The Summer Friday

Wyatt stood on his front porch with his hands in his pockets and absolutely nothing to do.

It was Friday. It was summer. The sky was so blue it looked like someone had painted it fresh that morning. And every single one of Wyatt's friends was busy.

Marco was at the dentist. Sophie was visiting her grandma. James had swim lessons until forever.

Wyatt's mom poked her head out the door. "You could read a book."

"I read two already this week."

"You could draw."

"Drew a dragon yesterday. It was my best one. I don't want to wreck the streak."

His mom smiled. "Well, your bike's in the garage."

Wyatt looked at his bike. His bike looked at Wyatt. Bikes can't actually look at people, but this one had a scratch on the front fender that kind of looked like an eye, so it felt like it could.

"I guess," said Wyatt, "I could ride around the block."

"You could ride around several blocks," his mom said. "Just stay in the neighborhood. Be home by lunch."

Wyatt pulled his bike out of the garage, swung his leg over the seat, and pushed off down the driveway.

He turned left, because he always turned left.

Then he thought: What if I turn right?

So he did.

The right turn took him down Maple Street, which he'd been down a thousand times. But at the end of Maple Street, there was a little street he'd never noticed before. It was narrow, with trees leaning over it from both sides like they were trying to whisper to each other. A small green sign said Fern Lane.

"Fern Lane," Wyatt said out loud, because new streets deserve to be said out loud.

He pedaled down Fern Lane slowly. The houses here were different. One had a bright yellow door with a stained glass window shaped like a sun. One had a garden so overgrown with flowers that you could barely see the mailbox. And one — the one at the very end — had a front yard full of birdhouses.

Not two or three birdhouses. Not even ten.

Wyatt counted as he slowed his bike to a stop.

Twenty-six birdhouses.

They were everywhere. Hanging from tree branches. Sitting on fence posts. Perched on tall wooden poles. Some were painted red and blue and green. Some were plain wood. One was shaped like a tiny castle. One looked like a little log cabin. And one — Wyatt leaned closer — one was shaped like a pizza slice.

"That's the most popular one," said a voice.

Wyatt jumped.

An old woman was sitting on the porch in a rocking chair. She had white hair pulled back in a braid, dirt on her knees, and a paintbrush tucked behind her ear. A gray cat was asleep in her lap.

"The birds love the pizza one," she said. "I think it's the pointy shape. Good for perching."

"Did you build all of these?" Wyatt asked.

"Every single one. I'm Alma." She scratched the cat's chin. "This is Pepper. She's not impressed by any of it."

Wyatt laughed. Pepper did look deeply unimpressed.

"I'm Wyatt. I've never been on this street before."

"Well, Fern Lane is easy to miss," Alma said. "Not many people turn right at the end of Maple."

Wyatt looked at all the birdhouses again. A tiny brown bird zipped into the castle one. A bright red cardinal sat on the roof of the log cabin, singing.

"How long did it take to build all of them?" Wyatt asked.

"Oh, years and years. I build one whenever I have a day with nothing to do. Those are the best days, you know. The ones where nothing's planned and anything could happen."

Wyatt stared at her. That was exactly the kind of day he was having.

Alma tilted her head. "You look like someone with nothing to do."

"I really, really don't have anything to do," Wyatt admitted.

Alma reached under her rocking chair and pulled out a wooden box. Inside were small pieces of wood, a bottle of glue, some nails, sandpaper, and a little hammer.

"Would you like to build one?" she asked.

Wyatt had never built anything before. Not anything real, anyway. He'd built blanket forts and block towers and one time a "bridge" out of couch cushions that didn't actually work as a bridge at all.

But Alma was patient. She showed him how to sand the edges of the wood so they were smooth. "Birds don't like splinters any more than you do."

She showed him how to line the pieces up and tap the nails in gently — not too hard, not too soft.

"Like knocking on a door," she said. "Firm enough that someone hears, gentle enough that you're being polite."

Wyatt tapped. He missed once and hit his thumb, but only a little. He shook his hand, took a breath, and kept going.

He glued the roof on. Alma showed him how to drill the entrance hole using a special tool, just wide enough for a small bird to fit through.

"What kind of bird do you want to live in it?" Alma asked.

Wyatt thought about this carefully. "A brave one."

Alma laughed — a big, warm laugh that made Pepper open one eye. "Good answer. Brave birds like high places. We'll put it on the tall pole by the fence."

"Can I paint it?" Wyatt asked.

"You'd better. An unpainted birdhouse is like an undecorated cake. Technically fine, but missing the whole point."

Alma had cans of paint in her garage — every color Wyatt could think of and a few he couldn't name. He chose orange for the walls because it was bright and cheerful, and dark blue for the roof because it matched the Friday sky.

While the paint dried, Alma brought out two glasses of lemonade, and they sat on the porch steps. The cardinal was still singing. Two sparrows were arguing over the pizza birdhouse. Pepper had moved to a sunny patch of grass and was still not impressed by anything.

"Alma?" Wyatt said. "How come you started building birdhouses?"

She sipped her lemonade. "One summer, when I was about your age, I had a Friday with nothing to do. My mother said, 'Go find something new.' So I walked to the end of my street and turned a direction I'd never turned before. I found a man building a birdhouse in his yard. He let me help." She smiled. "And I thought, I'd like to do this forever."

Wyatt looked at his birdhouse, drying in the sun. The orange was bright. The blue roof gleamed.

"It's not perfect," he said. One wall was slightly crooked. A little bit of glue was showing.

"Perfect birdhouses are boring," Alma said. "Birds want character."

When the paint was dry, they carried the birdhouse to the tall pole by the fence. Alma helped Wyatt screw it in place, up high where a brave bird would want to be.

Then they stepped back and looked at it.

Twenty-seven birdhouses now.

Wyatt's chest felt warm and full, the way it felt when he finished a really good book or scored a goal in soccer or made his little sister laugh.

"I should come back and see if a bird moves in," he said.

"You should," Alma agreed. "And if you come on a day with nothing to do, there's always room for number twenty-eight."

Wyatt grinned. He climbed back on his bike and waved goodbye. Pepper flicked her tail, which was probably a wave in cat language.

He rode back down Fern Lane, under the whispering trees. He turned onto Maple Street. He pedaled home.

When he rolled into the driveway, his mom was on the porch watering the plants.

"How was your ride?"

Wyatt thought about the right turn and the narrow street and the twenty-seven birdhouses and Alma and Pepper and the orange walls and the blue roof and the cardinal singing from the log cabin.

"Pretty good," he said.

Then he smiled, because some days are so big that pretty good is the only way to hold them.

He parked his bike in the garage, and the scratch on the front fender winked at him.

At least, it felt like it did.