Birds chirping in the morning used to sound wonderful. It was always one of the perks of waking early—to hear their joyful songs. Many years ago, a bird made its nest in one of the trees outside my window. I had climbed on a chair to see it. Inside the nest laid three eggs. By the time Mom bought me a camera—I had begged for days—the eggs had hatched, and the birds were long gone.
That was my dream animal when I was a kid. Of course, I wanted just about every kind of pet, but a bird seemed special. Parrots were my favorite because they could talk. I often saw them on tv shows and saw how they communicated just like humans, so one of them seemed like the perfect companion. My parents thought otherwise and said that I probably would have killed it by feeding it too much or some other kind of accident. Thinking back, I understood their point. I was only six at the time and didn't know how to take care of an animal. Even then I knew they were right. The constant chirping and chatting would have driven me crazy. Like now, for instance. I could barely stand the sound of the chirps for more than a few minutes. There was no way I could have stood listening to a bird 24/7.
Waking early on Saturday mornings was never fun, especially when there was nothing to look forward to. Usually I spent the day with Dawn or Mason, but I doubted they'd returned yet. Back in the day, way before I had any friends, I was the type of person most people would call a nerd. My best friend was my notebook, and no one could get my nose out of a textbook. It puzzled me how I went from a straight "A" student in elementary school to failing almost every class in high school.
My phone vibrated. I knew it was a message from Trent even before I looked at the screen. Honestly, couldn't he wait until after breakfast to text me? It wasn't even eight yet, for Pete's sake. I was still surprised that there were people—my age, especially—who woke at the crack of dawn. I agreed, some teenagers already had jobs or strict rules to follow, but still...Why text me before eight?
I ignored the phone and pulled some jeans out of my closet and pondered over which shirt to wear. Most of the time I wore tees. They were comfy and went with just about anything, but sometimes I liked to up the ante and would dress more than casual. Considering no one besides my parents, or my reflection, was going to see me today, I grabbed a solid tee and my tennis shoes. I slipped my phone in my back pocket and went downstairs.
Mom was in the kitchen cooking breakfast, as usual. I smelled it before I left my room: scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, gravy, biscuits—the whole lineup.
"Good morning, Avril," Mom said, sensing my approach. Perhaps it was just mother's intuition, but sometimes she creeped me out when she knew exactly where I was—even when I moved as silently as a mouse.
"Good morning," I replied.
"It's Saturday. What are you doing up so early?"
I shrugged. "Beats me. Why do I always wake up early on Saturdays?" I grabbed a plate from the cabinet. "During the week I want to sleep the day away. Why can't I do that on weekends?" I scooped out some eggs and poured gravy over the yellow pile.
"Some people are like that. There are many different theories on that topic. Some say just about the same thing, and some are ideas that are way beyond rational thinking. If you ask me, I believe it's because weekends are what people look forward to. Their excitement triggers something inside of them that makes them wake early so they can enjoy their day."
I sat down at the table as Dad entered the room. He eyed my plate. "Honey, you must have been pretty hungry. You didn't even wait for her to put the food on the table."
"That's no problem," Mom said. She set the food dishes on the table and she and Dad fixed their plates.
"So, Avril," Dad said. "Are you going to Mason's house today?" He poured some milk into a glass.
