“Please, sit down,” said Michael. “As you know, I’m Dr. Michael Papa, but you can call me Michael. You know Dr. Brigid Dwyer —”
“Can we call you Brigid?” Nudge interrupted. “Brigid’s a neat name.”
“Yes, of course,” said Dr. Dwyer. “We’re pretty informal around here.”
“I’m Melanie Bone,” said another woman. “The communications specialist.” She had the sun-streaked, tan look of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors.
The others were introduced as Brian Carey, dive specialist; Emily Robertson, eco-paleontologist; Sue-Ann Wong, ice specialist, whatever that was; and Paul Carey, ship’s captain (and brother of Brian), navigator, and expert in South Polar wildlife. They all seemed nice, but they all had a scientist’s rabid curiosity, and I felt their eyes boring into us as if making us into Swiss cheese.
“Okay,” I said, standing up. I gauged the width of the room — about fifteen feet, just barely enough. “Let’s just get this out of the way.”
I looked behind me to make sure there was space, then rolled my shoulders and unfolded my wings slowly, trying not to whap anyone on the head. The scientists stared at me, transfixed, as my wings stretched out farther and farther. Nudge ducked as one passed over her head, and then they were mostly extended, almost fourteen feet across.
I must say, I do have pretty wings. They’re a lighter brown than my hair, but not as tawny as Nudge’s. My primary feathers, the big ones along the bottom outside edges, are streaked with black and white. The secondaries are streaked white and brown. On the undersides of my wings, the covert feathers are a soft ivory color. And over the tops and down the backs of my wings, I have shiny, strong brown feathers fading perfectly into the primaries.
My wings kick butt.
“So they’re not connected to your arms,” Melanie Bone said unnecessarily.
I shook my head. “Nope. We have six limbs.”
“Like dragons,” Nudge said helpfully. I grinned at her.
“Like insects,” said the Gasman.
“They’re so big,” said Emily Robertson. “They’re beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling self-conscious. “They have to be big because we’re bigger and heavier, proportionally, than birds.”
“How much do you weigh?” Paul Carey looked as though he wanted to take notes. Then he winced. “Sorry, I mean —”
“A bit less than a hundred pounds,” I answered. “The reason I don’t look like a skeleton is that our bones and muscles are made differently, lighter. So even though I’m five-eight, I look slender at ninety-seven pounds but not grotesquely skinny.”
They nodded.
“Do you identify as a human or as a bird?” Brigid asked.
No one had ever asked me that before. “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I look in the mirror and see a girl. I have hands and feet. But when I’m up in the sky, and the ground is far below . . . I feel my wings working, and I know I can get oxygen out of thin, high air . . . it doesn’t feel very . . . human.”
Which is pretty much the most unguarded, touchy-feely, heart-on-my-sleeve thing I’d ever said. I folded my wings in as my face flushed. I felt naked and stupid, and wished I’d kept my big mouth shut. Cheeks burning, I slumped down in my chair, not looking at anyone.
“I feel more human, I think,” Nudge said cheerfully. “I like clothes and fashion and doing my hair. The stuff I like is what kids like, what people like. Music and movies and reading. I mean, I never want to make a nest for myself or anything.”
We all laughed, and for once I was relieved at Nudge’s chattiness.
“I don’t feel all that human,” said Angel, looking thoughtful.
Fang tapped my leg with his foot under the table, as if to say, There’s a surprise.
“I’m not sure what I see when I look in the mirror,” Angel went on. You have to remember that she was only six. “When I think of me, I picture someone with wings. I know I’m not normal. There aren’t any kids to hang out with who are like me. Besides the flock. I know I don’t fit in anywhere.” She turned big blue eyes on Michael, who was gazing at her intently. “This world isn’t set up for people like me, like us.” She gestured to include the rest of the flock. “Nothing in this world is designed for us, designed to make us comfortable. We always stick out, we always make do. People want us, or want us dead, because of what we are, not who we are. It’s hard.”
The room was silent. The grown-ups had stricken looks on their faces, like they actually cared. It was pretty heartbreaking, to think of a little kid like Angel having those kinds of feelings. No one knew what to say.
Except Total.
“Not to be pushy,” he said, “but is there any way to get some chow in this place? I’m starving.”
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