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the farthest-away seat. Also, he had his nose in a book. He wore earbuds, and whatever he was listening to was turned up loudly enough for Natasha to hear it. It sounded like the soundtrack to a video game.
    Fifteen feet away, in the middle of the room, Natasha’s sister Darya held court among her friends. Thanks to the age cutoffs dictated by the school calendar, Natasha and Darya were both in the seventh grade. They stuck to their own circles pretty much, though. Or, Darya stuck to her circle. Natasha hung out with Molly.
    â€œYou don’t have to let her outshine you, you know,” Molly said, gesturing at Darya. Darya’s red curls bounced as she laughed. Girls clamored for her attention. She was extremely shiny.
    â€œWho said I was?” Natasha said.
    â€œIf you curled your hair, and maybe used some shine serum, and wore skirts more often—”
    â€œThanks for your input,” Natasha said shortly. “I’m fine with who I am, actually.”
    Molly hit her forehead with the heel of her palm. “ Bad Molly! Bad!” She touched Natasha’s arm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it in a judgy way.”
    Natasha wanted to twitch away Molly’s hand. She didn’t, because then Molly would apologize a hundred more times. Then she’d try to psychoanalyze Natasha to find out why talking about Darya was so hard, and she’d be anxious and concerned, and it would all be for nothing because Natasha had no problem talking about Darya!
    She didn’t want to be Darya, that’s all.
    And she didn’t want to be mothered or babied or “fixed,” not by Molly.
    Molly started to say something, but didn’t. Instead she slurped her mixed-berry smoothie, which came in a squeezable plastic pouch and was actually baby food. On the front of the pouch was a picture of Grover from Sesame Street holding an armful of strawberries and blueberries. On the back of the pouch, it said, “I, your furry friend Grover, adore delicious mixed berries!”
    Maybe it was Molly who wanted to get all sorts of attention, like Darya. Maybe packing baby food in her lunch was her way of showing off?
    Maybe Molly’s the one who needs psychoanalyzing , Natasha thought, and she felt better.
    â€œSo tell me about this morning,” Molly prompted, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin on her palm. “What was the strange thing that happened?”
    Natasha felt reluctance build up inside her, like wet sand. “Huh? Oh. I don’t even remember.”
    â€œYes, you do. You were freaked out, I could totally tell.”
    Natasha sighed. Then she gave Molly an abbreviated account of the morning’s events. In her shortened version, she didn’t physically run into the Bird Lady, and she didn’t have a conversation with her. She simply saw her, nothing more.
    â€œAnd there was a bird in her hair?” Molly said, delighted. “A living, breathing bird?”
    She giggled, and Natasha felt annoyed. The thought rose in her head that Molly was a silly girl, a silly, silly girl . But the words didn’t feel like her own, and a shiver rippled down her spine.
    â€œAnyway, that’s the whole story,” Natasha said. “I saw the Bird Lady. She was weird. The end.”
    â€œShe’s probably lonely,” Molly mused. “If you see her again, you should, like, try to get to know her. Just because she’s crazy doesn’t mean she doesn’t need friends.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t say ‘crazy.’”
    â€œMentally ill, whatever.” Molly shrugged. “Maybe she’s manic-depressive. Maybe today you saw her manic side, and next time you’ll see her depressed side.”
    Natasha flattened her hands on the cafeteria table. Mama had had a depressed side. Her dark times , that’s how Mama had described the days when she didn’t get out of bed. Natasha hated thinking of Mama descending into