosebumps subsided, but another quiet grumble was coming from behind me. I heard the soft sound of car tires on gravel, the low hum of an engine as it slowly drove behind me.

I moved onto the sidewalk and kept walking, assuming it was just a passerby, driving slow to avoid splashing me by hitting the mud puddles too hard. Not many people had a reason to drive down Crowley Road, but that didn’t keep them from doing it every once in awhile, whether because they were bored or just wanting a reason to explore something slightly different than the criss-cross streets of our plain Jane town. But the further I walked, the more that low engine growl bothered me. I quickly checked my watch, noting that the time was 4:02. Mom still had another twenty-eight minutes of work, and I had another one hundred feet to walk down the seclusion of Crowley Road.

The car continued to idle, just far enough behind me to be out of my peripheral vision, the soft sound making my hair stand on end. I shoved my hands further into my pockets and picked up my pace, becoming more frightened as the seconds drew on. I felt my breath catch in my throat, a thousand possibilities running through my head, regarding who they were, what they were wanting, and why they didn’t just drive by and go on about their day. All of the warnings my parents gave me started repeating themselves in my brain: to scream, to run, to find the nearest house and bang on the door for help. I looked up and saw a house, a possibility, just off to the right of the stop sign that marked the end of Crowley. With my eyes on the door of the house, I took a deep breath and prepared to run.

“Miss Collins,” a familiar voice sounded, “do you need a ride?”

I stopped in my tracks, every ounce of fear immediately fading away. I turned to the car, which had pulled up alongside me. It was black with sparkling chrome rims, most likely expensive. And behind the wheel sat Mr. Warren, my social studies teacher.

I forced a smile, pulling my hair out of my eyes to see. He was flashing me one of those million-dollar smiles that made every girl in the junior high swoon with enjoyment, the smile that became one of the many reasons he was such a popular teacher. He had deep dimples in his cheeks, just below the rim of his baby blue eyes. His dark, curly hair was tousled from being pressed against the headrest. He had one hand on the wheel, the other elbow propped on the edge of the open window. The falling rain was leaving a dark mark on the sleeve of his gray suit jacket.

“I’m okay,” I yelled over the storm, “I just live a few blocks away.” I ushered toward the direction of my house, obscured by the roads and yards that stood between us.

Mr. Warren gave me a playful, questioning look, the same look he gave me when I said a wrong answer in class. By now I had learned that it was his way of saying “are you sure about that?” without coming off as mean. He was my favorite teacher in school, and the fact that he was never mean was one of the reasons why. Even when he was being a disciplinarian, Mr. Warren had a way of making people feel better.

He glanced up at the sky, toward the rain that continued to fall in solid sheets. “Well, Miss Collins,” he said with a light laugh, “I can assure you it’s not raining in my car.”

I bit my lip, pulling the edges of my hood down. The rain, though it had slowed earlier, was currently falling in buckets on my head. The moisture had soaked through my pants, my shirt, my shoes. Every item of clothing I had on was wet, clinging to my naked body with a cold and hungry force. I only had a few blocks left to walk, that was true. But I was miserable.

“Come on, Alexandria, it’s freezing out here,” Mr. Warren ushered toward his car, a welcoming wave of the hand. He smiled again. I couldn’t recall a time when he had ever called me by my first name--it was always Miss Collins, which never failed to make me blush in embarrassment from how mature it sounded. For some reason, I now found myself blushing at the sound of my first name rolling across his tongue.

“I don’t know,” I said quietly. I thought about more of the warnings my parents had given me, and one of the most crucial phrases I remembered was to not accept offers from strangers. But Mr. Warren wasn’t a stranger, was he? He had been standing at the front of a classroom at Greenburg Middle School for two years now, spending an equal amount of time teaching social studies and making students laugh. I saw him every single day in my third hour social studies class. He was my favorite teacher. In fact, he was almost every student’s favorite teacher. He wasn’t a stranger at all.

“It’ll be much quicker than walking,” he said again, “trust me.”

And that was all it took for me to do exactly as he said.

I let out the breath I had been holding, wrapping my hands around my backpack straps. “Okay,” I said, and I hurried around to the passenger side of his car. As I passed around the front, I saw him through the windshield, leaning over to open my door, reaching forward to turn up the heater, watching me the entire time.

I slid into the seat, my wet jeans squeaking on the leather. I placed my backpack on the floorboard and put my hands against the heating vents, allowing the warmth to engulf me. It was so warm.
“I’m going to get your seats all wet,” I laughed, completely forgetting that I was drenched with rain. I looked over at Mr. Warren, expecting to see that striking smile.

He was sitting in his seat, watching me, the car still in park. And instead of a smile, his face was marked with an unrecognizable, almost haunting expression that made my blood run cold. I glanced down in his lap, at his hands, which were holding something with a grip that turned his knuckles white.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he whispered softly, and in a moment, he put the trash bag over my head and my entire world went black.