The Language of Sparrows Read Online Free PDF Page B

like you smiled for that old guy.”
    They crossed the street and Sierra headed down the sidewalk. She wouldn’t blurt something out this time. Anything she said would only double his effort.
    When they entered the courtyard, she made a straight line to her apartment, but he kept pace with her. She clung to the railing, and he started up the steps with her.
    She stopped. “Bye, Carlos.”
    “I’m a gentleman, you know. I always walk a lady to her door.”
    “Not necessary.”
    “Sure it is.” He kept by her side until they were at her door.
    “Bye,” Sierra said again, with more force this time.
    “I could come in for a while.”
    “I don’t think so. My mom’s at work.” She studied her fingernails. He winced. He actually looked hurt for a few seconds. Who knew? Maybe he was. It couldn’t be easy taking rejection from a bottom-feeder like her, even for a bet with his friends.
    “Some other time then.”
    All afternoon, Sierra sat in her room with a pen raised over her paper. “Write your heart out,” Mr. Foster said. “Put Sierra Wright into these poems,” Mr. Prodan said. There were no words that could live up to the requirement they’d given her. She shoved the paper aside.
    When the afternoon began to dim, she couldn’t stand it anymore and began walking down the steps, out the gate. Once Sierra turned into his neighborhood, with its quiet houses and clean sidewalks, it seemed safer than ever, much safer than her run-down street covered in gang graffiti. The trees took the edge off the heat of the day. She knew Mom wouldn’t like her walking past their street, and she knew what she would say about visiting a man who’d spent time in prison, but Mr. Prodan wasn’t a criminal.
    Romanian prisons hadn’t been like American prisons. Sierra knew a thing or two about Eastern Europe from her books. Secret police spied on regular people. The communists didn’t arrest people for murdering and stealing but for being brave enough to speak about their ideas. And Mr. Prodan had lots of ideas.
    As she turned the corner onto the street, Sierra came to a halt. A pickup truck sat in Mr. Prodan’s driveway, and a man stood at his door.
    She stood still, debating with herself. Under the shade of the old oaks, Mr. Prodan’s grass was trim and neat. The man was probably only selling something. She began walking again, taking steps slow as creek mud. Mr. Prodan came to the door, his hands folded in front of him. The man handed Mr. Prodan a small package. They nodded, and then the younger one turned back to his truck.
    Mr. Foster? What was he doing at Mr. Prodan’s? It was odd, really odd. Mr. Foster backed out of the drive and drove by her. He slowed his truck and looked straight at her as he passed, then kept his truck idling at the stop sign. Sierra took a long steadying breath and shoved her hands into her pockets.
    Mr. Prodan was about to step back into his house, but when he saw her, he came out to meet her. “My student has been writing haikus?”
    She shook her head.
    “Mr. Prodan,” she said, trailing behind as he turned back into the house. “Why was that man at your door?” She nodded her head in the direction of the street outside.
    He stopped with his back to her, just outside the library. “It is not important.”
    “Well, I guess it’s none of my business.”
    “That is correct.”
    “It’s only I know Mr. Foster, and I wondered. It was kind of weird, both of you helping me with the haikus. That’s all.”
    Mr. Prodan turned to face her. “Haikus? What has the man you saw to do with your haikus?”
    “Mr. Foster’s the teacher who told me I needed to put my heart into the poems.”
    “Ah,” he said. He blinked. He balled up his hands and then turned pale. She could actually see the color fade from his face.
    She sat down next to the bookshelf and waited. The silence echoed. Finally, she said, “Is there something wrong, Mr. Prodan?”
    “I’m sure he is a fine teacher. He is my