Songbird

I stared at my shoes against a pilled green carpet. The brass buckles on my Mary Jane’s glistened from the polishing father'd given them earlier this morning with a dirty rag and a tube of toothpaste.

Really, I’m not sure why he bothered. No one will notice my shoes today. But yes, they glistened like gold coins against a sea of murky green carpet. I pressed my toe into the soft shag floor and rocked back on my heels.

“Wren? Wren? Did you hear what Headmaster Piffet said?”

I lifted my chin. My father’s voice was tired, and he fixed me with a stern eye. His jaw cracked open in frustration, so I could see straight down his throat. I wriggled my toes. The shoes were beginning to feel uncomfortable. Small, maybe. My eyes drifted up to the ceiling.

“Wren. Did you hear what Headmaster Piffet said?” he repeated. He was losing patience.

Unfortunately, so was I.

He turned to the headmaster. “I’m sorry. I really am sorry. She’s been this way ever since the accident—I thought it was just at home, but I hoped… She’ll snap out of it soon, I’m sure. I’m sure she will...”

The headmaster watched us with bulbous green eyes that reminded me of peeled grapes. Headmaster Piffet was a startling, thin woman with translucent skin and a stark red mouth. She was frail and undeniably old. Something about her made me sick to look at. Like she might fall to pieces if the wind blew too hard.

“There’s no need to worry, Mr. Holt,” Piffet said, still watching me carefully. “Tibbet’s is well equipped to deal with the troubled youths of today—in fact, it’s our school slogan.” She nodded to a small brass plaque on her desk.

“Ah. That’s right. I must’ve forgot.” Father tucked a hair behind his ear, a gesture I’d watched him do a million times, as if that somehow made him look more presentable.

No one is fooled, I thought, narrowing my eyes. Everyone can tell you’ve lost it. You’re barely holding together. Can’t even look after your own child...

His mustache twitched, eyes puffy and strained.

Piffet tutted to herself. The office was as stuffy and outdated as the black, floor-length frock she wore. The three of us stood in a crowded triangle around her desk, which took up most of the room. At the far corner, a wan light streamed through a pair of broken blinds and fell across the floor in pale stripes. The light cast a kind of gray-green glow about the room and reminded me of a spectral presence.

Fitting, I thought. For a girl who sees ghosts. Maybe Piffet isn’t really there at all. Maybe none of it is.

I wondered silently if the headmaster had ever in her life cracked open the single window in the room, let a breeze fill up the stuffy office, and gave herself a way out. Even having the option of a way out made the difference. And she had it. And yet, the window was closed.

“Miss Holt? Do you think you can follow the rules here at Tibbets?” the headmaster asked.

My eyes shifted to her wrinkled raisin face; a breath whistled unconsciously through her nose. No, I decided. Those windows stay closed. I’m sure of it.

My father cleared his throat. “Wren. Please. Answer the headmaster’s question.”

I nodded at the floor.

“Excellent,” Headmaster Piffet said. “Tibbets has a strict disciplinary policy, young lady. You should review the rules in the handbook I gave you; it will save you time later on. But likely you won’t stir up much trouble for yourself. No. Not here.”

She seemed pleased to tell me this. I could tell this woman was used to speaking to small children and hadn’t had many conversations with adults. It was obvious that she hadn’t accounted for those of us children who’d left our childhood selves behind long ago—six months to be exact, for me. Lying next to the body of my sister as she lay on the side of the road.

To those of us who had, left our childhood I mean, she sounded quite insane.

Before I could pull away, my Father’s hand grabbed my arm.

“Wren,” he hissed. “Be polite and say something to Headmaster Piffet.”

If I’d had it my way, I’d have chomped him on the hand then and there. He always let go when I did that. But it wasn’t worth the chance of being expelled before I even set foot in the drafty halls of Tibbets Reform School for Girls. Expulsion was not an option here—unfortunately—not for me anyway. Because it meant I’d be back in the house. Back in the house with him.

I narrowed my eyes. My father’s hand squeezed. I kept my jaw clenched shut.

“That’s alright Mr. Holt,” the headmaster said. “I understand Wren’s situation is unique. Let’s not fight over small matters, now. The thing is that she’s here—we’ll have her straightened out in no time. Before you can say, spilled peas. Now, if you’d sign the papers, we can let Miss Holt get settled. No use wasting any more time.” Piffet waved a hand as if swatting a gnat from the air. She shoved a stack of parchment across the desk.

With one last glare at me, Father bent over Piffet’s desk with a pen, then handed her the signed stack. “Headmaster, I wondered if you’d gotten my most recent letter, about Wren’s special requirements… Well, you see, I explained it all in writing, but Wren will need to stay alone in her dormitory. That is, without a roommate. You see—”

“Yes, I read it,” Piffet said. “We’ve taken care of it.”

Father blinked. “Have you?”

“Yes, I read it twice.”

“Well. Alright then.” He nodded. His forehead creased. “It’s just that the last school agreed, and then there was a change when—"

“Mr. Holt, I assure you, there’s no need to worry. We’ll take good care of your daughter.” Her lips spread into a tight smile. "I promise."

Again, Father nodded, though he didn’t seem the least bit reassured. “Excellent,” he said. “Excellent.”

Piffet extended a hand, which Father reached for. I imagined shaking the headmaster’s hand to feel somewhat like holding a bag of frozen pencils, thin and cold and frail.

“I’ll give you two a minute to say goodbye,” she said.

Before Father had a chance to protest, Piffet stepped through the office door, pulling it shut behind her.

Silence.

Father stiffened.

My breath grew shallow.

After what seemed like several minutes, he forced himself to look at me—something he hated doing. I hated it too; the lines etched over his face from anger were my own personal reminder of the things I most wanted to forget. Things that had happened to both of us. But more to me than to him.

We’d both lost someone. We both hated seeing her there, reflected in the sad shadowy black eyes we all shared. My father and I were each the other’s token from a horrifying memory; a single moment that ripped everything between us to shreds. We had each become something we did not want to keep anymore. And so we'd made arrangements to be rid of each other.

As he looked at me, his features softened and for a few brief seconds, I caught a glimpse of the face I used to love. Lisle Holt, father of two. Player of board games and the fiddle. Used to stack checkers in towers on his belly to make two little girls laugh until they cried. Used to be the sole parent in a family of three, a delicate balance at a dinner table, with each person scooting out so it didn’t look like one was missing. With only two left you can’t do that anymore. With only two it’s obvious spaces are empty.

I breathed in the smell of old carpet and years of shut windows and dust, and shook the memories from my head. As dreadful as reform school seemed, I knew it would be nothing compared to what waited for me back in the empty halls of the house on Rutherford Lane.

At least I’d be alone here.

Father huffed a sigh. “You’re not going to say goodbye to your old Dad?”

I crossed my ankles one behind the other as he waited for me to confirm. Then, stunning me half to death, he gripped my shoulders and pulled me to his chest. My ear pressed into the base of his throat where I could hear a tiny pulse. I breathed in the scent of cologne and a note of black coffee.

Before I could stop it, I was crying. Tears stained his one good shirt.

“Shhh, shhh.” Father stroked the top of my head. “Don’t cry. Please, don’t. Everything will be fine.”

He didn’t believe the words. Neither did I.

He squeezed my shoulders. “Promise me…” he said, but his voice clotted in his throat. He coughed and tried again. “Promise me you won’t stay like this forever. I miss hearing your voice. You’ve no idea… how much… Wren… you were my little songbird. I'd like to hear you sing again. I-I want my little girl back…” He stopped, realizing what he was saying and shook his head. “I hope this is the right decision.” Our eyes connected. Then, the man I knew was gone. Instead, I was staring at a fogged mirror. Both of us looking scared and cold and lost.

Father cleared his throat. “Be good,” he said. “No trouble.” He let go of my shoulders and turned towards the door. I watched him slip from the office, feeling like the small bird he’d named me for.

For a moment, I stood paralyzed with fear, wondering what would happen next. A clock ticked on the wall. I felt the tremor in my hands and tucked them away in my pockets.

For a small moment, I wondered if I was going to find my way out here. If Tibbets was the open window I needed. An escape—an open window, big enough for a songbird to fly out of.

The office door burst open, and the Headmaster’s beady eyes locked with mine. That's when I realized the truth—that this was just another cage.

We stared at each other, her head hovering in the open door.

“This way,” she said.