Monday, March 17
The pigeon made me late. It caught me on my way out, standing in the old mint pot on the fire escape outside our apartment’s kitchen window. A shiny patch on its neck like soap bubble rainbows grabbed my eye. I didn’t know feathers could shine that way. We stared at each other for a handful of heartbeats, close enough to touch except for the glass. It was a prettier pigeon than the ones eating trash on the street.
The street door buzzer buzzed three times. I jumped. The pigeon flew off.
It was Mom waiting downstairs, telling me to hurry up, because guess what? We were late.
Scott sighed all dramatic, eyeing me like a hallway monitor from his dog bed. I gave him quick pats.
“Later, Scott.”
Tuesday, March 18
The pigeon came back after school. I watched it awhile, until Scott leaned against my ankle. “See the bird?” I asked. His tail wagged a little, and he sniffed the window. I gave him pats.
There’s a photo by the front door of me and Scott as a puppy. I’m pre-pre-K and smiling, with a black puff of fur the size of a grapefruit in my lap. Scott’s the fur puff. You can’t
