Free Stonebird by Mike Revell Page B

something else hits me. I told a story about him protecting me, and Matt and his friends left me alone. They didn’t come into the church. Or maybe they couldn’t come into the church.
    “Was it you keeping them out?” I say. “Was it you protecting me?”
    Up close, his eyes are bigger than tennis balls. His beak looks sharp enough to cut through bone. The wings are long, reaching out as if he’s stretching, and his legs are hunched, ready to pounce.
    For a second I see him leaping at me, but I shake the image away.
    I look for any sign of where he might have been, but there’s nothing. Just smooth, clean stone. He’s even in the same position. In fact, it’s as though he never moved at all.
    “Look,” I say, standing right in front of him now, “I don’t mind that you vanished. I’m quite glad you did, actually—I don’t think Jess would understand. And she’d probably tell Mom, and then I might not be able to come see you anymore. It’s just . . .”
    What am I trying to say?
    What am I doing?
    Even though there’s no one else here, it still feels weird talking out loud. If Matt and his friends did come in now, I’d probably die on the spot, and even if I didn’t, they’d never let me forget this.
    But if it wasn’t for Stonebird, if it wasn’t for the creepy church, if it wasn’t for my story, then they’d probably be beating me up right now.
    “I just wanted to say thanks,” I say quietly.
    The words die on the stale air, and somehow it doesn’t feel enough.
    I reach up and touch his cold stone face. But it’s not cold. Not like it should be. I leap back, scramble as far as I can, because suddenly the image of him attacking me isn’t stupid.
    He’s warm. He was warm before and he’s warm again. I didn’t imagine it.
    And if he’s warm, he must be alive.

17
    “Where have you been ? We’re going to be late!”
    Mom’s waiting for me when I get home. Jess is there too. She’s fiddling with her nails and paying a lot of attention to the floor. Even though she didn’t go to school, she’s dressed in her school uniform.
    “Why are you wearing . . . ?”
    She cuts me off with an evil glare.
    “Um . . . Where are we going?” I ask, trying to sound natural.
    “To see Grandma! She was asking after you yesterday, so I said I’d bring you along.”
    I close my eyes and silently ask Nancy Wake the White Mouse for good luck. Hopefully Grandma will be in one of her happy moods again.
    “Are you okay?” says Mom. “You look a bit ill.”
    I think of the gargoyle. Stonebird. I can still feel his warmth on my fingers. I’m not going crazy.
    “I’m fine,” I say.
    Anyway, she’s the one that looks ill. Her veins are dark through her skin, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see rain fall from the bags under her eyes. I try and make my eyes do smiles like Daisy does when she’s happy, and it must work, because Mom’s lips twitch, and for a minute her face looks real again.
    It makes me remember Mrs. Culpepper saying Happy memories are powerful things .
    You know how sometimes when you go and visit your Grandma in a retirement home you wonder if it’s really worth it because the next day she won’t even remember? But then you realize it’s not just about spending time with Grandma, it’s about spending time with Mom too, because these are Mom’s memories as well and every memory counts.
    That’s how I’m feeling now. Maybe that’s what Mrs. Culpepper meant.
    “Come on,” Mom says. “Let’s go.”
    We get there just after Grandma’s finished eating her dinner. A nurse with a wheeled cart full of dirty plates and leftover bits of food backs out of the door. She winks and says, “She’s in a good mood!”
    Something flickers in Mom’s face. She’s got the World’s Biggest Smile. She grabs our hands and pulls us in, and there she is, there’s Grandma, lying in bed licking bits of meat and carrot and gravy off her fingers.
    She doesn’t see us at first. When we get