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grown up sleeping with quartz under her pillows to help her with tests and looking to the clouds for signs.
    Birdie opened the bundle. It was a man saint, staring at her solemnly.
    â€œSaint Anthony,” Poopie told her. “The patron saint of roads and going places.” She gave Birdie a wink. Birdie stared at the little guy, curious. He looked very serious and sad, like theweight of the world was on his shoulders. She had always wondered why God’s favorite people had to look that way.
    â€œThat’s a nice one,” Walter said, so enthusiastically that Birdie gave him a second glance. For a while after her mom left, her dad had been so broken, Birdie had thought he would never be whole again. Today he was Humpty Dumpty put back together. All smiles and rattling newspaper. “How’s school?” he asked.
    â€œFine.” Birdie sat, bewildered, wondering where her present was. Because she was homeschooled, school was always fine. No lunchroom gossip. No horrible teachers, or great teachers, or any teachers. No nothing new. With the exception of some occasional help from Poopie, school ran on autopilot. So did Birdie. It was like she had been born responsible.
    â€œYou on top of everything enough to take on a little project?”
    By project , Walter Darlington always meant farm work . Sitting still all day behind a desk didn’t quite compute to Walter Darlington, mostly because it was the opposite of what being a farmer was all about. Birdie had known forever she would go to Laurens Community College, half an hour away, to major in agriculture. When school was over, she’d inherit the farm. It was all wrapped up for her like a package.
    â€œYeah,” Birdie muttered through a mouthful of potatoes. Truthfully, she had plenty to do already: laying out green manure for the new plantings, inspecting the trees for bugs and nests, walking the property to make sure nothing was out of place. Not to mention carving out family time into separate slices—some for afternoons with her dad, going over their work for the coming months. Some for her mom, who had moved into Howl Mill, a new condo complex just outside town.
    â€œI want you to clear off the cave. The one under the eaves behind the barn. Try to draw some bats.”
    The bat cave had been covered over forever. It had always been something they talked about doing. Bats could be very good at insect control, an alternative to pesticides.
    â€œSure, Dad.” Birdie sank back in her chair.
    Snuff. Honey Babe was dancing on her hind legs by Birdie’s chair, begging for scraps. Birdie absentmindedly reached out to scratch her ears.
    â€œGreat.” Walter shrugged lightly, almost flip .
    Birdie stared down at her non-blue eggs. She looked over at Poopie, then at her dad, who apparently had no present for her. She sighed wistfully.
    â€œPoopie says you want to go to Mexico over the break,” her dad said, his face still in his newspaper.
    â€œThat’s not…” Birdie could feel her face going red. She shot a betrayed glance at Poopie, trying to think of a way to say yes and no at the same time. “Um. Yeah, well, you know, his parents invited me.” She put heavy emphasis on the word parents . Nothing shady about it. Definitely nothing sexy.
    â€œSo they’ll be there?” Walter asked, taking a sip of orange juice.
    Birdie studied him. She felt like she was being lured into a trap. “Yeah.” He wasn’t actually considering it. Was he?
    Walter shrugged. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t go. I thought that could be your present—”
    â€œReally?” she squawked. Her hands grabbed each other to keep from flying into the air. She leapt up from her seat and wrapped her arms around her dad, tight. As she pulled back, shewondered if she should hightail it upstairs before he changed his mind. But Birdie was hungry. Famished, in fact.
    She flopped back down onto her