Eye Sore

by Melanie Jackson

  Copyright © 2015 Melanie Jackson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Jackson, Melanie, 1956-, author

  Eye sore / Melanie Jackson.

  (Orca currents)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0771-6 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0773-0 (pdf).—

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0774-7 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents

  PS8569.A265E94 2015 jC813'.6 C2014-906667-8

  C2014-906668-6

  First published in the United States, 2015

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014952057

  Summary: Chaz has to solve a mystery that threatens his father’s new business venture of operating a Ferris wheel similar to the London Eye.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover photography by Shutterstock

  Author photo by Bart Jackson

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4 ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  18 17 16 15 • 4 3 2 1

  To Bart, SNJ and Lynne

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  Liftoff. The Eye glided backward and up, and I watched the earth drain away. I broke into a sweat. I clutched the edge of my seat.

  Beside me, Dad exclaimed, “The Eye is going to put North Vancouver on the map, Chaz. It’s going to put us on the map.”

  He clapped me on the back. Bad idea. My breakfast was hovering around chest level, ready for its own liftoff.

  We swung up into the fir trees. They surrounded us like curtains. I took a deep breath. It wasn’t so bad when I didn’t look down.

  I needed to get through the twenty-minute ride without being sick or passing out. I didn’t want to spoil this important day for Dad.

  Today was the official opening of the Eye, near the base of Grouse Mountain. Dad had poured all of his money into it. He’d borrowed a ton more. Giving North Vancouver its own Eye had been his dream ever since he’d visited the London Eye a few years back.

  I just wished Dad’s dream didn’t involve heights.

  Don’t get me wrong. I understood the appeal. With their steel spokes and glass gondolas, Eyes shone like stars. The city of Nanchang, in China, even called its Eye the Star. There was also the Texas Star in Dallas.

  Dad’s Eye was smaller than those in London and other places. He’d modeled it on the first Ferris wheel, as Eyes used to be called. An engineer, George Ferris Jr., built the original wheel for the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. George had been trying to outdo the big hit of the world’s fair in Paris, the Eiffel Tower.

  Like George’s wheel, Dad’s was 264 feet high. It had thirty-six gondolas, each the size of a minivan.

  Some Eye owners crammed people in. Not Dad. He wanted his riders to appreciate the beauty of the scenery—not be crushed by other bodies giving off BO. He designed each gondola for only ten people, with cushioned seats around the glass sides.

  Dad would hold the first official ride in an hour, for local VIPs. The press would be on board, too, snapping photos and filming.

  Dad was giving me this private ride as a special treat.

  I couldn’t let on how sick I felt. I couldn’t let him know I suffered from vertigo. I’d hidden it all these years.

  I couldn’t let Dad down today of all days.

  Our gondola swung higher. The fir trees thinned out. The wide hills popular with skiers in winter stretched below.

  I felt my breakfast waving along with them.

  I turned away from Dad. I shut my eyes.

  “A dream come true for a boy, huh, Chaz?” Dad asked.

  I caught the anxious note in Dad’s voice. He knew I didn’t want to work for him this summer. He knew I wasn’t thrilled about selling Eye tickets day after day.

  What I wanted to do this summer was go to dance camp. I wanted to shuffle my feet. I had already tap-danced through several musicals at school and the community center. I was getting into break dancing too. Forget spinning on an Eye. I could spin on the palm of my hand.

  In a few weeks our community center was holding a talent contest. You could dance, sing, tell jokes or do whatever your talent was. The prize was a trip to New York City. A tour of the Big Apple. And the winner would get to perform for a talent agent.

  Dance camp would have meant whole days of practice. I could have polished my routines and had all sorts of coaching to help me prepare for the talent contest.

  Of course, I’d practice even without the upcoming contest. To me, dance was everything.

  It’s great to have a dream, Son, but if you’re going to have any chance of making a dream come true, you need capital. It took me years to save up for the Eye, but I did it. You need to learn how to buckle down and work for your dreams.

  Dad wanted me to be practical.

  To be like him.

  That’s why I couldn’t let him know I had vertigo. He needed me. I couldn’t fail him.

  So, for the whole summer, I was stuck here.

  We rose to the top of the Eye. Sun filled the gondola. It was too bright to see anything—as long as I didn’t look down.

  Dad was trying out a new phone app called Don’t Look Now, But… He’d been excited to download the app, which tracked height above sea level. “Wow, look at these numbers climb!”

  I couldn’t. I shut my eyes.

  “Wait. They’re leveling. They’re dropping! Whoa. Time for the big plunge!”

  The gondola churned down through pure blue sky. The skyscrapers of Vancouver jutted into view. Then, dipping farther, the gondola seemed like it was going to dive into Burrard Inlet.

  Dad nudged me. He held up his phone. The sea-level numbers spun down. To me it was a countdown to a major barf.

  I clapped a hand over my eyes. This was it. I was going to heave. “I can’t believe this,” I muttered.

  Dad laughed, misreading my reaction. “I can hardly believe it either. Pretty cool app, huh?”

  He clicked the phone off. “Hey, look at all the people below. I’d hoped for a good crowd, but…”

  His voice trailed off.

  Curious, I peeked out from under my hand.

  The chain-link fence surrounding the Eye stretched below us. Behind the fence was a crowd, all right.

  But you couldn’t describe it as a good crowd.

  People pumped fists. They waved signs. Eye Wrecks Our View. Eye Spy A Monster. Close the Eye.

  Pale, bewildered, Dad turned to me. “I don’t understand. City hall gave us the go-ahead. We had the permits. We gave the press a tour of the construction site. We got publicity. All tha
t time, no one protested.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t get it either. I wanted to say something to make him feel better. But first I had to get rid of my dizziness.

  The mob spotted Dad in the gondola. They pointed and shouted. They pushed against the fence. The fence bent under their weight. They were going to smash it down.

  Chapter Two

  The woods swooped up to greet us as we headed toward the landing platform.

  My buddy Moe Jenkins opened the gondola doors. Moe was also working the Eye this summer. Our duties were to take tickets, help people on and off the gondolas and keep the place tidy.

  Moe knew my secret. He knew about the vertigo. He wouldn’t blab though. In fact, Moe didn’t say much of anything to anyone. He was a guy of few words.

  Dad and I stepped off. I sat down on the edge of the platform. Earth. Solid, reassuring earth. I was shaky with relief.

  I didn’t relax for long. The protesters were hurling insults at Dad. “Close it down, Higgins!”

  Higgins was Don Higgins, my dad.

  “Take your idiotic Eye somewhere else, will ya? We don’t want it!”

  Others picked up that last part. “We don’t want it!”

  “What’s going on?” Dad demanded, looking at Moe.

  Moe was as pale as Dad. He pulled a newspaper from his back pocket. He handed it to Dad.

  The paper was the North Vancouver Express. Under a photo of the Eye, a huge headline blared:

  Eye will make your property worthless!

  Dad scanned the article. In disgust, he threw it to the ground. “I gotta stop those people before they trample us.”

  He ran over to the mob. Moe and I started to follow him. He gestured for us to stay.

  I could guess Dad’s thoughts. He was worried the mob might turn violent.

  By now they’d pushed the fence so far that it was bending in a diagonal.

  A long sandbox stretched beside the fence. The box, for our toddler patrons, gleamed with fresh white sand and brand-new red pails and shovels.

  Dad stepped into the sandbox. He was standing right under the fence. “Please, everybody! Let’s talk about what’s bothering you!”

  Some of the protesters stopped yelling. Others kept on. But they stopped shoving at the fence. Maybe they saw that if they continued, they’d plow Dad under.

  Or maybe they’d noticed the TV crew that had just pulled up to one side. They didn’t want to be caught on film destroying property.

  I picked up the newspaper. The story was by Jonas Bilk, owner of the North Vancouver Express.

  I didn’t know Jonas. But I knew his son. Brody Bilk was in my year at school. Brody was a husky blond football player. Being in theater arts, I didn’t have a lot to do with Brody. He had a goofy, likable grin. From a distance he seemed like a decent guy.

  I skimmed his dad’s article. This oversized wheel is ugly…cheap tourist attraction…strangers barging through our quiet neighborhood…

  Jonas finished off his article with Thinking of selling your home for a good price? Of moving, or retiring? Forget it! Don Higgins just wrecked that dream for you.

  It was so unfair. My dad was a dream builder, not a dream wrecker. Like his idol, George Ferris, he’d risked everything to build the Eye.

  I thought of something. At first people had said George Ferris’s wheel was ugly. They’d said no one would want to ride it.

  Once things quieted down, I would remind Dad of that. It might make him feel better.

  Dad was talking to the protesters, and they were listening. Dad had that going for him—he was a master salesperson.

  “I’d be glad to meet with you about the Eye. I want to hear your concerns,” he was saying as the TV cameras whirred.

  “We want your wheel outta here!” somebody shouted.

  It was a hoarse voice. A voice that had been doing a lot of shouting.

  “Ssshhhh!” people said. They were looking embarrassed. They’d come here because of Jonas Bilk’s article. Now they could see Dad was a regular guy, not a monster.

  Except for that one person at the back. He let out a couple more yells.

  Dad held up his hands. “Let me look into getting a meeting room. A school gym, maybe, or a hall. We’ll talk, okay?”

  People nodded. Some of them walked away. Others formed groups of three or four and talked in low tones.

  Dad’s phone rang. He saw the name on the display, and his face lit up. “Mr. Mayor!” he exclaimed.

  Then he looked worried again. “I understand, sir,” he said.

  He turned his back to the TV crew. Quietly he told Moe and me, “The mayor’s canceled. So have all the other guests. After Jonas Bilk’s article, no one wants to be seen here.”

  “Bummer,” Moe said. For Moe, that was talkative.

  I looked past the remaining protesters. The road to the Eye wound down through thick trees and out of sight. “Jonas has it wrong,” I objected. “The Eye’s not in a neighborhood.”

  Dad shook his head. “Everything is optics, son. It’s what you can make people see. It doesn’t matter if it’s real or not. Jonas wants to sell papers. What better way than to get people angry? He’s just doing what I’m doing. He’s being a businessman.”

  Dad walked over to the small office beside the Eye. It wasn’t his usual bouncy, go-get-’em walk. His head was down. His shoulders were slumped.

  I thought of running after him. Of reminding him about the challenges George Ferris had overcome.

  But I had a feeling that Dad wanted to be alone.

  I glanced at the ticket booth. Moe and I were supposed to be starting our jobs about now. We should be selling tickets to the hordes of visitors Dad expected.

  Not one person was lined up.

  However, someone was at the fence. Fingers clutching the chain links, he was swinging the fence back and forth.

  And jeering at me.

  “Hey, dancing boy,” Brody Bilk called. “What you gonna do? Now that my dad’s destroyed your dad.”

  Chapter Three

  Brody’s voice was hoarse. It was Brody I’d heard yelling after everyone else quieted down.

  So much for the good-natured guy with the goofy grin.

  I called back, “Maybe you could leave the fence alone? It’s about to fall over.”

  That was the wrong thing to say. Brody wrenched harder at it. “Make me leave it alone, dancing boy.”

  The people beyond the fence, who’d been talking in groups, turned to watch us. My face burned.

  Brody climbed on the fence. He stuck his feet through the chain links. He called, “Dance for me, loser. Then maybe I’ll leave your stupid fence alone.”

  He swung hard on the fence. It gave out long, agonized creaks. One of the posts came out of the ground.

  The TV crew had been heading down the road to their van. Hearing Brody’s taunts, they stopped. Raising their cameras, they ran back toward the Eye.

  I couldn’t let Brody demolish the fence. But it was either that or total humiliation.

  It looked like I’d have to dance.

  I launched into a soft-shoe routine. Soft shoe is a tap dance without metal plates attached to your shoes. I hopped on my left foot. Then I brushed sideways with my right sole.

  As I danced, I got an idea. Dancing always helped me think. It woke up the brain cells, got ’em moving.

  I kept hop-stepping with my left foot and brushing sideways with my right. I was heading toward Brody, who was rocking on the fence and smirking.

  I started leaning harder to my right. Picking up speed.

  The TV crew reached Brody. They aimed their cameras at us. There is nothing the folks at home enjoy more than watching someone getting humiliated.

  Brody flashed a grin at the cameras. He turned back to me. “Think of it this way. You’re my monkey on a chain.”

  I was closing in on the sandbox. I didn’t want to run into the box’s edge. I had something else planned.

  With my right foot, I brushed si
deways one last time. I retreated several steps. Then I ran forward, still sideways, and leaped.

  I kept my feet together. I was sailing down in a feet-first diagonal. I had my arms raised to offset some of my weight, like a parachute.

  I landed on the sides of my runners. My soles sprayed up a huge cloud of sand—right into Brody’s face.

  The sand got into his mouth and eyes. Choking, he fell back from the fence.

  The TV crew focused in on him.

  Like I said, I had to make a choice between letting the fence get wrecked and total humiliation.

  Brody’s humiliation.

  Sorry. I guess I left that part out.

  Dad marched toward me. I grinned at him. I’d showed up Brody Bilk.

  My grin lasted all of three seconds. Dad’s face was stony. He brushed past me, hissing, “You idiot! That’s all I need now—Jonas Bilk’s kid injured!”

  Dad swept out the gate. He barked at the TV crew to turn their cameras off. He helped Brody up. “I’m sorry. My son got carried away. Can I get you a cold drink? A towel?”

  I wasn’t in the mood to eat lunch in the office. Not with Dad there, radiating grimness. Instead, I took my lunch into the woods behind the office. It was quiet and shady, with dark ferns and pale wildflowers.

  I liked the woods. By law, nothing could disturb them. They were part of a protected ecosystem. In buying the land, Dad had agreed not to dig up, develop or otherwise disrupt this part of the property.

  I slumped down against a tree trunk. I ate my sandwich. It was my favorite, Swiss cheese, onions, mayo, loads of black pepper. I’d made it myself. I barely tasted it. I was too bummed out. All Dad cared about was his stupid Eye.

  Okay. The Eye wasn’t all he cared about. But it sure felt that way.

  I cracked the top off a Gatorade bottle and gulped the drink down. I let out a loud belch.

  Above me, there was a fluttering sound. I glimpsed a streak of red.

  “You frightened a goldfinch away,” said a voice behind me.

  It was a short man with gray hair. He was on the other side of the chain-link fence. His eyes twinkled at me behind round gold-rimmed glasses. He was holding a zoom-lens camera.