Free The Amazing Life of Birds by Gary Paulsen Page B

I'm sound asleep, drooling on my pillow, out, dead, not even dreaming, and the next I'm lying flat on my back staring at the ceiling counting the square tiles.
    There are ninety-six of them.
    And strange things are happening to my body. Parts are moving inside me, and coming outside me, and other parts are tightening up, and when I went down to have breakfast I looked at the rooster on the cornflakes box and bam, ELBOW. For a split second Ithought the rooster had actually changed and turned into something else and I looked around wondering if anybody else had seen it but no. My father was sipping coffee over the sink, where he drinks it because he spills, and my mother was reading the newspaper while she ate a piece of dry toast because she worries about her weight, and my sister was sitting at the table wondering how to destroy the whole human race if she can't get her hair to look just … exactly …
perfect.
    So it was just me.
    And the rooster.
    And the ELBOW.
    Then it was gone.
    This morning I looked out at the birds as one of them brought the little guy a whole grasshopper, still alive, and stuck it in his mouth. It reminded me of the time Willy tried to get a whole hamburger in his mouth on a bet. It was just one of those White Castle bombs, not a big one, but still it was a mouthful and he almost choked to death before we figured out how to do the Heimlich maneuver on him. There were four of us and we each had a different idea about how it should be done until finally Pete Honer said, “He's turning blue,” and we all just grabbed something and squeezed and he gacked it up and out. Pickles and all.
    Except that the grasshopper was still alive and knew what was coming and spread his legs out acrossthe baby bird's face and wouldn't go down until the parent bird used its beak to jam him down the baby's throat.
    And then I thought maybe my life was not like the bird's but like the grasshopper's and that I was being eaten alive by puberty … but that got too weird.
    So this afternoon after school I called Willy. He's still my best friend but his family moved to another town seven miles away, just far enough for us to be in different schools. We get together on weekends.
    “Hi.”
    “Hi.”
    “This morning I woke up and counted the ceiling tiles.”
    “How many are there?”
    “Ninety-six.”
    “Cool.”
    “Then I went down to breakfast and I saw ELBOW on the side of the cereal box where the rooster was standing.”
    “I've never seen it on cereal boxes. But once on the side of a bus and twice looking up at the clouds.”
    “This morning the bird on my sill ate a whole grasshopper.”
    “Cool.”
    “It made me think of that time you choked on the burger.”
    “Cool.”
    “Well.”
    “Well.”
    “Catch you later.”
    “Cool.”
    Willy's got puberty the same as me and sometimes it helps to talk things over.
    It's good to have a friend.
    Especially if you have a nickname like Doo-Doo.
    I mean can you even
imagine
somebody named Doo-Doo driving a Ferrari around Chicago with a beautiful girl while a Rottweiler eats his principal?
    I didn't think so.

Day Four

    I woke up wondering what comes next.
    This morning I was lying on my side and when my eyes opened I started counting the slats on the blind that slides down over my window.
    Twenty-seven.
    They go from side to side, not top to bottom, and lying on my side and trying to count them made me dizzy so I got out of bed and fell on my face halfway to the upstairs bathroom.
    Good start.
    Then I looked in the mirror over the sink and there was a zit in the middle of my forehead. Not just a small one. A giant. It looked like something in there was trying to get out and when I pinched it …
    Well, enough of that. But now instead of a zit Ihave what the TV would call a “suppurating wound.” It isn't important to know what that means—just the sound of the words makes it work.
    I have another zit on my chest which the shirt will cover but in the mirror my face