Delicate Edible Birds Read Online Free PDF Page B

indifferent grades and mediocre SATs, I had only gotten into one.
    Rather: I had gotten into one. One, glorious, one.
    I tossed out the bad five, and waited for Pot. My tea cooled and I made more, and it cooled again. I peered out the curtains for my little sister, but she didn’t come. I made cookies, chocolate chip, her favorite. I had half an hour before swim practice and she still wasn’t home when my mother came in, with her energetic stompings and mutterings. “My God, Lollie,” she said, “you’ll never guess what that ass-muncher of a princip—”
    â€œMom?” I interrupted. “Do you know where Potty is?”
    â€œIsn’t she here?” she said, massaging her neck, peeping in from the mudroom. “She was supposed to come straight home from school to go to the grocery store with me.”
    â€œNope,” I said. “And it’s getting dark.”
    She came into the kitchen then, scowling. “Do you have any idea where she could be?” she said. We looked at each other, and her hand floated up to her hair.
    I stood, nervous. “Oh, God,” I said.
    â€œCalm down,” she said, though she was flustered herself. “Think, Lollie. Does she have any friends?”
    â€œPot?” I said. I looked at her. “You’re kidding, right?”
    â€œOh, God,” she said.
    â€œLet’s think, let’s think,” I said. I paced to the window, then back. “Mom. Let’s think. Where does Potsy get her birds? The stuffed ones. Do you know?”
    My mother looked at me, then slowly lifted her hands to her cheeks. “You know,” she said, “I never actually wondered. I guess I assumed your dad was sending them. Or she was buying them with her allowance. Or something. I never wondered.”
    â€œYou haven’t given us allowance in six months,” I said. “So where are they from?”
    â€œIs she stealing them?” said my mother. “Maybe from the Biological Field Station?”
    â€œPot?” I thought of this, wondering if Pot could have the gall to waltz into some place, open up the display cabinets, hide the birds under her shirt, and waltz on home. “I don’t think so. It’s not like her,” I said, at last.
    â€œWell,” said my mother, her voice breaking. “Who’d have a collection like that?”
    And my mother and I looked at one another. There was a long, shivery beat, a car driving by outside, its headlights washing over my mother’s face, then beyond. And then we both ran out coatless into the snow, we ran into the blue twilight as hard as we could up the block, forgetting about our cars in our hurry, we ran past the grand old hospital, over theSusquehanna, we ran fleet and breathless to the Ambassador’s house, and then we burst inside.
    The house was extraordinarily hot, the chandelier in the hallway tinkling, and the ugly miniature schnauzer barking and nipping at us. Our shoes slid on the marble floor as we sped into the living room. Bookcases, Persian rugs, leather armchairs—no Pot. We flew through the door, into the library—no Pot. We ran though the hall and stopped short in the dining room.
    There, my little sister was dressed in a feather boa and rhinestone starlet glasses, in her undershirt, crouching on an expensive cherrywood chair and looking at a book of birds that was at least as big as she was. She looked up at us, unsurprised, when we came in.
    â€œHey,” she said. “Mom, Lollie, come here, look at this. This is a first edition Audubon. The Ambassador said I could have it when I’m eighteen.”
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing here?” my mother said, snapping from her surprise and charging over to her. She ripped the glasses from Pot’s face and pushed her arms into her little cardigan. Pot looked up at her, her face open and wondering.
    That’s when the Ambassador appeared in the doorway and