Flight Season Read online

  Oh, wait. Don’t go thinking I’m stupid or something. I get what they’re saying. But then they’re talking about all this stuff I’ve never heard of, and how serious it all is, and they’re using some strange words that don’t sound like English or Spanish.

  All the while, I’m thinking: I spend my days chasing turkeys, for chrissake—twelve hours a day out in the brutal heat, taking care of scrawny little turkeys that the rich people call “heirloom.” I guess they are supposed to taste better. Whatever. It’s a job. But I’m doing this in Florida, where it’s crazy hot and there’s no shade. I’d been feeling a little weak, sure, but I was repairing the shed that day, and it was like kneeling on the surface of the freakin’ sun up on that roof. I probably just passed out from the heat or something. No big deal.

  Except I guess it is a big deal. Or, at least, they’re all treating me like it is.

  “I’ll try asking,” the new girl tells TJ.

  “Be my guest,” he responds, putting down the marker and heading straight for the window.

  This should be good.

  “What. Is. Your. Goal. For. The. Day?” She points to each word as she says it. Then she goes back and points to each word again. “¿Cuál. Es. Su. Meta. Para. El. Día?” She speaks each word really carefully, in a super-fancy Spanish accent. Then she looks at me, concentrating hard, her finger pointing again to one of the words on the board. “Your goal. Su ambición. Su objetivo.”

  Girl’s like a walking, talking Spanish dictionary! Which would be fascinating if I weren’t feeling so incredibly annoyed. I mean, my goal? I’ll tell you people what my goal is. Maybe, for starters, to figure out why they’re keeping me here against my will, like a criminal.

  Okay, yeah. As jails go, this place is pretty sweet. Sponge baths every morning, three free meals a day that I get to order from a menu. Three clean pillows. A comfortable bed that moves up and down with a button. Warm blankets whenever I want them. (I mean, they’re, like, warmed up in an oven or something—super cozy.) But still. Until I figure out what’s going on here, there’s no way I’m gonna play their little “goal for the day” game.

  TJ, who can’t seem to bring himself to look at the pretty girl, keeps staring out the window. “I’m telling you, he knows exactly what I’m asking him.” He’s sort of growling at her. “We go through this every day. He’s just being a pain in the ass.”

  TJ’s right, of course. I’m just messing with them. I’ve gotta do something to pass the time in here.

  “Where did you say he’s from?” she asks, all concerned and stuff.

  “Guatemala.”

  Her face gets all bright, and she steps forward so she’s standing right by the bed.

  “Usted habla español?” she asks.

  I shrug.

  “O tal vez usted habla uno de los idiomas indígenas?” she says.

  I shrug again.

  She bites her lip. “Maybe he doesn’t speak Spanish,” she says to TJ. “Some Guatemalans don’t really speak much Spanish. There are, like, dozens of indigenous languages spoken there.”

  He’s still staring out the window, looking mad. It’s kind of weird, how angry he looks. Usually he doesn’t really mind me messing with him. Most days I can get a laugh out of him.

  “I’m trying to remember some of those languages,” she says to TJ. “I mean, what they’re called.”

  She lays her hand on my arm and says, “Usted habla K’iche’? Kaqchikel? Q’anjob’al?”

  Dang. She’s a walking, talking dictionary and encyclopedia of Guatemalan languages, too. I shrug again, but really soft, because I don’t want her to take her hand away. It feels good. Warm like the blankets, but softer.

  “Uh … Oh, wait! Mam?” she asks.

  She guessed it. But there’s no way I’m giving her the satisfaction of knowing that.

  Okay, now watch this. Pay attention, because it’s gonna be good:

  I put my hand over hers, which is still resting on my arm. Then I look the girl right in the eyes and say, “Contigo, señorita, solamente hablo el idioma del amor.” I lift her hand and kiss it gently. That should mess with her plenty—me saying that, with her, I can only speak the language of love.

  Her cheeks turn pink and she pulls her hand away, which knocks the oxygen tube from my nose. No big deal. It’s not like I’m gonna die without it. I can breathe on my own just fine, at least for a little while. So I don’t worry about it. Instead I look at her face. It’s pretty and smooth.

  Her eyes, though. I’ll let you in on something about the pretty girl. From far away—she looks like the kind of girl who’s never suffered a day in her life. But she has these big hazel eyes that look a little sad, like she’s been through something hard.

  Which makes me feel only a tiny bit bad for messing with her.

  “Cut it out, Ángel,” TJ says, walking back to the whiteboard.

  “Should I try again?” she asks.

  “I’m just gonna come up with one,” he says, but not to her. “Prashanti will blame me if you don’t have a goal for the day written up here.” He’s talking to me, but not really. Because he thinks I don’t understand him. “And she’ll be coming to change out your meds in, like, two minutes.”

  He starts to write, and that’s not gonna be any fun. He’ll probably write something pointless, like “to sit up in my bed without help.”

  I gotta stop him. If I don’t, these people are gonna leave and I’m gonna be stuck in this bed all day, staring at a whiteboard where there’s a stupid goal—that’s maybe okay for, like, the eighty-year-old grandma next door, but not for me. I’m eighteen years old! Eighteen. And the messed-up thing: I can’t even sit up. I don’t know why, but it’s like there’s a pile of stones on my chest, and they keep getting heavier, and most of the time I can barely move.

  Why? you ask? Your guess is as good as mine.…

  “Ahem.” I clear my throat loudly.

  “Oh, you’re actually going to cooperate?” TJ asks, all grumpy. He starts to erase whatever he was writing.

  Then I talk all formal, trying to sound like the pretty girl with the sad eyes and fancy Spanish. “Mi meta para el día es”—I pause for dramatic effect—“jugar al fútbol. Messi y yo contra TJ y Prashanti.”

  TJ’s holding the blue marker right up against the whiteboard.

  “What did he say?” he asks the girl. He’s still staring at the board.

  “His goal for the day is to play two-on-two soccer. He and Messi against you and Prashanti.”

  TJ’s empty hand flies to his forehead. “Jesus Christ,” he says. And then: “Whatever.”

  He writes a bunch of words on the board in English.

  “Who’s Messi?” the girl asks.

  TJ looks at her like she’s sprouted a third arm or something (which, in this case, maybe she deserves). Who doesn’t know Messi?

  “The most famous soccer player in the world,” he grumbles.

  Then my monitor starts up.

  Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  “What happened?” the girl asks. It’s sort of sweet, the way she says it all nervous.

  Awwww, she’s worried about me.

  TJ puts down the marker and walks over to my monitor.

  “Pulse ox,” he says, pointing to one of the thousands of strange numbers on that stupid screen. Nobody has thought to tell me what they mean—not a single one of them.

  “His oxygen tube came loose.” TJ steps toward me so that he’s standing really close to the girl. He reaches across her so that he can get to my oxygen tube, which I’m completely capable of putting back in my nose myself. But why bother? I mean, that’s why TJ’s here.

  “If his pulse ox drops below ninety, the monitor sets off an alert,” he says.

  Who knew? Now, if only I had any clue what “pulse-ox” was.

  “You just have to make sure the tube is secure against his nostrils so the oxygen’s flowing in.” He leans in and adjusts the tube around my ears. “I think even you can handle this,�
� he says to her. “Or maybe you’ll faint at the sight of snot, too?”

  Ouch. That wasn’t a very nice thing to say to the new girl, was it?

  The new girl doesn’t say anything. She just leans forward; I guess to get a closer look at this oh-so-complicated oxygen tube procedure. Maybe she’s slow or something. I don’t know. She seems really smart to me.

  TJ finishes arranging the tube and then pulls his hand away from my face. I watch his forearm brush against her side by accident. And then—you’re not gonna believe this—her cheeks go pink again and TJ jumps back like he’s been hit by lightning.

  He turns and storms out of the room, not saying a word, never once looking back at the girl. Like she did something to make him really mad.

  And that’s when it hits me. These two are totally hot for each other!

  Aw yeah. This is gonna be fun.

  Like I said, people: I’m no angel.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  VIVI

  BIRD JOURNAL

  June 7, 5:16 P.M.

  Florida scrub jay (Aphelocoma coerulescens)

  Florida’s most endangered bird just landed on my arm and stole a piece of my Luna Bar!

  Physical Description: bold-blue-and-gray jay

  Habitat: lives only in the Central Florida oak scrub. Its unique scrub habitat, comprised of oaks, palmettos, and rosemary, is under constant threat.

  Social Behavior: very social—stays in family groups to raise young. Offspring remain as adults to care for parents and future offspring.

  Mating Patterns: mate with one partner for life. Male scrub jays are known to seek out their desired mate’s favorite food and feed it to them as a courtship ritual.

  Nickname: “scrubland survivor.”

  I still can’t believe this actually happened! These birds are classified as threatened under the Endangered Species Act!!

  “¿LO PODRÍA TOCAR?”

  I’m alone in 311 with Ángel, counting the moments until this eternal day ends.

  “Tu cabello bonito. ¿Lo podría tocar? Se ve tan suave.”

  He wants to touch my hair? This must be a misunderstanding. His Spanish is a little hard to comprehend. Maybe he’s saying caballo. Maybe he’s saying the horse looks soft. I glance at the TV to see if there happens to be a horse galloping across the screen.

  No such luck. It’s a cooking show.

  “No,” I say simply. But, of course, he does it anyway. He reaches his hand out and strokes my head, like I’m a horse. I jump back—rear back?—and hit the tower of monitors with my elbow.

  Ouch.

  And then, like my knight in shining armor, Bertrand glides into the room to save me.

  The first time I ever exchanged words with Bertrand, he told me—unsolicited—that his life was “a gift.” Bertrand grew up in Cameroon, and his childhood was filled with violence. He should have died as a child, he told me. But he survived and he left Cameroon, and then he was “blessed” with a family and a career he loves. Bertrand is like a lovely trumpeter swan. When he walks through the hospital, I swear that he glides, leaving calm in his wake.

  “Time for me to take over!” he says pleasantly. At this moment, I am so thrilled to see him that I could kneel down and kiss his feet.

  Assuming that, if I do indeed kneel prostrate before him, Bertrand will become embarrassed, I say a quick (and genuinely cheerful) “See you tomorrow!” and then rush out of the room.

  I am so done with Ángel.

  This is a problem, since I’ve only managed to live through the first three days of an entire summer I’ll apparently be spending with him. Unless he gets well and they discharge him.

  God, I hope he gets well soon.

  And then, of course, there’s TJ. For three straight days he’s been calling almost everything he encounters in my presence “glorious”—from the flavor of that disgusting-looking beef broth I have to feed Ángel to the chlorine-laced scent of Ángel’s freshly laundered sheets. (Oh, and by the way, Ángel is perfectly capable of feeding himself. But he loves making me or TJ do it instead, because he’s a jackass. And a misogynist. I’m pretty sure they both are. But TJ just spends most of his time glowering, so I can’t be positive.)

  That’s right. As if having Ángel duty weren’t punishment enough for my “weak constitution,” I also have to spend countless hours in a room with TJ, who’s basically always assigned as Ángel’s nurse’s aide.

  But I’m not a quitter. That’s what I keep reminding myself. If hanging out with Ángel and the Glowering One is what it takes to keep my internship and finish my credits from last fall, then I’m determined to do it.

  * * *

  I finally leave the hospital, starving and exhausted. I’ve just torn into a Luna Bar and I’m shoving half of it in my mouth, when I see something blue moving in the scrubland beyond the last row of cars in the parking lot. I step out into the palmettos toward the flash of blue, hoping not to encounter a rattlesnake. I’m walking very carefully, as quietly as I can, toward the branch of a low oak tree. And then I stop and stand perfectly still, because a Florida scrub jay is staring right at me. A Florida scrub jay! The state’s most extraordinary endangered bird!

  My arm is stretched out a little, because I need to balance as I step over a huge palmetto frond. And that scrub jay—it jumps right onto my wrist and stares directly into my eyes. It darts its little beak toward my Luna Bar and tugs off a piece.

  And then, just as quickly as it arrived, the scrub jay hops off my arm and makes its way, jumping and hopping with a hunk of Luna Bar balanced between its mandibles, back through the palmettos. I remain perfectly still, wondering if perhaps the whole thing was a dream.

  Did Florida’s most rare and endangered bird really just land on my arm and steal my energy bar?

  Florida scrub jays are survivors. When, as a result of development, their entire world starts to collapse around them, when the scrubby forests they call home begin to disappear, scrub jays don’t have the option of taking off. The poor birds can barely fly at all. So they stay put and they make do. The scrub jay will do whatever it takes to survive, even if it means cozying up with humans. Scrub jays are renowned for taking care of their families, too. They stay together and help out, no matter what.

  And here’s another completely crazy thing about scrub jays: the scientists who study these incredible little guys have determined that male scrub jays learn what foods their mates like best, and then they go out to get them. They bring their partners’ favorite morsels back to them, hoping to win their favor.

  I guess maybe there’s a female scrub jay back in those palmetto fronds who really loves Luna Bars.

  Or maybe this extraordinary, rare bird jumped onto my arm to tell me something. I wish I knew what.

  I run to my car and pull out my bird journal from the glove compartment. I sketch and scribble furiously, before I forget the curve of its tail or the angle of its beak.

  Fifteen minutes later I put away my journal and shift my car into gear, feeling grateful that my one amazing moment with a Florida scrub jay has made up for the brutality of this day.

  But then I see TJ. He stands on the other side of the roundabout, his arms crossed in front of his chest—glowering, of course. I have no idea why he’s so angry all the time, but I don’t really care to know either. I just want to keep my distance from him. In fact, I want to drive away from him as fast as I possibly can. But I can’t, because Prashanti is standing next to him, frantically waving her hands above her head.

  I glance into my rearview mirror, hoping beyond hope that she’s trying to get someone else’s attention.

  “Vivi!” she calls out, arms still flailing.

  No such luck.

  I pull up to the curb slowly.

  “I’m so glad we caught you.” I have to assume that the “we” to whom she refers includes TJ, but he’s staring off into the distance as if I’m not even there, so I can’t be sure.

  “TJ needs a ride back to St. Augustine,” she says. �
��He’s having car troubles and he needs to get to work.”

  “Oh, uh—”

  “You live in St. Augustine, yes?” she asks in the exact same tone of voice she uses with patients who refuse to comply with her demands.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “And, clearly, you have plenty of space in your car, yes?”

  I nod, my eyes darting toward the empty passenger seat.

  “I don’t need a ride,” TJ grumbles, staring at his feet. “My cousin said she’d come for me.”

  Prashanti turns to face him. “And that will take how long? An hour? Maybe more? And you’ll be how late for work, when there’s a perfectly good ride waiting for you right here at the curb?”

  TJ shrugs. Not a wise move, TJ.

  Prashanti launches into one of her signature scoldings. “As you know, TJ, being prompt is the clearest way to demonstrate one’s respect for others, including—perhaps most important—one’s employer.”

  “It’s my uncle, Prashanti. I work for my uncle. Remember?” TJ is shaking his head, still looking at the ground.

  “Oh, I see.” She puts both hands on her hips. “You’re not interested in showing respect for your elders? For your own family? Is that what you’re trying to express?”

  “No, it’s just—”

  “Tell me, Vivi,” Prashanti says, turning to face me. “Would you take it so lightly if you were faced with the prospect of arriving an hour late to work?”

  Oh no. She’s not going to drag me into this.

  “No, you wouldn’t, would you? You most certainly would not, because you understand the value of hard work, of being prompt, of honoring your commitments, no matter how difficult they are, or how many natural obstacles you face. Am I correct?”

  Yes, clearly she intends to drag me into this. And now she’s making reference to my pathetic job performance and my “weak constitution.” Fabulous.

  “Get in,” I say to TJ, leaning out the window. “It’s not a problem. I’ll give you a ride.”

  TJ clenches his jaw and releases a little huff through his flared nostrils. A huff! Who the hell does he think he is? I’m just trying to help him get to work—and to keep Prashanti from verbally assaulting him. I think a little gratitude is in order.