A new noise came from the staircase: the precise clop-clop of Darya’s one-inch heels. “One inch” because that was as high as the aunts allowed; “heels” because Darya was Darya and refused to wear snow boots. She thought they were ugly.
“Uh-oh, no cookies for your presentation?” she said. She tightened her ponytail, which hung in a bouncy spiral. “Oh well. Guess you’ll fail.”
“Darya!” the aunts said.
Darya laced her fingers and stretched, straightening her arms and reaching her upturned palms toward the ceiling. She was slender and strong and graceful, the type of girl who would never run smack into a tiny old lady with a bird in her hair. Who would never believe in a tiny old lady with a bird in her hair.
Natasha thought about the conversation she’d overheard, and Aunt Elena’s claim that “even Darya” used to adore talking about Wishing Days. Maybe or maybe not, but that Darya no longer existed.
“What am I going to do?” Ava wailed. “My presentation is today. My teacher is going to hate me!”
“Ava, slow down,” said Aunt Vera. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“Yeah-huh, because I have to bring a cultural artifact. It’s the biggest part of the assignment. Fred Williams had Bulgaria—”
“Fred?” Darya said. “Who names their kid Fred?”
“And he dressed up as Viktor Krum. He wore a red robe and carried a flag and everything!”
Darya held open her hands. “Who the heck is Viktor Krum, and what does he have to do with anything?”
“He was on the Bulgarian Quidditch team,” Natasha explained. “From Harry Potter.” She turned to Ava. “And Ava, you were supposed to help Aunt Elena make the cookies. If you’re going to blame anyone, blame yourself.”
“Wait,” Darya said. “If that dude was from Harry Potter, then he’s not real. He’s made up.”
“Ms. Gupta said it was okay,” Ava said. “Plus Fred gave facts about the real Bulgaria.”
“As I am not interested in this conversation, I am going to go fold laundry,” Aunt Vera said, untying her apron and laying it on the counter.
“I’ll help,” Aunt Elena said.
“You scared them away,” Darya said. “You made them feel like bad parents.”
“They’re not parents,” Ava said.
“You could have brought one of them as your artifact. They’re Russian, kind of.” Darya tsk-ed. “But you blew that opportunity, didn’t you? And made our dear sweet aunts feel like crap, all in one fell swoop.”
Ava’s eyes widened. Tears welled and threatened to spill over.
“Darya,” Natasha said.
“What?” Darya said.
Natasha gave her a look, and Darya’s smile fell away. Her teasing hadn’t been funny; she’d made Ava feel bad, she’d gone too far. All of this played across Darya’s face, and Natasha sighed. Darya was exasperating, but she wasn’t unkind. Not on purpose. Just, some of her bids for attention were better than others.
Natasha caught the tail of a memory, from when Natasha and Darya had been closer. Darya had developed an impressive array of silly voices, and as a second grader, she’d gone through a phase of talking out of the side of her mouth like a truck driver. Her deep belly laugh—coming from such a little girl—had made everyone near her laugh, too.
“Hey, I know,” Darya said. Her tone was no longer glib. She was trying to fix things. “If you’re allowed to go as someone fake, then dress up as a character from a Russian fairy tale.” She slid into her seat and helped herself to some eggs. “Like that girl who was banished into the woods and torn to pieces by wild animals. You could be her.”
Ava scrunched her forehead. “How am I supposed to dress up as a girl torn to pieces?”
“Okay, then go as the girl who was eaten by crows,” Darya said. “What was her name?”
“His name was Prince Ivan, and he was a boy,” Natasha said.
“Is it against the rules for a girl to dress up as a boy?” Darya said. She turned toward Ava. “If you don’t want to be Prince Ivan, you could go as the boy sliced into pieces by his uncle. Or the kid who was thrown over a cliff. Or the girl who was forced to take a bath in boiling water and whose skin slipped off in long strips!”
“Darya, why would Ava want to dress up as a dead person?” Natasha said.
“Because it would be awesome! Because Russian fairy tales have the most awesome deaths ever!”
An illustrated collection of Russian fairy tales stood in the bookshelf in the den. It had belonged to Mama when she was younger, and the children in the fairy tales did come to extraordinarily gruesome ends.
If anyone ever wrote a fairy tale about Klara and the Three Little Girls, however, it would be the mother who met the terrible fate.
Well, and the daughters, since the daughters were the ones left behind.
But Mama, when she’d read the fairy tales to Natasha, had changed the stories any way she wanted. In Mama’s versions, the children didn’t die. The children escaped the crows and ran away from the cruel uncle. They only pretended to fall over the cliff.
Natasha recalled a story that Darya hadn’t mentioned. It was about two maidens who lived in a castle, one with yellow hair and one with black. They were the best of friends and loved each other like sisters, but over time, the black-haired maiden grew jealous of the yellow-haired maiden’s grace and beauty. One day she told the king a lie: that the yellow-haired maiden snuck out of the castle every night and danced until dawn with the domovye, the Russian version of elves. The king was furious. He sliced off the yellow-haired maiden’s head, and in the book version, the girl’s head stayed sliced off. Too bad, so sad.
In Mama’s version, the girl with black hair wept with remorse and scooped up her friend’s head, cradling it in her arms. She kissed her friend’s cheek, put the head back on the body, and tied it in place with a ribbon.
“Ava, blow your nose,” Natasha said. “Darya, eat your breakfast.” She scooted back her chair and strode toward the back door.
“What about my presentation?” Ava said. “Wh-where are you going?”
“To Papa’s workshop. You can bring one of his lutes.”
Natasha grabbed her coat from the closet, buttoning it up as she crunched across the new snow blanketing the yard. Flakes drifted lazily down.
She knocked on the door to Papa’s workshop. She got no response, so she turned the knob and stepped inside.
“Papa?” she said.
He snored and shifted on the battered mattress in the corner of the room. He slept out here more often than he slept in the house.
“I’m borrowing one of your lutes,” she said. “Ava needs it for a project.”
Papa stirred in his sleep. Natasha sighed and went to him, pulling up the worn quilt so that it covered his shoulder.
She lifted one of the finished lutes from the rack by Papa’s workbench. The one she picked was made of maple, swirled through with burls. Its soundboard was the shape of a teardrop, and in the middle of the teardrop, Papa had carved a lattice-covered hole, which on a lute was called a rose. When the strings of the lute were plucked, the rose amplified the resulting sound waves. That’s how the music was made.
Natasha couldn’t do it, though. Play the lute.
Neither could Ava. Neither could Darya.
Papa could, though it had been a long time since he had.
And Mama used to play the lute. Her slim fingers had danced over the strings, and she sang folk songs from Russia that made four-year-old Natasha dance, or try to, which made Mama and Papa laugh.
She carried the lute carefully, balancing it on her upraised knee as she closed the door of Papa’s studio. It had stopped snowing, but she shielded the lute with her coat out of habit. Lutes were delicate instruments.
Halfway across the yard, she drew up short. There was a stone lying on the snow-packed path between Papa’s studio and the house. No, two stones. The bottom stone was large and round and flattish, like a pancake. The second stone
sat on top of the pancake stone. It was gray, about the size of a plump strawberry. Between the two stones was a creased piece of paper. The wind fluttered its edges, revealing a blur of words.
Goose bumps rose on Natasha’s skin.
She stepped closer and knelt, taking care not to bump the lute. She pulled free the note, which was folded into fourths. On the uppermost side, in neat, precise handwriting, it said Natasha.
CHAPTER EIGHT
You don’t know how special you are.
Lots of people don’t know how special you are.
But I do.
And you are.
Natasha read it over and over. Five times, six times, seven. She traced the crease marks in the paper. She read the words again:
But I do. And you are.
She felt transported, like when she woke up in time to see the sun rise over a world that was still and quiet and perfect.
Someone thought she was special.
Her.
Natasha.
But . . . who?
She rose and glanced around, but there was no one in sight. There were footprints, but there were footprints everywhere. Ava had danced in the yard yesterday afternoon. Papa walked from the house to his studio three or four times daily. The aunts came outside too, for this reason or that.
Farther away were more footprints, a gray, slushy trail of them. Kids often cut across Natasha’s yard to get to Laurel Street, where the junior high was.
Benton, for example. Benton cut through Natasha’s yard on the way to school, and occasionally Natasha got lucky and was able to follow him all the way there. It was a hit-or-miss proposition, because on any given day Benton could be late to school, early to school, or just on time. She couldn’t pin down his schedule because he didn’t have a schedule, and she wasn’t about to be a stalker girl, lurking behind Papa’s studio until she saw Benton so that she could pop out and casually say, “Oh! Benton! Let’s walk to school together, shall we?”
That would be creepy.
Natasha looked at the note again. The stones. The emptiness around her.
What if the person who left the note was creepy? What if he (or she) was a stalker?
Or . . . what if someone was playing a joke on her? She turned the idea over in her head. It was such a nice note. If it was a prank, it was terribly cruel.
She folded it and put it in her pocket. She hurried to the house with the lute.
“Here,” she said, propping it against the wall inside the door.
“Thank you, Natasha,” said Aunt Elena, who was back in the kitchen washing dishes. “Such a good idea.”
“Papa said it was okay?” Ava said.
“Papa’s fine with it.” Natasha grabbed her backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and headed back to the door.
“Don’t you want to wait for your sister?” Aunt Elena asked.
Natasha glanced at Darya. “She’s too slow,” she said.
“She’s too fast,” Darya said.
Aunt Elena shook her head. Natasha and Darya used to walk to school together, years ago. Then, at some point, they stopped. It wasn’t due to some dreadful rift. They were just different.
Aunt Elena didn’t ask if Natasha wanted to wait for Ava, because the sixth graders started later than the seventh and eighth graders.
“Your cheeks are really red,” said Darya, scrutinizing Natasha.
Natasha touched her fingers to her face. “Yeah, well . . . it’s cold outside,” she said. “Okay. Bye!” She hurried out of the house.
As she walked, she thought about the note. By the time she reached the snow-cleared sidewalks of Laurel Street, she’d convinced herself that it had to be someone from school who’d left it for her. Someone who took the shortcut behind Papa’s studio.
Someone like Benton, was the answer pushing hardest to be heard.
But it wasn’t Benton. It couldn’t have been. Why would Benton have left her a note?!
“You did wish to be someone’s favorite,” the Bird Lady said, appearing from behind a street sign.
Natasha screamed, then clamped her hand over her mouth. She looked at the signpost. It was made of steel, like any other signpost. It was slightly wider than her forearm, like any other signpost. It was not big enough for someone to hide behind. Not even a person as tiny as the Bird Lady.
Natasha straightened her spine. “Other people take that shortcut, too,” she pointed out. “Dave Smith, Dave Winters, Marissa Owens. Any of them could have left the note.”
“What note?” the Bird Lady said, blinking her round eyes.
Natasha dug her mittened fingers into her palms. It was none of the Bird Lady’s business who left the note—and hold on. Hold. On. How did she know about Natasha’s wish???
Natasha folded her arms over her chest. “Who are you?”
The Bird Lady’s face softened. “Coo-ee,” she said. “Sweet, silly girl.”
“Did you write the note?” Natasha demanded.
“I most certainly didn’t,” the Bird Lady said with a giggle. She reached out as if to stroke Natasha’s face, and Natasha stepped back. She tripped and went down hard, her backpack slipping free and spilling its contents onto the sidewalk.
“Ow,” Natasha said.
“Cluck, cluck, cluck,” the Bird Lady said. She squatted awkwardly and began shuffling Natasha’s belongings back into her backpack.
Natasha’s chest tightened. She wanted to tell the Bird Lady not to touch her stuff. She also wanted to tell her that people didn’t say “cluck, cluck, cluck”; they just . . . clucked their tongues, if for whatever reason they felt compelled to do so. Like, if Natasha were writing a story, a sentence might be, “The old lady clucked when she saw the girl go sprawling on the sidewalk.” A normal person would understand such a sentence perfectly. A normal person wouldn’t assume the old lady actually said, “Cluck, cluck, cluck.”
Natasha shut her eyes and drove the heels of her palms into her eye sockets. The real problem wasn’t the clucking or the stuff-touching. It was the confusing mix of emotions the Bird Lady stirred up. Natasha found her annoying, yes, but undeniably fascinating. She was mysterious and weird and knew about things she shouldn’t—like Natasha’s wish.
The note.
Mama.
It would be best for everyone, Natasha concluded, if the Bird Lady just . . . disappeared, taking the secrets she shouldn’t know with her.
“Go away, please,” Natasha said.
Natasha heard the Bird Lady sigh. She heard the pop of stiff joints and opened her eyes to see the Bird Lady struggling to her feet. She was sporting the same fuzzy pajama bottoms she’d worn before, and the same scarf trailed past her shoulders.
At least there’s not a bird in her hair, Natasha thought.
Except—oh. The sparrow was there, fighting its way through the tangle of gray. Its beak emerged first, then its head, and finally its plump body and small wings. It shook itself and got resettled. It eyed Natasha with resentment.
Well, I don’t like you either, Natasha thought.
Immediately, she felt ashamed. The bird was just a bird. Maybe Natasha would like it if she got to know it. She didn’t know! She didn’t know anything these days!
She scrambled up and jostled her backpack so that her books and notebooks slid in. She zipped the zipper tight.
“Have a good day, cupcake,” the Bird Lady said. She held out a tight white rectangle. “And you don’t want to forget this, now do you?”
The note! Natasha snatched it and hurried off. If, later, she discovered that the Bird Lady had written it, she’d rip it to shreds. But the Bird Lady claimed she hadn’t. Plus, the Bird Lady was old. Too old and creaky to have placed a note in Natasha’s yard and then dashed here, somehow managing to reach Laurel Street before Natasha showed up.
Natasha put several blocks between them before slowing down and allowing herself to check that the note was unharmed.
She unfolded it.
She sucked in her breath.
/> It wasn’t the note she’d found outside Papa’s workshop. It was new.
CHAPTER NINE
You don’t know how beautiful you are, either.
You should smile more, Natasha. When you smile, it lights up your face.
Natasha read it through twice. Then she dug in her pocket for the first note. She shook it open, and her eyes went from one to the other. She checked the handwriting, the funny little as and the carefully dotted is. She went back and forth until she convinced herself of the truth: There were two notes, both written to her, both equally wondrous.
“Hi, Natasha,” someone said, and she startled. It was Benton’s best friend, Stanley, looking round and puffy in a green down jacket that probably came from his parents’ sporting goods store.
Natasha pressed the notes together and held them at her side, hidden by her cupped hand.
“Hi, Stanley,” she said. Her legs felt hollow, and although she liked Stanley, she wasn’t in the mood for a chat. She willed him to continue on toward wherever he was headed.
He didn’t. He stood there, smiling awkwardly. They both smiled awkwardly, until the fog lifted from Natasha’s brain.
Oh, right, she thought. School.
She started walking, and Stanley fell in beside her. Their strides were similar, which meant Natasha could neither pass him nor let him pass her without being obvious about it.
“I like your coat,” he said.
“You do?” she said. Her coat was blue and plain and made of wool.
He nodded.
“Um, I like yours, too,” she said.
Their boots clumped along the sidewalk. Natasha wanted to ask Stanley about Benton, but what would she say? Hey, Stanley, does Benton like me? So junior high, and even though Natasha was in junior high, she refused to be that undignified.
Plus, she would never be able to get the words out. Never ever ever.
She considered asking him about the Bird Lady, but ran into the same problem.
You know, the old lady who says “coo-ee” and “cluck, cluck, cluck”? she imagined herself saying. The one with the bird in her hair? It wasn’t really a conversational winner, either.