Birds of Summer by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

of angry humiliation. Ignoring Sparrow’s chatter, she listened only to a litany of phrases, which kept repeating themselves like a broken record inside her head. “How could I be so stupid—stupid to hand in that letter—stupid to write it in the first place—stupid to write to someone who doesn’t exist. And, most unbearable of all—stupid to have cried in front of Pardell. For no reason! There was nothing to cry about. Nothing had changed. Everything was just the way it had always been—and she hadn’t cried for years and years.
    It wasn’t until they reached the first redwood grove that she began to calm down enough to look at what had happened from some other points of view. She’d noticed that about redwoods. There was something about them—their size and age maybe—that made you realize a lot of small miserable things just didn’t matter very much. She’d stood there before, looking up at their beauty and their slow, patient strength, and whatever it was that had been churning around inside her suddenly felt small and hushed. So, because of the redwoods or for whatever reason, she began to realize that there was one consolation. At least she knew that Pardell wouldn’t tell anyone about what had happened. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. And there was what he’d said about her writing. She couldn’t help feeling good about that. And what he’d said at the end about Grant’s not knowing what he’d been missing. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, actually, but for some reason it made her feel quite a bit better.
    By the time they’d reached the second grove, she’d cheered up enough to register a little of what Sparrow had been trying to tell her about a movie on the evils of smoking that she’d seen at school. Still thinking about Pardell—that he might never mention it again, and she certainly wouldn’t mention it, and it would almost be as if it hadn’t happened—she was halfway listening to Sparrow rattle on about how bad smoking was for people.
    “Is smoking pot as bad as cigarettes?” Sparrow was asking. “Do people who smoke pot get those sores inside them, too? Summer! What’s the matter with you? Why won’t you talk to me?”
    “Nothing’s the matter,” Summer said. Sparrow’s soft round face was puckered into a worried frown. Summer grinned at her. “Nothing’s the matter, Funny-face. Come on. I’ll race you to the turn-off.”
    When they arrived home a few breathless minutes later, they found Galya there. Sitting cross-legged on the foam rubber, she and Oriole were drinking peppermint tea and talking nonstop, the same as always. Nonstop, at least, until they heard footsteps on the stairs—and broke off abruptly.
    Galya got her tongue going again first. “Hi kids. Come here and give us a smooch.” She held out her arms with their jangly bracelets. She looked the same as she always had—homespun skirt, peasant blouse, sandals—except that recently her outfits, while still hippie style, were more craftshop-expensive instead of homemade-cheap. But her gray streaked hair was still long and loose and her hands were as garden-rough as ever.
    Sparrow flung herself into Galya’s arms. “How’s my favorite production?” Galya crooned as she snuggled Sparrow, kissing her on both cheeks. “How’s my beautiful redheaded masterpiece?” Galya always made a big thing out of the fact that she’d midwifed Sparrow’s birth, claiming that made Sparrow partly hers.
    Sparrow hugged back for only a moment before she pushed away. “Is Marina back?” she asked. “She is, isn’t she? Didn’t Marina come back home?”
    Galya and Oriole exchanged quick glances. The flick of Galya’s eyes was ambiguous, but as usual, Oriole’s face was an open book. The sneaky guilt of her expression was about as hard to miss as a thunderclap. Summer hoped that if they were going to lie to Sparrow, Galya would be the one to do it. Watching Oriole lie was a maddening mixture of