So messed up

When I was eight, my neighbor Mr. Wilson would pay me $5 to help him "feed the birds" in his backyard every Saturday. I thought I had the easiest job in the world—just scattering birdseed while he took pictures from his deck.

He always insisted I wear the same yellow dress. "Birds are attracted to bright colors," he explained. I believed him completely.

My parents thought it was sweet that an elderly widower had found a hobby. "It's good for him to have something to look forward to," Mom would say as she helped me into that scratchy yellow dress each weekend.

Mr. Wilson had very specific instructions. I had to skip in certain patterns. Bend a particular way to scatter the seeds. Twirl three times before collecting my $5. He called these my "bird-calling moves."

"The birds won't come if you don't do it exactly right," he'd say, adjusting his camera. I rarely saw any actual birds, but he assured me they came after I left.

I remember once asking why he never showed me the bird pictures. He smiled and said they were for a "special bird-watching club." I imagined serious adults in safari hats nodding approvingly at photos of me with cardinals and blue jays.

When I turned ten, he doubled my pay to $10 and asked if I could bring a friend. "Birds love when there are two children," he explained. So I brought Emma from next door. We took turns in the yellow dress.

After a few weeks, Emma refused to come back. "My mom says I can't," she said at school, avoiding my eyes. I figured her parents needed her for chores and felt secretly pleased to have my bird job back to myself.

For my eleventh birthday, Mr. Wilson gave me a silver bracelet with tiny bird charms. "Don't tell your parents," he whispered. "They might get jealous of our special friendship." It was the prettiest thing I'd ever owned, and I hid it in my sock drawer.

One Saturday, Mr. Wilson's adult son visited unexpectedly while I was there. I was mid-twirl when he walked into the backyard. He looked at me, then at his father, then at the camera. His face changed in a way I couldn't understand at the time.

"Dad, what the hell is this?" he shouted.

Mr. Wilson hurried me home without my $10, telling me we'd "feed the birds another day." I was confused and worried I'd done my twirls wrong.

The next day, police cars parked outside Mr. Wilson's house. Men carried out boxes and his computer. I watched from my bedroom window, wondering if they were from the bird-watching club.

My parents sat me down that evening with strange, serious faces. They asked uncomfortable questions about the bird feeding, the yellow dress, the photos. I answered truthfully, not understanding why Mom kept crying.

Mr. Wilson moved away after that. The neighbors whispered words I didn't understand: "pred," "inappropriate," "grooming." I thought they were types of birds or photography terms.

In seventh grade, we had an assembly about "inappropriate touching" and "adults who take advantage of children." They showed a cartoon about a man who asked a child to keep secrets and take special photos.

Something clicked, but not completely. I raised my hand and asked, "Like for a bird-watching club?" The counselor looked startled, then asked me to stay after the assembly.

I didn't fully understand until high school, when our psychology class covered pred behavior. The teacher described how certain adults gain children's trust through special attention, gifts, and made-up games.

Suddenly, I was back in that yellow dress, performing "bird-calling moves" while a camera clicked. No birds. Never any birds.

That night, I found the silver bracelet in my old jewelry box and really looked at the charms for the first time.

I drove to my parents' house, finally ready to ask the questions I'd been afraid to voice. "Did you know what was really happening with Mr. Wilson?" I demanded.

My mother took my hand. "The police found hundreds of photos, honey. Not just of you."

What I had seen as an innocent bird-feeding job was something much darker.

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