In the Arms of Stone Angels - By Jordan Dane Page 0,5

loved being outdoors, even though most kids made fun of me. To them I was a skinny weird geek who hung out with dead people.

The town kids laughed at me. And I pretended not to care.

One afternoon I found a bird with a broken wing by the creek. It was flopping on the ground near the water and chirping, struggling to get away from a calico cat that was stalking it. The cat was flicking its tail and was ready to pounce. One second later and that bird would have been dead meat. And I would have witnessed a bent version of the circle of life, with me having a ringside seat to something I didn’t want to see.

“Git!” I yelled. “Leave it alone.”

I waved my hands to scare the cat away. It hissed at me and eyed the bird one more time before it took off into the bushes. I was left with a hurt bird and had to catch it to bring it home.

I bent over to scoop it in my hands—trying not to hurt it more than it already was—but the scared little thing thrashed around until I thought it would die. The bird was frantic and I was afraid it would keel over from shock. In that bird’s eyes, I was scarier than the cat and way bigger.

But a husky voice stopped me.

“Don’t chase it. Make it come to you.”

I turned and let out a scream. I’m sure I looked like a lunatic, all wide-eyed and frightened like that panting little bird.

“Back off…or I’ll scream. And I’ll kick you in the nuts. I swear to God, I’ll do it.” I threatened him and tried to look as if I knew where his nuts were, with my heart pounding out of control.

“Thanks for the warning.” He grinned.

I had to remind myself to breathe. Sure I was still scared, but something about this boy tickled a feeling deep in my belly. My stomach was doing flip-flops like hitting the peak of the roller coaster and barreling down the track out of control. And I wanted to hold on to the feeling, but I made the mistake of glancing down.

I was trapped inside the body of a thirteen-year-old girl dressed in neon blue shorts with matching shoes and a floral top that looked like I’d barfed bright yellow daisies down my flat chest. And to make things worse, I smelled like creek water and I had deliberately wiped my muddy hands all over my lame outfit—the only retaliation I had against my mother’s taste. At the time I thought coming home caked in mud would be funny, but at that very moment…not so much.

The boy at the creek wasn’t much older than I was, but his low voice made him sound mature. He wore his straight dark hair long to his shoulders and his appearance made him stand out from anyone else I knew. Most of the boys at my school had a burr cut that looked like they wore a bowl on their heads.

He had on worn jeans cinched with a woven leather belt that was beaded, something handmade. And he had on an unusual shirt—nothing off the rack—a gray-and-white print shirt with pale blue ribbons sewn into a crisscross pattern over his chest. Strands of satin hung down, blowing in the faint breeze. I’d seen a Native American Ribbon shirt before, but not close up. The shirt matched the bead colors threaded into his leather moccasins.

And the boy’s skin was dark as if he spent time in the sun. I liked that. My skin was tanned, too. He also moved with a confidence that I hadn’t seen before. Boys my age roughhoused too much, but this boy wasn’t afraid to be gentle. And when he kept his distance, I knew it was because he was waiting for me to get used to him being there.

“I won’t hurt you.” His voice was calm.

That was the first time I had seen White Bird. I found out later that he liked coming to the creek, too.

“Will you let me help?” he asked. After I nodded, he said, “Then back away and give me room.”

I did as he told me. And when I was far enough away, I watched him ease near the injured bird. He had such patience and even though his hands were bigger, they weren’t as clumsy as mine. He spoke to it in a language I didn’t understand with his voice low. It was comforting, even to