Read Online The Language of Sparrows by Rachel Phifer - Free Book Online

Without taking a shower, she turned out the lights and curled up in bed, dry-eyed.
     
    The sun finally rose, and somehow Sierra got dressed and to school. She meandered from class to class, not quite remembering how she got to each room. After school, she passed a bunch of guys leaning against the lockers.
    “Hey, hot thang,” one of them yelled out.
    Emilio made a circle around her, looking her up and down and shaking a hand in front of his face. “Mmmm, mmm.”
    Sierra froze and tried not to see him. There was laughter behind her, then it suddenly got quiet. She turned. Carlos had his hand on Emilio’s shoulder. Emilio reached up to remove his hand, but Carlos, with a face hard enough to be carved in rock, didn’t let go.
    “You want her, she’s all yours, man,” Emilio said.
    Emilio and his friends headed down a side hall, but Carlos was still there. “You need to tell them to back off, Sierra. Let them know they can’t talk to you that way.”
    She shifted her backpack to her other shoulder. Hadn’t he been the one teasing her just a few weeks ago? She thought back and wasn’t sure anymore. She wasn’t sure what to say. Thank you. That would be good, but she didn’t say it.
    Carlos closed the distance between them. “Hey, I’m going over to your place again.” His bright smile startled her. “Maybe I could walk you home?” He spoke so quietly and bent his head to her, as if he asked a special favor. A strand of his hair fell into his eyes, and he pushed it back.
    She closed her eyes. She couldn’t breathe. “I have to talk to a teacher. You go ahead.”
    “I’ll wait.”
    She shook her head.
    “Later then.”
    He shrugged like it didn’t matter. She moved into the stairwell but turned to look after him walking down the hall. He walked like he couldn’t get to the door soon enough.
    She trudged up to Mr. Foster’s room. At first she thought he’d already left for the weekend—the classroom looked empty—and she went hollow inside. Waiting for this moment was what had gotten her through the day.
    She turned to leave, but then she heard a movement. Mr. Foster rose from behind his desk. He had been kneeling beside a box of books.
    “Sierra.” He said it in a pleasant voice, as if he’d been waiting for her to stop by.
    She closed the door behind her, but he said, “Leave it open, please.”
    No, he wouldn’t want anyone to accuse him of being a molester, would he?
    She laid the sketchbook on his desk and dropped into a student desk.
    Mr. Foster picked up the sketchbook, but he didn’t untie the ribbon. He looked at her, a question in his eyes. He looked American, but she wondered now how she could have missed it. He had Mr. Prodan’s light eyes, his mouth. It would be easier if he looked like a stranger.
    She gathered her courage. “I—” Her breath came in a short burst. “It’s for him.”
    “You want me to give this to my father?”
    “He’s not what they accused him of.”
    There was no argument in his eyes, just sadness.
    “He’s not dangerous.” Her voice cracked. “How can you not know your own dad?”
    Sierra could swear he flinched.
    “He’s not dangerous,” she repeated.
    He tapped her sketchbook. He didn’t look sorry or mad. He just slid her sketchbook into his satchel. “You have my promise. I’ll give it to him.”
    “It’s none of my business. Your dad told me it wasn’t. But I still think it’s strange that you don’t have his name.”
    “None of your business? Is that what he said to you?”
    Sierra wanted to shake her head and say it hadn’t been like that, but she couldn’t remember what it had been like now. Mr. Prodan hadn’t been unkind though.
    “I’ll tell you.” Mr. Foster came around the desk, leaned against it, and lifted up his hands to her. “If you want to know.”
    She wanted to hear Mr. Foster explain why his dad got all quiet at the sound of his own son’s name. But instead she shook her head. “I’d rather hear what your