Flip the Bird

by Kym Brunner

  FOUR

  WE TURNED OFF THE MAIN HIGHWAY AND ONTO THE dirt road leading to our neighborhood. The truck’s wheels kicked up stones and sent dust clouds flying out behind us as we drove the half mile to our house. As we pulled into our driveway, Dad whistled. “That sign sure looks great, doesn’t it?”

  He was referring to the recent addition of an illuminated sign on our front lawn that boasted BUDDIE BIRD REHAB CENTER, and below that FALCONRY DEMONSTRATIONS AVAILABLE. At the bottom it read RICHARD BUDDIE, WILDLIFE REHABILITATION SPECIALIST, along with his phone number. While it’s a nice sign, and Dad totally knows his stuff when it comes to rehabilitating injured raptors, I wasn’t sure exactly whom he expected to see it, as we get only about two cars per day driving past our house.

  When I told Dad he needed to do more in the way of online advertising, he made a face and shrugged. Guess he didn’t think I knew much about social media either. Now if Lincoln suggested a bigger online presence, Dad would be hosting Twitter parties every Tuesday night.

  Dad stopped in front of the house to let Lincoln out. Before Lincoln hopped out of the truck, he turned to me. “Congratulations, bro. Have fun with Flip today.” He held out his fist, bumping mine straight on before he slammed the door.

  As I watched him walk away, I wished for the tenth time that I’d thought to ask Dream Girl her name. She was so into animals, I bet she’d think Flip was cool. She’d even forgive me for Cinnamon once she knew the mouse was out running free in the field somewhere. For exactly how long that freedom would last would safely remain unknown.

  Dad and I drove around to the back, where the white barn stood perpendicular to our house. There it was, Dad’s pride and joy, the fantasy raptor facility he had built to his specifications. He drove in through the side garage door, staying only long enough for me to unload Flip’s carrier—​it nearly detached my arms, but I managed to do it—​before he backed out. It was as if he was afraid the birds would twist the doorknobs with their beaks and come flying out at the exact moment the garage door was opened. Talk about overly cautious—​he was worse than my grandma on an icy pavement without her cane.

  Before I took Flip out of his carrier, I searched the rehab center for the equipment I needed. Dad’s shelves were stuffed with every type of bell, gauntlet, hood, telemetry device, and disinfectant that Northland Falconry Distributors sold. Finally, I grabbed a bolt of tan kangaroo leather, a jar of lanolin oil, pliers, and a handful of tannery tools, dumping them all on the table. After flicking on the light, I got to work fashioning Flip’s new leather gear. I’d made and replaced enough ankle cuffs, jesses, and leashes that I could do this blindfolded.

  A short time later, Dad walked up behind me. “How’s it going?”

  “Great so far,” I replied, not looking up.

  He watched as I methodically traced and carved anklets and jesses from the supple leather before rubbing heavily scented lanolin oil on them. “Nice workmanship,” he proclaimed, nodding his approval.

  At last, it was time to outfit Flip with his new attire. With his hood still on inside the carrier, Flip’s sensory system was set to calm, making it easier to attach the equipment to his scrawny legs. First came the anklets, followed by the sturdy eight-inch leather jesses—​which allowed me to hang on to Flip so he couldn’t fly away until I wanted him to. I added a swivel and a leash, and he was good to go. Actually, good to stay—​at least until the end of the hunting season. After turning off the lights in the rehab center for a more subdued setting, I slid my thick gauntlet onto my arm before getting my bird up on my fist, quickly looping the leash between my pinky and ring finger.

  When Flip was out of the carrier, I slowly removed his hood, sending him leaping off of my fist as if my glove were made of lava instead of leather. A bird hanging upside down was not good. I’d seen enough birds bate like this, so I knew what to do: place my hand on his back and gently lift him onto my fist.

  Dad said, “Don’t make eye contact. Just keep calm and he’ll eventually give in.”

  Flip bated seven more times before he finally stayed put for a minute. I stood stone still, noting with each exhale that Flip’s breath had an earthy odor, kind of like the way the air smelled after a summer rain.

  “There you go,” Dad said quietly. “That’s the first step. Take good care of him, Mercer, and he’ll be yours soon enough.”

  “Cool. I plan to,” I replied, not turning toward Dad for fear my head movement would send Flip dive-bombing off my fist again. “And in exchange, this guy is going to help me win the Best Apprentice award.” I grinned. “Amazing that I caught a bird that’s as unbelievably handsome as its owner, huh Dad?”

  Dad rolled his eyes, smiling. He pointed toward the mews. “Enough flattery—​for both of you. Go show him his new home.”

  “Already?” My excitement plummeted. “Can’t I hold him awhile?”

  “Not today. He’s stressed enough. We’ll try feeding him tomorrow, although I doubt he’ll eat for a few days. Put him in his mews while I clean up here.”

  I didn’t want to put Flip away just yet, but it wasn’t as if I could go out into the yard and play a game of fetch with him.

  I couldn’t wait to show him off to Reed and Charlie, my two best friends. They’d been hearing me talk about getting my own hawk for a long time now. Reed had told me that trapping and then hunting with my own hawk would make me the coolest guy at Woodley High. I’m sure he meant after himself because Reed never had trouble in the popularity department. Just one more reason I liked hanging out with him so much. I’d text both him and Charlie later this afternoon and tell them the good news.

  Dad picked up the bolt of leather and the bottle of lanolin oil. “Oh, and by the way, Maddie let the original mouse go free. Said she found it on the kitchen counter next to an empty bag of doughnuts.” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Oh, yeah! Now I remember,” I said, as if this was news to me. Dad shook his head and started toward the house.

  With Flip on my wrist, I sauntered to the door connecting the rehab portion of the building to the sacred area known as—​cue the church music—​the Mews. After passing through, I shut the door firmly behind me, not gagging the way I used to do when I was younger. On the scale of disgusting odors, wild bird smell lies somewhere between compost pile and garbage dump—​not horrid, but not an olfactory picnic either. I strolled down the long hallway lined with wooden doors, each with a large barred opening for us to peek through. Our birdie hotel currently had twelve residents—​eight permanent ones, two healing ones, and two hunting birds.

  “Make that three hunting birds now,” I told Flip while heading toward the last mews, which would become his. On the way, I passed Monocle, our one-eyed great horned owl. She immediately started “herking” away at me, making me grin. Monocle is, and always will be, my favorite bird here. I laughed at her impatience. “Give me a minute, Mon.”

  It’s like this: whenever Monocle sees me, she makes a noise with her throat that sounds like herk, which she repeats louder and louder until I spend time with her. We got her as a cute little owlet after a farmer’s cat dragged her to his door—​apparently by the eye, stupid cat—​and I’ve taken care of her ever since. Lincoln jokes that Monocle’s the only girl who has ever had the hots for me. I don’t mind his teasing because I love that crazy owl right back.

  The only part that sucks is that Lincoln is right.

  “Sorry to tell you this, Flip, but Monocle will always come first in my book.” Flip’s talons grasped my gloved wrist harder, which was maybe his way of saying he wasn’t too thrilled with that pronouncement. Opening the door to Flip’s bathroom-size mews, I checked to make sure everything was exactly the way I had set it up earlier this week: three perches at different heights, one swivel perch bolted to the center of the floor near ground level, and a small warming hutch for winter—​although raptors rarely, if ever, needed protection from the elements. There was even a night-light so my overprotective father could c
heck on them one last time before he went to bed. He’d walk along the length of the barn, peering through the series of thinly spaced vertical bars that were covered with delicate screening to keep out disease-carrying mosquitoes, which lined the entire front wall of the mews.

  I attached a leash to the ring on Flip’s jess, tethering him to the floor post. “Here you are. Mews sweet mews.” He bated again, but hopped back onto the perch seconds later, giving me an adrenaline rush as I savored my falconry milestone. I had done it—​I officially had my own hawk.

  Flip stood motionless, his mouth frozen in a slightly open position—​kind of like how my dad looks when he falls asleep on the couch. His pupils widened and narrowed in photographic precision as he gazed at me, his soft, puffy chest feathers beckoning to be touched. I wanted to somehow let him know that I would indeed be taking good care of him.

  “Hey there, fella. It’s your old pal, Mercer.” I knelt down and gently stroked his chest. Flip reached out to touch me too, this time goring my right forearm.

  “Ah, man!” I yelped, moving out of his reach. Bright red blood filled the narrow gouge on my arm.

  “What did you expect?” I whipped around and saw Dad standing there. “You can’t pet him, Mercer. He’s a hawk, not a puppy.”

  I pressed hard against the gash. “Thanks for the news flash.”

  “Now, now. I didn’t mean anything by that. He’ll begin to trust you soon enough, but you can’t rush it.” He held the door open for me and jerked his head toward the house. “Come on. Let’s leave him be for now. Go sanitize that wound, bandage it, and get cleaned up. Maybe let a razor take a trip around your face too?” He smirked at me, but I knew he wasn’t joking.

  Now he’s giving me lessons on how often I should shave? “Why? I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Actually, I was hoping we could surprise Mom for her birthday by taking her out for lunch.”

  Whenever free food’s on the agenda, I’m usually a willing participant. But lately, suffering through the diatribes of my sister, Maddie, about the trials of fifth grade severely lessened my mealtime enjoyment. Not to mention that Dad would probably make a big deal of my ineptitude in getting footed twice by Flip. “Not really in the mood. Can you bring me something back?”

  “C’mon, Mercer.” Dad sighed, almost pleading. “Let’s do this as a family for Mom’s sake. What do you think about taking her to Elliot’s Pine Log?”

  What I thought was that Dad should be elected president of good ideas. Elliot’s Pine Log served the juiciest steaks, coupled with enormous baked potatoes. “Now that’s a different story. I guess I am pretty hungry.”

  “What else is new?” he joked. As I walked away, Dad added, “Oh, and one more thing.”

  His tone made me think he had something positive to add. Had he forgotten to compliment me on my accomplishment of trapping my first hawk? Was he going to tell me how well I had crafted Flip’s new leather jesses and anklets, fitting him perfectly on my first try?

  I faced him, eager to hear what he had to say. “Yeah?”

  He slid his hands in his pockets. “It’s my duty as your sponsor to remind you that falconry is extremely difficult for first years to grasp, so don’t get your hopes up for earning that Best Apprentice pin at the meet next month. Falconry is all about camaraderie and becoming one with nature—​not competition. Worry about doing the best you can and be satisfied with that, okay?”

  I tried not to let the disappointment show in my face. “Sure. I get it. Thanks, Dad.” But as I trudged toward the house, I knew deep down that he had never given that speech to Lincoln. Guess Dad’s lack of confidence in me didn’t bother me as much anymore. It was one of those facts of life that I had to accept, or it’d eat me up inside.

  Besides, there was always the chance that I could prove him wrong.

  FIVE

  ON THE RIDE OVER TO MOM’S WORK, I WAS TRYING to locate the exact spot of the itch on my back when Maddie launched into a saga about some loudmouth classmate none of us knew or cared about. “Anastasia told us that her mom is going to buy her whatever car she wants when she turns sixteen, but I think she’s lying. I mean, her mom wouldn’t even let her join Creativity Club, so you wouldn’t believe it either, would you, Mercer?”

  “What?” I stopped scratching for a second when I heard my name. “You must have mistaken me for someone who listens when you speak.”

  “Very funny.” She scrunched her nose and stuck out her tongue.

  Dad pulled into the Illinois University of Rockford parking lot, saving me from death by boredom. I noticed a group of about fifteen people near the entrance to the lab, walking back and forth and holding signs. Lab workers on strike? Students against science? Two people held a large white banner that read HALT THE SLAUGHTER—​LET HUMANS AND ANIMALS LIVE TOGETHER.

  HALT. I’d heard that name before but couldn’t quite remember what it was. Based on their signage, they seemed to be insinuating that the lab was preventing humans and animals from living together . . . and then slaughtering them? That didn’t make sense. Mom told me that she cured diseases at work, never anything about animal torture. What was going on?

  I hopped out of the truck and craned my neck to get a closer look.

  “What’s happening, Mercer?” Maddie sailed past me.

  “Someone’s yanking your chain.” I tugged on her ponytail, evoking a loud “Stop it!” from her, which made me laugh.

  “Hold up, you two,” Dad called from inside the truck. “My wallet fell under my seat.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” I said, curious to see what all the commotion was about.

  “Don’t start anything with those people!” Dad warned. “Maddie, stay here.”

  Don’t start anything? Me? Dad had the wrong brother. Lincoln was willing to risk life and limb to be at the center of a controversy, but he had the muscles to back it up. All I wanted was a backstage pass. I hurried my scrawny butt over there, eager to find out the scoop.

  From a safe distance, of course.

  As I neared Mom’s building, two fine-looking girls tromped toward me in skimpy homemade dog costumes. Gotta love Indian summer weather in mid-September. The girls held a banner between them that read DON’T KILL LABS IN YOUR LAB. Yellow Labrador puppies pranced along the bottom of the sign, the last one with a gun against its head. The image was totally creepy, but I forgot all about it when the girls turned and walked the other way. Nice tails, girls. Walk slower.

  At times like these, I wished I had the face of Reed and the confidence of Charlie, because that combination would have girls flocking to me like Canada geese heading south for the winter. I relished the image of a squadron of girls in a big V rushing toward me with their arms outstretched. They could goose me all they wanted.

  A middle-aged guy with a ponytail muddied up my view by holding a cardboard sign in front of my face. Stepping back, I read KILLING CANINES IS DOGGONE CRUEL, in squiggly red letters that I guessed were supposed to look like dripping blood but appeared more like smeared ketchup. Ugly Ponytail Guy got right in my face and huffed, “Don’t use pugs to test your drugs!”

  “Don’t look at me, dude.” I held my arms up in surrender mode. “I don’t do drugs. Or pugs, for that matter.”

  Five steps later, another hot girl, this one in a skinny white top and Dalmatian pajama pants, stepped off the lawn and blocked my path. Her nose was painted black and she had little whiskers drawn across her cheeks. Not only that, but her blond hair had been pulled up into ponytails on the sides like a floppy dog’s ears. The hypodermic needle poking out of her chest with fake blood smeared around it was over the top, but hey, whatever made this chick happy was fine by me as long as she kept prancing like that.

  “Oh my God!” The girl waved her hands in the air excitedly, making her pamphlets flutter. “Mercer, right? From the pet shop this morning? What are you doing here?”

  My mind became as jumbled as the mouse tank. Dream Girl? At my mom’s work? I peered closer, and sure
enough, a small diamond stud twinkled on the side of her smudgy black nose. My heart started pounding as I nodded, grinning uncontrollably. I lifted my chin toward the commotion behind her. “I was kind of wondering the same thing about you.”

  She laughed heartily as a heavyset woman in a one-piece purple jump suit tapped her on the shoulder. “Off the sidewalk, Lucy. It’s against the rules.”

  So her name was Lucy. I thought it fit her perfectly—​fun and cute. But what was with the no-sidewalk rule?

  “Sorry, I forgot,” Lucy said to the frizzy-haired lady before turning to me. “Want to walk with me a second?”

  “Sure.” I’d walk with her for a few billion seconds if she’d let me. We stepped onto the grass, sliding in line behind two little girls wearing Scooby-Doo costumes. “I thought you said you were from up north.”

  “I am.” She nodded, her floppy ears nodding with her. “Or maybe I should say was. We moved to Woodley two weeks ago.” She shrugged. “Guess it doesn’t feel like home yet.”

  She lived in Woodley too? How incredible was that? Elation flooded through my body, making my heart rate leap. That meant that unless she lived way out past McKinley Road, there was a really good chance that she went to my high school. “Funny you should say that. I’ve been here two years and it doesn’t feel like home yet to me either.”

  Dad and Maddie scurried past the assembly line of protesters. Ugly Ponytail Guy yelled at them too. “People who kill innocent animals will burn in hell, and their carcasses will be thrown to the dogs.”

  I turned to Lucy. “What’s with all the death and destruction?”

  She tilted her head slightly, squinting in confusion. “Haven’t you heard what they do here? We’re here to protest the university’s testing procedures—​ones that include injecting dogs with drugs to kill them.”

  “Are you sure?” With one quick toss of my head to get the hair out of my eyes, I glanced down at the literature she had given me and saw a woman in a lab coat smiling as she held a knife to a dog’s throat. What kind of weird prank was this? “You know this is a college, right? Not an animal shelter.”