Page 64 of We Fell Apart
Why doesn’t Tatum want to kiss me?
He obviously does want to kiss me. But why does he alsonotwant to kiss me?
He said it was because of Kingsley, but that can’t be true. Kingsley’s not even here.
And why would Kingsley care?
And Meer, I feel like Meer would just roll with anything that happened. Meer is thinking about tattoos and poultry.
Maybe Tatum thinks something’s wrong with me, the way Luca said. It was stupid of me to lunge at him when I’m sleep-deprived and emotionally unstable and angry at him. That’s a bad kind of kiss in any case, and I don’t even like him as a person.
I’m not actually attracted to sullen, territorial taxi-van drivers.
I certainly don’t think a wounded orphan boy who has no plans or ambitions is any sort of decent boyfriend for a girl who’s mourning her unattached mother and suffers waves of paranoia during which she becomes convinced that her beloved brother is a forger.
The pool house arcs around the deck next to the circular pool. It has several sliding doors. In many of its rooms are unmade beds, as if people left years ago and no one’s bothered to look in there since. There are books still on the nightstands.
I find Meer in a sunny space that clearly used to function as a sort of lounge. There are sliding glass doors on two sides. A sectional couch faces a fireplace and a huge patterned rug covers the floor. My brother sits in the center of the room with the box next to him.
He is surrounded by baby birds. Their cheeping has a slight air of panic.
I won’t think about Tatum.
And our kiss.
And how it felt.
And how he said he didn’t want to.
I will concentrate on supporting my brother.
“How many birds did you get?” I ask Meer, sliding the door shut behind me.
“Ten.”
I sit down carefully on the rug, being sure not to squash anybody. Four of the chicks are yellow and fluffy, with sharp beaks. Then there are two ducklings: yellow, slightly darker, with flat, baby pink bills. Two of the other birds are larger, with brown backs. One is white, with a long neck. Then there is one little stripy bird.
Meer says he thinks the brown-backed ones might be turkeys, but I think they’re a different kind of chicken. The white one doesn’t seem like anything we recognize.
He also says tomorrow he’s going to buy wire and wood to build a hutch. He’s looked up different designs online.
Glum stands at the sliding door, looking in. “Go away, you had your bacon,” says Meer.
We set up water for the chicks. Meer sprinkles dried split peas across the rug, which is already scattered with little baby bird poops. “They’re gonna be happy here for a night or two,” he says. “And then I’ll hook them up in style.”
“What are you naming them?”
“Definitely that one is Malt Ball.” Meer points to a brown-backed one. Then to a yellow chick: “That one’s Sunshine.”
“Come on. You can do better than Sunshine.”
“No, I like it. It’s pure,” he says. “It’s unpretentious.”
I point to another chick. “That’s Basil Fluffington Webster.”
“My god, why?” Meer laughs.
“It has webbed feet, so Webster. And Fluffington should be obvious.”
