Free Time to Fly by Laurie Halse Anderson Page B

this,” I say, scrolling down. “It says that thousands and thousands of birds die from suffocation, starvation, or rough treatment while they’re being smuggled in.” I turn to Gran. “I just can’t stand the thought of all those poor birds suffering. There must be something we can do about this!”
    Gran blinks, then gives me a sad, almost wistful smile.
    â€œWhat?” I say, puzzled.
    â€œOh, you suddenly reminded me of another girl I used to know.”
    â€œSomebody who used to work with you at the clinic?”
    â€œWell, yes, actually.” Gran gets a misty expression. “Your mother.”
    â€œI remind you of Mom ?”
    But before I can ask her about that, Mom herself charges into the office with a pad and pen in her hand, the cordless phone clutched between her ear and shoulder. “Ma, what’s your fax number?”
    Gran gestures at the fax machine sitting in a corner, buried under folders and books. “Sorry, Rose, it’s broken. Hasn’t worked in months.”
    â€œMa, how can you run a business without a fax?” Mom shakes her head in exasperation. “There must be a copy shop around here where you can fax it to,” she tells the caller. “I’ll get a number and call you right back.” She clicks off the phone and starts to leave, then turns to me. “Zoe, I’m going to run into Ambler. The producer needs to fax me some script changes for next week’s taping.” Then she adds hesitantly, “Want to come? We could stop for ice cream.”
    Gran looks at me, and I squirm. I know I should go with Mom. Here’s my chance to tell her how I really feel, like Gran said. The only problem is, I don’t know how I really feel. So how can I tell Mom what I want, if I’m not even sure myself?
    â€œI—I’m kind of busy right now, Mom. I’m, uh, doing some research on parrots. It’s really important. But thanks anyway. Maybe we can, um, discuss our plans when you get back,” I finish lamely.
    â€œOK, sounds good.” She throws me one of her chipper smiles and heads out the door.
    Gran stands up and stretches. “Well, Zoe, patients start arriving in about ten minutes, so I’ll be off too.” I can tell she’s disappointed in me for not joining Mom.
    Well, I can live with that. I mean, after everything I’ve just learned about smuggled parrots, their well-being somehow seems more important right now than my own problems. After all, it’s a life-and-death matter for the parrots.
    Turning to the computer, I go back to the search engine and key in feral parrots . “Feral” means an animal that’s escaped and is living wild. I learned that when Maggie, Sunita, David, Brenna, and I discovered a huge pack of feral cats living in an abandoned boxcar last fall.
    The first site I visit tells all about the Monk parakeets in Chicago. The people who are studying them make a big point of saying there’s no evidence of the birds causing crop damage in the U.S. That’s good to know. I’ll have to tell Mr. Cowan.
    Then I read about the parrots in San Francisco. Apparently there’s not one but two flocks there. I hop from site to site with growing excitement. There are parrot flocks in Texas, in Rhode Island, in Florida, and even—my heart starts pounding—in Southern California! In fact, I stumble across a major Web site, the California Parrot Project, devoted to “researching parrots in the wilds of California’s suburban jungles.” Who knew?!
    The people working on the California Parrot Project seem to be mostly scientists and professional researchers. For years they’ve been studying the feral parrot flocks, which they call “naturalized,” so they know a lot about parrots living wild in city neighborhoods. My mind starts spinning with ideas. If I were living in Southern California, I could volunteer with this organization