Wringer by Jerry Spinelli

eat!”
    When Palmer returned to his room after dinner, he did not see the pigeon. The white glop on the floor had dried to powder. He kept looking, in the corners, under the bed. Finally he found the bird in the closet, on the high shelf. It was resting on its stomach on the shoe box that housed the toy soldiers. Its eyes were closed.
    Palmer emptied his pocketful of FrankenPuffs onto his homework desk. He took off his sneakers so he would not make too much noise walking around. He turned out the overhead light and turned on the desk lamp. He cleaned up the white spot on the floor.
    He did his homework. He watched some TV. He mounted some Beetle Bailey comics in his collection book. He ate his snack. He read two chapters of a book. He did everything he usually did on a school night, except he did it more quietly. And with a warm, giggly, I’ve-got-a-secret feeling. And with a peek into the closet every five minutes.
    When his mother came in to say good night and to ask if he had brushed his teeth, he knew itwas time to have a talk with her.
    â€œMom?”
    â€œYes?”
    She was standing in the doorway, her hand on the knob.
    â€œDo you think maybe when you come to my room from now on, like, you could knock?”
    He had tried to say it casually, in his best nobig-deal voice, hoping she would receive it just as casually and reply with a shrug, “Sure, no problem.”
    Hah! When did his mother ever make it that easy? She stood staring at him from the doorway, her eyes blinking, her expression a total blank, like he had just spoken to her in a foreign language. Then a faint amusement overcame her face, and she said, “Okay.” Casually. With a shrug.
    Amazing.
    She smiled and closed the door.
    Too amazing. What if she wasn’t as casual as she acted? What if she came around snooping? He had to give her a reason.
    He opened the door. She was halfway down the stairs.
    â€œYou want to know the reason?”
    She stopped, turned, looked up at him. “Okay.”
    â€œWell,” he said, “it’s like, you know, I’m getting older now—” He stared at her. How could he say this?
    She said it for him. “And you’re a boy and I’m a girl, and you’re getting too big for girls to see you in your underwear, even if the girl is your mother. So you want a warning, so you’ll have time to cover yourself up. Right?”
    He nodded. “Yeah.”
    â€œJust one question.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAren’t you still a little young for that?”
    â€œI’m mature for my age.”
    She nodded thoughtfully. “Oh. I see.” She started down the stairs, stopped, turned back. “How about, besides knocking, if I blow a whistle when I’m on my way?” Her eyes were twinkling.
    â€œMom.”
    â€œAm I still allowed to wash your underwear?”
    Palmer closed the door. In another second he’d be laughing.
    Palmer went to bed that night with a grin on his face. For the first time in his life, he was not the only sleeper in his room. He did not turn on the nightlight.

17
    A pinch on his earlobe woke him. He opened one eye to find an orange button staring back. The pigeon was on his pillow, sounding like someone gargling water. Again it nipped his earlobe.
    â€œOw!”
    Palmer swiped, and the bird flew to the foot of the bed. “I’m awake, okay?” Palmer wondered if his old pair of earmuffs was still around.
    A knock at the door. His mother!
    â€œPalmer.”
    â€œYeah?” He threw his blanket over the pigeon.
    â€œTime to get up.”
    True to her word, she did not come in.
    â€œOkay. I’m up.”
    She went away.
    The blanket moved like a ghost over his bed. He pulled it back. With a gobble the pigeon flew off to the comic book stack. Like the day before, it skidded off the top comic and onto the floor. This bird, thought Palmer, is either dumb, clumsy or acomedian. Palmer dressed and went