The Boy Who Could Fly, Page 4

  “OW!” she shrieked.

  A family of four who had been waiting for their turn at the water fountain looked in her direction, then all around the hall. “Did you hear something?” the father said to the mother. “I thought I heard something.”

  Georgie staggered away on her mangled foot, making it all the way down the stairs and out the front door of the museum before realising that perhaps this wasn’t the best idea. It was one thing to defy her parents about the invisibility thing – even though this was clearly an exception to the rule, being an emergency and everything – but it was another thing to skip out on a school trip. You have to go back, she told herself. You have to find some private place to reappear and then you have to go back to Ms Storia’s group and be appropriately fascinated by all the fascinating things at the museum. Just like any normal girl on any normal day.

  Except she wasn’t a normal girl. And nothing was going to make her one.

  So, instead of rejoining the girls of the Prince School, Georgie limped home. She’d forgotten how much she liked wandering (er, hobbling) the city streets unnoticed. It was spring, and people were springing: some hopping, some floating, some zipping along on flycycles, a few walking. And of course the birds were out in force along with their owners – mynahs, parrots, budgies, cockatoos – all flying lazily on thin rope leashes.

  She approached her building and saw the tall and grave-looking new doorman standing at the door – Dexter or Deter or something. Georgie crept by him and slipped into the building after crazy old blue-haired Mrs Hingis. She waited until Mrs Hingis had been swallowed up by one of the lifts before catching the other one up to the penthouse. When she was safely on the top floor, Georgie reappeared, making sure to account for every single body part – even turning around to check to see that her bum wasn’t missing. Then she opened the door and walked inside. The Bloomingtons’ penthouse had windows that served as walls and high cathedral ceilings that made a person feel as if they weren’t living in a house as much as living on top of a mountain. Even now, even after coming to this penthouse for months, she was shocked that it was her home.

  “Hello?” Georgie said. “Anyone here?”

  “Hello!” Agnes the cook boomed. “Who is there?”

  “The President of Moscow!” Georgie hobbled into the kitchen.

  Agnes was cutting potatoes while watching the tiny portable TV she kept on the counter. “Russia is country. Moscow is city. Moscow can’t have president.”

  “I know that, Agnes. I was just kidding.”

  “Kidding?” said Agnes, as if such a thing was a foreign concept. The Polish cook put down her knife, scooped up a dish towel and snapped it at the open window, where a crow sat staring. “Shoo!” she said. “Go home!” She returned to her chopping block, muttering, “Nosy.” She frowned at Georgie. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You look very bad.”

  “Thanks,” said Georgie. “I work at it.”

  “What’s that? More kidding?” said Agnes. She wiped her hands on a towel and opened the refrigerator. She pulled a plate full of Polish sausage and a jar of purple horseradish out of the fridge. Then she cut several slices of sausage and arranged them on the plate with a spoonful of the horseradish. “You eat. Horseradish clean out your head.”

  “My head is fine,” Georgie said.

  Agnes shook her own head. “Your head is not good. You do funny things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have to say?” Agnes said. She pursed her bow lips. Agnes was very small and pretty, with fluffy blond hair down to her shoulders. She would look much younger, Georgie was sure, if she didn’t wear baggy men’s jeans and oversized football jerseys. But no matter how weird her outfits or sense of humour, Georgie would never think of making fun of Agnes because Agnes knew things. She knew when Georgie was hungry and when she was full. She knew when Georgie wanted company and when she wanted to be left alone. Georgie thought that if she were to turn herself invisible, Agnes would be able to see her anyway.

  “Agnes?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Are you my Personal Assistant?”

  Agnes frowned. “I am cook.”

  “Well, yeah, but are you my Personal Assistant, too? You know, kind of like a fairy godmother? Or father? I had one named Jules once, and I thought he’d come back. But maybe you were sent…” Georgie trailed off, realising as she spoke that she sounded completely nuts.

  “Never mind,” said Georgie. “What’s on TV?”

  Agnes shrugged. “News,” she said. “Not much news on news.”

  Georgie turned up the TV. An overly tanned man with blinding white teeth and what looked like plastic snap-on hair said: “And in other news, the American Museum of Natural History reported the theft of the remains of a colossal cephalopod. Try to say that ten times fast. Heh. Ahem. Apparently, a scientist was working on them in his lab, turned his back, and the remains disappeared. The cephalopod, a giant octopus, was the largest specimen scientists had ever discovered. It is estimated that the octopus might have weighed more than a hundred kilos when alive and had limbs more than six metres long. Whoa! Wouldn’t want to meet that in a dark alley, ay, Bob? Heh.”

  “This guy is stupid,” said Georgie.

  Agnes grunted. “He should eat horseradish.”

  “Here’s our entertainment reporter, Katie Kepley. Katie?”

  “Thanks, Mojo. Well, here’s the question that’s on everyone’s mind: Is Bug Grabowski bugging out?’”

  “Bug?” said Georgie. “What’s wrong with Bug?”

  “It appears that Sylvester ‘Bug’ Grabowski had a mental breakdown and threw himself into the East River at a photo shoot this morning. Though he claims some sort of sea monster pulled him into the water, renowned fashion and advertising photographer Raphael Tatou disputes the story. ‘There was no sea monster,’ said Mr Tatou. ‘Only a very difficult child playing games and wasting everyone’s time. Or maybe he was having an attack of nerves, I don’t know. All I know is that I’m a professional, and I want to work with professionals.’”

  Pictures of a wet and dishevelled Bug flashed on the screen. “Hey!” said Mojo the news reporter. “Maybe it’s the giant octopus.” Katie Kepley giggled her signature giggle.

  Agnes tsked and waved her knife. “Too much funny stuff for horseradish. Need something else.”

  “What? Like pierogi?”

  “No,” Agnes said. She thrust the handle of the knife at Georgie. “Chop. I be back.”

  Agnes swept out of the kitchen. Georgie sliced potatoes until Agnes returned. Carrying a birdcage. With a bird in it. Noodle stopped batting the bit of sausage around the floor and stared at the cage.

  “What’s that?” Georgie asked.

  “Elephant,” said Agnes. “See? You not only kidding person.”

  “What am I going to do with a bird? Noodle will eat him.”

  “Bird is not for cat or for you,” Agnes said. “Bird is for Bug. You bring.”

  Georgie looked at the TV screen, at the pictures of Bug, drenched and bedraggled and sad. She thought of the last time she saw Bug, how awkward she felt. “I don’t want to see Bug,” she said.

  “Too bad,” said Agnes. “He wants to see you.”

  “He does?” Georgie peered in at the bird. “Does it have a name?”

  Agnes reached into her pocket and pulled out some sort of official-looking certificate. She handed this to Georgie.

  “‘Pinkwater’s Momentary Lapse of Concentration, CD, Number Fourteen,’” Georgie read.

  Agnes nodded. “Purebred for bird show.” Deftly, she sliced the last potato and put the slices in a pot. “But bird not blue enough for show. Or something stupid like that. What I know?”

  Footsteps echoed in the huge penthouse and Georgie’s mother, Bunny Bloomington came into the kitchen laden with bags. “Georgie! I thought I heard your voice,” she said. “What are you doing home so early? And when did we get a bi
rd?”

  “Wombat!” chirped Pinkwater’s Momentary Lapse of Concentration.

  “What?” said Bunny.

  “The wombat exhibit was, um, broken, so the tour was a little short. They sent us home. The bird must have heard me and Agnes talking about it. He’s for Bug. I’m going to bring it to him later.”

  “That’s so thoughtful,” Bunny Bloomington said. “Well. It’s too bad that your very first school trip was cut short, honey.”

  “Oh no. I wanted to come home.”

  “Why?” said Bunny, instantly concerned. “Is anything wrong? Aren’t you feeling well?” When Georgie first came back to live with her parents, Bunny got more and more terrified she might lose Georgie again, that someone might kidnap her and take her away. After a while, she didn’t want to let Georgie out of her sight. Now it seemed that Bunny was calming down again, but she was still more nervous than the average parent of a thirteen-year-old. Which meant she was still very, very nervous.

  “Nothing’s wrong, Mum,” said Georgie. “Everything’s great.”

  Bunny unconsciously clutched at her heart. “Oh, I’m so glad. You know, I wasn’t sure about sending you to school. I would have been much more comfortable with a private tutor. I still would. But it does seem as if you’re having a wonderful time.” She studied Georgie’s face. “You are, aren’t you?”

  Georgie forced herself to smile. “I am, Mum, I swear. If it was any more wonderful I would probably have to be hospitalised for over-joy.” She kept her lips peeled away from her teeth till her mum beamed back at her.

  “I knew everyone would just love you. How could they not?”

  After Bunny swept out of the room, Agnes shook her head. “Stop with that fake smiling. You’re giving me creeps.”

  “You mean I’m giving you the creeps, Agnes.”

  “Yes,” Agnes said. “Those too.” She thrust the cage at Georgie. “You bring Bug. He need friend.” Those sharp eyes appraised Georgie. “And so do you.”

  Chapter 4

  Bad

  A few hours later, Georgie found herself nodding at Deter or Dexter or Derek the doorman and schlumping down the street carrying Pinkwater’s Momentary Whatever His Name Was in his tiny gold cage. Other people with birds stopped her every few metres to admire the budgie, ask his name, when she got it, etc. It was only after they’d been chatting for a few minutes that they noticed who they were talking to.

  “My Lulabella is just four months old,” one man told her, holding out his arm so that Georgie could admire the scruffy little parrot perched there.

  “She’s very pretty,” said Georgie.

  “Don’t you just love birds?” the man said.

  “Well, actually, this isn’t my bird. I’m bringing it to a friend. I have a cat.”

  The man pulled his arm back in and stared at Georgie as if she’d just said, “I have a komodo dragon.”

  “What in the world would you want a cat for?” he said. “Cats are the enemies of birds!”

  “Cats are cute,” Georgie told him.

  “Cute!” the man said. “Say, aren’t you Georgetta Bloomington?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And you like cats?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He hurried away, his bird cawing, “Bad, bad, bad.”

  “You hear that, Pinkwater?” Georgie said. “I’m bad.”

  “Bad,” Pinkwater agreed.

  Georgie switched the cage to the other hand. “And people want to know why I like cats.”

  She kept walking, wishing that she was invisible again. But then, who knows if she would be able to do it right? Who knows if she’d leave something showing – a hand, a foot, or something totally bizarre like her rib cage or an eyeball? In the beginning, turning invisible was an accident, nothing she had to think about. And later, it always seemed to be something that she did when it was necessary to do, when her life or someone else’s might depend on it. When you’re being chased by a giant rat man with filed teeth or attacked by a bunch of Punks in the subway, you don’t have time to think, Hey, wow, I’m invisible, it feels so weird, I can’t see my hands and how will I reach that door handle, blah blah blah. When you’re being chased, there is no thinking, there is only doing.

  But now when she was perfectly safe, when she had time to think and consider, she messed up. And the fact that every limb was about thirty centimetres longer than it used to be made it worse. A good day was a day she didn’t fall flat on her face.

  It only took ten minutes for Georgie to reach Bug’s building. She followed a Mrs Hingis look-alike into the building. This old lady was juggling a pile of books and wearing a funny pink hat. Once inside the lift, the woman turned to Georgie.

  “Do you like books? Or are you one of those young women who prefers to watch that insufferable celebrity nonsense on television? Or destroy your hearing by stuffing those little contraptions in your ears?”

  “I like books,” Georgie said.

  “Well,” said the woman. “Then you are an unusual young person. Perhaps you’d like to join our book group.” She handed the books back to Georgie so that she could open the suitcase-sized pocketbook again. She pulled out a flyer. “We meet on the third Thursday of every month.”

  “Thanks,” Georgie said.

  “But if you come, don’t expect to be reading any mysteries or romances or nonsense for babies.”

  “OK.”

  The woman grabbed for the pile in Georgie’s arms. “Books aren’t supposed to be fun.”

  Georgie frowned. “They aren’t?”

  The old woman sniffed and got off on the fifth floor.

  As Georgie waited for the lift to get to the top floor, she got more and more nervous, though she wasn’t sure why. She was visiting a friend; people visited friends every day. But she didn’t feel right. She felt like disappearing. She told herself that she shouldn’t, that she would just get it wrong again, but she couldn’t seem to help it. By the time the doors opened, Georgie and the birdcage she held were invisible. She stepped out into the hallway and tripped as her foot caught the lip of the lift.

  “Big feet!” chirped Pinkwater.

  “Oh, shut up.”

  From what Georgie remembered of their last conversation, Bug owned the whole floor. She wondered why he needed a whole floor. He was just one person. But maybe he had lots of friends now. Athlete friends, model friends, dancer friends, friends who all came to hang out at Bug’s enormous apartment. At the thought of this, she nearly turned around and left. But then the budgie chirped, “Agnes!”

  Georgie scowled, but then walked to the end of the hallway towards a set of enormous double doors. She was about to set the cage down by the door when it flew open and Bug stomped out, carrying an armful of T-shirts and jeans.

  “Ow!” Georgie yelled as he trod on her foot. Pinkwater zoomed around his cage, chirping furiously.

  “What the heck?” said Bug. For a second, she just stared at him, knowing he couldn’t see her (at least, she hoped he couldn’t). He looked exactly the same but completely different. Bigger, a little taller, a lot stronger probably, but so worn around the edges that it could have been thirteen years rather than three months since they last saw each other.

  “Gurl? Is that you?”

  “Georgie,” she said, popping into view. “Who else would it be?”

  “You got taller,” he said.

  Georgie blushed, unconsciously slouching her shoulders. “So did you.”

  Bug scowled as the bird raced around his cage. Georgie was surprised how much she missed that old scowl.

  “Your bird’s a little hyper.”

  “He’s not mine,” Georgie said. “He’s yours.”

  “What do you mean?” said Bug.

  “I mean, he’s a present. For you.”

  “Oh. Well.” He looked at the budgie as if it were the last thing in the universe he needed. Georgie couldn’t believe Agnes had made her come here.

  Bug shifted the pile of T-shirts
in his arms. “Thanks. Um. You want to come in?”

  “Sure,” said Georgie, certain she’d rather have gum surgery.

  Bug led the way through the huge double doors into his apartment. Huge, with wide windows on two sides, it should have been bright and cheerful. Instead, the place had the look of a charity shop, packed with odd, unrelated items and not nearly enough actual furniture. A fine tapestry hung on a wall next to random posters of athletes. A giant stuffed gorilla sat in the corner of the living room. A suit of armour stood by the doors to the apartment. Georgie had heard that living alone made people weird, and this apartment was proof. She wondered where his agent, who was now his legal guardian, was. Bug always made it sound as if the guy was like a father to him.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Bug said. “I was just going to do some laundry.” He dropped the clothes he’d been holding on to the ones strewn all over the floor. “There’s a chair around here somewhere.” He kicked through piles of junk to a lone chair set in front of a television the size of a cinema screen. “Here,” he said. “Sit down.”

  “Thanks,” Georgie said.

  Bug eyed Pinkwater’s cage. “I guess we can put that on the floor.” He set Pinkwater’s cage down. “Do you want something to drink? I’m not sure what I’ve got.”

  “Anything is OK,” Georgie said.

  He left, and Georgie could hear him banging around in the kitchen. “All I have is Kangaroo Kola.”

  “That’s good,” said Georgie.

  He came back with two cans, one for her and one for himself. “I did an ad for them,” he said. “They sent me a year’s supply.”

  “Great,” said Georgie. She sipped her Kangaroo Kola. If you could fly, Kangaroo Kola could make you fly just a teeny bit higher (or so the advertisements claimed). Georgie supposed that was the only reason why people drank the stuff. It tasted like cough syrup.

  “So,” Bug said. “Thanks again for the bird.”

  “What’s a Wing without a pet bird, right?” She almost winced as she said this, it was so lame.