Soar

by Tracy Edward Wymer

  “I’ve got work to do,” I say.

  “Eddie. We need to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you. Your costume was the best part of the night. I had to tell someone about it, and Chase was there.”

  “He was there, all right.”

  “Chase and I are friends. Just like you and me. I am sorry if that makes you unhappy, but I am meeting new people every day. And this makes me feel like I belong here.”

  I bury my chin in my jacket, trying to stay warm. “You’re right. I should be happy for you. You’re just listening to the music.”

  “Yes, exactly. And you have made it easier for me.”

  “I have?”

  “Of course. You are funny, interesting, courageous. And most of all, you have real feelings and you are not afraid to show them.”

  “So you really like all that stuff about me?” I can’t help but feel confused. Here I am trying to impress Gabriela, and the one thing she likes most about me is my most embarrassing moment when my feelings came out.

  “More than anything else,” she says. “A person who reveals his feelings is a person who knows himself. A person who knows himself is a person who can know others.”

  “Wow,” I say. “That sounds deep.”

  “My father is a deep person. He also likes you very much.”

  I can’t help but let a smile escape from the corner of my mouth.

  Gabriela stares at the ground. She shoves her hands deep into her pockets, her breath coming out in small clouds.

  “I’m glad we’re friends,” I say.

  “Me too.”

  I reach down and pull a long, wispy piece of grass from near the pond. I tear it apart, one small section at a time, letting the pieces fall from my hand.

  “I am sorry about your project, Eddie.”

  “What do you mean? My project is still going.”

  “But the eagle is not here.”

  “He’ll be here. You just have to be patient. John Audubon sat and watched birds for hours, until every detail about the bird was burned into his mind forever. How do you think he made his paintings look so real?”

  “But what if the eagle never comes, and then you cannot prove your hypothesis?”

  “He’ll come,” I say.

  “You keep saying ‘him’ and ‘his.’ How do you know this eagle is a male?”

  “Dad told me so.”

  Coop flies overhead, like she’s been listening to our conversation and she understands what I’m saying. She lands on a branch above us, spreads her wings, and stares at us. At least there’s one bird cooperating with me. That’s more than I can say about the golden eagle.

  “Do you believe everything your dad told you?” Gabriela asks.

  I tear off another piece of grass and throw it down. “Yes. I do.”

  Gabriela walks closer to me. She looks up into the tree at Coop, who still perches on the branch. “She is so beautiful.”

  “And loyal.”

  Coop opens her wings wide, like she’s stretching to start her day, then goes back to her normal perching posture.

  “Eddie,” Gabriela says.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think your father was perfect?”

  I look up into the tree, at Coop. I notice her broad shoulders. Her long, rounded tail. Her hooked beak. Her sharp talons. She’s the ultimate raptor. And then I notice the one thing that sets her apart from the other hawks.

  Her one piercing eye.

  I wonder if Dad really thought that I’d be in good hands with Mr. Dover. And if so, why didn’t he ever tell me?

  “No one is perfect,” I say. “But my dad was his own person. And that’s good enough for me.”

  Golden Feather

  Later in the week Mr. Dover lectures us about the cane toad taking over parts of Australia. I couldn’t care less about the cane toad or anything else he has to say, so I spend the time sketching Coop in my journal.

  Mr. Dover stops in mid-sentence. “Eddie?”

  I look up from my journal. I close it quickly and decide I’d better pay attention, even if cane toads make me think of the death smell.

  After school I stop by Miss Dorothy’s to check on my traps and the squirrel tied up in the tree. I guide my Predator around the property and notice a feather on the ground below one of the oak trees. It’s long, narrow, and brown. I put down the kickstand on my bike and run toward it.

  As I get closer, my heart starts beating so fast, it feels like it’s coming through my shirt.

  I pick up the feather and hold it. It’s slender and soft. The base is white, and the top part is golden brown.

  I recognize the kind of feather right away.

  It’s a golden eagle secondary wing feather!

  I feel like dipping the feather in ink and writing “Blue Ribbon” across the sky. Instead I carefully place the feather inside my jacket pocket, close to my racing heart.

  Then I take out my binoculars and look up at the squirrel tied up in the tree. Half the squirrel is gone!

  I drop my binoculars, letting them dangle around my neck. I climb the tree and bag the remaining squirrel carcass. It’s more evidence that a golden eagle was here. It’s just what I need to prove my hypothesis. Now if only the golden eagle would reveal itself so I can snap a photo of it and document its appearance.

  Coop flaps her wings twice and glides overhead. She lets out a loud cak-cak-cak.

  “Thank you,” I say to her. “You knew what I needed all along.”

  After I leave Miss Dorothy’s place, I stop by Mouton’s house to share the good news. I park my Predator in his driveway and rush to the front porch with the brown couch. Out of breath, I ring the doorbell, but the doorbell doesn’t work. I knock on the screen door. It rattles back at me, like it’s being bothered and telling me to go away.

  Mouton finally comes to the door. His hair looks like an abandoned sparrow’s nest. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with a yellow smiley face on the front, and baggy jeans.

  “What do you want, Eddie?”

  “I just want to see the painting. Then I’ll go home.”

  He runs his fingers through his hair. Then he opens and closes his mouth three times, like he’s trying to make his ears pop.

  “What are you talking about?” he says. “What painting?”

  Golden Failure

  Mouton! You were supposed to paint the golden eagle!” My pulse goes crazy, and I grab my hair with both hands.

  “I’m not painting anything for you. Yip-yip.”

  “But you agreed to do it! Here I am, busting my tail working on everything else. And I found a golden eagle feather today! Do you know what that means?”

  Mouton opens the door and walks outside. It doesn’t seem to bother him that I’m about to pull out my hair. He plops down on the brown couch. Dust clouds rise from the cushions.

  “I haven’t felt like painting,” he says, his shoulders slumping.

  “But what about your voice? This is your chance to let everyone hear you loud and clear. This is your chance to say what you want to say.”

  Mouton looks up at me. “That’s the problem. I don’t know what I want to say.”

  “Okay, listen. We don’t have time for pouting. We need to problem solve here. How long does it take to paint a golden eagle, to make it look good, like the one you painted of Coop?”

  “About a week.”

  “What? We don’t have a week! We have three days! The symposium is on Monday.”

  “It’s art, Eddie. It takes time to make it right.”

  “I can’t believe this! All this time I thought I could trust you.” I pace back and forth on the front porch. Frustrated, I kick the brown couch, and more dust fills the air.

  Mouton opens and closes his hands quickly. He makes a fist, then opens his hand, makes another fist, then opens. “Eddie-shovel-truck,” he says.

  He stares out at the street. His eyes look lost,
in another place, another time. For a second I kind of feel bad for him. I realize that no one has ever listened to what he wants to say or do. Maybe if I stop telling Mouton what to do and give him a choice, he’ll finally come around to doing what’s right.

  “Look, Mouton. If you don’t want to paint the golden eagle, then there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s up to you.”

  Mouton puts his head down, his hands resting on his thighs. He stays that way for a long time.

  He finally looks up. “Okay. I’ll paint the bird. It might not be my best work, but I’ll do it.”

  I look at him for a long time, like when Mom looked at me before she held her cigarette under the faucet. “Are you serious? You’re really going to do it?”

  He nods. “Yes. I want to.”

  I smile, because there’s nothing else left to do. “I can’t wait for everyone to see your work. You’re going to be the talk of the town.”

  I jump off the front porch and walk toward my bike, my hands jammed into my coat pockets. My short breaths jump out in shapes the size of hummingbirds, and fly away, like they were never there to begin with.

  While pedaling away from Mouton’s house, I look behind me and wave.

  Mouton sits on the couch, looking down at his hands, which keep opening and closing beyond his control.

  During the weekend, I stay up late working on our project. I glue the typed portions of our research to our three-panel poster board. I center the title—“Finding Gold”—across the top and then place the other elements on the board in strategic places.

  On the left panel of the poster board, I place the purpose and hypothesis. In the middle, below the title, I put the materials list. On the right side I glue the evidence and conclusion.

  I gather the materials to display on our table at the symposium. It’s always good to have objects to show the judges. It takes your project to the blue-ribbon level.

  On my desk I place the spool of string, my binoculars, Dad’s night vision binoculars, the cross pouch, a granola bar, and the golden eagle feather. I’m also taking my bike to stand next to our table, because that’s how I made it back and forth between my house and Miss Dorothy’s place.

  By the end of the night, everything is in place except Mouton’s painting. If he comes through and finishes the painting, we’ll have a chance at the blue ribbon.

  If he doesn’t, we’ll be remembered as a mismatched pair of socks—with holes in them.

  The Big Day

  The science symposium is the biggest event in West Plains for seventh graders.

  Sixth graders like to check out what they’ll be doing next year. Eighth graders like to compare their projects to the current ones. Seventh graders—well, we’re the stars of the big show!

  I’ve been to every science symposium since I was born. Dad was one of the most well-known winners ever, so the school sent him an invitation every year. Dad couldn’t wait to point out what he thought were the winning projects.

  Three years ago, when I was in fourth grade, he predicted the top three projects, from third to first place. That was the same year his body started to slow down.

  This year a new sign, surrounded by balloons and streamers, hangs above the entrance to the gym.

  WELCOME TO THE GREATEST SHOW IN SCIENCE!

  Decorations cover the gym walls. There are giant posters of famous scientists, like Einstein, Salk, Newton, and Galileo. Cartoony-looking pictures of telescopes, beakers, and calculators fill in the gaps between the scientists. More balloons stream from the basketball hoops.

  Everyone, including me, is busy setting up their booths, making them look good for the judges. Mr. Dover and Mrs. Hughes are two of the judges, but the third judge won’t be revealed until right before the symposium begins.

  The gym is divided into two sections, with a giant blue curtain hanging in the middle. The parents and special visitors sit on one side of the curtain, while Mr. Dover introduces himself and babbles on about the symposium’s history. On the other side, hidden from all the visitors, we stand at our tables, ready to explain our projects to whoever wants to listen.

  The key is to impress the judges, so you have to be prepared when they come knocking.

  Our booth has come together perfectly. The poster board stands in the middle of the table, with a sheet hanging over it and birding gear spread all around it. On the table sits my cross pouch, flashlight, granola bar (because energy leads to alertness, and alertness leads to spotting birds), and Dad’s night vision binoculars. There’s also the missing link—the golden eagle feather.

  In front of the table stands my Predator, resting on its shiny kickstand.

  Everything on the outside looks great. On the inside I’m a little nervous about what the judges will think of my findings.

  Unless the golden eagle comes flying through the gym doors and perches in the rafters, my hypothesis will remain unproven. I never officially saw the golden eagle, so I have no photo or documentation to prove it was in West Plains. But I do have the feather I found at Miss Dorothy’s place, which might be enough physical evidence to impress the judges.

  That doesn’t mean my project is a failure. It just means my project has to stand out even more than the others. I’m counting on my birding expertise and thorough scientific explanation to keep me in the running for the blue ribbon. Students have won before without proving their hypothesis. It can be done.

  Gabriela’s booth is across the gym, near the curtain. She places things carefully on the table and then steps back to make sure they’re exactly where she wants them. She, too, has her poster board covered with a sheet.

  She and Trixie have kept their project a secret since Mr. Dover assigned it, and while I pretend not to care, I really want to know what their project is about.

  Over the next several minutes the gym becomes as busy as a train station.

  Seventh graders hustle around, perfecting their displays. Other seventh-grade teachers, who are there to help, walk through the booths, making sure that every group has what they need.

  On the other side of the curtain, the crowd becomes louder. I can’t see who’s over there, but the gym must be filling up with parents and grandparents and everyone else in town who wants to see the symposium projects.

  Mr. Dover, wearing a navy-blue blazer, walks over to my booth. He straightens his bow tie, which is bright red and covered with white symbols from the periodic table of elements. On one side of his tie is “Fe” for Iron and “He” for Helium.

  “I’m eager to see your project,” he says.

  “Yeah, well, my partner’s nowhere to be found.”

  I look around the gym for Mouton, but I don’t see him anywhere. Up until this point, I wondered if Mouton actually finished the painting. But now I’m getting worried that he won’t show up at all!

  Mr. Dover checks his watch. “No need to panic yet. He still has fifteen minutes.”

  “What if Mouton doesn’t show up? Can I still win the blue ribbon?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “That’s never happened before. I would have to confer with the other judges.”

  “You mean, you’d actually consider not penalizing me?”

  “Well, I’m not sure about that. Remember, no matter what happens, you’re still judged on how well you and Mouton worked together. After all, this is a group project.”

  In that case, our project is doomed . . . unless I find Mouton.

  Searching for Mouton

  I suddenly don’t feel so well. I look around for any signs of Mouton. I don’t see him, so I take a step toward the gym doors to go look in the hallway.

  But then I see Chase walking up to Gabriela’s booth, and I stop. My first thought is, He’s an eighth grader. What’s he doing here? Then I notice that he’s holding a roll of electrical tape, which means he got out of class to help prepare for the event. I’m sure he volunteered just so he could see Gabriela.

  Chase tosses the roll of tape in the air and catches it behind h
is back. He says something to Gabriela, and she laughs and smiles at him.

  Then Gabriela turns and sees me watching her.

  I look away, and move the binoculars closer to the granola bar, and the granola bar closer to the cross pouch, but my act doesn’t work.

  When I glance up, Gabriela is walking toward me.

  “Good luck, Eddie,” she says.

  “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

  “Where is Mouton?”

  “I don’t know. Have you seen him anywhere?” I fidget with Dad’s night vision binoculars on the table, deciding whether to stand them upright or lay them down. I decide to display them upright because it makes them look more important.

  Gabriela adjusts the shoulder strap on her dress. “I thought you and Mouton had everything figured out.”

  “We do. I mean, we did. It turned out different than I expected, but I guess that’s part of the scientific process. Kind of like order and progress.”

  “Good memory,” she says.

  Chase walks up, tossing the electrical tape in the air again and again. He’s a full head taller than me, and his arms are the size of my thighs. “Nice display, Eddie.”

  “Thanks.”

  I can’t figure out why he’s calling me Eddie. He’s never called me by my real name.

  Chase rubs his chin like Dad used to after shaving. “Good luck, man. Hope you win the blue ribbon.”

  Gabriela punches Chase in the shoulder.

  “Ouch,” he says. “Actually, I hope you get second place.” He walks away, tossing the tape roll into the air, catching it between his elbows.

  “What was that all about?” I ask Gabriela.

  “Chase is a nice person. He is not as bad as you think.”

  “I think he’s just acting that way to impress you.”

  She rolls her eyes. “If it is not one thing, it is another. And if you really want to know, I did not tell Chase to be nice to you. That was his own choice.”

  “Oh yeah, prove it.”

  “After you left the Freeze Queen, I told him more about you, and then he felt bad about how he talked to you.”