I Am (Not) the Walrus by Ed Briant Page A

was shot just after the First World War.” She twirls the pencil around her fingers. “They have not been seen here since. You probably saw a pigeon or a seagull, and maybe it was carrying something that made it look striped.”
    â€œLook,” I say. “I’m not an opthamologist … ”
    â€œOrnithologist,” she says.
    â€œOrnithologist,” I say, “but I know what a pigeon looks like, and I know what a seagull looks like. This bird flew so close to me I could almost touch it. It was the bird in your drawing.”
    â€œOkay.” She spreads her arms. “Take me to where you saw it. Show me the bird, and I will bring my guidebook to the birds of the coastal regions, and I’ll prove to you that it was not a Peregrine. We can go now, if you like.”
    â€œActually I’m on a school field trip,” I say. “I can’t go now, and I’m busy this evening as well.”
    â€œOkay, tomorrow,” she says. “Oh, and before you ask, I’m from Brunswick. We haven’t started back at school yet. I forgot that you lot have.”
    â€œSaturday at four o’clock,” I say. “In front of the big statue in Memento Park.”
    â€œFour o’clock it is,” she says.
    â€œCan I ask you one more thing?” I straighten my legs, which have gone numb, so I rub them.
    â€œOkay,” she says.
    â€œI know this is a long shot,” I say, as I stand up, “but what would happen if by some freak chance the bird I saw really was a Peregrine Falcon?”
    â€œI don’t know.” She hugs her sketchbook to her chest. “I hadn’t even thought about that. You could laugh at me.”
    I shake my head. “I’m not the laughing type,” I say.
    â€œNo.” She leans sideways and scrutinizes me as closely as if I’m one of the exhibits. “You’re not, are you.” She frowns, but then something odd happens. Her frown softens. She doesn’t exactly smile, but she no longer looks completely hostile. She says, “Maybe I would let you buy me a cup of tea.”
    There’s an abrupt scrape and clatter as three women in Wellington boots enter the shark room.
    She twists around to look at them, then turns back to me. “Hey look,” she says, and just for a moment she actually smiles. She looks right into my eyes and smiles. “They’re about to feed the sharks. You want to watch?” Then, as suddenly as she started smiling, she stops and narrows her mouth back to a slot, as if she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
    â€œNo,” I say. “I think it would make me uncomfortable. I’m feeling a little minnow-like just now.”
    The girls laugh as one of them pulls down a ladder from beside the tank.
    â€œYou should tell me your name,” I say. “Just so when the court summons arrives I’ll know who it’s from.”
    â€œMichelle,” she says. “Michelle Frost, if you want the whole thing.”
    â€œMichelle?” I say.
    â€œPlease,” she says. “If you can find it in your heart to do one thing for me, then please do not sing my name.”
    â€œNo. I had no intention of singing to you,” I say. “I just thought—” I spread my arms. “I remember your friend called you Shelly.”
    â€œShelly. Michelle,” she says. “It’s an abbreviation.”
    â€œSee you tomorrow at four.” She glances around at the shark girls, then turns back to face me. “Toby.”
    â€œPrepare yourself for a cup of tea on Saturday.” I back away from her toward the entrance, then say. “Michelle.”

7
    Thursday
    The first thing I do when I get in from school is to try the bass and make sure my soldering worked. I switch on the amp, turn the volume down, and plug it in.
    Fantastic.
    No crackling.
    No popping.
    No cutting out.
    With that done, I empty my pockets of the