The Confusion of Laurel Graham by Adrienne Kisner

Author:Adrienne Kisner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

FIELD JOURNAL ENTRY

JUNE 7

There were no birds at Sheetz yesterday or today, save the tasty, tasty unfertilized or already dead ones in the sandwiches. I felt disloyal to Gran getting any, so I opted for hash browns. Sometimes deep-fried potato-like foods get the job done.

I’d spent last night and most of the morning trying to wade through the dense files I’d photographed at city hall. I texted Sophie some pictures of the more boring pages, thinking she could do an artistic interpretation of bureaucracy. Most of it turned out to be the geographical survey of our area that assessed whether Sarig Pond and Jenkins Wood would make a good school site. A familiar ache settled behind my eyes seeing Gran’s address listed on an appendix labeled “Property to Acquire.” Basically none of the land was good for much other than birds. The land was low and the area around the pond formed a natural kind of basin. City planners long ago thought it would be most usable for public recreation space, or maybe a reservoir if they flooded the space around it from the creek. The city abandoned the reservoir idea because a coal family’s estate sat too close. The Jenkins family (owners of the estate) bought the land instead, and donated it with the suggestion (not a mandate the report pointed out) that it become a park. The rich people were happy their big house was safe, the city was happy it had land, the birds were ecstatic they had a migratory habitat.

I live texted most of this to Risa, who either didn’t see it or ignored it. Richard and Louise were off on a bird vacation somewhere cold, because that is what they did in the summer. I decided I’d go tell Gran.

Wait. Shit. Gran.

I looked at the clock. 10:45 a.m. Thank the doves, I hadn’t missed Mom’s meeting at Gran’s house.

I tucked my precious fancy suet from Jerry into my backpack, hopped on my bike, and spun over as fast as I could go. Sure enough, Mom’s car was in the driveway. Two cars sat parked against the gravel lining Gran’s yard. I debated whether filling the feeder first would look more legit. I opted to carry the suet in with me, making it look like I came with a definite purpose totally unrelated to spying on Mom.

I creaked the door open as quietly as possible. It didn’t matter, since Mom was standing in the middle of the empty living room with Mr. Hughes, the Realtor I’d met weeks ago in this same spot, and the podium-pushing lady from the press conference with Deputy Asshole Michael Ross.

“Laurel?” my mom said, guilt sliding around in her mouth like dry crumbs. “What are you doing here?”

I held up my bag. “Downy woodpeckers,” I said. “I just haven’t seen many this year. Bird count is coming up; maybe that’s significant. But they like this stuff. I came to fill the feeder.”

“Ah. Go right ahead,” Mom said.

“What’s going on here?” I asked.

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