able to speak.
“I’ll make you some tea,” Jazza said.
She went off and made me the tea, and I sat in my bed and gripped my throat. Though my heart had slowed to normal, there was still a tremor running through me. I picked up my phone to call my parents, but then tears started trickling from my eyes, so I shoved the phone under my blanket. I bunched myself up and took a few deep breaths. I needed to get this under control. I was fine. Nothing had happened to me. I couldn’t be the pathetic, weepy, useless roommate. I had wiped my face clean and was smiling, kind of, when Jazza returned. She handed me the tea, went to her desk and got something, then sat on the floor by my bed.
“When I have a bad night,” she said, “I look at my dogs.”
She held out a picture of two beautiful dogs—one smallish golden retriever and one very large black Lab. In the picture, Jazza was squeezing the dogs. In the background, there were green rolling hills and some kind of large white farmhouse. It looked too idyllic for anyone to actually live there.
“The golden one is Belle, and the big, soppy one is Wiggy. Wiggy sleeps in my bed at night. And that’s our house in the back.”
“Where do you live?”
“In a village in Cornwall outside of St. Austell. You should come sometime. It’s really beautiful.”
I slowly sipped my tea. It hurt my throat at first, but then the heat felt good. I reached over and got my computer and pulled up some pictures of my own. First, I showed her Cousin Diane, because I had just been talking about the angels. I had a very good picture of her standing in her living room, surrounded by figurines.
“You weren’t lying,” Jazza said, leaning on the bed and looking closely. “There must be hundreds of them!”
“I don’t lie,” I said. I flicked next to a picture of Uncle Bick.
“I can see the resemblance,” Jazza said.
She was right. Of all the members of my family, I looked most like him—dark hair, dark eyes, a very round face. Except I’m a girl, and I have fairly ample boobs and hips, and he’s a man in his thirties with a beard. But if I wore a fake black beard and a baseball cap that said BIRDBRAIN, I think people would immediately know we were related.
“He looks very young.”
“Oh, this is an old picture,” I said. “I think this was taken around the time I was born. It’s his favorite picture, so it’s the one I brought.”
“This is his favorite? It looks like it was taken in a supermarket.”
“See that woman kind of hiding behind the pile of cans of cranberry sauce?” I asked. “That’s Miss Gina. She runs the local Kroger—that’s a grocery store. Uncle Bick’s been courting her for nineteen years. This is the only picture of the two of them, which is why he likes it.”
“What do you mean, ‘courting her for nineteen years’?” Jazza asked.
“See, my uncle Bick—he’s really nice, by the way—he runs an exotic bird store called A Bird in the Hand. His life is pretty much all birds. He’s been in love with Miss Gina since high school, but he doesn’t really know how to talk to girls, so he’s just been … staying around her since then. He just tends to go where she goes.”
“Isn’t that stalking?” Jazza said.
“Legally, no,” I replied. “I asked my parents this when I was little. What he does is creepy and socially awkward, but it’s not actually stalking. I think the worst it ever got was the time he left a collage of bird feathers on the windshield of her car …”
“But doesn’t he scare her?”
“Miss Gina?” I laughed. “No. She has a whole bunch of guns.”
I made that last part up just to entertain Jazza. I don’t think Miss Gina has any guns. I mean, she might. Lots of people in our town do. But it’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t know him that Uncle Bick is actually harmless. You only have to see him with a miniature parrot to know this man couldn’t harm anything or anyone. Also, my mom would have him locked up in a flash if she thought he was actually up to something.
“I feel quite boring next to you,” Jazza said.
“Boring?” I repeated. “You’re English.”
“Yes. That’s not very interesting.”
“You … have a cello! And dogs! And you live in a farmhouse … kind of thing. In a village.”
“Again, that’s not very exciting. I love our village, but we’re all quite … normal.”
“In our town,” I said solemnly, “that would make you a kind of god.”
She laughed a little.
“I’m not kidding,” I said. “My family—I mean, my mom and dad and me—are the normal people in town. For example, there’s my uncle Will. He owns eight freezers.”
“That doesn’t sound so odd.”
“Seven of them are on the second floor, in a spare bedroom. He also doesn’t believe in banks, so he keeps his money in peanut butter jars in the closet. When I was little, he used to give me empty jars as gifts so I could collect money and watch it grow.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Then there’s Billy Mack, who started his own religion out of his garage, the People’s Church of Universal People. Even my grandmother, who is almost normal, poses for a formal photograph each year in a slightly revealing dress and mails said photo to all her friends and family, including my dad, who shreds it without opening the envelope. This is what my town is like.”
Jazza was quiet for a moment.
“I very much want to go to your town,” she finally said. “I’m always the boring one.”
From the way she said it, I got the impression that this was something Jazza felt deeply.
“You don’t seem boring to me,” I said.
“You don’t really know me yet. And I don’t have all of this.”
She waved at my computer to indicate my life in general.
“But you have all of this,” I said. I waved my arms too in an attempt to indicate Wexford and England in general, but it looked more like I was shaking invisible pom-poms.
I sipped my tea. My throat was feeling more normal now. Every once in a while, I would remember what it was like not being able to breathe and that strange whiteness …
“You don’t like Charlotte,” I said, blinking hard. I had to say something to get all that stuff out of my head. It was probably a little abrupt and rude.
Jazza’s mouth twitched. “She’s … competitive.”
“That seems like a polite word for what she is. Is that how she got to be head girl?”
“Well
