Free Blackbird Fly by Erin Entrada Kelly Page A

exploded in hellos as she and Evan stepped into our living room. His mom smelled like the art room at school. Nothing like the smell of Filipino food that had buried itself into the walls of our house. I tensed and looked at Evan, waiting for a reaction, something that might tell me he planned to pinch his nose for the rest of the school year. But he just lookedaround like it was normal. I was suddenly aware of everything in our house: the weird Santo Niño in the cabinet, my mom’s map of the Philippines on the wall, the dull-looking furniture in the living room, our small kitchen table with its one slightly wobbly leg. My house felt completely different with Evan here, like I was sharing a secret I wasn’t ready to tell.
    â€œI’m so glad Evan is going to the school dance with you, Apple,” his mom said. She put an arm around me. The bangles on her wrist jangled. She had on a long dress covered in flowers and splattered with paint. “You look gorgeous! Just like Elizabeth Taylor.”
    My mom smiled wildly as they made the usual introductions.
    â€œI couldn’t believe it when Evan told me he was going to a school dance already,” said Anna. She had the happiest smile I’d ever seen. “I was worried it would take him a long time to adjust, but he seems to be doing okay, going to the dance with a prettygirl and all.” She glanced down at her dress. “As for me, I look a mess. My apologies. I can’t help it much though. All my clothes are a nightmare.”
    â€œYou should use our dry cleaner. They’re very good and won’t rip you off,” said my mother.
    She started telling Evan’s mother all about our dry cleaner. Of all the things to talk about. My embarrassment grew to epic proportions. I didn’t want to look at my mom, Evan, or my house, so I focused on one of the flowers on Mrs. Temple’s dress instead. It was a daisy that looked like it was being eaten by a big glob of white paint.
    â€œI’m an artist, so it’s no use trying to keep anything clean,” said Anna. “I paint.”
    â€œOh, a painter!” said my mother. “What do you paint?”
    â€œAbstracts, mostly.”
    â€œThat’s a fancy word for paintings that don’t make any sense,” Evan mumbled.
    His mother shot him a scolding glance.
    Evan and I sat at the almost-wobbly table next to each other as our mothers exchanged numbers and started talking about stuff like Evan’s dad and his new job. Evan chewed on his fingernail. I ran my hand over my hair. I had to put extra conditioner in it to make it softer before I straightened it. It felt weird.
    â€œHow come you told your mom my name was Apple?” I whispered to Evan.
    â€œSorry, I guess I forgot,” he said, still chewing. “But it’s just because you look more like an Apple.”
    Was he saying I had a big head? I didn’t ask.
    â€œIt’s neat that your mom’s a painter,” I said. “I bet she’s good at it.”
    â€œIf you like crazy paintings that don’t look like anything,” he said, brushing his hair away from his forehead. I wondered why he didn’t just cut his hair if it bothered him so much. “Sorry about her clothes. She’s always covered in paint or has chopsticks coming out of her head. She’s kinda weird.”
    I thought about her big smile, how she smelledlike the art room, and all the bright paint stains. I wondered what it was like to have a mom who loved to create things. I bet she wouldn’t have any problem with Evan learning how to play an instrument, even if it was something out of the ordinary, like the organ or the harp. I bet she had a favorite song.
    â€œShe seems really cool,” I said.
    â€œI guess,” Evan replied.
    Mrs. Temple offered to bring us to the dance, and I prayed that she would, but my mom insisted on driving us there.
    â€œI love driving around,” said my