We were supposed to be the ones watching the classroom bird over school break; a bright white cockatiel with a definitive head bob that the kids went cuckoo over. Should we have a longer recess, Harem? Nod, nod. Should we skip multiplication tables today, Harem? Nod, nod.
You could see why he was popular, a star so shiny Mrs. B had to shroud him daily with the peanut-butter free picnic cloth. Harem needs a break, she would say, Harem needs his nap. Mrs. B, after all, could play this game too.
Today was a particularly buzzy day. Today Mrs. B would decide who brings Harem home over Spring Break. Sitting tight on the circle rug (bums down, legs crossed, hands on knees) the second grade classroom activated deactivation. It helped if they could envision themselves like Harem, inside their own personal birdcage; no poking, no bumping, no punching. Two names were about to be picked out of the hat. Two because one student’s parents might say no.
This my daughter explained later with hands squarely on her waist, adding our name was picked first.
But the boy who was used to winning raised his hand and asked to see the nurse. While there he whispered into the phone, Can you come right away and get me and the bird at lunch? And just like that the bird went home in the back of the dent-free, crumb-free, uber-shiny black luxury SUV.
Can you believe this? my daughter asked with an extra generous tilt of her head. She had just gotten off the bus, the one which consistently dropped her at the wrong stop. I had warned her when this happened to not cross Main Street, to hug the line of bushes. (The town bushes that were laced with poison ivy and thorns; the ones I had inexpertly hacked at with long gloves and long sleeves.)
In an alternative universe I fully respected the tilt of her head. Sometimes I too wanted to go all ham. But I knew not to encourage it. It often led to arsenic intensity.
I solemnly nodded. I carefully weighed her double-downed stance in her knock-off Uggs. If she was still gung-ho about the injustice, if she was still in love with that bird, then I would surprise her with her own. Her birthday was in three months.
How about this, we can go to PetSmart, hang with the parakeets and buy a betta fish. And follow it up with McDonalds soft serve ice cream?
A more extreme tilting of the head.
No. Instead we were to leave a message for Mrs. B letting her know we would have hosted Harem. Don’t forget to say our name was picked first, mommy.
Then I was to call the boy’s mother and hand her the phone. My name was picked first, she explained, Harem should be at my house. After some indiscernible chatter a large smile spread across her face. She handed me the phone and started to clear a table for the cage.
We were to host Harem for the weekend.
In response I smiled with a tilt of my head.
The tilt of my head meant something entirely different.
Annemarie Whilton is a Massachusetts-based writer, artist, and community activist. Her work explores the impact addiction has on families. Her storytelling has been nationally televised on WGBH’s Stories from the Stage, and her writing has been published in Cognoscenti, The North American Review, and Pangyrus.