Page 1 of My Best Years

ONE

Birdie

Eight Years Old

“Your hair is messy,” I mutter to the mysterious boy sitting beside me on the bus.

For some reason, he always chooses to sit next tome. But he doesn't ever speak. I think he’s in the third grade too, because sometimes he carries a folder with Mrs. Wilder’s name scribbled on the top.

I hoped Mrs. Wilder would be my teacher this year. Instead, I got Mrs. Kim. She’s really nice too.

He furrows his dark brows, scowling at me from the corner of his icy-blue eyes. His black hair reminds me of my mom’s mop. It flops over his forehead, bouncing up and down each time we hit a bump in the road.

“Your hair is messy…You always take the bus to school but live in the hugest house I’ve ever seen.”

My face scrunches up in confusion because rich kids don’t take the bus.

Each time we stop at his place, I wonder if his dad is a doctor or if his mom is an astronaut. It has to be the biggest house on the planet.

My eyes snap to his when he finally speaks.

“I may have messy hair,” he starts, “but at least my name isn't Birdie. Kind of a silly name, don’t you think?”

The boy with the messy hair is mean.

“Hey!” I shout, kicking his foot beneath the seat. “That’s not nice.”

He chuckles. And even though I’m mad, his laugh makes me want to laugh.

“What?” he arches a brow and shrugs. “You started it.”

I stick my tongue out at him.

“You can fix your hair,” I pout, crossing my arms over my chest. “But I can’t change my name. It’s permanent since my parents gave it to me.”

“Nobody’s name is permanent,” he shakes his head before pausing to think. “But…I don’t think you should change yours. I was just playing with you. Birdie is a cool name.”

He nudges my shoulder with his, and I feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I’ve never had a butterfly flopping around in my stomach, but I think this is how it would feel.

“Wait…” I trail off, pinching my brows together. “How do you know my name?”

He quickly looks away. His eyes bounce around before landing on my sea-green backpack.

“Your, uh,” he stutters. “Your bag. Birdie Wren.”

I narrow my eyes and look down, staring at my first and middle name sewn into the front of my bag. My mom always puts my name on things. I guess so I won’t lose them.

I don’t believe him, though. I think he knew my name already.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Callum.”

Callum.

Callum. Callum. Callum.

“Callum,” I repeat, testing out his name for the first time.

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