She shuts the door and disappears inside the house. “Square meal”? “Eat your words”? Gabriela is really getting the hang of the harder parts of English.
I leave Gabriela’s house and wait at the bus stop. My costume sticks to my back, and black makeup drips from my face.
A pair of square headlights comes rolling toward me. While holding on to the stop sign pole, I swing away from the headlights, hiding my face. If I saw a person wearing all black with a cardinal mask painted on his face, I’d call the police, so I’m not taking any chances.
The car slows down. The brakes squeal louder than my school bus. Out of all the cars in West Plains, there’s only one car that makes a sound like that.
Hoopty.
“Eddie? Is that you?” Mom says through the open window.
I keep quiet, hoping she thinks I’m a juvenile delinquent roaming the streets and then drives away. But she’s not buying it.
“Eddie. What are you doing out here? And why are you dressed in your spy costume?”
“It’s Ninja Bird. Remember?”
The driver’s door creaks open. She gets out, cigarette in hand, and stares me up and down. “What’s with the outfit? Are you wearing makeup? You must be burning up underneath all that.”
“I am.” I pull the costume away from my body, letting my skin breathe.
“Then why are you wearing it? Someone’s going to mistake you for a burglar and call the police.”
“I’m looking for the golden eagle, Mom.”
“Oh, Eddie.”
“Dad promised that it would come back.”
“And you think it’s going to come back tonight?”
“I don’t know when it’s coming back, but the more I’m out here, the better my chances of seeing it.”
Mom inhales from her cigarette and thinks about it.
“Fine. But you be careful over there at Miss Dorothy’s. And stay away from that pond.”
She walks back to her car. She drives away, honking twice, and Hoopty’s single taillight disappears down the road.
Gabriela walks up next to me. “I’m ready.”
I push down the legs of my costume. “Let’s go.”
Over and Out
Mouton’s house is about a quarter mile down the road from mine. It’s a small black house that sits in a cluster of oak trees.
Just like the house, the front yard is small. The grass is long and stringy and hasn’t been mowed in months. The dull porch light shines down on a brown couch. Dad always said that a house with a couch on the front porch is a house without manners. I don’t really know what he meant by that, but Mouton’s house must fall into this category.
“Here, take this.” I hold out a Donald Duck walkie-talkie. “I changed the batteries. Should be as good as new.”
Gabriela takes the walkie-talkie. She looks at it like it’s from another planet. “ ‘As good as new’? Is that another phrase I should know?”
“Yes. Now, don’t touch the volume button. I preset it so it’s not too loud.”
“How do I work this talkie-walkie?” She pulls on the antenna.
“Walkie. Talkie. Press the button and talk into this part.” I tap the end of the walkie-talkie, the part you speak into.
“I should try it one time.”
“Okay, but make it quick.”
She presses the button, holding the walkie up to her mouth. “Chirp, chirp. Chirp, chirp.”
“What was that?”
“That is what I will say if there is trouble. I thought you would like it.”
“I do like it. It’s just not something spies would say. They say things like ‘over’ and ‘roger that,’ and they have code names like Ringo and Goose and Foxhound.”
“Fine. Then I will be Ruby. For ruby-throated hummingbird.”
“I’ll be golden eagle, but you can just call me Eagle.”
Ruby and Eagle. A perfect team.
Now we have to prove that we’re worthy of having call signs.
In spy movies only the major characters have code names, the guys with a lot of skills who can fight and shoot and withstand freezing cold water and run through fires without getting burned. Mouton can throw whatever he wants at me. Dog poop. Poison arrows. Woodpecker pens. I’m ready for anything. Nothing’s going to stop me from getting my bike.
Gabriela takes her position in the front yard, behind the oak tree. Gabriela is the ideal lookout. She can focus for a long time, way longer than me, and she has 20/20 vision.
I crouch and creep along the driveway. The closer I get to the backyard, the faster my heart races. I was prepared to be nervous, but not like this. This feels more like a panic attack. At least what I imagine a panic attack feeling like.
I stop in the part of the driveway closest to the house and squat behind a rusty station wagon. I whisper into the walkie-talkie, “Ruby, is it all clear? Over.”
The walkie crackles, so I turn down the volume. I thought the low setting would be quiet enough. But tonight is especially still. Even the songbirds have turned in for the night.
Gabriela’s voice comes over the walkie. “If ‘all clear’ means everything is okay, then yes, it is all clear. Should I say ‘over’ now?”
“Yes. Over.”
“Okay, Eagle. Over.”
From where I’m squatting, the brown couch looks worse than I thought. Worn cushions. Rips. Holes. Burn marks. It’s a mess.
I press the walkie button. “Ruby, I’m heading toward the backyard. Over.”
“Boa sorte, Eagle,” Gabriela says. “That means ‘good luck.’ Over.”
From behind the oak tree Gabriela gives me a thumbs-up. “One more thing, Eddie. I mean, Eagle. Leave no stone unturned. Chapter seven. Over.”
I stuff the walkie into my cross pouch. Then I creep stealthily around the side of the house toward the backyard.
The backyard is bigger than the front but still small enough for me to see with my mini flashlight. I point the flashlight through the chain-link fence, scanning one section of the yard at a time.
There’s a ton of stuff back there. Most of it looks like circus junk. There’s an old tire. A garden gnome. Two pogo sticks. A statue of cupid shooting an arrow. And a bicycle with a huge front wheel and a tiny back wheel. But there’s no sign of my bike.
I pull out the walkie and whisper into it. “Ruby, how’s it look out there? Over.”
No response.
“Ruby? Are you there? Over.”
Still no response.
I shine the light close to the back of the house.
There it is.
My bike.
“Ruby. Target in sight. I found it.” I try to keep my voice low, but it’s hard, knowing that my bike is actually safe. Part of me wasn’t sure. Part of me thought it might’ve been destroyed, strewn over the yard in pieces, or worse—sold—gone forever.
I shine the light onto my bike again to make sure it’s not an illusion. Then I pull myself together. Spies can’t let their emotions get in their way, even if they have strong feelings for the target.
Gabriela’s voice crackles through the walkie. “I’m here, Eagle. Sorry, I could not hold it anymore. I had to use the bathroom. Over.”
“Ruby!” I whisper. “You can’t leave your post. What if someone leaves or comes home? I’m the recon specialist. You’re the lookout. It’s your job to inform me if anything changes. Don’t leave your post again. Over.”
“Okay, okay.”
I hold out the mini flashlight, shining it on my bike. “Let’s try this again. Any changes to report from the front yard? Over.”
“No. All clear, Eagle.”
“Then I’m going in.”
“Okay, Eddie. I mean, Eagle. Operation Ninja Bird is a go. Over.”
“Signing off until target is secure. Over and out.”
The Rescue Mission
I unzip the cross pouch and stash the walkie, adjusting the pouch so it’s not in my way. I stream the flashlight over my bike. From
where I’m crouched it’s hard to tell if there’s any damage. After seeing the torn-up couch on the front porch, I’m prepared for the worst.
A light from inside the house turns on and comes flooding into the yard. There are no curtains or blinds on the windows, so I have to be cautious. Knocking over the garden gnome or tripping over a pogo stick could lead to failure, and Operation Ninja Bird cannot end in failure.
I climb the chainlink fence, sticking my shoes inside the gaps and pulling myself up. I plant one foot on the top bar and leap over the fence. I land quietly in the grass.
Stepping around a pogo stick, I slide around the cupid statue, which is bigger than it looked from the side yard.
I run the flashlight along my bike to check its condition. Nicks and scratches cover the frame. The seat stem is loose, and the seat cover is coming off. The handlebars are wobbly, the grips are torn, and the tires—oh, the tires—they’re completely flat.
The bedroom light is still on. I wonder if it’s Mouton’s bedroom or his parents’ room. I’m better off not finding out.
I pick up my bike with both hands and walk toward the fence. After three seconds I set it down and catch my breath. Then I use all my strength to lift it over the fence.
Suddenly the back porch light turns on, lighting up the whole backyard.
I drop to the ground, flat on my stomach. I stay as low as possible. The same words keep replaying in my head—spies do NOT get caught—like they’re scrolling across a sign in my brain.
My bike lies on the other side of the fence, free at last. But now I’m lying in Mouton’s backyard, waiting for Mouton to shine a light in my face and sit on me.
I keep my eyes on the back windows, checking for signs of life. There’s a sudden movement in the bedroom.
It’s Mouton.
He’s facing the wall, his back to me and the window. He’s wearing an apron, tied in a knot. Because his back is to me, it’s hard to tell what he’s doing.
The sight of Mouton in an apron makes me curious. I can’t help it. I should hop the fence and walk my bike into the night, with Gabriela walking next to me. I know that’s what I should do.
But I have to find out why Mouton is wearing an apron.
I crawl toward the bedroom window, my chest sliding over the wet grass. When I get to a tall patch, I get a face full of weeds and spit them out. I scoot past a second garden gnome, but this one has a missing nose.
I keep crawling.
The bicycle with the huge wheel and tiny wheel looms over me.
When I make it to the window, I rise up into a crouch and peek over the windowsill, into Mouton’s bedroom.
Large canvas paintings cover the place. They’re everywhere. Propped up on shelves, hanging on walls, stacked in corners. There are even paintings leaning against other paintings.
There’s one painting of a little boy sitting alone on a park bench. There’s another painting of a multicolored bow tie, which looks like something Mr. Dover would wear. In the corner sits a half-finished painting of two little boys playing in a sandbox.
Mouton takes a step back from his easel to admire the painting he’s been working on.
It’s a hawk gliding through the air.
It’s hard to tell from the window, but it looks like a Cooper’s hawk. The wings, body, head, and beak are exactly proportioned. The background—the blue sky and rolling hills—looks like a scene on a postcard. Everything about the painting, especially the hawk, is detailed and accurate and real.
And then I notice something else about the painting. The hawk has one eye.
Mouton isn’t painting some random hawk.
He’s painting Coop!
All this time, I thought Mouton was just an overgrown ogre who couldn’t control what came out of his mouth. But there’s a whole other side to him. Who knew that he’s probably the best artist in our entire school?
But wait, how does Mouton know about Coop?
Somewhat confused, I drop to my hands and knees and crawl toward the fence. Sliding over the wet grass, I move past the garden gnome. Just as I’m about to reach the fence and my bike, my knee lands on something sharp.
I open my mouth, but stop myself from screaming.
I roll over, holding my knee. The pain shoots from my knee to every part of me.
I find the piece of whatever-attacked-my-kneecap and hold it up against the moonlight. It’s a rough piece of broken statue. With nostrils.
The garden gnome’s nose.
I stash the nose in my cross pouch. I’m keeping it for remembrance. If I get out of here alive, I’ll rub that nose every once in a while to remember what it’s like to be a hero.
The bedroom light flicks off.
I hobble up to both feet, throw my good leg over the fence, and fall to the other side. I lift my bike, stand it upright, and hop onto the seat. Pedaling through the grass, I fight through the pain, my good leg doing most of the work. Finally I hit the driveway, which slopes downward, so I give my injured knee a break.
In the front yard Gabriela peeks out from behind the oak tree.
“Come on!” I wave her toward me.
She hops onto the handlebars, just as I had planned, and we bounce away on two flat tires. My good leg does the hard pedaling—but it’s almost impossible because the tires have no air in them—while the injured leg just hangs there.
Gabriela holds on to the handlebars tightly. We ride away into the night, away from Mouton’s house, away from trouble.
Mouton Strikes Back
We’re halfway down the street, rolling along on two flat tires, when something tinks off my bike spokes. I slow my pedaling and look behind us.
Mouton is standing under a streetlight, still dressed in his apron. He’s aiming a slingshot at us!
“Go, go, go!” Gabriela shouts from atop the handlebars.
I pedal faster, harder, but my good leg can only do so much. Then a sting takes my breath away, like a syringe pricking my back.
“I’ve been hit!” I yell.
“What?”
“He hit me in the back!”
It suddenly hurts to talk. It feels like Mouton shot me with a dry ice arrow and froze my skin. The world suddenly turns cloudy. Everything slows down, like it’s in superslow motion. Even my hearing is muffled, like I’m swimming underwater. Streaks of fuzzy orange light shoot down from the streetlights. My legs become heavy, and it takes all my effort to keep pedaling.
I blink twice to clear my head, hoping my vision and hearing will go back to normal before I lose control of my bike and dump Gabriela into the street.
“Keep pedaling,” Gabriela says. “We are getting closer to my house.”
Two more objects ricochet off the pavement next to my bike.
Mouton calls after us. “I’m going to get you, Bird Nerd!”
And then we hear “Eddie-shovel-truck! Eddie-shovel-truck! Eddie . . .” until we leave his words behind and make it safely out of slingshot distance.
At Gabriela’s house, under the bathroom light, she examines my back.
“Ahhh.” I clench my teeth and wince but try to stay strong. After all, who wants to be friends with a wimp? “What did he hit me with?” I make a seriously tough face.
“I am not sure,” Gabriela says. “There is nothing there. Only a large red spot.”
Something falls out of my Ninja Bird costume and rolls across the bathroom floor. Gabriela bends down and holds the object up to the light.
“What is it?” I ask her, before the round object comes into focus.
“I think it is a blue piece of chewing gum.”
“Mouton shot me with a gumball.”
Gabriela places an ice pack over the red welt on my back. “You are luck. This could have been much worse.”
“You mean ‘lucky.’ ”
Gabriela presses harder on the ice pack.
“Ouch! Take it easy.”
“I knew you would be injured during this mission. Night air is bad air.”
“That is right, Eddie. I am learning more English phrases from Milo and his dog than I am learning at school.”
“Have you made it to the part in the book when they go to the—”
“Eddie! Do not ruin the story for me!”
She adjusts the ice pack on my red welt.
“You should see Mouton’s room,” I say, remembering what I saw at Mouton’s house. “It’s covered in all these paintings that look real. I can’t believe he can paint like that.”
“I am not surprised.”
“Really? How can you not be surprised?”
“Everyone has a talent. Mouton cannot control what comes out of his mouth, but he can control what he puts on a white canvas.”
I look at my back in the mirror. “You know, when you say it like that, it sort of makes sense.”
“Maybe he can help you with your project,” she says, holding the ice pack steady.
“Maybe.” I shrug. And that’s when I realize that if I want to win the blue ribbon, I’ll first have to win Mouton. That’s going to be difficult. I have a better chance of finding a dodo than convincing Mouton to work on our project.
“Thanks for doing this,” I say to Gabriela. “I mean, for being the lookout. It means a lot to me.”
“I will be your lookout anytime. This is what friends are for.”
Wow, I really am lucky.
I have my bike.
I have a friend.
Somehow I found a way to get two birds with one mission.
Me and You, You and Me
When I get home from Gabriela’s house, I lift up on the garage door handle. The door rolls up and rattles open. Mom leaves the garage door unlocked for me because she knows I’ll need to put my bike away for the night.
I walk my bike inside the garage and put the kickstand down. I roll the garage door down and lock it tight. Then I look at my bike one last time—the crooked handlebars, ripped up seat, loose hand brakes, flat tires.
If my dad saw my bike now, he’d be disappointed in me. He’d give me advice, like he did when I lost my first pair of binoculars when I was five years old.
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