Finding Elmo by Monique Polak

chapter one
    I hadn’t even unlocked the front door, and already I could hear them screeching. Would those two ever learn to get along?
    â€œGet off the couch!” Winifred cried, her high-pitched voice carrying through the plate glass windows.
    â€œBirdbrain!” Hubert screeched back.
    â€œQuit your squawking!” I called, on my way to the aviary, where the birdcages are. “Breakfast is on!”
    â€œBirdbrain!” Hubert screeched again. This time I laughed.
    I love Saturday mornings. Most fifteen-year-olds would probably rather be sleeping in, but not me. On Saturday mornings—at least till Dad shows up—I run Four Feet and Feathers. Now that we’ve moved to our new location in Lasalle, it’s Montreal’s biggest pet center. If I sound proud, that’s because I am. Dad basically started Four Feet and Feathers from nothing.
    As I pressed my palm on the aviary door, I inhaled the store’s familiar scent: hay, birdseed and ammonia, with a little fresh paint on the side.
    Winifred crossed back and forth on her wooden perch, keeping a close eye on my fingers as I unlatched her cage door and reached for her food dish. “Get off the couch!” she shrieked.
    â€œWinifred,” I said, shaking my head and trying not to laugh. Winifred gets insulted if you laugh at her. “We don’t even
have
a couch in here!” Her black eyes shone. You could tell she didn’t believe me.
    We’d inherited Winifred. That happens in the pet business since big birds like parrots, cockatoos and macaws—Winifred is a macaw—often outlive their owners. Winifred’s last owner was an old lady with many pets, including a dog that shed a lot. Which explains how Winifred picked up the expression, “Get off the couch!”
    Hubert, a gray parrot, was climbing the bars of his cage, watching as I filled Winifred’s food dish. He knew his turn was next, and he wanted to make sure he was getting exactly what I’d given Winifred.
    â€œSaturday morning special,” I told him as I opened the fridge and took out a plastic tub of pineapple chunks. I added one to his food dish and another to Winifred’s. Hubert stretched out his gray wings and for a second it looked like he was wearing a gray cape.
    â€œGood morning,” I whispered as I removed the old sheet draped over the next cage.
    Elmo likes sleeping in the dark. He’d picked up the habit when he was livingwith his old owner, a sailor who’d brought Elmo home from one of his trips around the world. We’d inherited Elmo too.
    As I stashed the sheet under the counter, Elmo stepped closer to the bars at the front of his cage. Then he lowered the top of his head so I could pet the soft tuft of black feathers there. Elmo is brownish black, except for a panel of bright red feathers on his tail. From the front, he looks kind of plain. But when Elmo spreads his tail feathers, there’s no question about it, he’s awesome. Though I had tons to do—the store opened in less than an hour—I gave Elmo a good scratch, reaching right for where his feathers met the skin.
    Elmo’s not a talker. Most cockatoos aren’t, though when Elmo’s excited, he squawks so much you’d think he was trying to make sentences. I knew he was enjoying the scratch because when I took my finger away, he followed my hand, pressing his forehead against the bars.
    â€œNever forget the first rule of owning a pet store.” Dad was at home, probablyhelping Mom deal with the latest disaster— yesterday the twins had caught pink eye. But I could hear Dad’s voice as clearly as if he was standing behind me. “Don’t get too attached to any of the animals, Tim. Remember, they’re all for sale. Each and every one of them. As long as they wind up in good homes, we’re doing our job.”
    The thing was, I was already too attached to Elmo. We’d had him since I was five.