and burned up the house with his daughter still in it.”
H
e folded the poem up and set it on the desk. She looked sad. Distant. He knew she was lying but also realized that she might have real trouble. “How are things at home?” “Fine.”
B
irdie thought about what her life would look like as a movie and who would play her. Martha Plimpton or Winona Ryder. Christian Slater could play Shawn, and River Phoenix could play Jimmy. Mr. Woody said, “Don’t walk out of the movie. It’s not time to leave the theatre. Stay in the theatre. Don’t walk out.” She had no idea what movie he was talking about. “Well, I bet you feel better,” he said with a triumphant smile. “Okay,” she said.
It’s like she knew he had somewhere to be, so she decided to make it as difficult as possible. At least he was trying. If something happened, it wasn’t his fault. He’d give her one more chance. “Then, be honest with me, why are you writing these poems?” Birdie knew Mr. Woody knew she was lying. She thought about the night before. Her dad was passed out on the couch, and her mother was in the kitchen between the dog’s food bowl and counter, knelt down crying. It was one of the rare nights they were both at home. She couldn’t talk about it, because then he would call her parents, and they would find out her grades were bad and that the B was really a D, and so she said, “I like poetry, and my life is boring, so I write about movies.” “Can’t you write poems about a flower? Or a sunrise? Or a cat? Do you have any pets?” “A cat.” “You could write about your cat.” “He’s old. He’s as old as me.” She didn’t have a cat. “That means you have a wealth of material to choose from.” She didn’t answer. He ran his hand over his head, and a piece of his comb-over fell the other way. Her eyes darted to the wall—five minutes until the bell for lunch. Martin looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes until time to be at The Old Café for lunch with Meredith. It was a five-minute drive, depending on traffic, and walking to his car in the teachers’ lot took time. He didn’t want to lose Meredith. She was bossy and pushy, but her touch was gentle, healing, a lover’s touch. The kind you wait a lifetime for. He looked back at the girl. She was looking off, not caring. Maybe he should go get her file, but then he saw his bed empty and nights in front of the television watching Law and Order eating a dinner he’d zapped in the microwave. “Birdie,” he said. “You are in a movie. You don’t like the way it’s going. But it’s not time for the ending. The movie is just getting started.”
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SP R I NG 2014
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