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To my parents—who taught me to fly.
But Hopes are Shy Birds flying at a great distance seldom reached by the best of Guns.
—John James Audubon
Searching for Gold
I’m looking for a bird, but not just any old bird. I’m looking for Dad’s golden eagle. And I’m not stopping until I find it.
Dad said it was the most magnificent, most spectacular bird he’d ever seen, and that’s saying something, because Dad had seen more birds than John Audubon himself. And if you don’t know who John Audubon was, he was like the Beatles of birding. Yeah, he was that famous.
This golden eagle’s wings were wider than the creek behind our house, and its talons were the size of bulldozer claws. Dad saw the golden eagle swoop down near Miss Dorothy’s pond and snatch a rabbit the size of a lawn mower. The most unique thing about the golden eagle was that it had a gray spot on its wing. Dad called it a birthmark. A birthmark! Can you believe birds have birthmarks?
Dad told everyone about the golden eagle, including his friends in his local birding group. He wasn’t expecting to see such a spectacular bird, so he didn’t have a camera with him. And without a picture, no one believed him.
But Dad stood by his golden eagle story.
After a while his friends said they were sick of his lies and told him to take his stories elsewhere. They even voted him out of their birding group. So much for being “professional” friends.
The rumors got so bad that other birding groups wanted nothing to do with him. They thought the golden eagle (and Dad) was a big joke.
Still, Dad never gave up. We went looking for the golden eagle at least once a month. He said that seeing a bird that magnificent was the ultimate once-in-a-lifetime sighting, but I hadn’t used my once-in-a-lifetime card yet, so there was a chance we could see it.
He promised it would eventually come back, and I’m going to be here when it happens. But since Dad’s no longer here to defend his story, finding that golden eagle and restoring his reputation depends on one person.
Me.
So here I am—just me, my bike, my binoculars, and my backpack—on the very last day of summer vacation, the day before seventh grade begins, looking for that golden eagle at Miss Dorothy’s place, which sits at the far end of my neighborhood.
I walk around Miss Dorothy’s pond while twigs crunch under my shoes. The late afternoon sun cooks the black water, and the smell of algae and dead fish slaps me in the face. I’ve been here a thousand times, and the smell is so bad that I still have to cover my nose with my T-shirt. The end of summer is the worst, because on hot and humid days like today, the stench burns your nose hairs and sticks to your clothes.
High up in an oak tree, a house finch lets out a long, complicated warble that ends in a low-pitched slur.
Then a different call—cak-cak-cak—overtakes the singsongy chatter and echoes through the trees.
It’s Coop.
She was born twelve years ago, the same year as me, which is pretty old for a Cooper’s hawk. She wears speckled plumage like a lot of ordinary hawks, but Coop is far from ordinary. First off, she’s really old. Second, she only has one eye.
Dad said she lost it to a black vulture in midair. Coop won the fight, because the vulture flew away from Coop’s territory and never came back.
Hawks are supposed to have better eyesight than Superman. Their eyes drive the hunt. That’s how they eat, how they survive. But somehow Coop has made it this long. Dad always called her a “tough son of a gun,” and that’s exactly what I’m going to have to be if I want to find that golden eagle.
Looking through my binoculars, I find Coop swooping overhead, searching for her next meal. She’s used to hunting with me around, so she won’t mind if I watch her do her thing.
She lands quietly on a branch and scopes the ground.
Near the pond something stirs in the tall cattails.
Coop watches.
Waits.
I crouch low in the brush, adjusting the shoulder straps of my backpack, keeping my binoculars steady. Seeing Coop hunt never gets old.
A rabbit suddenly leaps out from the cattails and races for cover under a pile of branches.
From high above, Coop launches off the tree and dives straight toward the rabbit. She sinks her talons into the rabbit’s back and takes off into the sky, but halfway back to her nest she lets go. The rabbit free-falls and splashes into the black pond.
Too heavy.
Sometimes that happens. It’s part of nature.
Dad said the food chain is brutal and that most people don’t have the emotional detachment to see it in action. To be honest, seeing a living being take its last breath is not something I’m interested in doing again, but I guess it comes with the territory of studying birds.
I check my watch and decide I’d better get home for dinner before Mom comes looking for me.
Before I leave Miss Dorothy’s place, I search around the pond for traces of the golden eagle’s diet. A partially eaten rabbit or bird. The tail of a field mouse. Mauled squirrels or chipmunks.
But there’s nothing.
I’m hoping the golden eagle will show up closer to winter, during migration season. That’s probably my best chance to see it.
“Eddie,” Dad told me, “in order to see a bird like the golden eagle, you have to catch it on the move, while it’s going from one home to the next. They’re very rare here in Indiana, but spotting it during the fall or winter might be our big chance.”
So finding it on the move is my plan, and I’m sticking to it.
Before I leave, I sit under a tree. I take my bird journal out of my backpack, flip to a clean page in the Raptors section, and write:
Bird: Golden eagle
Location: Miss Dorothy’s place
Note: Increase search time closer to migration season.
Dad: Our bird is going to come back, I just know it.
And when it does, everyone will know the truth.
Papa and the New Girl
On my way home from Miss Dorothy’s place, I notice a moving truck sitting in the driveway of a house down the street from mine.
I skid to a stop on my bike. The moving truck is supposed to be white, but it’s so dirty that it looks like someone gave it a bath in charcoal.
This house used to be the Lathams’, but Timmy’s dad lost his job, so they moved back to Kentucky. Now someone new is moving in, and since I’ve lived in this neighborhood my whole life, I feel like it’s my responsibility to investigate our new neighbors.
I hop off my bike and set it down carefully in the ditch. Hiding your bike is the first step in a spy mission. I know this because Dad and me used to watch old spy movies together. Every Saturday night when I wasn’t hanging out at Jetz Skating Rink, I watched a ninja or spy save the day, while sharing popcorn with Dad.
If your mode of transportation—in this case my bike—is seen by the subject, then your mission is doomed. Plus, my bike is more than just a way to get around town.
Last year, right before he flew away, Dad bought my bike at Dan’s Sporting Goods. I say “flew away” because it’s better than saying “he died” or “passed away.” I think Dad would want me to say it like that anyway.
Standing in the aisle, I looked at bikes for almost an hour, but Dad never lost his patience. When I told hi
m I wanted the silver Predator, he just nodded quietly. Then, at the counter, he scribbled on a check, ripped it out, and handed it to me and said, “You pay the gal.”
I took the check and stared at it. One hundred and forty-nine dollars was the most money I’d ever held in my hands, and at that moment I didn’t want to give it up. But I had to, or else I would’ve had nothing to show for turning twelve.
That night Dad said the bike was too big for me, but he also said it was a good choice because I could grow into it.
So you see, my bike is way more than just a bike.
In the driveway two moving guys unload a couple of boxes from the moving truck. They’re big guys, built like bodyguards or pro wrestlers. Once they go inside the house, I creep through the side yard and sneak around back. I try my best to stay low and quiet, out of sight from windows. The last thing I need is my new neighbors catching me snooping around their house.
A privacy fence stretches all the way around the backyard. I’m five-foot-four-and-a-quarter, so by standing next to it, I can tell it’s about six feet tall. I need something to stand on, but all I find in the side yard are a couple of toy fire trucks, a rubber snake, and a Donald Duck walkie-talkie set—all stuff the Lathams left behind.
Caw! Caw!
I duck and cover my head.
The call is harsh and loud.
An eastern bluebird perches on a telephone wire, but the call definitely isn’t coming from a dinky songbird like that.
Caw! Caw!
It sounds like it’s coming from the backyard, behind the privacy fence. I have to find a way to see it.
Trees surround the house, but none have branches low enough to climb. I spot a half-deflated basketball sitting in the grass. It’s the same ball Timmy used when he whipped my butt in H-O-R-S-E every day after school.
I drop the ball next to the fence and stand on it. It rolls back and forth under my shoes, so I hold on to the fence for balance. The only way to see into the backyard is to do a forward pull-up, so that’s what I do.
The backyard is smaller than I remember. It’s empty except for a covered porch and a shed in the far corner. I can only look over the fence for a few seconds at a time, and then I have to lower my feet onto the basketball to rest. The ball squishes under my weight and shifts side to side, so I keep a tight hold on the fence.
The screen door creaks and swings open. I do another forward pull-up to see who’s coming out of the house. It’s a dark-skinned man—actually, he looks really tan—with black hair and a long black beard.
But the best part is, a giant parrot stands on his shoulder!
It’s the brightest, most colorful bird I’ve ever seen. Red feathers cover its head and stomach, and the wings are yellow, green, and blue. Its red tail feathers point straight down, and its beak looks as big as my fist.
You only see these kinds of birds in three places: books, jungles, or zoos. Since the closest jungle is in South America—maybe Mexico—and the closest zoo is across the Indiana–Ohio border in Cincinnati, I don’t have much experience with parrots. But thanks to the Encyclopedia of Macaws in the West Plains Library, which has my name listed on the checkout card three times, I’m sure this bird is a scarlet macaw.
On the covered porch the man unhinges the door to a huge wire cage and sets the macaw inside. The bird hops onto a long, thin bar, where it perches next to another macaw that could be its twin.
My arms begin to tremble, so I lower myself and rest my feet on the basketball. I shake out my hands one at a time to get the feeling back. Then I take a deep breath and do pull-up number three, more than I’ve ever done in gym class.
The screen door swings open again. This time it’s a tan girl with long, dark hair that hangs to her lower back. She looks like she’s in high school, but I hope she’s in middle school. She doesn’t have to be in seventh grade like me, but at least middle school.
The girl says something to the tan man, but “papa” is all I understand. Papa gestures while mouthing a few words, but no sound comes out of his mouth.
My grip weakens. It takes all my strength to keep my eyes above the fence.
I’m about to lower myself onto the basketball again when a shaggy yellow dog sprints around the corner of the house, barking and growling.
The dog pounces toward me and knocks the basketball out from under my feet. I hold on to the fence, my legs dangling beneath me. The dog jumps up and bites at my shirt.
At the same time the two macaws scream:
Caw! Caw!
Papa and the girl turn and see me.
Uh-oh.
My spy mission is over.
I jump down from the fence and take off running, but my foot catches something in the yard, and I trip.
The last thing I remember is thinking spies don’t get caught before face-planting into a rock.
I’m Called a Spy
My head is cold. I blink twice and open my eyes. I’m lying on a couch.
Where am I? How long have I been here?
The tan girl pulls a bag of ice away from the throbbing spot above my right eye. She kneels on the floor in front of me. Straight black hair outlines her face. Her round eyes look like the acorns I sometimes collect at Miss Dorothy’s place.
The man she calls Papa stands between the living room and the kitchen, stroking his black beard. One of the scarlet macaws perches on his leather shoulder strap. The bird is massive, and now that I’m closer to it, its colors are even more impressive. It glares at me like it’s about to belt out another warning call.
“You tripped over this.” The girl holds up the Donald Duck walkie-talkie set I spotted in the side yard.
From the way she talks, she’s definitely not Indiana-an. And now that she’s right in front of me, she looks fifteen, maybe sixteen.
I sit up on the couch, and the room goes wobbly for a second.
“Does your head have pain?” she asks.
“A little.” I wince and feel the bump above my eye. I blink three times, hoping one of the blinks will straighten everything out.
I look around and realize I’m inside the Lathams’ old house. I’ve been in here for a snack and a drink of water, but it looks way different than it used to. Now all the furniture is made of polished wood, and there are brightly colored pillows everywhere. Boxes fill the empty spaces in the room, and a green-and-yellow flag hangs on the far wall. I don’t recognize the flag’s words. They’re not Spanish but some other language.
“I’m Gabriela. This is my father, Papa. Here, drink this.” She takes a bowl from the coffee table and offers it to me. Steam rises from the top of it. I’m afraid if I drink this stuff, it’ll burn all the way down to my toes.
“What is it?” I try to sound curious, not rude.
“Papa makes it from acai berries. He says it gives you strength.”
Papa pets the macaw’s head and smiles.
The macaw glares at me. I can tell it wants me to leave.
I take the bowl from Gabriela. The steam smells like grape juice and black licorice. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. I blow on the purplish liquid, purse my lips, and take the smallest sip ever while trying to keep my mouth from catching fire.
The liquid burns on the way down, but only for a second. Then the burning goes away and a cool sensation spreads through my chest and shoulders. I shiver and smack my lips together. I have to admit, it tastes pretty good, like a combination of Miss Dorothy’s blueberry pie, purple Skittles, and Mom’s frozen grapes.
“What do you think?” Gabriela asks.
“It’s good.”
The macaw squawks.
Caw! Caw!
The sound echoes through the house and rattles my brain.
Gabriela’s cheeks turn red. “I am sorry,” she says. “Silvio can be protective. He makes a good dog watch.”
“You mean ‘watchdog,’ ” I say, before I can stop myself.
Gabriela glances down. “Sorry, my English is not that good.”
G
reat, now I’ve embarrassed her. I try covering my tracks. “No, I’m sorry. Your English is great.”
She smiles, and for the first time I realize she has dimples, just like my mom’s. “Obrigada,” she says. “That means ‘thank you.’ ”
I adjust an orange cushion and sit back on the couch. “This place looks totally different from when the Lathams lived here.”
“Papa does not know much about decorating, so he leaves it to me.”
Papa smiles and continues petting Silvio’s head.
I find the green-and-yellow flag again on the far wall. I try to read the words, but I still don’t get what it says. “That flag,” I say, “where’s it from?”
“Brazil,” she says.
“You mean, like, Brazil in South America?”
“Yes. It is the only one I know about.”
“You moved here all the way from Brazil?”
She looks over her shoulder at Papa and smiles. “We were tired of living there. We wanted to change.”
I say the only thing I can think of: “Change can be good.” Dad told me about a time when he said that to Grampa once, but Grampa told him to shut the heck up. Grampa didn’t like change very much, so I bet he didn’t even say it that nicely. So far, this is going much better.
“I will be in seventh grade,” she says. “I am very nervous, but Papa says he will be with me in spirit.”
“Seventh grade? Me too!” I can hardly contain my excitement. “You have nothing to be nervous about. West Plains is a good place to live.”
She smiles. But I wonder if she’s smiling because we’re in the same grade, or because she could care less that we’re in the same grade but she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings.
“That is good,” she says. “You can show me the school and answer all of my questions.”
I take another sip of Papa’s special drink made from berries. Something about this drink really does make you feel better. “Thanks for taking care of me,” I say. I turn to the window and notice the orange and blue in the sky meshing together like the plumage of that eastern bluebird. “I should get home before dark.”
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