It’s April and time to feed the birds again—just like last year, and the year before that, and before that. Well—you get it. I only know it’s April because they told me it was April.
I’m not sure why I need to start in April, which is just like March. Why not start in May, which is just like April? The birds don’t even show up until I put out food. They’re not hanging around starving, waiting for me.
And why do I stop in October? Where do the birds go? No matter where we go, I never see birds except when I’m feeding them.
Every year I’ve gotten the same lecture when I complained to Mom.
“Cassandra, it’s your job to feed the birds. There’s nobody else. Your sister isn’t old enough, and your brother’s assigned to engineering.”
Mom told me two Aprils ago it would just be a few more years, that I was getting old enough for a new job. But that hasn’t happened.
And nobody has told me where the birds come from. Or where we get their food. Every day when I go to pick up the food, it’s always the same: this bag for red, this smaller bag for yellow, these wiggly, wormy-looking things for brown, and this gelatinous purple gunk for orange. I like that word, gelatinous. It sounds smart, and it’s fun to say. Sometimes a blue one flies in, but I don’t have a special bag for them.
The food is, well—yuck. It smells bad. It’s greasy and oily. I almost puked when I tasted some. I don’t know how they eat it.
When I ask all sorts of questions, I just get more lectures: “I need to learn how to take care of animals.” “It’s part of growing up.” “You owe it to the community.” Blah…Blah…Blah.
This year I’m going to find out on my own. What are they going to do—throw me in bird jail?
That’s why I’m sneaking around the bird food building. I’d slipped out when the lights went off. Everything was quiet except for the nightly wind. Everybody was at home.
I want to see just what’s going on with these damn birds. I can think that, but Mom scolds me when I say it out loud. It’s the truth, though. These damn birds are a pain, and I don’t get it.
I head down the middle of the food pickup room, behind the counter and through the door. Not locked, of course. They didn’t figure on a kid skulking around at night. Or maybe there’s nothing worth locking up.
I turn on my small light.
Holy crap. What the heck is this?
Birds everywhere. Just sitting there. Red ones here, yellow there, brown, orange, even all the blue ones together. Like they’re asleep.
I creep towards the table at the back, staying quiet and keeping a close eye on the birds. Not sure what I would do if they all started flying.
On the table are all kinds of birds, just lying open with their guts hanging out. Not slimy, gooey guts like we learned about in school, but gears and wires and springs and … stuff like my brother Arthur talks about.
I got out of there fast and ran all the way home.
Banging through the front door, “Mom. Mom. Mom. It’s the birds. What’s wrong with the birds?”
Mom put her book down. “What are you talking about, Honey? What about the birds?”
“They’re machines, Mom. They’re not real.”
“Sit down, Cassandra. I guess it’s time for The Talk.”
“The Talk? About what? The stupid bird machines?”
Mom took my hand and smoothed my hair with her other hand. I could see tears getting ready. She’s going to cry. I hate it when she cries.
“Honey. You’re growing up and you need to know some things.” Mom took a slow breath. Uh-oh. “There are no actual birds.”
“Well, duh, Mom. I figured that out. Seems kind of a waste of time to feed them?” I crossed my arms and gave her my best mad face.
“Now, Cassandra. We couldn’t take care of live birds on the voyage to the new planet. But the founders knew we needed them, or we’d lose our connection to nature. So, we have our children feed them. Eventually, they figure it out, like you did. Now it will be your sister’s turn.”
“Well, that’s just damn dumb.” That drew a scowl. “Sorry, Mom. But that’s nuts. What are we going to do when we get there?”
“Then we’ll make real birds. That will be your great-great-great-great-grandchildren’s job. For now, we’ll just keep practicing.”
That is too weird. Maybe someday I’ll understand, like when I’m old like Mom.
At least I don’t have to feed the damn birds anymore.