Vanishing Acts by Leslie Margolis Page B

skip this less exciting borough and go straight to Manhattan, which has so many more museums, as well as a rich history of patronage to the arts? Well, I’ve got two words for you: the monk parakeets.”
    â€œActually, that’s three words,” said Finn.
    I giggled and shushed him.
    Cindy cleared her throat. “The monk parakeet is small and green, with gray tufts of feathers around its neck. They are native to Argentina, and back in 1975, someone tried to ship a large crate of them to a pet store in New York City—except the parrots broke out of their crate and flew the proverbial coop. Yes, that’s right—they all escaped. And they must’ve decided thatit was too much trouble to fly home to Argentina, so they made their home right here in Brooklyn. That’s right—these very exotic South American birds decided to take up residence in Brooklyn, New York.”
    â€œI think Dad covered this in that documentary he did on birds,” Finn whispered.
    â€œReally?” I asked. “I must’ve been sleeping through that part.”
    â€œIt’s their quest for freedom and adventure that intrigued me,” Cindy went on. “I remember first reading about them in some ornithological book years ago. I’ve been thinking about them forever, and only just recently came up with the perfect homage to them: human-size tree houses.”
    She chuckled to herself. And when she noticed the blank stares of our class, she continued. “Anyway, I wanted to give the children of Brooklyn something they don’t have. And what better than a tree house? Since most kids in Brooklyn don’t have trees in their backyards. Or backyards, for that matter. Or any type of yard.”
    â€œSo we can really climb up there?” asked Finn.
    â€œOh, no,” Cindy replied, rolling her eyes. “It seems that the city of New York does not agree with my vision. Or at least, the Parks Department didn’t want to purchase the insurance necessary to allow these treehouses to be open. So I had to build them without ladders. They are for display purposes only. Shall we continue?” she asked, and then turned and walked farther into the park, not waiting to see if anyone followed.
    We all did, staying on the path all the way to Third Street, where we turned left into the Long Meadow.
    Cindy stopped when we reached a tall oak tree. Then she turned around and spoke again. “This second piece is made of brick, and installing it was quite the engineering feat. The first tree I selected for the work was not strong enough. But then we found an older, stronger tree, and
voilà
! Here it is.”
    She pointed up. In a tree, also about twenty feet up, was a small brick house. Four walls, windows on each side, and one door. It seemed heavy and out of place, but in a cool, quirky way.
    â€œThis representation is significant because . . .”
    As Cindy went on, I tried to pay attention, but often when people talk about art I get a little lost along the way. Or, as was the case this morning, distracted.
    I looked around, thinking that if these tree houses
were
in use, they’d be a good hiding place for the dog-egger. Except he or she wouldn’t be able to get inside, since Cindy herself said she built them without ladders. Plus, the eggings happened nowhere near these tree houses.
    â€œDoes anyone have any questions?” Cindy asked.
    Suddenly I felt a sharp jab in my side. Finn had elbowed me, because Cindy was staring straight at me.
    I stood tall and nodded, as if I’d been following her all along.
    â€œYes, dear, what is it?” she asked me.
    Oops. My nod was supposed to signify that I’d been paying attention, not that I actually had a question. My stomach fluttered with panic, but luckily Finn jumped in to save me. “How long did this thing take?” he asked.
    â€œAbout three years to build—from inspiration to installation,” Cindy