Soar

by Tracy Edward Wymer

  “That’s great, Eddie,” Mr. Dover says. “But do you know the answer to the question?”

  Everyone turns to me, including Gabriela. She’s probably thinking I’m way out of my league here.

  I’ve known these rules since I could talk. Every time I went out with Dad, he’d say them at the beginning of our trip, and then he’d make me repeat them at the end.

  “That’s easy,” I say. “Get as close as you can to the bird. Never take your eyes off it. Don’t let anyone get in your way.”

  Everyone laughs, but I don’t know what’s so funny.

  “That’s quite a list, Eddie,” Mr. Dover says. “But whoever told you these rules has unfortunately misled you. The first rule of birding is to stay at a comfortable distance, so you don’t scare the bird. Rule number two is to only look at the bird long enough to make your observations before writing them in your journal. Every birder knows that if you stare at one bird for too long, then you may miss another bird flying your way. The third rule is the exact opposite of what you said. You should strive to be courteous to others in the field. You never know when you might need a helping hand from a fellow birder.”

  “Take that,” Mouton says. He leans back in his chair while tapping his pen on his desk.

  “Eddie,” Mr. Dover says, “the rules of birding have been around longer than trees. A real birder would not only know these rules by heart, but he would live by them every day. Where did you learn about these rules?”

  “From my dad,” I say.

  “Hmm,” he says.

  “My dad also said that a real birder would never put red food coloring in hummingbird feeders, like you do, because two recent studies have shown it could be harmful.”

  I’ve never talked like this to a teacher before. I don’t know why I’m saying these things. It’s like I can’t control myself. I don’t know whether to be embarrassed, proud, or scared for my science grade.

  Mouton’s chair drops to the floor. “Bird Nerd, Bird Nerd, Bird Nerd,” he says. Then he makes the same weird sound he always makes when he’s nervous. “Yip!”

  Mr. Dover glances at the clock hanging on the back wall above the bulletin board. On the clock common backyard birds fill the spaces where numbers usually go. “Time’s up. Eddie,” he says, “I’d like to speak to you after class.”

  Everyone picks up their books and walks out. I hope for a glance from Gabriela—just one glance—but she offers nothing.

  So much for being best friends.

  Mouton walks by and says, “Eddie-shovel-truck! Yip!”

  Once everyone has left the classroom, I gather my books, with my bird journal resting on top, and walk to the front of the room. I’m sure this conversation is going to be short. It will probably end with me sitting outside Mrs. Hughes’s office.

  How am I going to explain to Mom that I got sent to the principal’s office on the first day of school?

  I don’t waste any time. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Dover. I didn’t mean what I said. It just sort of slipped out. I won’t do it again.”

  Mr. Dover says, “Eddie, I want to show you something.”

  He walks behind the front table and puts on a leather falconry glove. He bends down and fiddles with what sounds like a metal cage. He stands up, holding a bird on his gloved hand.

  The bird is striking. It has a blue head and wings, and a rusty-red back and tail, and black specks cover its body. Its beak is small and points sharply downward, exactly like Coop’s. It’s a good-size bird, smaller than a peregrine falcon but bigger than a red-winged blackbird.

  “That’s a male American kestrel,” I say. “The smallest falcon in North America.”

  “Very good, Eddie. Say hi to Zeus.”

  “Hi, Zeus,” I say.

  As much as I like birds, I’ve never actually talked to one. It feels as weird as it sounds.

  “I found him hobbling around on my property. He was in a tree that was struck by lightning. He has a broken wing. It’s healing, but gradually. Go ahead, you can touch his head.”

  The bird stares at me. I stroke his head, and he looks up toward the ceiling. My other hand rests on my bird journal. What I wouldn’t do to take my journal out right now and compare one of my American kestrel sketches to Zeus.

  Mr. Dover strokes Zeus’s nape, the back of his neck.

  “Eddie,” he says, “your father was his own man. He did things his own way. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, but not everyone always agreed with his way.”

  “Did you agree with his way?” I ask.

  “Not very often.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look, Eddie. The most important thing is that you and I have one thing in common, a very important thing. We both love birds. We can agree to disagree on the Rules of Birding, I’m fine with that. But we have a long year ahead of us in science, so let’s start over. What do you say?”

  The bird clock chirps. The hour hand rests on an American goldfinch, which means it’s ten o’clock.

  With his free hand Mr. Dover scribbles on a notepad and rips off the top sheet. “Here’s a pass. You have five minutes to get to your next class.”

  I take the pass and walk toward the classroom door.

  “Hey,” Mr. Dover says. “Zeus likes you. I can tell.”

  I give a half smile and walk out of the room.

  I’m sure Mr. Dover says this to every student who shows any signs of trouble, especially those who point out his poor birding methods in front of the whole class.

  The way Zeus looks at me is kind of weird, though. It’s like he knows me already, or we’ve met before.

  I wonder if that’s how the golden eagle would look at me.

  During lunchtime in the cafeteria, while sitting alone, I open my bird journal to a clean page in the Raptors section and begin drawing Zeus. I sketch the head and the small, sharp beak, including the black vertical lines on both sides of his face. Then I draw the slate-blue wings, with brown spots, and the rust-colored back and tail.

  The American kestrel is about the size of a mourning dove, so the drawing doesn’t take that long. Below the drawing I write:

  Bird: American kestrel (Zeus)

  Location: Mr. Dover’s classroom

  Note: Zeus’s wing is healing; I hope he flies again.

  Dad: Do you think Mr. Dover doesn’t like me

  because of something that happened between you and him?

  I wish you were here to tell me more.

  I wish . . . I wish . . . I wish . . .

  Feathered Psycho

  After math class I talk to Mrs. Hughes and she gives me a new locker next to Trixie Longburger’s. Trixie has bright orange hair and matching braces. She’s always chewing gum, and she talks faster than anyone else in school.

  We have an ongoing conversation between classes, which is only five minutes, so by the time I walk to my locker (while avoiding Mouton), open it, and get books for my next class, I’d say our conversation takes place over a total of forty-five seconds.

  Conversation with Trixie—Part I

  Trixie: What are you doing here?

  Me: Mrs. Hughes moved my locker.

  Trixie: Why?

  Me: Because I asked her to.

  Trixie: Whatever. It was because of Mouton.

  Me (thinking of a comeback and failing): Whatever.

  Trixie: Don’t act like you’re not scared of him.

  Me: Why would I be scared of him?

  Trixie: Because he’s, like, five times bigger than you.

  Me (closing my locker gently because my mom takes care of the school): I’m not scared of anything.

  So even Trixie Longburger knows I’m scared of Mouton. Is that such a bad thing, though? The entire seventh grade is afraid of him.

  I mean, isn’t it cool to do what everyone else is doing? I guess not, when it involves bravery, courage, and standing up for yourself.

  Conversation with Trixie—Part II

  Trixie: See Mouton lately?

&n
bsp; Me: (silence)

  Trixie: Chicken.

  Me: You wouldn’t go near him either.

  Trixie: Yes, I would.

  Me: Prove it.

  Trixie: Okay. Watch me.

  Me: When?

  Trixie: Right now.

  Me: I’ll believe it when I see it.

  Trixie: See it, you feathered psycho.

  Trixie beelines to Mouton’s locker.

  Mouton is there, flinging books from his locker, looking for something. “Has anyone seen my lunch?” he shouts.

  Trixie taps him on the shoulder.

  Mouton turns from his locker. He towers over her. “You should close your mouth while chewing gum. No, wait. You should close your mouth ALL the time.”

  For once Mouton has said what everyone else is thinking.

  Trixie bites her bottom lip. She looks like she’s about to explode into tears. She picks Mouton’s science textbook up off the tile floor. Then she lifts the thick book over her head and belts him across the shoulder with it.

  Mouton loses his balance and falls sideways. His head smacks off the lockers, and he drops to the floor. He stays there and doesn’t move.

  Trixie lets the science book fall from her hand. She huffs and starts to say something, but then hurries off while looking innocent.

  If it weren’t for his stomach moving up and down when he breathes, I’d bet Mouton was dead.

  Mrs. Hughes walks up in her high heels. Her hair is tied up in a bun. It looks like a Buck Burger sitting on her head. Her glasses make her look serious and stern, but everyone knows she’s a pushover.

  Last year Mouton flushed a stink bomb down the toilet and flooded the sixth-grade hallway. He cried in Mrs. Hughes’s office, saying he’d done it to gain more friends. She let him off the hook. No detention. No suspension. Not even a call home to his mom.

  “Eddie, what happened?” Mrs. Hughes says. “Is Mouton okay?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  Mrs. Hughes shakes Mouton. “Mouton? Mouton? Can you hear me?”

  Mouton sits up. He’s kind of wobbly, and his eyes wander around the hallway. “Science book! Yip-yip!”

  “Mouton!” Mrs. Hughes says. “How many fingers am I holding up?” She holds up three fingers.

  “Two,” Mouton says. “Maybe three.”

  A crowd begins to gather around us.

  Mrs. Hughes turns to me. “Eddie, will you please help me walk him to the nurse?”

  I stand there, frozen. I’d rather chew a piece of gum off the ground than help Mouton.

  “Eddie, please help me,” Mrs. Hughes says.

  I don’t have a choice. I feel like I have to help, since my mom works at the school and talks to Mrs. Hughes almost every day.

  Mrs. Hughes and I each take an arm and lift Mouton off the floor.

  I use my other hand to support Mouton’s weight, but when I grab on to his body, my hand accidentally slips into a pool of wet T-shirt, otherwise known as Mouton’s armpit.

  I quickly yank my hand away. Mouton buckles and falls to the floor, pulling Mrs. Hughes down with him.

  Mrs. Hughes shrieks.

  Mouton shrieks.

  Everyone gasps.

  From the floor Mrs. Hughes straightens her glasses. “Eddie, what are you doing?” She shakes her head and says to everyone standing around us, “Is there anyone here who can help?”

  I take a step away from Mrs. Hughes and Mouton. My face starts getting hot. Mouton must weight three times as much as Mrs. Hughes. She could’ve been seriously hurt.

  Chase, an eighth-grade basketball player, steps forward. He has broad shoulders and long arms. “I can help,” he says.

  “Thank goodness,” Mrs. Hughes says. “Chase, take Mouton’s arm.” Then she looks at me. “Eddie, you stand back.”

  I shrink back further into the crowd, bumping into a red dress.

  “Excuse you, Eddie,” Gabriela says.

  Oh great. Gabriela saw the whole thing. No one wants to be best friends with someone who lets the principal down in front of half the school.

  Mouton stumbles down the hallway, most of his weight leaning on Chase.

  Mrs. Hughes holds one of Mouton’s arms to make it look like she’s doing some of the work, but everyone knows that Chase is the only one strong enough to support Mouton.

  I lower my head and slip away from the scene, before I can let anyone else down.

  Memories

  After the last bell rings, I ride home with Mom. She climbs into the car, her keys clinking together on her hip.

  Mom says she has a key to every door in school and that it’s one of the perks of being the head janitor. I wish she had a key to unlock other people’s minds. Then I’d know what Gabriela thinks of me after seeing me fail in the hallway at school.

  Mom shuts the car door, strikes a match, and lights a cigarette. She thinks that matches make cigarettes taste better than lighters do, which is completely weird to me. She cracks her window.

  “How was your first day?” She puts the key into the ignition and turns it. Hoopty’s engine grumbles and then starts up.

  “Good.” I stare out the window, looking for birds.

  “Did you see Gabriela? Did you talk to her?”

  “Mom, it’s only the first day.”

  “I’m just asking. I want to be sure you’re reaching out to people, putting yourself out there. Friends don’t just show up on your doorstep, you know.”

  I roll down the window and breathe in the fresh air. “Well, don’t worry. I’m putting myself out there.”

  She reaches over and runs her hand through my hair. “I just want the best for you. I want you to be happy.”

  “I know.”

  I can’t help but wonder if this is Mom’s way of trying to stay involved in my life. I love her and all, but part of me wishes she’d back off and give me some room to breathe.

  Mom inhales from the cigarette and flicks the ashes out the window. “I heard about Mouton.”

  This catches my attention. I turn toward her, ignoring the mockingbird flying overhead. “What’d you hear?” If Mom already heard about what happened, that means people are making a big deal out of it. Rumors are probably darting through the hallways like falcons dive-bombing for starlings.

  “I heard that Mouton fainted in the hallway, and you tried helping but you dropped him on top of Mrs. Hughes.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Mrs. Hughes.”

  “That’s not what actually happened.” I turn back toward the window, but the mockingbird is long gone.

  I can feel Mom looking at me. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the cigarette dangling from her mouth, moving every time she talks. “Then tell me your side of the story. Come on, I want the dirt, the good stuff. You can’t let your mom walk those halls without being informed.”

  “It wasn’t that big a deal. Mrs. Hughes asked me to help her, so I did. That’s it. There, end of story.”

  Mom looks at me, then back at the road. “I have another question for you.”

  We turn into our neighborhood, and I hear the upbeat song of an indigo bunting. It sounds like someone saying, Tut? Tut? Hair? Hair? Be it? Be it? I’m hoping Mom’s question has nothing to do with school. It’s the first day back, and I’m already sick of that place.

  “I’m listening,” I say.

  “What have you been doing over there at Miss Dorothy’s house? You’ve been spending more time over there than at home.”

  The indigo bunting song suddenly stops. “I’ve been looking for the golden eagle.”

  Mom takes a long puff from her cigarette and blows it out her window, like she’s thinking about whether I should be looking for the golden eagle or not. “I know your father wanted you to see that bird, but I don’t think it’s coming back, Eddie.”

  I glare at her, like she was the one who stole my bike. “Dad wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

  Mom puts out her cigarette in the car’s ashtray. “
You sure about that?”

  I understand why Mom is acting this way. She’s stressed out. She’s been working long hours just to put orange juice in the fridge. I do my best to help around the house, but there’s only so much I can do.

  “You keep searching, Eddie,” she says. “Keep on searching. But if that bird doesn’t show up, you know what I’m gonna tell you.”

  Mom presses the radio button. She turns up a country song about losing everything you own and leaving bad memories behind.

  There’s one bad memory I wish I could leave behind: Dad flying away forever.

  Bird Talkers

  By the end of the week, I work up the courage to go to Gabriela’s house and ask her about her first week of school. She’s in a new country, a new neighborhood, and has to make all new friends. She could use a shoulder to lean on. Plus, I need to show her that I’m not a total failure, like she saw in the hallway at school.

  I walk up to Gabriela’s house, and a string of clear whistles—cheer, cheer, cheer—comes from a tree.

  Before I see the bird, I recognize the call as a northern cardinal.

  I look up and find it perching on a branch. It’s a male, bright red, with a pointed crest and black mask. It’s cool, for a songbird, and it gives me an idea. The black mask. I might need a disguise like that if I have to get my bike on a rescue mission.

  Before I have a chance to ring the doorbell, Gabriela shows up at the screen door. “Eddie?” she asks. “What are you doing here?”

  Good question. What AM I doing here?

  “I—I wanted to see how your first week went. I’ve never moved, but it must be tough starting over.”

  “That is sweet.”

  At least she still thinks I’m sweet, even after seeing me drop Mouton in the hallway.

  “The best part was when you tried to lift Mouton and you let go of him. That was hilarity.” She giggles, but then notices that I’m not laughing, so she stops.

  “Hilarious,” I mutter, looking down.

  So much for sweet. She must think I’m a total weakling.

  She crosses her arms. “I am glad you are not spying on us today. That is a nice change.”