“Stop worrying,” Viva says. “Oh look! Cubbies like in kindergarten.”
“Those are nesting boxes,” I explain. A few birds are cuddled in.
“What’s in there?” Viva points to the loft.
“Come on, Viva,” Lonnie says.
“Just one more minute, then we’ll leave. I promise.”
I lead them through the second door and out into the loft.
“How many does he have?” Viva asks.
“Fifty-seven.”
“That’s a lot of pigeons.”
“I had to count them five different times.”
“How do you tell them apart?”
“You get to know them,” I say.
Lonnie looks torn. I know he doesn’t want to get caught by Grumpy Pigeon Man, but the pigeons are cool. I understand his feelings. Maybe if I do my job, it’ll take my mind off Grumpy Pigeon Man catching us.
I grab the feed and pour it in. I’m about to get water when Viva scoops up some of the feed and kneels down. She stays real still. A pigeon comes over and eats right out of her hand. Now why didn’t I think of that? I reach into the food and pull some out and kneel down too. A pigeon comes over and eats out of my hand.
It tickles.
Lonnie does the same and the three of us stay there as the pigeons eat out of our hands.
“Did you know,” I say real quiet, “there isn’t a single record about pigeons in The Guinness Book of World Records?”
Out of nowhere The Destructor’s scream cuts through the quiet. “TEDDDDDYYYYYYY! HEYYYY, TEDDDDDYYYYYYY!”
The pigeons scatter onto their perches. Lonnie and Viva stand up, startled as much as the birds. “Oh no!” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”
MOST DANGEROUS PINNIPED
The Destructor is staring at us from over the fence. “I want to come in, too!” He’s loud. “MOOOOOMMM! Teddy and his friends are with the pigeons. I WANT TO GO!”
Lonnie and Viva head for the door. I stay because I need to take away the pigeons’ food and be sure everything is shut tight.
I hear that familiar door slam and look up just as Lonnie and Viva run smack into Grumpy Pigeon Man, who strangely is moving faster than usual and looks as dangerous as a leopard seal (the record holder for the most dangerous pinniped). It’s not a pretty sight.
The only difference is that Grumpy Pigeon Man is not a pinniped (fin-footed mammal). But other than that he looks like he’s going to eat us alive, which is exactly what a leopard seal would do.
LOUD AND CLEAR
There are all sorts of loud sounds in The Guinness Book of World Records: finger snap, scream, shout, snore, even tongue click, but my personal favorite is the burp.
The loudest burp ever recorded was by Paul Hunn. I have no idea what a decibel meter reading is, but he got to 109.9 of them. I know that it was louder than a pile driver heard from 100 feet (they say so in the book) so it must be loud, and clearly it was worthy enough for The Guinness Book of World Records.
Grumpy Pigeon Man must have come pretty close to that decibel level. I thought he’d never stop yelling at us, which proves why I was nervous about this whole thing, even if he was sick.
The three of us cowered. Mom came out, looking mad, and let Grumpy Pigeon Man holler at us that we had no right to go in there and not ask him, and that he hired me, not these two, and what if something happened to his pigeons while we were there? And all the time he was bellowing, The Destructor cooed at the pigeons from outside the aviary.
“I’m really sorry,” Viva says, looking Grumpy Pigeon Man right in the face. “Teddy told us all about your pigeons, and we really wanted to meet them. What can we do to make it up?”
And it’s like Grumpy Pigeon Man is under her Jedi Mind Trick, because I thought he was going to fire me but instead he says, “De abiary deeds a good clead-ig.”
CLEANING CREW
Two days later, Lonnie and Viva are back at my house, pulling on our pink protective plastic gloves. Mom also bought us face masks. I don’t know why but she is convinced we need them. Of course, The Destructor doesn’t have to clean, even though he’s the reason we’re in this mess.
“I’m surprised your mom didn’t put us in space suits,” Lonnie says. “Actually I’m surprised my own mother didn’t.”
Viva whispers, “I didn’t tell my mom.”
“What?” Lonnie says. “You’re crazy.”
“I know,” Viva says. “But when Mrs. Mars didn’t say anything to her I thought I wouldn’t say anything either.” She pauses. “You don’t know how hard it is to be the only child. No one else does anything wrong.”
We walk outside and head for the aviary.
“How long do you think it’ll take?” Lonnie asks.
Viva says, “We’ll be lucky if we’re done by dinner.”
“In The Guinness Book of World Records there is only one entry for fastest cleaning,” I say. “And that’s window cleaning—9.14 seconds. Maybe we could break a world record for fastest aviary cleaning.”
“I’ll pass on that record,” Lonnie says.
“Too boring,” Viva says.
“I actually agree. If I’m going to break a world record I want it to be good. Really good.”
Grumpy Pigeon Man waits for us with brooms, scrapers, and buckets. He explains what to do, and then sits down on a bucket and gives orders the whole time.
When we’re finally done it is time for dinner. Grumpy Pigeon Man examines our work and says, “Your friends can come again. But only with you, Tent Boy.” And he walks away.
I can tell you, we didn’t break a world record for cleaning, but when Grumpy Pigeon Man said that, I felt like we did.
“Tent Boy?” Lonnie and Viva blink at me.
“If you ever want back in the aviary, you’ll forget you ever heard that name.”
“What name?” they say together.
I EARNED IT!
Yes! I finally did it!
All the grumblings, all the early mornings, all the afternoons, all the grouching, then the cleaning, and I was sure he’d fire me, but he didn’t. And it was all worth it!
Not including tax, the Coleman StormBeam Dynamo lantern cost $34.99 and it is mine.
I know I should have gotten an alarm clock but Grumpy Pigeon Man is my alarm clock and he doesn’t seem to mind.
LAST NIGHT
Pants, shirt, socks, hat, pajamas, slippers, sweater, mittens, snow pants, parka, and I was still freezing cold! Fall is definitely over.
Now I really wish I had bought a sleeping bag.
FINALLY
I may be freezing cold but I love my lantern. I’ve been looking for a third pigeon fact for my report for so long. I finally got it: Tipplers are famous for endurance. They can fly for twenty-two hours and never stop!
You’ve got to admit, Ms. Raffeli, I’ve got endurance, too.
1. The Destructor is related to me.
2. I work for Grumpy Pigeon Man.
3. I didn’t give up on finding a third fact. (Another third fact! HA!)
HOMEWORK: A POEM FOR THE ROLLERS AND TUMBLERS (PIGEONS)
Because everything takes so long to do in school, Ms. Raffeli is combining subjects. Since we’re still studying birds and we’re on our poetry unit, she’s decided we should write poems that connect to our birds.
This is what I wrote:
Tipplers, rollers, tumblers too.
Lots of pigeons, but what do they do?
They fly, they somersault, they soar up high.
They’re the Olympians of the sky.
I think it’s a pretty good poem. Strange but true, I think pigeons doing flips is cooler than 842 people belly dancing, which made it into The Guinness Book of World Records. Sure, it’s the most belly dancers at one time, but come on, flipping pigeons!
THANKSGIVING
One of my most favorite pages in The Guinness Book of World Records is called “Projectiles.” The whole page is about different objects and how far they have been thrown. Pe
ople will throw anything.
a watermelon seed spit: 75 feet 2 inches
a cherry stone spit: 93 feet 6.5 inches
a cow pat: 226 feet
a brick: 146 feet 1 inches
a rolling pin: 175 feet 5 inches
a 8.5 x 11–inch paper airplane: 207 feet 4 inches
There’s also a raw egg that was thrown 323 feet 2 inches and caught without breaking!
I could go on but I think you see what I mean. They are all curiously ordinary things.
The Projectiles page reminds me of my family and Thanksgiving.
We go to Gran’s for Thanksgiving. We drive there, arrive late (of course), eat lunch, and then are told not to stay and help with the cleanup.
For weeks after every Thanksgiving, we get packages from Gran containing the projectiles that we threw around her house: sweaters, sneakers, Frisbees, books, markers, cell phones. You name it; we’ve left it.
This year is no different. Except this year, we forgot to bring The Destructor’s cat box home. Gran says she’s not mailing that back, and that her cat started using it anyway.
Mom bought a new one for The Destructor even though she still hasn’t bought me an alarm clock. I wonder how far I’d have to throw The Destructor and his cat box to get onto the Projectiles page?
DECEMBER
DETERMINATION
“It is too cold,” Mom says. She’s right. It is cold. “You will not sleep out there in this weather.”
But one of the things you learn about from reading The Guinness Book of World Records is determination.
For example, Graham Hicks set records for fastest speeds on a quad bike and an aquabike, which is a fancy way of saying Jet Ski. Sure, that’s amazing, but on top of that, he’s deaf and blind. You know there were a lot of people out there saying he couldn’t do it. Clearly, he did not listen to them. I’m not going to listen either. I’m staying in my tent.
I think.
DETERMINATION PART 2
It’s Saturday night and I’ve already had dinner and brushed my teeth. Now I’m back in my tent, trying to stay warm and wondering why I bought the lantern to read by instead of a sleeping bag made for the arctic.
I’m not telling anyone how tempted I am to sleep inside. It’s cold out here. Really cold. I’m not certain I have Graham Hicks’s determination. I decide I’ll go in for just a little bit. I’ll get more clothes for next week, new comic books to read, and after my toes thaw, I’ll come back out.
Dad putters in the kitchen. “Are you sleeping inside tonight?”
“No, just getting a few things.” I hurry up the stairs before he tries to change my mind.
I admit, when I walk in my room I scream. I’ve only been away from it for eight hours but everything is destroyed.
My comics are all over the floor. My Star Wars figures are out of order, five of my Ewoks are missing their feet, and Chewbacca has completely disappeared.
“Okay, Destructor, where’s Chewy?” I grab him by the arms. He howls.
Sharon rushes in from the bathroom where she’s been singing and disconnects us. “You’re the one who moved out,” she says.
“It’s still my room.”
“Not for much longer. Dad says if you keep living in the tent, he’ll give it all to Jake.”
I feel just like I did when I read about Ken Edwards, the guy who ate 36 cockroaches. But that guy had determination. And so do I. I’m determined that The Destructor won’t ruin my life.
I grab all my important stuff: my comics, figures, my card collection. I find Chewy in the closet, I find the Ewoks’ feet under my bed, and I bring them to the tent. I don’t feel the cold anymore. I remember why I live here. I’m safe from The Destructor.
I’M NOT COUNTING
“Hey, Teddy,” Grace yells, unzipping my tent without my permission and standing outside with a hat, gloves, parka, and a scarf on. “You know you’ve been out here for sixty-six days?”
Grace must have no one else to annoy.
“No, Grace. And I’m not counting. Close the tent.” Of course she doesn’t.
“You are such a nut-o. I mean, really, you must want to sleep in the house. It’s freezing cold out here. The house is so toasty and warm.”
“I’m fine,” I say, just as she takes my picture.
“I’ll come back tomorrow to photograph you and the icicles hanging from your nose. If you’re still alive.”
GRUMPY PIGEON MAN’S SURPRISE
The next morning in the aviary, I have to chip away at a thin layer of ice in the pigeons’ water bowl. They get super fluttery when I pour their feed in. I figure the cold makes them want to eat more. Grumpy Pigeon Man still points out every little thing I do wrong. Who could do everything right with him staring over his shoulder?
I’m about to leave when he says, “Hold it one second, Tent Boy.”
It’s hard not to wonder if he will ever learn my real name.
About ten minutes later he comes back carrying an orange bundle. He tosses it to me. “You might need this tonight.”
I can’t believe it. He’s given me a brand-new sleeping bag. A really good one. I’m speechless.
He walks away and I’m left there wondering why he would do this.
And then, like he can hear the inside of my head, he turns around and shouts, “By the time you save up enough money for a sleeping bag you’ll be dead from frostbite and I’ll have to find someone else to take care of my pigeons. I’m too old for that.” He slams his door.
I should have known the reason he doesn’t want me to die is because of his pigeons.
FINAL PROJECT
Ms. Raffeli gave us our final bird project weeks ago. We’re supposed to have been writing on what we’ve learned about our bird. I mean I like pigeons, but writing a report is so boring and now it’s due tomorrow and I still don’t have an idea.
I’m in the aviary. Grumpy Pigeon Man is checking my work.
“You seem distracted, Tent Boy.”
I explain about the report and how I can’t think of anything interesting.
“You can’t find anything interesting about pigeons?”
I feel a little stupid when he says this, but I nod.
“I’ll give you interesting.” He pulls up two buckets. We sit. “It was World War I,” he says. “A U.S. division was stuck behind enemy lines and in real danger. Not only was the enemy attacking, but the Allies didn’t know the division was there and were also attacking.”
“What are allies?”
“Ask your mother,” he says and keeps talking. “They had to get a message to the Allies. But that was close to impossible because the only way to get a message was by pigeon.”
“Why didn’t they just phone?” I ask.
“No phones,” he says. “No radios, no TVs, no computers, only pigeons.”
“You mean they sent messages by pigeons?”
“You’re smarter than you look, Tent Boy. They attached a message to the pigeon’s legs and sent them off. Their homing instinct took care of the rest. They had three pigeons.”
“Well, that’s a lot,” I say.
“It was, but the enemy fire was so intense that the birds had to fly up high or they would be shot down.”
“What happened?”
“The first two birds didn’t make it. They only had one left: Cher Ami.”
“What does Cher Ami mean?” I ask.
I can tell he’s about to say “go ask your mother” but instead says, “It’s French for dear friend. Now stop interrupting. Where was I? Oh—so they attached the note and set him free. He flew up but was shot and dropped out of the sky.”
“Then what?” I ask.
“All hope was gone.”
“But Cher Ami was okay, wasn’t he?”
“Hold your horses, I’m getting there. Out of nowhere, Cher Ami came flying up. He flew higher and higher until he was safe.”
I admit my heart is pounding. “Then what?”
“That bird flew t
wenty-five miles in twenty-five minutes and reached the Allies. The Allies read the message and they rescued the division.”
“What about Cher Ami?”
“He had been shot in the eye, in the chest, and in his leg, which was hanging on by a tendon. If that tendon had broken the message would have been lost. They operated on Cher Ami and he lived. His leg could not be saved, but they made him a fake one and he was even awarded a medal. You can see him stuffed and on display at the Smithsonian Institution.”
This time, I thank Grumpy Pigeon Man right away and run home to start my report. If The Guinness Book of World Records had a hero bird category, Cher Ami would hold it forever.
ALL SHE SAYS
“Interesting, Teddy,” Ms. Raffeli says when she hands back my paper. “Not exactly what I asked for, but interesting.” Her roller-coaster eyebrows rise up again. I wish I knew what they meant.
We don’t get grades at my school, but when I look at my report I got a check plus.
Lonnie and Viva always get check pluses but not me. So, this time the eyebrows must have meant something good.
NAMES
After school, Lonnie and Viva come over to the aviary.
“Do you think he names his birds?” Viva asks. It’s the kind of question she asks: kind of weird, and kind of cool at the same time.
“No,” Lonnie says. “Grumpy Pigeon Man does not name his birds.”
“Is that a boy or a girl?” she asks. Again, kind of weird, kind of cool.
“I don’t know,” I say. “And I am not looking.”
“I just wondered if you’d learned to tell them apart.”
“I know that male pigeons coo more than females.”
Lonnie says, “If I were to name a bird, that bird there would be Admiral Ackbar. He’s cooing a lot and he looks tough.”
Viva laughs. “How about that one?”
“Padmé Amidala, and the pigeon next to her is Sabé.”
“Can one be Jar Jar Binks?” I ask.
Teddy Mars Book #1 Page 6