Soar

by Tracy Edward Wymer

  Mr. Dover reaches down and rubs Apollo’s head. “Quail populations depend on us, don’t they, boy?”

  “Listen here, Lamb Man.” Miss Dorothy steadies herself with her cane while pointing a finger at Mr. Dover. “I don’t care what you’re shooting. I don’t want to see you on my land again. And for heaven’s sake, take that hideous bow tie off. There are some things my little Eddie shouldn’t see.”

  I can tell by the way Mr. Dover sticks out his chin that he wants to defend himself. Instead he looks at me. “See you in class, Eddie.” He starts down the tracks. “Come on, boy,” he says, and Apollo trots after him.

  Once Mr. Dover is out of sight, I walk with Miss Dorothy toward her house, giving her my arm to lean on.

  “Oh, Eddie, I used to love seeing you here with your dad,” she says. “He was such a good man.”

  “Miss Dorothy?” I pause, deciding how to ask what I’m about to ask.

  “What is it, Eddie?”

  “Was my dad . . .” I swallow hard, unable to finish my thought.

  “Go on, spit it out,” she says.

  “Was he an honest person?” I finally ask her.

  She stops walking.

  A northern bobwhite runs across the ground in front of us. With three quick wing beats, the quail flies away, taking cover in the trees.

  “Put it this way,” she says. “Your father was his own person. He was true to himself. The way I see it, that’s as honest as one can be.”

  I nod. “Thanks, Miss Dorothy.”

  She takes hold of my arm, and we walk the rest of the way to her house.

  As I’m walking toward the bus stop, the bus belches smoke from its tailpipe and leaves me behind in a dark cloud. I could chase the bus down, but what’s the point? I’d rather get pegged with dodge balls in PE than sit in Mr. Dover’s science class.

  From the back of the bus, Mouton sticks his head out the window. “Eddie-shovel-truck! Eddie-shovel-truck! Yip-yip!”

  I want to yell something back at Mouton—like Dad did once when he told another birder who wouldn’t get out of his way to “Move it or lose ’em,” in reference to the guy’s teeth—but then Mouton will mess with my locker or do something worse.

  It’s smarter to ignore him, so that’s what I do.

  After catching Mr. Dover in the act of killing quail, I have a bad feeling about school. Will Mr. Dover call on me in front of everyone? Will he make my tests harder on purpose? Will he tell my mom about what happened this morning at Miss Dorothy’s place?

  I walk to school, thinking about that quail falling from the sky. Then I imagine the same thing happening to my science grade.

  Bird: Northern bobwhite

  Location: Miss Dorothy’s place

  Note: Mr. Dover is a hypocrite. Do not trust him.

  Dad: Miss Dorothy says you were true to yourself. I believe her.

  But is that the same as being an honest person?

  Symposium Nightmare

  A week goes by, and the whole time I stay low-key in science class. I don’t look at Mr. Dover, and he doesn’t look at me.

  Mr. Dover straightens his canary-yellow bow tie. “Today you will be assigned your partner for the symposium project.”

  His mouth keeps moving, but I don’t hear anything after the word “project.”

  Killer.

  Murderer.

  Liar.

  Those are the only words that come to mind.

  Mr. Dover continues. “And did you know, ladies and gentlemen of the seventh grade, that we are in the presence of greatness. Well, actually the heir of greatness. Eddie here is the son of a birding legend.”

  My face gets hot and my neck itches. Why is he dragging me into this? If anyone deserves a hot face and an itchy neck, it’s him, not me.

  “Eddie, why don’t you tell the class about your father’s symposium project? After all, he was famous around West Plains.”

  I know exactly what this is about.

  “That’s okay,” I respond. “Maybe another time.”

  From the front row Gabriela turns around and looks at me. “I would like to hear about your father’s project.”

  First Mr. Dover, now Gabriela? What’s going on here?

  “No, really,” I insist. “I don’t feel like talking about it.”

  “Please, Eddie.” Gabriela smiles.

  I have to admit, Gabriela’s smile is hard to resist. And if I want to have friends, then I have to put myself out there, like Mom said.

  “Okay,” I agree.

  I tell the story about Dad’s project, how he took home a blue ribbon the size of a grandfather clock, which still hangs in Mom’s bedroom.

  Dad’s project was so good that it gained attention from regional birding groups, it earned him a full-length feature in BirdWatching magazine, and a reporter from National Geographic came to school and wrote an article about him.

  Dad was even interviewed on the local news channel!

  He also won a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar scholarship that he never used, because he didn’t go to college. He said college was for smart people, and that he wasn’t smart but full of enough common sense to feed logic to seven smart people for a lifetime. I’m not sure I understood what he meant by saying all that, but it sounded good.

  Dad’s project poster board now sits in the garage, tucked away in a corner, collecting dust and spiderwebs.

  When I finish telling the class about Dad’s project, Gabriela smiles, like she’s satisfied or maybe even impressed. Now if only I could rig today’s drawing so we could be symposium project partners. That could be the first step in a friendship that could last forever.

  “Inspiring story, Eddie,” Mr. Dover says. I can’t tell if he’s being serious or sarcastic. “I can’t wait to see how much of your father’s talent rubbed off on you.”

  He takes a robin’s nest off the counter. “Now for the partner drawing. Remember, it doesn’t matter who your partner is, or if you have a past with this person, positive or negative. We start over in seventh grade. The slate is wiped clean. It’s important to respect your partner’s opinions and abilities in order to produce the best project.”

  How can Mr. Dover talk about respect? What about respect for birds?

  “The first symposium pairing is . . .” He reaches into the robin’s nest and pulls out two folded slips of paper. “Trixie . . .”

  Trixie grins, showing off her orange braces.

  Mr. Dover unfolds the second piece of paper. “And Gabriela.”

  My pencil breaks on a page in my bird journal. For the first time ever, I wish I had orange hair and braces, and my name was Trixie Longburger.

  Mr. Dover pulls a few more pairings from the robin’s nest. I don’t pay attention. I’m too busy drawing a picture inspired by the Grim Quail-Reaper.

  I sketch a giant quail the size of a T. rex. It has one foot raised high in the air, and it’s about to stomp on Mr. Dover’s house. I draw Mr. Dover’s house as a one-story ranch style on a big property, just as I remember driving past it with Dad.

  There’s one detail in the picture I’m really proud of. I’ve drawn Zeus, the American kestrel, in the top corner of the page. I make it obvious that he gets away safely, out of Quailzilla’s path of destruction.

  “Eddie.”

  I look up.

  Mr. Dover is staring at me while holding a tiny slip of paper. He has drawn my name from the robin’s nest. I close my bird journal so no one can see the Quailzilla picture.

  Mr. Dover mixes up the papers in the nest. “Let’s see who will be the lucky partner with the heir of greatness.”

  He pulls out the crinkled slip of paper, unfolds it, and says one name.

  “Mouton.”

  Woodpecker Pens and Bird Wars

  The first thing that goes through my mind is that Mr. Dover has paired me with Mouton on purpose. This can’t be accidental. Stepping on a toddler’s foot while standing in line at the wild bird exhibit is an accident. But being partnered with Mou
ton for a science project, after my run-in with Mr. Dover, is definitely not an accident.

  I can’t believe this. I’ll have to pull off a miracle to win the blue ribbon.

  Mr. Dover drops the paper strip on the counter. He draws more names but I’m not listening.

  “Okay, everyone. Partner up. Make a list of five possibilities for your symposium project. Remember, you’re going to be working closely with this person, so make sure you both agree on your choices. Stubbornness and arguing will only make your lives miserable.”

  Yeah, he definitely partnered me with Mouton on purpose. “Miserable” is going to be my middle name.

  Mouton taps his woodpecker pen on his desk. “Eddie-shovel-truck! Eddie-shovel-truck!”

  Mouton got this woodpecker pen in fourth grade, the same year he started calling me Fish Boy. The pen is red and black. In the top part is a small red-headed woodpecker figurine that floats in clear liquid. He showed up to class with the pen one day, and he kept tapping it on his notebook. The tapping was just loud enough to be annoying, but Mrs. Rollins didn’t take the pen away from him. Maybe she thought it would give him something to focus on, other than blurting out “Yip!” in the middle of spelling lessons.

  Everyone in class stands up and moves next to their partners.

  Gabriela sits next to Trixie, who’s chewing gum and talking so fast, you can’t understand her.

  Mouton drums his woodpecker pen on his notebook. The drumming gets louder every year. I can tell that he’s never going to move closer to me, and I’m not going closer to him, so instead I stare at my bird journal and pretend I didn’t hear Mr. Dover’s instructions.

  “Eddie,” Mr. Dover says. “Mouton is waiting for you.”

  I roll my eyes, without Mr. Dover seeing me.

  I should’ve stayed hidden in the tall brush at Miss Dorothy’s place, and then none of this would’ve ever happened. I’d be partners with Gabriela, not Mouton. Gabriela would listen to my ideas about the science symposium and smile at me. We’d agree on our project and carry out our plan like two scientists. Like two friends.

  I pull out a chair and plop down next to Mouton.

  “Eddie-shovel-truck!” He taps the pen on his notebook, the woodpecker dancing up and down in the clear liquid part.

  “I can’t believe we’re partners,” I say.

  Mouton leans over close to me. “So, Bird Nerd. Are your legs tired from walking everywhere?”

  I glare at him. “So you do have my bike.”

  “I didn’t say that. Yip!”

  “I’m coming to get it back, Mouton, if it’s the last thing I ever do on earth.”

  “Try it. I dare you.”

  Before I explode in anger, I pull out a piece of paper and scribble “Symposium” at the top. “I have an idea for our project. I’ve had this idea for a long time, and you’re not going to mess it up.”

  My pencil lead breaks on the paper. I get up to sharpen it. “I’ll be right back.”

  I walk past Gabriela. She holds out her arm and stops me. “Sorry about your partner.”

  I shrug. “It’s okay.”

  But it’s not okay. I want to say this stinks like a skunk, but I figure that doesn’t fall under “putting myself out there.”

  When I get back to my seat, Mouton is rolling the pen back and forth on the desk. “I have an idea,” he says.

  “Great. I can’t wait to hear it.”

  “We can make a poster of woodpecker pens. We’ll order one from every state.” He holds up the pen. The woodpecker floats up and down, then side to side.

  “Are you kidding me? We’re not doing that. And not every state sells those pens.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know!”

  I write down my symposium idea and slide the paper over to him.

  He reads it over. “You write sloppy.”

  I snatch the paper away from him. “We’re going to hypothesize that a golden eagle lives right here in West Plains, and then we’re going to prove it. That’s our project.”

  Mouton folds his arms over his chest. “Woodpecker-woodpecker-woodpecker.”

  At the end of class Mr. Dover collects the papers. When he gets to me, he stops. “How did your first brainstorm session go?”

  “Great.” I hold out the paper. At the top is my paragraph explaining the golden eagle project. “This is our official proposal.”

  Mr. Dover skims my paper, then looks at me. “I’ll have to approve this topic before you can take it any further. As for Mouton’s idea, I’ll need a hieroglyphics expert to read it.”

  “It says woodpecker pens,” I explain. “It’s not that hard to read.”

  Sticking up for Mouton seems like the only thing to do. I can’t let Mr. Dover think he’s getting the best of me by pairing me with Mouton on purpose.

  The bird clock chirps.

  Mr. Dover turns to the class. “Time’s up, everyone. See you tomorrow.”

  I go back to my seat and open my bird journal. I rip out the drawing of Quailzilla’s destruction and fold it in half.

  On my way out of class, when no one’s looking, I drop the folded drawing onto Mr. Dover’s desk. Mr. Dover probably thinks he can keep me from winning the blue ribbon at the science symposium.

  This makes me think about Dad and what he would do in this situation. I think the first thing he would do is remind me of rule number three: No one gets in your way.

  Let the bird wars begin.

  Order and Progress

  On Saturday morning, I walk up the driveway to Gabriela’s house. Papa is trimming bushes with hedge clippers. He stops, holding the clippers in one hand, and waves. Silvio perches on his shoulder, staring at me. I knock on the door and wait. From the yard Silvio gives me the stink eye.

  Finally Gabriela comes to the door. “Eddie? What are you doing here again?”

  Again? What’s that supposed to mean? Is she keeping track of how many times I show up at her house?

  “Sorry to stop by like this, but I need help.” I try looking desperate.

  “Help with what? You need to be exactly.”

  “You mean ‘exact.’ ”

  “Right.” Gabriela rolls her eyes.

  I could kick myself for correcting her English. Who wants a friend correcting you all the time? “I need help with my symposium project.”

  “You? The Heir of Greatness? I am surprised. I did not think you would even need a partner.”

  “Well, Mouton’s not exactly a partner.”

  “He is better than nothing. Right?”

  “If only I could find something Mouton is good at besides saying ‘Eddie-shovel-truck’ all the time. So will you help me out?”

  Gabriela opens the screen door and signs something to Papa. He nods and signs back to her. “I would be happy to help you, Eddie. Come in.”

  As we walk through the house toward the back porch, a familiar smell hits me. A huge pot sits on the stove. Papa must be cooking up another batch of his special berry drink.

  On the back porch the circle of chairs is still set up from Carol and the Bird Talkers. Also, four ruby-throated hummingbirds dart around the honeysuckle bush, near the privacy fence. Last time I was back here, I didn’t notice the bush or the hummingbirds. I guess the Bird Talkers distracted me.

  Gabriela begins stacking the chairs. “The beija-flores are cute.”

  “The what?”

  “I mean, the birds.”

  “Yeah, they’re ruby-throated hummingbirds. They’re common around here. I’m surprised you have so many. They’re usually territorial.”

  “They must like us.” Smiling, she stacks two more chairs.

  I pick up two chairs and swing them over my head. I stumble, then regain my balance. I stack the chairs on top of the others.

  “Thank you for helping me. Now, will you tell me about your symposium project?” She smiles.

  “Sure. That’s why I’m here. It always helps to talk about plans with someone else.”
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  We stack the last few chairs, go inside, and sit on the couch.

  Gabriela turns to me. “Okay, I am ready. I want to hear all about it.”

  I take a deep breath. “Well, my hypothesis states that a golden eagle exists right here in West Plains. So basically, the purpose of my project is to find that bird.”

  “How do you plan to find it?”

  “First I’ll need a spool of string and six tree branches to set squirrel traps. I’ll use the dead squirrel to attract the golden eagle, because eagles are known to scavenge while migrating.”

  “Scavenge?”

  “It means they eat anything they can find, even if it’s already dead.”

  Gabriela takes out her notebook. She writes the word “scavenge” and the definition.

  “I’ll also need my bike to get around town faster, my binoculars, a mini flashlight, and my mom’s cross pouch to carry materials and evidence.”

  “What is a cross pouch?”

  “It’s a bag you wear around your waist. It’s actually called a fanny pack, but I don’t call it that. It sounds too wimpy.”

  Gabriela leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “Out of all the birds, why did you choose the golden eagle?”

  “Because I’ve been looking for it since before my dad flew away.”

  “Flew away?”

  “My dad is gone. It happened last year.”

  She sets her notebook on the couch and puts the cap on her pen. She glances down. “I am sorry, Eddie. I did not know this.”

  We both sit there in the living room, in the same place where she held an ice pack on my injured head, where I saw her big brown eyes up close for the first time. On that day there was comfort and a welcoming face hovering above me. Now there’s nothing but silence.

  My bottom lip trembles. Sometimes my emotions come out when I don’t expect them to, especially when I talk about Dad. This is one of those times.

  Gabriela notices. “It is okay. You have feelings inside you, and you need to let them free. Papa tells me it is okay to act this way after you lose something important.”

  The way Gabriela talks, Papa must know a lot about life. I wish Mom would say things like that. Maybe then she’d talk more about Dad, instead of hardly mentioning him.