Page 10 of Who's that Girl?
“I hate seatbelts. And I don’t care about being safe. Well. Much. I guess I care a little.” She grins and her whole face lights up with a happy glow. “Your little brother looks tiring,” she adds.
“He’s not my brother,” I say, automatically, before immediately wondering why I bothered. Why am I telling this random girl anything at all? But there’s just something about her. Her sweet face. Her bag full of weird supplies. Her strange stream-of-consciousness style of conversation. The way she looked wandering through the trees with her eyes closed. Like an elf. Like someone … magical. “Sorry. I mean, he’s just my half-brother,” I clarify. “And yeah. He’s definitely tiring. Um, your crew looked like a handful as well. How many siblings do you have?”
“Four. There are seven of us all together. Five kids. Two parents.”
“That’s a lot. But I feel like I definitely saw more than seven people get out of your car.”
“We have extras.”
Extras?
I have no idea what extras means in this context, but she’s smiling at me and it doesn’t occur to me to ask her to explain. I’d rather let her think I understand, automatically. Like I get it. I want her to think I get her intrinsically. Automatically. I’m not really sure why.
I wish … I wish I had something interesting to tell her. Something as interesting as the things she’s saying to me, but I can’t think of anything so I settle on asking another question.
“How’d you fit more than seven people into that station wagon anyway?”
“That’s a Madison family secret. Can’t tell you. But … sometimes a few of us ride in the trunk. I love being luggage!”
I laugh.
Suddenly a whistle sounds through the pines. It’s two notes — the first high, sliding down to the second, which is low. I stand and peer into the scrub, hoping to get a look at the singer.
I have a book about birds and I’m pretty sure what we’re hearing is a black-capped Chickadee. The book says their bird song is “fee-bee, fee-bee” and that, to humans, it sometimes sounds like they’re calling out to their little bird friends, “yoo hoo, yoo hoo.”
Being interested in birds is probably the lamest thing in the world, but somehow I don’t think this girl would mind. “I think that’s a Chickadee,” I say, but when I turn back, she’s packing up.
I’ve messed it up. I curse myself, silently. Being interested in birds is so lame.
The empty cookie container has disappeared back into her backpack, and she’s closed and capped her little flask and is already rolling up the blanket.
“It’s not,” she says. “It’s for me. That’s our family whistle. I have to go. You can come. I’ll show you the way back to the parking lot.”
“I already told you, I’m not lost.”
She stops for a moment, cocking her head to one side, and looking at me in such a piercing way, I feel almost uncomfortable, embarrassed to be perceived so directly.
“But you said you were.”
“I definitely didn’t. I said I wasn’t.”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything, but I heard you before. I was sort of following you for a bit. Because you looked so sad. You said, sorry I got lost. Twice. So. I figured you got lost. That’s why I lured you here. That’s why I let you find me. So I could show you how to get out.”
Lured me?
“Oh.” I cast my mind back and remember that I did actually say that aloud. I can’t believe she heard me. Saw me. I was so sure I’d been alone. “What are you, some kind of super tracker?” I ask.
“No. Most people don’t notice me, so it’s just easy,” she shrugs. “Anyway, I wasn’t spying, I promise. You just looked …” she trails off, seems to change tracks mid-thought. “I wanted to give you a cookie. Christmas cookies make everything better.” The bird song sounds again through the trees, and she turns her head.
In the thin, midday winter light, I notice her eyes — they’re a strangely luminous copper brown, ringed with a band of dark. Like a tiger’s. I’m about to open my mouth to tell her so when she speaks again. “I have to go. The parking lot is that way.” She points North.
“I know,” I say.
“Okay.” She waits a few beats, then goes on. “I’m sorry you’re sad,” she adds.
“I’m not. I was just hungry. Thank you. For the cookies. They were amazing. You’re amazing.”
“No I’m not, silly. Okay. I have to go. Goodbye, boy.” She is already backing away, moving North, toward another little path through the trees. “I’m coming!” she calls, then whistles loud, the same two Chickadee notes, yoo hoo, yoo hoo. Turning back to me, she grins. “I always wanted to say that to someone. Hello, boy. Goodbye, boy. That’s from Peter Pan. Not the real Peter and Wendy proper, but one of the movies, I think. Close enough, right? So. Goodbye, boy! And Merry Christmas.” She turns and slips off into the trees, her pink backpack flashing through the gaps for a moment, before she disappears completely.
