“What’d you tell him about me?”
“I told him that you know everything about birds, that you are really sweet, and that you are my best friend.”
I look down at my feet. No one has ever called me a best friend before, not even Camilla. When I look up at Gabriela, a cool sensation, like the refreshing feeling from Papa’s berry drink, spreads through my body. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a best friend.”
“Ruby and Eagle,” she says.
She smiles and walks away, back to her booth, where she begins rearranging items on her table.
Before I can think about best friends, Mom jingles my way, a spray bottle hooked onto her belt loop, a greasy rag jammed into her pocket.
“Hey, sweetie.” She puts her arm around me. “Let’s see this project of yours.”
“Mom, you’re supposed to be in the audience. The symposium is about to begin.”
“What’s your bike doing here?” she asks. She takes the handlebars and leans my bike away from her to get a better look at it. “Now, that’s one sparkling frame.”
“It’s part of our project,” I tell her.
“Speaking of your project, where’s your trusty teammate?”
“He’s not here yet.” I look around the gym, then at my watch. “If he doesn’t show up, I’m going to—”
“Now, now, Eddie. Remember, Mouton is a little unpredictable. We both know that.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, listen. You stay here and tidy up your presentation. I’ll look for Mouton in the hallway, just to make sure he’s not lost. If I find him, I’ll tell him to report to base immediately.”
“Thanks, Mom, but you don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” Mom kisses my forehead and says, “Knock ’em dead, champ.”
She walks away, her keys clinking together on her hip. She stops in the middle of the gym, bends down, and wipes away a scuff mark on the wood floor. Sometimes she just can’t help but clean up after people.
Science Symposium Saga
At three o’clock sharp Mr. Dover’s voice blares over the speakers from the other side of the curtain. He introduces himself and then rambles on about the very first science symposium and how it began an honored tradition at West Plains Middle School.
After his speech the curtain opens, and all the people move toward us. It’s a sea of endless heads and bodies, old and young.
A crowd goes to Gabriela’s booth first. Papa stands in the front.
Once everyone settles down, Gabriela pulls off the sheet and reveals her display board. Everyone steps closer to their table, blocking my view. There are some oohs and ahhs and even a few claps. Trixie stands to the side of their table, smiling, her orange braces reflecting the bright gym lights.
All I can see is the title running along the top of their display board: “Bird Talkers.”
I should’ve known that’s what their project is about. Gabriela had access to the perfect subjects. Her research was taking place in her own backyard. Literally.
Most of the crowd is stuck at the first few booths, so I leave the sheet draped over our poster board. It’s important to reveal your project in front of a big crowd. Drama creates buzz, and buzz catches the judges’ attention.
But I have a bigger issue right now. Mouton. He’s still not—
“I’m here!”
I turn to the voice, and Mouton rushes toward me! He holds a square-shaped object with a red-and-white striped beach towel hanging over it.
“Where have you been?”
Mouton catches his breath. He wipes his forehead with his shirt. “I was finishing the painting, just like I promised.”
“Seriously?” I try not to make a scene in front of everyone. “You finished it?”
“Yip!”
“Yes! Mouton! You came through!”
I try to give him a high five and a chest bump, like the basketball players do when they score a basket, but he just stands there.
The crowd pushes toward our booth. In about twenty seconds they’ll hound us and we’ll be under the microscope. We have to be ready for the big reveal, or we’ll miss our only opportunity to create blue-ribbon buzz.
“Hurry. Set the painting on the easel,” I tell him.
But then I take the painting from Mouton and do the work myself. He’d never get it facing the right way, at the right blue-ribbon-winning angle. “Okay. Here’s the plan. Are you listening?”
Mouton turns pale. He doesn’t have much color to begin with, so this makes him look almost see-through. “I’m listening. Yip!”
“When everyone gets to our booth, you just stand there and smile. Don’t say anything, don’t touch anything.”
“Just stand here and smile,” he repeats. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, like he’s swaying back and forth to music only he can hear.
“Stay calm,” I tell him. “Everything is in order now.”
“Yip!”
“I’m going to introduce our project and then pull the sheet off the poster board. When I do that, you pull the towel off your painting. It’s the moment we’ve been waiting for. Got it?”
“Eddie-shovel-truck!” he says.
“Does that mean ‘yes’?”
He nods.
The crowd from Gabriela’s booth begins moving toward us.
“Quick, get in place,” I tell Mouton.
The crowd closes in fast. People begin forming a half circle around our table, waiting for us to impress them with our project.
Mr. Dover and Mrs. Hughes hold clipboards. They both wear JUDGE badges on lanyards around their necks.
Mom pushes her way to the front of the crowd. She gives me a thumbs-up, her keys on her belt loop clinking together.
Then I notice another familiar face in the crowd.
Sandy.
He leans in close, scanning our poster board. When he sees my Predator, he gives me a thumbs-up. And then I notice that he’s also holding a clipboard, and a JUDGE badge hangs around his neck too!
I almost scream and dance and shout to the sky.
SANDY IS A JUDGE!
Sandy knows me better than anyone else. Dad was his favorite person. He fixed my Predator, and he loves birds. He’s the best judge I could ask for!
But then I realize there’s another side to Sandy being a judge. If I win the blue ribbon, everyone will say I had an unfair advantage. Mr. Dover will put one of those funny-looking stars next to my name in the blue-ribbon record book, and the integrity of my project will be questioned forever.
Now that I think about it, Sandy being a judge has made things really complicated. I’ll definitely need his vote to win, so there’s only one thing to do—impress him until his toothless smile fills the gym and he picks us as the winners.
Mouton must be nervous, because he keeps saying “Yip-yip” under his breath, but I can tell he’s trying to control his vocal tics. I don’t even care, because this is Mouton’s time to shine. It’s time for everyone to hear his voice—through his artwork—loud and clear.
Mom shushes the crowd around our table. Everyone begins to quiet down. That’s when I know it’s time for me to start my presentation. So I clear my throat and begin talking.
“The eagle is a symbol of power and integrity, honor and freedom, the fight to not only survive but to dominate. The golden eagle is the most efficient hunter on the planet, and it has only been seen once before in our town . . . until now.”
I pull off the sheet, revealing our poster board.
Everyone gasps.
Mom gives me another thumbs-up.
Sandy leans in closer, inspecting my research. He begins writing notes on his clipboard.
Mr. Dover straightens his bow tie.
Mrs. Hughes begins taking notes, looking up, down, up, down.
I take the feather carefully off the table and hold it up. “The truth is, the golden eagle lives right here, in our own backyard. How do I know th
is for sure? Before I was born, my dad saw one at Miss Dorothy’s place. Its wingspan was two meters long and its talons were the size of bear claws. As you’ll see in my conclusion, I’ve found evidence that the golden eagle has returned to West Plains. You might call it a theory. I call it . . . the truth.”
I nod at Mouton.
“Yip-yip!” he says.
He yanks the red-and-white striped beach towel off the painting.
The crowd gasps, only this time it sounds like the air seeping out of a bike tire.
The painting is NOT a golden eagle.
It’s the painting of the two boys in the sandbox, one holding a shovel, the other holding a toy truck.
Mouton takes the painting off the easel, holds it up high, and shouts, “Eddie-shovel-truck! Eddie-shovel-truck! Eddie-shovel-truck!”
My mouth hangs open.
The golden eagle feather drops from my hand and sinks to the gym floor.
Leaving It All Behind
Silence fills the area around my table. It actually feels like the whole gym is silent. Most of the faces I can see are expressionless and looking at Mouton’s painting. Some people are even laughing.
I become so mad that my eyes fill with tears.
I decide to walk away from it all.
I hurry toward the green neon exit sign, stepping on the golden eagle feather. Brushing past Mom, I cut through the crowd, leaving behind my hopes of a blue ribbon. Leaving behind Mouton, who’s still holding up his stupid painting.
“Eddie!” Mom calls after me.
I keep walking. And I’m not stopping.
When I get to the exit, I slam through the double doors and find myself in the hallway that connects the gym to the rest of the school. I walk quickly down the hallway. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’ve got to keep moving until I get out of this place.
My bottom lip begins to shake, and my eyes fill with more tears. Everything around me turns blurry and out of focus. I will not cry, I tell myself. I will not cry.
This isn’t really happening. It’s all a dream. Some stupid dream with a stupid painting at some stupid science symposium. I’ll wake up soon, and it’ll be the day of the real science symposium, the one I’m going to win.
Behind me I hear my mom burst through the double doors. She calls after me. “Eddie! Come back here! Eddie!”
I keep walking, my heart beating faster, my vision more blurred.
Mom runs down the hallway after me, her squeaky footsteps on the tile floor getting closer with each step I take.
She finally catches up with me, outside of Mr. Dover’s classroom, of all places. She grabs me by the shoulders, spinning me around.
“Eddie,” she says, out of breath. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry.”
“He ruined everything!” I tell her, my bottom lip trembling. “I tried to be nice to him. I tried to help him, and he ruined it! I hate him!”
“Sweetie, I know it’s bad, but you can’t just walk out like this. You have to go back and finish what you started.”
“It is finished. Everything is finished!”
“It doesn’t have to be. What about all the effort you put into this project? There’s a lot to be said for that.”
“No one cares about my effort. They’re all looking at Mouton’s stupid painting.”
“That’s not your problem, Eddie.”
“It is too my problem, when he’s my one and only partner and he screws everything up. Now we have no chance of winning the blue ribbon.”
Mom takes me by the shoulders and stands me up straight. She looks me in the eye. “What would your dad say right now? Just think about that. What would he tell you to do in this situation?”
I take a deep breath. Another one. I will not cry.
Mom holds a look on me. “He’d tell you to get your butt in there and stand tall, to be proud of your work. He’d tell you to focus on controlling your own actions, not Mouton’s. It’s not your fault that Mouton brought the wrong painting.”
I nod, agreeing with her, even though I don’t want to.
“Well, guess what?” she says. “Your dad isn’t here anymore. He’s gone, forever. I’m sorry, sweetie, but that’s the truth and you need to hear it. But I’m here, Eddie. It’s me and you, you and me. And I’m telling you to be strong and carry on, just like you said about us.”
“What about the blue ribbon?”
“Eddie, who cares about the blue ribbon? That doesn’t make or break your project. It’s about the process, not the result.”
I think about that for a moment. It doesn’t sound like something Mom would say. “Who told you that?” I ask her.
“Who do you think?”
I stand up straighter, taller, my shoulders back. I inhale deeply to clear my head and push back my tears. “Dad?”
“Yes, Eddie. He told me that.”
“When?”
“You really wanna know?”
I nod.
Mom looks down at the floor. She takes out her cleaning rag and wipes a black smudge away from the tile, her keys jingling against her leg. She stands up, stuffing the rag into her back pocket.
“Our marriage wasn’t always the best,” she says, still looking at the floor. “We were going through a rough patch after you were born. I wanted to leave, and your dad stopped me.”
“You wanted to leave Dad? Like, take me away from him?”
“I had my suitcase packed. I was leaving, Eddie. I mean, I was out of here.”
Mom crosses her arms over her chest to keep herself from getting upset. “Then your dad told me that being married was about the process of companionship. He said that we should focus more on the moment and enjoy being together, and not worry so much about our future.”
“Then what happened?”
“We got better, and you grew up.”
Mom laughs one of those little laughs that keeps you from crying. I think this one keeps us both from crying.
I look down at the spot on the floor that she wiped clean. I can’t believe she almost left Dad forever. If that had happened, I would’ve never known about the food chain or the Rules of Birding. I would’ve never learned how to identify birds by their voices.
I would’ve never known about Sandy and Dad’s friendship.
I would’ve never known about the golden eagle.
Mom smiles at me, resting her hands on my shoulders. “Now come on. I bet there’s a line of curious people in there waiting to ask you questions about that bird.”
I take a deep breath, because it’s the only way I know how to respond; it’s the only way to keep from losing it and running away from this place.
Mom puts her arm around me, and we walk toward the entrance to the gym.
Blue-Ribbon Winner
When I come back into the gym, Mom walks me to my table. But the big crowd has moved on to other tables. There are only two people checking out our project. One is reading our poster board, and the other is looking at the golden eagle feather.
I look around the gym, but I can’t find Mouton anywhere.
Holding his clipboard, Mr. Dover walks up to us. “Eddie, I’m sorry about what happened. Mouton’s mother took him home for the day.”
“Good. I don’t ever want to see him again.”
“Eddie.” Mom nudges me with her elbow.
“Well, I can’t promise you won’t see him again,” Mr. Dover says. “But I think it’s best that he’s not here for the remainder of the symposium.”
“Thanks, Mr. Dover,” Mom says. “Eddie and I talked about what happened. He’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just fine.”
I make it through the rest of the symposium in one piece. I’m able to keep my emotions together enough to answer questions and to show off my project. But I can’t stop thinking about the stunned faces in the crowd when Mouton yanked the towel away and revealed the stupidest painting ever.
At four o’clock everyone gathers around the stage, waiting for the aw
ards ceremony to begin.
Mom is the only person standing next to me, probably because no one else knows what to say to me.
When I think about Mouton and the painting, my fists clench. He’s lucky that he left early, or there would’ve been a fight right here on the gym floor. I’ve never been in a fight. The only thing I’ve ever punched is Dad’s shoulder. But there’s a first time for everything, including fist-fighting symposium partners.
I’m not sure if Mouton meant to bring that painting or if he accidentally brought the wrong one. Right now it doesn’t matter. He did it, and there’s no turning back time.
I wouldn’t be so mad if Mouton cared about the symposium, or cared about anything other than woodpecker pens. He’s probably at home laughing right now, while my blue-ribbon dreams were shot down and wrangled by the neck, like the quail at Miss Dorothy’s place.
On the stage, Mr. Dover steps up to the microphone, holding his clipboard. “Okay, everyone, if I could have your attention, please. It’s time to announce the winners of this year’s science symposium.”
Mom puts her arm around me. She knows this is going to be hard for both of us to hear. As much as I want to pull away from her, because it’s kind of embarrassing to have your mom’s arm draped on your shoulder at a school event, I need her arm around me right now more than ever.
Mr. Dover says, “In third place, Josh and Jacob Simmons.”
Everyone in the crowd claps. One section of the crowd erupts into cheers and whistles. Must be their family.
The two boys come up onstage, and Mr. Dover hands them each a small plaque.
It’s no surprise they got third place. The Simmons boys are identical twins, and they’re identically good scientists. Their project was about how to make a hybrid airplane. I’m not sure it’s really possible, because their theory was based mostly on putting solar panels on the wings to help charge the engines. I guess it would save fuel costs for airlines, but only on sunny days.
Mr. Dover leans into the microphone. “In second place, Mandy Russell and Sophia Everton.”
Again everyone claps. The two girls rush up to the stage, smiling and giggling, while camera flashes go off in every direction. Their project tested the effects of home aquariums on families’ blood pressure. They hypothesized that families with aquariums in their homes would have lower blood pressure than those without aquariums, and their research proved that they were right.
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