Birdie marched down the crowded street of Nowhere. It was nearly seven and everyone was hurrying to get to work. There usually weren't many people in Nowhere, but it seemed that everyone from every corner of the town was on the sidewalks at seven o'clock.
Birdie had somehow, miraculously, finished her obituary pieces before she had to turn it in to the Post.
She took the steps to the office two at a time but stopped when she sensed a ghost nearby.
They were difficult to see in the daytime, even with her energy making them stronger. But it was the familiar static that crawled across her skin whenever she got close to a spirit that made her pause.
She squinted at the old rocking chair on the porch that was barely creaking back and forth. It could've easily been the wind brushing against it if Birdie didn't know any better.
"Miss Amelia, is that you?" Birdie asked.
The ghost who'd died by swallowing the newt apparently stood from the rocking chair, because it gave one hefty creak as she stood up before slowing to a stop.
"I was just thinking about that article..." a disembodied voice said, speaking into Birdie's mind instead of out loud. Nobody else could hear it except Birdie.
Amelia had proven to be a rather weak ghost. Most of them could be seen and even heard by everyone around them if they were given enough energy. But Amelia filled Birdie's mind with sighs, refusing to put any effort forth in becoming corporeal.
"I'm sorry, but I can't change it now," Birdie apologized. Ghosts were always so particular about their obituaries, which was why Birdie had to write them at home so as not to be disturbed in public.
"Yes, well..."
"I'll make sure to put the first copy in your hands--" Birdie winced, realizing that Amelia couldn't actually hold anything, given her weak state. "Er, I mean, somewhere you'll be able to find it."
"Very funny."
"Have a nice day, Miss Amelia."
Birdie went to unlock the door to the office but found that it had already been opened.
Odd, she thought. She was usually the first one there.
She pushed it open and a friendly bell tinkled overhead.
There was only room for four desks in the building, even though the space was larger than most facilities in Nowhere. This was because a printing press from the 1800s sat in the middle of the floor. It smelled like grease and ink and paper and if Birdie could make a candle out of it, she would make dozens of them.
Her soft smile immediately disappeared when a head looked up from one of the desks in the corner.
What was he doing here?
This "he" was called Sal Hickory. He was three years older than Birdie and owned the printing press which kept the Nowhere Post in business.
He was usually in New York, where he worked for the Times as a journalist. Birdie envied him but consoled herself in the fact that at least she didn't have a nose the size of a horseshoe like he did.
"Miss Penny! I was hoping to catch you before everyone else got here," he said, standing up (and up and up. He was very tall).
Birdie's mouth tightened.
She'd known Sal for several years now, ever since she started working for the Post after school and during the summer.
At first, she'd taken a fancy to him, big nose and all. He'd seemed so scholarly and artistic and honest. But honest people, she learned, were sometimes the most dishonest people on the planet.
Once you get someone to believe you're honest, you can lie about anything.
Sal couldn't be labeled a "liar", but he was certainly dishonest. He copied fragments of other people's work, portrayed himself as a gentleman but did more than write journalism pieces in New York, Birdie had heard.
He wasn't a bad man. But he was shallow. And Birdie would much more appreciate an outright bad person than a person who was only made of shells--hollow and empty.
"I need the press," Birdie replied flatly, gripping her stack of papers tighter.
Sal lumbered over to her carefully as if she was a wild animal ready to attack. He was only half wrong in his caution. "What do you have there?"
Birdie deftly moved her papers out of his reach. "Nothing of importance."
"What's the big secret?"
"No secret. Just none of your business."
Sal sighed. "Can we just talk for a second?"
Birdie frowned but didn't reply. She knew where this was going. Where it always went. She figured she would never be good at professing love for someone, but she was certainly getting good at rejecting it.
"All the time I was in New York, I was thinking about you."
"Out of everything there is to do and see in New York City, what a waste of time."
"I'm being serious, Birdie."
Birdie lifted her chin, ready to get it over with.
"I know I've expressed my feelings before," he said, even more cautiously than before.
"But..."
"Don't say it, Sal," Birdie said earnestly.
"I love you," he finished.
Birdie's heart sank with dread. "It'll pass."
Heat crept up to Sal's cheeks. At first, Birdie thought he was embarrassed, but then he said in a sharp tone, "Birdie."
That one word was what made all the pity in Birdie's conscience flee. He wasn't pleading anymore. He was commanding. And if there was one thing Birdie Penny did not like, it was being told.
"Could you ever even consider it?" Sal asked, crossing his arms and tapping his foot in agitation. "One day?"
Birdie looked up to see that his face was truly sullen. Disappointed. She sighed. "Look, Sal, you're decent. And one day someone will love you. But you can't force them to. People are like the sun; you can't tell them when to rise. They'll shine when they're ready."
They fell into an awkward silence as Birdie fed each piece into the printer and scrambled to reset the letters, her cheeks ruddy with distress and distraction. She wished she could be anywhere but in this room.
The work was hard and messy and tedious, but Birdie liked to imagine Benjamin Franklin doing the same thing when he wrote about the Revolutionary War.
As she searched high and low for the letter "Z" stamp, she felt Sal's eyes on her as she worked.
She tried to ignore him and failed. He itched at the back of her mind like a wool blanket.
She couldn't even imagine what Sal saw--or thought he saw--in her. They had met during his last year of high school, before he inherited the Post from his father and got an internship in New York.
Their first conversation was unremarkable, to say the least.
But whatever had happened in Sal's mind must have stuck, because he always made sure to see Birdie whenever he was in town.
Birdie had cried the first time he'd asked her on a date. In fact, she hated him for it. This was one paradox that made up the whole of Birdie Penny: she wanted to be romanced like they were in novels, but if anyone so much as looked her way, she was offended for a reason she couldn't explain.
She'd felt terrible about rejecting Sal, but it had turned out to be more than a blessing that she did.
And now here she was, rejecting him again. The word "love" clanged around in her head like a caged bird, flapping its wings at every corner of her thoughts.
By the time Birdie was finished printing off her obituaries, it was nearly three o'clock. She had over two-hundred prints of her seven pieces published. On Saturday night, they'd be put together with the rest of the articles and delivered on Sunday.
Birdie looked around to see that Sal was already gone. She breathed a sigh of relief.
She felt bad for him, but not bad enough to refrain from writing angry and vivid words about him in her journal later on.
She stepped onto the porch and into the humid air, stifling sunlight temporarily blinding her.
With her vision impaired, Birdie almost didn't see Wyatt Best coming down the street with two pieces of plywood precariously balancing on his shoulders.
She scrambled to hide behind the rocking chair, probably looking like a child, but not caring in the least as long as she couldn't be seen.
She'd had more than enough male interaction today and didn't know if she could bear another moment of it.
Though Wyatt Best was a different issue entirely.
Birdie watched him like a hawk, her clever eyes scrutinizing the oblivious boy.
He was struggling to carry the plywood as it kept snagging his silly sweater vest, but he was trying.
Birdie frowned, thinking about everything Marigold had told them and about their meeting that morning.
He was polite, she'd give him that. But politeness didn't earn trust.
Birdie had been hopeful when she saw that her sisters were just as concerned about him as she was. But this morning their eyes were twinkling brighter than a star on a clear winter's night. They were taken with him. Or at least, the idea of him.
Especially Marigold.
Birdie noticed the way she'd made a point to show off her dimples, which only appeared when she ate a lemon or when she was flirting with someone.
Marigold was driven. She made plans for her plans. But when someone caught her eye, she was taken off course faster than a gambler at a casino.
It wouldn't be so bad if Birdie knew she was serious and making logical choices. But Marigold was hardly ever serious about her relationships.
What do you know? Marigold had said on several occasions. You've never even been in one.
She was right. But Birdie knew more about love than she was willing to admit. Oftentimes it is because a person knows the truest love that they are afraid of it.
I think he's gone, a disembodied voice said.
Birdie's frown deepened. "I didn't think you'd still be here, Miss Amelia."
I wanted to make sure you finished my obituary.
"Your obituary will be published on Sunday." Birdie tried to crawl out of her hiding spot in a dignified manner, but there was hardly anything dignified about hobbling out from behind a rocking chair.
How do I know I'll get it?
"I promise I'll give it to you on Sunday," Birdie said.
Miss Amelia harrumph-ed in Birdie's mind, then said, Where will I be able to find you? Behind this rocking chair? Or in some other hiding spot?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hey everyone! I was so excited to get to introduce Birdie a little more in this chapter!
~What do you think of Birdie so far?
~What about her predicament with Sal?
~General thoughts on the chapter?
Thank you SoOooooOO much for reading! {Don't forget to comment, vote, and share!}