skin crawl.
“Can’t you teach that thing new words?” asked Frank. But if I had somehow taught the raven to recite Shakespeare, Frank would not have been satisfied. He told me over and over, “I hate that bird.” Or, “I don’t want that bird coming anywhere near me,” as though there was any fear of
that.
The raven wanted only to be with me.
Maybe Frank was jealous. I doubted he had ever been the kid picked last for baseball games, the one left without a partner for a classroom project. But whenever I began to feel sorry for him, he found a way to change my mind.
“You know that bird will fly away when winter comes,” he told me as I sat feeding the raven. “It doesn’t care about you; it’s only hanging around ’cause you feed it.”
“Sure,” I said.
“It’s like the bear. It thinks only about eating, sleeping and surviving. If you stopped feeding it, I bet it would peck your eyes out.”
“Sure,” I said again.
“Just wait and see.” Frank went away in a huff. The raven watched him go, then tipped his head and gazed at me.
Hate that bird,
he said very clearly.
That evening I counted the marks I had made on the wall, realized with a fright that nearly three weeks had passed and tried to figure out what day it was. My poor dead watch didn’t even have a calendar. So I asked Frank.
“It’s Sunday,” he told me.
Of course he didn’t know; he just made it up. But Sunday was as good a day as any, and I counted back from there to the day I’d found my raven in the bushes. Thinking like Robinson Crusoe, I named him Thursday.
He liked to perch on my shoulder, like a pirate’s black parrot. Sometimes he faced forward, and sometimes backward, and he pulled at my hair with his beak, or nibbled gently at my ear, though that always made me squirm and laugh. Frank watched, smoldering with jealousy.
On our twenty-second day the wind shifted to the south and rose to a gale. Enormous waves thundered on the rocks. Rain pelted through the forest with machine-gun sounds, and the trees swayed and creaked around us. It was the first real sign of winter coming, a hint of what the months ahead would bring. West Coast weather was always predictable. Once the winds shifted to the south, storm would follow storm, and the sun would disappear. Rain would only end when it turned to snow instead.
Thursday kept close beside me. As the wind gusted he whistled low notes that sounded like wailing creatures.
“He’s evil,” said Frank.
“Well, I like him,” I said. I drew Thursday up onto my lap and tickled the feathers on his belly. “Didn’t you ever have a dog or anything?”
“I did when I was little,” said Frank. He was lying on his back on the bed. “All I remember is that he was a really old dog, and his name was Ghost.”
“That’s weird,” I said.
“Why?”
“I had a hamster called Ghost.”
“That
is
weird,” said Frank. The wind gusted, and the raven whistled.
“It was Dad’s idea,” I said. “I wanted to call him Sleepy because he slept all day. I never saw him except at night. Then Dad said, ‘Call him Ghost.’ ”
Frank smiled at my little story. “You should have called the raven Ghost. He’s spooky.”
I leaned back. Thursday hopped up to my shoulder and rubbed his beak against my lips. I opened my mouth and let him peck the tiny shreds of salmon between my teeth. Frank groaned, but he grinned as well. “That’s disgusting.”
I laughed. “Yeah, it is.” Then I opened my mouth a little wider, and Thursday tilted his black head to reach right in.
Frank covered his eyes and turned away. But now he was laughing too, and in our tiny cabin that shook in the storm, I was happy. I couldn’t remember the last time I had sat with someone and talked about simple things. Mrs. Lowe’s nagging comment—
Christopher has trouble making friends
—was still true. But at least I
had
made a friend. I had nearly made two.
“It drives me crazy sitting in here,” said
“Can’t you teach that thing new words?” asked Frank. But if I had somehow taught the raven to recite Shakespeare, Frank would not have been satisfied. He told me over and over, “I hate that bird.” Or, “I don’t want that bird coming anywhere near me,” as though there was any fear of
that.
The raven wanted only to be with me.
Maybe Frank was jealous. I doubted he had ever been the kid picked last for baseball games, the one left without a partner for a classroom project. But whenever I began to feel sorry for him, he found a way to change my mind.
“You know that bird will fly away when winter comes,” he told me as I sat feeding the raven. “It doesn’t care about you; it’s only hanging around ’cause you feed it.”
“Sure,” I said.
“It’s like the bear. It thinks only about eating, sleeping and surviving. If you stopped feeding it, I bet it would peck your eyes out.”
“Sure,” I said again.
“Just wait and see.” Frank went away in a huff. The raven watched him go, then tipped his head and gazed at me.
Hate that bird,
he said very clearly.
That evening I counted the marks I had made on the wall, realized with a fright that nearly three weeks had passed and tried to figure out what day it was. My poor dead watch didn’t even have a calendar. So I asked Frank.
“It’s Sunday,” he told me.
Of course he didn’t know; he just made it up. But Sunday was as good a day as any, and I counted back from there to the day I’d found my raven in the bushes. Thinking like Robinson Crusoe, I named him Thursday.
He liked to perch on my shoulder, like a pirate’s black parrot. Sometimes he faced forward, and sometimes backward, and he pulled at my hair with his beak, or nibbled gently at my ear, though that always made me squirm and laugh. Frank watched, smoldering with jealousy.
On our twenty-second day the wind shifted to the south and rose to a gale. Enormous waves thundered on the rocks. Rain pelted through the forest with machine-gun sounds, and the trees swayed and creaked around us. It was the first real sign of winter coming, a hint of what the months ahead would bring. West Coast weather was always predictable. Once the winds shifted to the south, storm would follow storm, and the sun would disappear. Rain would only end when it turned to snow instead.
Thursday kept close beside me. As the wind gusted he whistled low notes that sounded like wailing creatures.
“He’s evil,” said Frank.
“Well, I like him,” I said. I drew Thursday up onto my lap and tickled the feathers on his belly. “Didn’t you ever have a dog or anything?”
“I did when I was little,” said Frank. He was lying on his back on the bed. “All I remember is that he was a really old dog, and his name was Ghost.”
“That’s weird,” I said.
“Why?”
“I had a hamster called Ghost.”
“That
is
weird,” said Frank. The wind gusted, and the raven whistled.
“It was Dad’s idea,” I said. “I wanted to call him Sleepy because he slept all day. I never saw him except at night. Then Dad said, ‘Call him Ghost.’ ”
Frank smiled at my little story. “You should have called the raven Ghost. He’s spooky.”
I leaned back. Thursday hopped up to my shoulder and rubbed his beak against my lips. I opened my mouth and let him peck the tiny shreds of salmon between my teeth. Frank groaned, but he grinned as well. “That’s disgusting.”
I laughed. “Yeah, it is.” Then I opened my mouth a little wider, and Thursday tilted his black head to reach right in.
Frank covered his eyes and turned away. But now he was laughing too, and in our tiny cabin that shook in the storm, I was happy. I couldn’t remember the last time I had sat with someone and talked about simple things. Mrs. Lowe’s nagging comment—
Christopher has trouble making friends
—was still true. But at least I
had
made a friend. I had nearly made two.
“It drives me crazy sitting in here,” said
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