She tips her head toward the row of computers, shining and silver, and begins to unwrap her lunch.
Bird seats himself at the computer farthest from her desk. On each, a small brass plaque reads: A gift from the Lieu family. Two years ago Ronny Lieu’s family had purchased them for every classroom, upgraded the whole school to high-speed internet. Just part of giving back to society, Mr. Lieu had said at the unveiling ceremony. He was a businessman—some kind of real estate—and the principal had thanked him for this generous gift, said how grateful they were to private citizens for stepping in where the city budget still fell short. He’d praised the Lieus for being such loyal members of the community. It was the same year Arthur Tran’s parents had donated money to renovate the cafeteria and Janey Youn’s father had given the school a new flagpole and flag.
He jiggles the mouse and the screen snaps to life, a photo of Mount Rushmore under cloudless blue. A tap of the browser and a window opens, cursor blinking slow and lazy at its top.
What to type? Where is my mother. Is it too much to hope the internet can tell him this?
He pauses. At her desk, Mrs. Pollard scrolls on her phone as she nibbles her sandwich. Peanut butter, by the smell. Outside, a brown leaf drifts from treetop to pavement.
Story about boy with many cats, he types, and words flood the screen.
The Black Cat (short story). List of Fictional Cats in Literature. He clicks one link after another, waiting for something familiar, that jolt of recognition. The Cat in the Hat. The Tale of Tom Kitten. Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. Nothing he recognizes. Gradually he wanders farther and farther afield. Amazing and True Cat Stories. Five Heroic Cats in History. Care and Feeding of Your New Cat. All these stories about cats, and none of them his mother’s. He must have imagined it. But still he digs.
Finally, when he is too tired to resist, he pecks out one more search, one he has never dared to try before.
Margaret Miu.
There’s a pause, then an error message pops up. No results, it says. Somehow he feels her absence more, as if he’s called out for her and she hasn’t come. He peeks over his shoulder. Mrs. Pollard has finished her lunch and is grading worksheets, ticking check marks down the margins, and he clicks the back button.
Our missing hearts, he types, and the page stills for a moment. No results. This time, no matter how many times he clicks, it won’t reset.
Mrs. Pollard, he says, approaching the desk. I think my computer froze.
Don’t worry, dear, she says, we’ll fix it. She rises and follows him back to the terminal, but when she sees his screen, the search at the top, something in her face shifts. A tenseness in her that Bird can feel even over his shoulder.
Noah, she says after a moment. You’re twelve?
Bird nods.
Mrs. Pollard squats down beside his chair so they are eye to eye.
Noah, she says. This country is founded on the belief that every person gets to decide how to live his own life. You know that, right?
To Bird, this seems like one of the things adults say that do not require answers, and he says nothing.
Noah, Mrs. Pollard says again, and the way she keeps saying his name—which is not his name, of course—makes him clench his teeth so tightly they squeak. Noah, honey, listen to me, please. In this country we believe that every generation can make better choices than the one that came before. Right? Everyone gets the same chance to prove themselves, to show us who they are. We don’t hold the mistakes of parents against their children.
She looks at him through bright, anxious eyes.
Everyone has a choice, Noah, about whether they’re going to make the same mistakes as the people who came before them, or whether they’re going to take a different path. A better path. Do you understand what I’m saying?
Bird nods, though he’s fairly sure he doesn’t.
I’m saying this for your own good, Noah, I really am, Mrs. Pollard says. Her voice softens. You’re a good kid and I don’t want anything to happen to you and this is what I’d tell Jenna and Josh, truly. Don’t make trouble. Just—do your best and follow the rules. Don’t stir things up. For your dad’s sake, if not your own.
She rises to her feet, and Bird understands that they’re finished here.
Thank you, he manages to say.
Mrs. Pollard nods, satisfied.
If you decide on a cat, be sure to find a good breeder, she says as he heads into the hall. Adopting a stray—who knows what you’ll get.
* * *
? ? ?
A waste of time, he thinks. All afternoon, through English and math, he berates himself. On top of it all, his lunch is still in his bag, uneaten, and his stomach rumbles. In social studies, his mind wanders and the teacher calls him sharply to attention.
Mr. Gardner, he says. I would think you, of all people, would want to pay attention to this.
With a blunt nub of chalk he taps the board, leaving white flecks beneath the letters: WHAT IS SEDITION?
Across the aisle Carolyn Moss and Kat Angelini glance at him sideways, and when the teacher turns back to the chalkboard, Andy Moore throws a ball of wadded-up paper at Bird’s head. What does it matter, Bird thinks. Whatever this cat story is, it has nothing to do with him, nothing useful or purposeful. Just a story, like everything his mother had told him. A pointless fairy tale. If he even remembers right, if there was even a story like that at all.
* * *
? ? ?
He’s on his way home when he sees it. First the crowd, then a cluster of navy uniforms in the center of the Common—then a second later, all he can see are the trees. Red, red, red, from roots to branches, as if they’ve been dangled and dipped. The color of cardinals, of traffic signs, of cherry lollipops. Three maples standing close, arms outstretched. And strung between their branches, woven between the dying leaves: a huge red web, hanging in the air like a haze of blood.
He’s supposed to walk straight home, to stay on the route his father has prescribed: cutting across the wide courtyard between the university’s lab buildings, then through the college yard with its red brick dorms. Staying off the streets as much as possible, staying on university land as much as he can. It’s safer, his father insists. When he was younger, he’d walked Bird to and from school every day. Don’t try to take shortcuts, Noah, his father always says, just listen to me. Promise me, he’d said, when Bird began walking to school alone, and Bird had promised.
Now Bird breaks his word. He darts across the street to the Common, where a small group of onlookers has gathered.
From here he can see it more clearly. What he’d thought was red paint is yarn, a giant red doily fitted round each tree, all the way up the branches in a tight red glove. The web, too, is yarn, chains of red stretching twig to twig, crisscrossing, thickening in some places to clots, thinning in others to a single thread. Knotted in the strands, like snared insects: knit dolls the size of his finger, brown and tan and beige, fringes of dark yarn framing their faces. Around him passersby whisper and point, and Bird edges closer, into the crowd.
It frightens him, this thing. A monster’s knitting. A scarlet tangle. It makes him feel small and vulnerable and exposed. But it fascinates him too, pulling him closer. The way a snake holds you with its eyes even as it draws back to strike.