Duck-Bird Room

I had always hated hanging out at Rick’s house. There was a very specific vibe there, like even when we were in the basement (which was supposed to be “the kids’ room”), it felt like we were somewhere we weren’t supposed to be. That’s because, even in “the kids’ room,” there was all sorts of shit that we weren’t really allowed to touch. All furniture was off-limits for sitting, apart from this one ripped-up, bubble-gum pink loveseat in front of the TV. The wall-to-wall cream carpeting couldn’t get a speck of dirt on it. Every one of the stain-glass lamps had been imported from Naples, so they couldn’t even be turned on. And then, of course, there were the paintings. Horrible, gaudy prints depicting North American wildlife in jewel-tones, hugged by ornate, gold-painted frames. Emerald-colored furs and wine-colored wings, ivory antlers and deep violet spots. That’s just not the kind of stuff that can casually hang above your head while you play video games, as clearly demonstrated by Rick being unable to match my killer combo and accidentally smacking one of the duck paintings in its face.

He was staring at me like it was my fault, though, so I rolled my eyes at him and pulled myself off of the couch. Rick never realized what a gift it was that I even spent time with him. There were plenty of other people who would love to spend the afternoon with me, playing video games and making out. 

His hands shook around the frame. “I think I’m going to need to get some wood glue.”

“Fine,” I said, adjusting my weight on the carpet. “Whatever.”

“But we don’t have wood glue.”

I honestly felt like I could’ve screamed. “So, what do you want me to do about that, Rick? Get in my car and drive to the store?

“I was kind of hoping so, yeah. Me and you.”

Oh my God. I played with my car keys in my pocket, thinking about how great it would be to leave the frame as is, and maybe even worse. How awesome it would feel to push my fist through the flimsy paper canvas and feel the duck pattern come out the other side, underneath my fingernails all gnarled and split. That would piss Rick’s mom off so much, the hideous woman who was responsible for those dire paintings, as well as every other inch of Rick’s horribly furnished, moss-colored chalet. All the money in the world couldn’t buy that woman some taste, and she had all of the money in the world.

“Fine, Rick, let’s get in the car.”

I drove (as always), pulling out of the uneven dirt driveway with an adeptness that had taken the whole summer to perfect. It was very hard to drive around all of Rick’s property, because though it was very expensive to purchase, his mother didn’t pay a cent to maintain it. It was all thorns and overgrown vines, tall, itchy grass wrapped around lost garden artifacts: rusted wheelbarrows, water wells, and stones. Rick always offered to hang out out there, amongst all that wreckage, on summer days like that one. He liked to put beach chairs out on the lawn and just sit there, eyes closed, leaned back. I had entertained the idea when we were younger and just friends, but when we tried to do it in high school, I found that teeny tiny garden bugs would always fly up my nose and tickle me until I had to jump up and swat them away. Since then, we would hang out inside with the air conditioning on instead.

I could feel my legs sticking to the leather interior of my car and turned the air on in there too. Rick smiled lightly in agreement but didn’t close the window, instead continuing to stick his hand out of it and make air dolphins. He had his vintage Aviators on, which I liked so much, and his butter yellow short-sleeve shirt was unbuttoned just a bit at the top.

“You want some music?” I asked, my hand springing out to grip the radio knobs.

“I’m good,” he said.

My hand fell back into my lap.

“Unless you want to?” he offered.

“No, I’m fine.”

We listened to the hum of the day, the open window car sounds. I remembered that this was why I liked hanging out with Rick so much. I had never had a boyfriend who was anything like him: so comfortable and peaceful. Every other guy I had ever dated had a constant nervous energy whenever they were around me, like every word or move they made could go completely wrong. They’d giggle as they’d undo my blouse and sweat in my face while we kissed. So oafish. And they were cute, of course (much cuter than Rick: brawny and built like football players, as opposed to Rick’s knobby knees and permed hair), but they never knew how to last. They would hook up with me and then get confused, maybe date me for a month while they fumbled around our conversations, sent me weird texts and never met my family. Rick had a staying power to outlast them all. He had been my friend waiting in the sidelines while I did my silly, high school dating thing, only to ask me out during the last week of our Senior year, as if to prove his undying patience for me.

His hands were twitching his lap, atop his bouncing knees.

“What are you nervous about?” I asked.

“That’s one of my mom’s favorite fucking paintings,” he laughed bitterly. “She calls that room the Duck-Bird Room…like, in honor of it.”

Who even cares? “Then why does she keep it in “the kids’ room?” That feels kind of ridiculous, if she doesn’t want anything to happen to it.”

“Well, it used to be the kids’ room, but now it’s the game room, since my brothers moved out and she doesn’t feel like she has any kids anymore.”

Classic Rick’s mom. The titles and the rules. The constant, meaningless naming of things…as well as the forgetting of Rick’s existence. So careful, yet so careless. Who was Rick to her, compared to the superstar sons she had before him, who were all lawyers and businessmen with wives and fraternity connections? Textbook Mill Valley rich boys. It all made something hard grow in my stomach, like a rock sinking inside of me.

I pulled sharply into the parking lot of the craft store.

“You get out and get it,” I said, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel. I didn’t look at him.

Rick gave me that kind of look, like “jeez, okay,” but did as he was told, leaving his Aviators on the seat behind him and gently shutting the door. 

I didn’t waste much time watching him go before putting his glasses on and ripping out of the parking lot. I figured I would be back before he returned, so it didn’t matter whether or not I told him I was dropping him off. He would never know. I peeled back down the way we came, through the wooded back roads that led to Rick’s mansion, hiding it from the rest of town. I clicked the garage door opener before I even made it all the way up the driveway, and then raced through the backdoor so that I would be closer to the basement. Wasting no time as I imagined Rick walking through the craft store, feeling the weight of different wood glues in his hands, politely asking for help from an employee there. Sweet Rick. 

As my sneakers skidded through the hall (who cares if I scuff the horrendous finish of the hard wood?) only one sound could’ve stopped me. It was the sound of Rick’s mom’s high heels clacking through the front door, home from work. 

“Richard?! Is Miriam still over!?” she called, shrilly. And then, as she dropped her keys into the mallard duck bowl by the door, she added under her breath: “Tell that girl to go home…”

I paused for just a moment, waiting to be caught by her – for her to turn the corner and see me standing there, and somehow know what I was about to do. She’d tell she’d always disliked me and always wished I was softer and sweeter like the other girls Rick and I were friends with. Less moody, more agreeable. And then, I imagined me telling her the same thing. And that was what sent me back down the basement to destroy the Duck-Bird Room.

When I returned to Rick, he was sitting on the curb in front of the store waiting. He saw me and threw his hands up in the air, nearly dropping his phone, which he had no doubt just used to call me a thousand times.

“Where the fuck did you go?” he cried before he’d even gotten into the car, his words a little muffled through the closed window.

“Quick errand.”

He slumped into the seat next to me and rolled his eyes. He was truly so angry. “Psycho,” he muttered. 

He had no idea.

In less than ten minutes, we’d be back at his house and he’d learn what I had done. He’d learn that every painting in “the kids’ room” had been thrown to the ground, so hard and so violently that they bounced against the carpet as they hit it. He’d learn that that noise alone was enough to alert his mom that someone was wreaking havoc on her home, but that that wasn’t enough to stop me. She stood there, screaming my name as I wedged a videogame controller in each painting, popping a big hole right in the middle of every deer, elk, and goose. He’d learn that I went for the duck last. His mom kept screaming (horrible things) but she wouldn’t stop me, really, physically. She’d just stand in terror, her hand outstretched, as I peeled apart the duck painting like string cheese, scattering it on the ground like confetti, breaking what was left of the frame in my bare hands. He didn’t know any of that yet.

But in that moment, I could’ve sworn that I loved him.

About the Author

Abbi Tobin is a sophomore English major with a minor in Secondary Education. She loves to tell stories through her writing and her art.