“Maybe we should go to the library today,” he says. Then he takes a fashion magazine from the coffee table and opens it on his lap. He smiles a little, but unwraps the scarf and drapes it over his head like a lampshade. “You’d look more like Audrey Hepburn if you had sunglasses,” I say. I wait for him to say something about Mama and her obsession with these old movies, but he doesn’t. “I do too, Birdie.”īirdie straightens his towel scarf and rewraps it under his chin and says, “Do I look like Audrey Hepburn? With my scarf?” Patrick will be here to pick us up in two hours. “Okay,” he says, “but I do have a stomachache.” “You’re not critical,” I say, sitting up. I don’t think we can move today.”īirdie leans toward me and whispers, “Critical is the worst stage.” In my ear he says, “I’ve got a stomachache and it’s probably critical. The smell of Dr Pepper lip gloss fills the air. He creeps across the couch, down to my futon, and lays his head next to mine. I pretend to sleep, but even in the half-light, through squinted eyelids, I can see he’s got Mama’s old purple eye shadow on and a towel draped around his head like a glamorous headscarf. And right now my little brother, Birdie, is on the couch waiting for me to open my eyes. The back page is the section of the newspaper that has weird news about things like two-headed llamas or people who get themselves stuck in air-conditioning vents or pets that are accidentally sent through the mail and survive.īut today isn’t just Saturday. Today is Saturday, the day we usually eat Honey Bunny Buns for breakfast and read the back page of the newspaper with Uncle Carl while he drinks coffee and smokes on the porch.

Birdie and Me by J.M.M. Nuanez