Soar

by Tracy Edward Wymer

  Sandy lays the chain on a towel. “Can’t let the chain sit in water for too long or it’ll rust.”

  “I don’t think Dad had a reason to lie.” I try to keep the conversation going.

  “Hold the handlebars again.”

  I straddle the front wheel, holding the handlebars steady. With both hands Sandy twists the seat back and forth until it pops out of the frame. Then he puts my bike seat in a different bucket—one that’s filled with what looks like plain water. “Give it a few minutes. That stuff will clean mud off a hog.”

  I decide to go for it. “Sandy, do you think the golden eagle is real? Do you think he actually saw it?”

  Sandy sprays a rag with clear liquid and begins wiping down the silver frame. My bike begins to turn into a brand-new mode of transportation. It’s still my Predator, but it’s better than the Predator I’ve known for the last year.

  “If the golden eagle is real, I wanna see it,” he says. “And if it’s phony, I don’t wanna know. Uncertainties make life more interesting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “On Saturday nights I never know how many kids are gonna walk through that door. Could be ten. Twenty. Thirty on a good night. If it were always the same number, and the same kids, I’d get bored of this place real quick. I’ll be here on Saturday night, that much is certain. But there’s also the unexpected. Like the night you threw soda in Mouton’s face. I laughed myself to sleep thinking about that.”

  “You did?” I suddenly feel horrible about that night. Mouton was annoying me and pushed me to the limit, but I could’ve reacted differently.

  The soda stain—a dark blotchy outline that looks like Texas—still covers the carpet where you enter the roller rink.

  Sandy finishes cleaning my bike frame and tosses the rag onto his work counter. The light from overhead shimmers off the crossbar that holds the seat in place.

  “Take this here bike,” Sandy says. “I’m doing my best to fix it up nice for you, but I don’t know what’s going to happen once you start riding it. It could fall apart and turn you sideways into a ditch. Or it could hold sturdy until you outgrow it. Uncertainties. They’re all around us, but you don’t realize it because they’re quiet. They’re not like tragedies or maladies. Those things hit you over the head. Uncertainties lurk. They can haunt you or surprise you. Guess it depends on what you expected in the first place.”

  I’ve never heard Sandy talk like this.

  He sounds like Mr. Dover during one of his stories about his property. But Sandy’s words make a lot more sense, in a real-life kind of way.

  Buck Burger Betrayal

  Sandy even reupholsters the seat for me. By the way he checks everything twice, you’d think he was fixing the president’s bike. I ask Sandy for a spool of string for my symposium project, and he gives it to me.

  On my way out of Jetz Skating Rink, he says, “I never asked you, what happened to your bike?”

  I swing the door open, and the welcome bell rings, only this time it’s the good-bye bell. I stand in the open doorway, holding on to my bike. The smells of Indiana fall and Roller Shine hit me at once.

  Sandy says “Maybe some other time” and waves me out the door.

  I hop onto my Predator, feeling out the new seat cover, and begin pedaling.

  The newness and sturdiness of everything takes me back to Dan’s Sporting Goods and Dad, standing in the aisle, nodding his head, waiting patiently for me to pick out my birthday present. I still don’t know where he got the money for it.

  I tuck the spool of string under my shirt and pedal harder. I coast over to the Freeze Queen, hoping Mom has stopped there on her way home from work. There’s a good chance she’ll show up here. All the workers know her name, except the high school girl behind the counter who calls her Lizzie instead of Lisa. Mom’s too sweet to correct her.

  When I get to the Freeze Queen, I hop off my bike and guide it toward the entrance. I’m not leaving it outside again. I’ve run into Mouton here plenty of times. He always buys a sackful of Buck Burgers and then walks home, holding the sack in one hand, inhaling burgers with the other. That makes me wonder if Mouton has ever painted a Buck Burger. If he has, I bet all the details—the melted cheese, the juicy burger, the smooshed sesame seed bun—look mouthwatering and real enough to eat.

  I look through the windows of the Freeze Queen.

  Mom is not standing in line. She’s not at the soda machine. She’s not grabbing a sack of Buck Burgers for dinner. She’s nowhere to be found.

  But someone I know is sitting in a booth.

  Gabriela.

  And she’s not alone.

  Chase, the basketball player, sits next to her. He says something, and Gabriela laughs, covering her smile with her hand.

  Gabriela looks like a movie star under the booth’s lights. She and Chase are sharing a basket of fries and using the same ketchup cup.

  I walk my bike through the front door and guide it across the black-and-white checkered floor. I stop in front of Gabriela’s booth.

  When Gabriela sees me, she smiles and acts like everything is fine. “Hi, Eddie. What are you doing here?”

  Chase glances at me, then the bike. “Look, it’s Mr. Muscles.”

  Ignoring Chase, I focus on Gabriela. “I’m looking for my mom. What are you doing here?”

  Gabriela looks down at the basket of fries and the paper ketchup container. “Chase has to do a country report for his social studies class. He chose Brazil as his country, so I am here to help him get his facts straight.”

  “Must be nice.” I glare at Chase.

  “Chase asked to interview me as part of his research,” Gabriela says.

  “It doesn’t look like much research is going on here,” I say. “Where’s the journal and the pencil? What about the voice recorder?”

  “Eddie, we are only having a conversation about my home country. That is all.”

  Chase reaches out and touches my bike tire. “Bike’s looking good there, Wing Man. You should get going, though. There’s a lot of baby robins to save before winter.”

  I glare at him, but all I see are his broad shoulders and muscular arms. “For your information, I conduct real research on my subjects.”

  “Real research, huh? I haven’t heard anything about you doing research, but I heard you like to dress up like a baby ninja.”

  My heart pounds, my face turns hot. I glare at Gabriela. “You told him about our mission?” How could she do this? Operation Ninja Bird was our special mission, never to be spoken about.

  “Eddie, it is not what you think,” she says. “I told Chase that your costume was cute. That is all.”

  “Cute? Is that what you think of me? I’m the cute little boy who lives down the street, who dresses up like a ninja, who chases birds? I thought we were friends.”

  “Eddie. Please,” she says. “You are putting words into my mouth.”

  “Whatever. In one ear and out the other. Over.”

  I turn my bike around and head for the exit. The door swings open, and I almost run over Mom.

  “Eddie,” Mom says. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going home.”

  “Well, wait for me. I called ahead. I’m getting dinner for us.”

  Mom looks past me, noticing Gabriela and Chase sitting in the booth. “Ah, I see what’s going on here. I’m sorry, sweetie,” she whispers.

  I put my head down, embarrassed, because I can feel people watching us.

  Mom keeps her voice low. “Chase is a good kid. He plays basketball and gets good grades. I can see why Gabriela is friends with him.”

  “How do you know about his grades?”

  “Honor roll, sweetie. You know, the same list you fell from after—” Mom stops herself midsentence.

  I finish it for her. “After Dad flew away. Why can’t you just say it? You never talk about him. Face it, he’s gone! Gone, gone, gone! Just say it!”

  Now everyone is watching us. Cooks. Busboys. Chas
e and Gabriela. People standing in line.

  The high school girl behind the counter breaks the silence. “Excuse me, Lizzie.” She holds out a white paper sack.

  Mom takes the sack from her. “It’s Lisa, not Lizzie.”

  I storm out the exit, rolling my bike next to me. I tuck the spool of string from Sandy under my shirt and hop onto my new seat. Pedaling hard, I take off down the street, leaving Gabriela and Chase and Mom and all those Buck Burgers in the dust.

  Before long my eyes fill with tears and my vision goes blurry. It takes everything I have to stay focused on the road in front of me.

  Unexpected Visitor

  While pedaling home, I think about Gabriela and Chase sitting in the booth, laughing with each other. It was stupid to think that Gabriela and I had a special friendship. But why else would she spend so much time with me?

  There’s only one place I want to be right now, and that’s at Miss Dorothy’s—with Coop.

  I stop pedaling and coast across my front yard. I lay my bike down near the porch. I open the front door and go inside to gather items for my field research. First I throw my cross pouch over my shoulder, and then I go into my room for my mini flashlight. My stomach rumbles, so I take a granola bar from the pantry.

  I walk into the garage and rummage through some of Dad’s dust-covered things until I find what I’m looking for. A green case with a shoulder strap. Dad’s night vision binoculars. I sling the strap over my shoulder.

  Then I notice Dad’s symposium project sitting in the corner. He kept the poster board all these years, because he wanted to show it to me when I made it to seventh grade.

  I step over a bumper-stickered suitcase and walk toward the huge three-panel poster, which is covered with photos and captions. I clear the cobwebs, and two daddy longlegs scatter in opposite directions. I turn the poster around and see Dad’s name:

  JOSEPH WILSON

  SEVENTH GRADE

  I think about what Dad was like in seventh grade. Did other students make up nicknames for him at school? Did he fight with kids who lived in his neighborhood? Did he have a best friend?

  I leave the garage, hop on my bike, and take off, pedaling through the neighborhood. When I get to Miss Dorothy’s house, I walk my bike through the side yard.

  The moon is only a crescent shape tonight, but its weak light reflects off my bike’s silver frame, thanks to Sandy’s polishing.

  Coop usually hunts right around dusk, and then disappears for the night to avoid owls and other predators. Coop is old—going on thirteen—but hunting in the early evening can be easier for her, since that’s when a lot of small critters come searching for food.

  Dad told me that Coop had babies when she was two, just about the time all female hawks do. Ever since then she’s been alone. Most raptors don’t stay in one territory for this long, but something has kept Coop here. Dad said it was me that’s kept her here all this time, but I’m pretty sure he said that to make me feel better, and to forget about him being sick.

  Coop should come around soon. She can always sense when I need her most.

  I put down the kickstand on my bike and crouch in the cattails near the pond. While waiting for the sky to darken completely, I listen to the twitters and warbles of American goldfinches. Their yellow and black colors are striking, even in the twilight. One of the goldfinches sounds like it’s saying, Po-ta-to-chip, po-ta-to-chip.

  When the sun is down, I take out Dad’s night vision binoculars and slip the strap over my head. Everything looks green through the binoculars, but at least I can see what’s around me.

  For my field research my plan is to set a string-and-twig trap with the string Sandy gave me. Hopefully this will let me catch a small rodent. Then I’ll take the rodent and tie it high up in a tree. With the critter meat, I hope to hit the right combination to attract the golden eagle.

  I stow the binoculars in the case and get to work on setting the traps. With a few strong branches from nearby trees, and the string, I make two traps, one on each side of the pond. The traps don’t kill the rodents. They catch them by the body or leg so they can’t get free.

  While I’m working on the traps, something stirs in the brush on the other side of the pond.

  A large figure comes out from the tall grass and walks toward me. I shut off my flashlight and stay low. Then I pull out Dad’s night vision binoculars and take a look.

  The Agreement

  It’s Mouton. He trudges toward me, through the overgrown brush.

  I shine the flashlight right between his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Put that thing down,” he says. “I can’t see.”

  “First tell me why you’re here.”

  “I’m here to find that bird.”

  “What bird?”

  “The one that lives here.”

  “You talking about Coop?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Who’s Coop?”

  I lower the flashlight, and he walks toward me. When he gets close, I shine the light in his eyes. “You’re not allowed to be on Miss Dorothy’s land. But how do you know about Coop?”

  Mouton shields his eyes from the light. “I’ve seen a hawk flying in our neighborhood. I decided to follow it, and it came here.”

  “It’s a her, not an it.” I lower the flashlight.

  Mouton looks at my shiny Predator, which stands tall in the moonlight.

  I point the flashlight at Mouton’s chest. “Don’t even think about touching my bike.”

  A deep, soft hoot comes from a distant tree.

  Hoo-h’HOO-hoo-hoo.

  “What’s that?” Mouton asks.

  “It’s a great horned owl.” I look off into the distance, where the sound came from. I listen closely, but the frogs are the only sound left.

  “Does it really have horns?”

  “Well, yeah, kind of. They’re called ear tufts, but they look like horns.”

  The owl breaks the silence, like it knows we’re talking about it.

  Hoo-h’HOO-hoo-hoo.

  Mouton looks at my Predator. “Eddie-shovel-truck! Yip!”

  My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. I can see Mouton’s white T-shirt, but not the details of his face. “Why do you always say that? I mean, you don’t even like me, so why do you always say my name?”

  He crosses his arms, looking at the ground. “I don’t know. It just comes out. I can’t control it.”

  Sandy was right. Uncertainties make life interesting. But if I could give Mouton my voice for a day, then he’d know what it’s like to be in control. He could get rid of his uncertainties and release his worries into the wild.

  Coop swoops down and soars over our heads. I point the flashlight at her. Mouton and I flinch and duck at the same time. Coop rises high, covering us like the arms of a sycamore tree. She perches on a branch, staring down at us.

  “There you are,” I say, holding the flashlight on her.

  Mouton moves toward the tree and looks up. He stares at Coop and can’t seem to take his eyes off her.

  “You know, I thought of a way you can show off your skills,” I say to Mouton. I keep the flashlight on Coop, and she keeps looking at us. “A way you can help with our project.”

  “What is it?”

  “Painting.”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, so?”

  “Look,” I tell him. “I’m not asking for your help because I feel sorry for you or anything like that. I’m asking because I think you’d do a good job.”

  Mouton looks at me, crosses his arms. “Why should I help you?”

  “Because if we don’t work together, we’ll fail our project. Then you’ll be right back in Mr. Dover’s class again next year, listening to his boring stories about his stupid property.”

  He uncrosses his arms, puts his hands at his sides. “I’m listening.”

  “Forget about me or Mr. Dover. You should do it for yourself, Mouton. You have a voice, but no one knows about it. You’ve kept it hidden all these ye
ars. Now’s your chance to let everyone hear you.”

  “So what’s your plan?”

  “I’ll do the field study. You paint a golden eagle. At the symposium we’ll display your painting next to our materials and research. What do you say?”

  Mouton looks up at Coop. She stares down at us like she’s waiting for Mouton to answer my question.

  Then, from far away, comes the owl again.

  Hoo-h’HOO-hoo-hoo.

  “Fine,” Mouton says. “I’ll do it. But I’ve never seen a golden eagle. How am I supposed to paint one?”

  “You can borrow my field guide.” I look up at the stars dotting the black sky, some brighter than others. “Or maybe you’ll see a golden eagle soon.”

  Hopes . . . Shy Birds . . . Guns

  Mouton looks up at Coop. “See you around,” he says, and then he walks away, disappearing into the night.

  Now that Mouton has agreed to do the painting, our symposium project is on the right track. Order and progress, just like the Brazilian flag hanging in Gabriela’s house.

  I check my traps one last time. Then I cruise home on my bike.

  As I pass Gabriela’s house, the northern cardinal’s song drifts down from the tall oak tree in her front yard. Part of me wants to stop and give Gabriela a piece of my mind. We were supposed to be friends, but now she’s spending time with Chase, and she told him about our secret mission. So much for keeping things between us.

  I put my bike away in the garage.

  Before going inside the house, I decide to check out Dad’s project one more time. I reread all of his research, hoping that it will inspire me.

  I remember this one quote Dad used to say every time we went looking for the golden eagle:

  “But Hopes are Shy Birds flying at a great distance seldom reached by the best of Guns.”

  The words from the quote make me think of my own project.

  Hopes—of winning the blue ribbon.

  Shy Birds—finding the golden eagle.