Free Flock by Wendy Delson

of Norse Falls High?” My dad singled out Jinky with this question.
    “I like it,” Jinky said.
    “Do you have any classes with Kat?” my dad asked.
    “Ms. Bryant’s design class. We all have it together.” Jinky gestured to me, Penny, and Marik.
    “Who’s your partner for the project?” Jack asked Jinky.
    Earlier, when I had shared that Marik and I were assigned team members, Jack’s “that should be entertaining” comment had said it all.
    “Penny.”
    “You got lucky,” Jack said.
    “What project?” my dad asked.
    “The one for which we still need parent volunteers,” Ms. Bryant said.
    “Where and when?” my dad asked.
    I inwardly cringed. The volunteer form, smashed at the bottom of my book bag, had been neglected — abused even — for several reasons. First of all, although I was keenly aware that I was fortunate to have two involved parents, I was a senior now and felt a little independence was healthy. Second, I would be plenty busy keeping an eye on Marik — and Jinky, for that matter — and didn’t need my dad underfoot, too.
    “At Pinewood High School for the By Student Design Show. Because the show itself is off property, I need chaperones the day of the event. I’m also looking for some help with a few basic building projects: easels, a display case, etc. Mr. Derry, the Design instructor over at Pinewood, is in his fortieth year of teaching. Suffice it to say, he’s left the entire undertaking up to me.”
    Ms. Bryant could sell a school outing just as much as she could an upturned collar.
    “I’m your man,” my dad said. “Sign me up.” This without ever getting the “when.”
    I swallowed a big gulp of root beer and my hopes of the show being uneventful. Something about my dad thrown into the mix — another player on the field — foretold of complications. And, the “I’m your man” comment was cheesier than the still-bubbling pizza that had just paraded past us. Ms. Bryant hadn’t seemed to mind it; she was all smiles at the prospect of having snared a parent helper with construction experience, a factory, and its full floor of handymen. How had I — given the turmoil of my life — ever thought that
uneventful
was in the realm of possibility?
Realm:
another of those loaded words I was coming to seriously hate.

I woke Sunday to Leira’s plaintive cry, more of a bleat, really. I hadn’t closed my door. With Leira’s open, every sound resonated with intensity. Already I was painting the pink house white and reveling in my one-floor-above hideaway. Singing soon replaced Leira’s mewlike wail, and I drifted in and out of consciousness to my mom’s high and clear voice. The lullaby was familiar. I was sure she’d sung it to me, and she’d hummed its tune — one reminiscent of the John Peel hunting song — for years:
    While you sleep, my sweet,
    Wrapped in love so tight,
    May your watchman be
    The brave gale of the night
    And the lark your reveille
    At dawn’s first light
    Be thee safe in my love until morning.
    Leira continued to fuss. My mom then went into a second verse, one that was less familiar to me.
    Do you know, my pet,
    What the wise ones say?
    That the swan’s snowy span
    Is but a wish away.
    May this comfort you
    As you wake to this day
    Full of love, full of hope, full of glory.
    I sat up with a bolt. It was such a beautiful song. Was this the first time I’d really listened to the lyrics, the second verse in particular? If I had heard them, how had I not processed them before? I quickly padded into the hallway, pausing at the door to Leira’s room. My mom had her on the changing table; her tiny legs kicked in defiance. I took it as another sign of her strength, a quality that would come in handy: later rather than sooner, if I had any say in the matter.
    “Mom, that song you were just singing, what was it?”
    She pulled the disposable diaper’s plastic tape snugly across Leira’s concave belly. “I’m not sure I know the name of it. It’s