Excerpt
Violet Crunkly and the Truth about Pigeons
by Lucy Greenburg
Cozy under the covers and fast asleep, Violet Crunkly soared over the George Washington Bridge. The rushing air made her cheeks bulge and flap. The wind whipped her cinnamon curls. Yet the ride was as smooth as silk - thanks to the NASA-approved wings she'd invented, patented and won a Nobel Prize for. Gazing down at the Cross Bronx Expressway, her heart beat with exhilaration.
Then her alarm started to chirp.
Rats!
The thing was, Violet thought with her eyes half-open, she hadn’t set her alarm, and the chirps seemed to be coming from the window.
Blearily, she rose from her bed and shuffled to the window. All she saw was a pigeon cooing on the ledge. Gray and white feathers, a head the size of a gumball. An everyday, ordinary pigeon. She yawned and decided to go back to sleep. But as soon as she lifted her hands to shut the window, the pigeon started squawking.
“Be quiet!” hissed Violet. “You’ll wake the whole house.” Immediately, the bird fell silent. Had he understood her? She placed her elbows on the ledge and took a closer look. When the pigeon cocked his head and stared up at her, Violet inhaled.
His eyes. They were orange. As orange as pumpkins. And those claws. Knobby and sharp, and as brilliantly red as fire engines. Most remarkable were the feathers circling his neck. A rainbow of purples, blues, and greens that shimmered under the sun like gemstones.
When he began dropping by in the afternoons, Violet tried her best to imitate him. When he wasn’t around, she practiced in front of the mirror – strutting back and forth, flapping her arms, and darting her head in and out. Where she really let loose was in the shower – squawking her heart out and serenading herself with long throaty coos that raised goosebumps on her skin.
In no time at all she was bilingual. As fluent in Pigeonese as she was in English. Being a genius had helped.
As soon as they could communicate, Violet learned his name was Herkimer. He acted as if he’d known her forever. In their first conversation, he chattered non-stop about his brand new find - a giant garbage dumpster in back of Poppin’ Pizza on West 38th Street. Apparently, his favorite new lunch spot.
“Ah, the breadsticks!” chirped Herkimer, shuffling from side to side. “Crunchy as ants! And the day-old spaghetti! Mama mia! Slid down the gullet like moist spring worms. Just this side of rotten—-which, FYI,” the pigeon peered at Violet and blinked, “is peak time for richness and flavor.
“You’ve got to try it.” Herkimer fluffed out his feathers and began to preen.
“Ugh,” said Violet. Then added politely, “Just my personal opinion, of course.”
Far from being offended, Herkimer twittered on about moldy main dishes and decaying desserts until Violet became queasy.
When Herkimer finally paused to take a breath, Violet chirped up. "If you think squished cannolis are fabulous, "you should taste my Grandma's chocolate chunk cookies. I swear, if a fire broke out, I'd probably save them first. I mean after saving my loved ones. You wouldn't believe the peanut butter frosting."
Herkimer eyes grew glassy. "There wouldn't..you wouldn't...happen to have some extra lying around somewhere?"
Violet ran out of her room. When she appeared again with a plate of cookies, Herkimer looked as happy as if he'd scored first place in the Homing Pigeon Nationals. The bird pecked and the girl munched. Soon they were covered in crumbs, chocolate, and splotches of peanut butter frosting.
Sharing a meal, it turned out, was the perfect way to cement a friendship.