Avenging the Owl

by Melissa Hart

  Now, there was nothing else to do.

  My mother walked in as I finished the second chapter. “Solo, Eric’s mother called. She invited you to go fishing.”

  A single sunbeam streamed through the window and lit up my mother’s face, illuminating the wrinkles around her eyes. I closed the book and shoved it under my pillow.

  “No, Mom, I hate fishing. I’d rather just …” I almost said “read,” but then I remembered what I was reading. If she saw the book, Mom would think I was turning into Enraged Kitten Avenger again. I’d be back in juvenile corrections before you could say “dead mice for breakfast.”

  “I’d rather just hang out here.”

  Mom pursed her lips. She looked almost normal today in her white Versace dress, but something flashed on one bare foot. A silver toe ring. I snorted, and she moved her foot a little behind the other. “I’ve got an interview at the university, and your father’s taking the bus to see his psychologist, then to the library to do some research. You can’t stay home alone.”

  “But you let me stay home in Redondo Beach all the time!”

  “Well … things are different in Oregon.” Her eyes flickered away from mine.

  I’m different. File “Solo” under At-Risk Youth.

  I pulled the covers over my head, hoping she’d take the hint and leave. Instead, her bare feet grew roots, and she turned up the volume. “Eric’s father is away on business. His mother offered to drive you and Eric down to the canal, then take you out to lunch. I want you to go.”

  “Why?” I hurled my pillow across the room. My mother’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. “You want me to catch a fish? I thought we were vegetarians!”

  She picked up the pillow and gave it a few good whacks. “We’re pescatarians—vegetarians who eat fish. Salmon twice a week’s good for your father’s recovery.” She stopped beating up my pillow and hugged it to her chest. “When I was your age, my sisters and I wandered all over these woods having a marvelous time. Sometimes I wish you weren’t an only child.” She addressed the pillow. “That was a mistake.”

  “Yeah, one of many.”

  Mom shot me a warning look, but forced a glorious white smile. “Isn’t it wonderful that you and Eric live next door to each other, and you’re only a year apart? You’ll be best friends.”

  I thought of Rajen. By now, we’d be out shredding waves while my mom and her friends did the same thing a little ways down the beach. Later, she’d shower and drink espresso on the Starbucks patio—all the stuff she used to do on Saturdays before she turned into an alien.

  “Eric’s not my friend,” I reasoned. “I can’t believe his mom even wants me around him. His dad said I can’t go near him, remember?”

  “Let’s not get into that again.”

  Mom sat on the edge of the bed and searched the room. It was pretty clean, for me. My old room had been huge. You couldn’t see the carpet underneath all my clothes and magazines. But I could walk across this trailer bedroom in five steps. I’d taped surfing posters over the nail holes in the walls and stacked my screenplay notebooks on top of the mouse-chewed carpet in one corner. No superfluous frivolities here, unless you counted Mom’s old Darth Vader bank on my dresser. When you dropped in a coin, it did that deep breathing thing and James Earl Jones’s voice garbled something about the dark side.

  “This bank was mine when I was your age,” she’d told me the day we moved to Oregon and she unpacked the boxes.

  I took it, not to make her happy, but because strangers had bought up all my DVDs and stuff at the yard sale. Now I had a bank full of quarters and dimes. But my life was empty.

  As soon as Darth’s filled, I’m getting out of here.

  My mother stood up. “Kitchen, ten minutes. Your father’s making waffles.” She walked out.

  “This is so stupid!” I yanked on a T-shirt and shorts and wedged a pencil and notebook into my back pocket. It used to take me half an hour to make my bed. My kitten loved to attack the sheets. We’d have wild games of Chase Solo’s Fingers until she collapsed on my pillow. Then, I’d brush her until she stretched out long and purring.

  Never again.

  I stuffed Minerva’s book far beneath the mattress. Between the pages, I saw the edge of a postcard. A picture of a bunch of stupid birds from the raptor center. I pulled it out.

  It was blank, so I scribbled a note.

  Hey Rajen,

  Snore-egon sucks—nothing but trees and birds.

  Saving $ for Operation Surf’s Up. Back soon.

  Your friend,

  Solo

  I tucked the postcard into my newest screenplay notebook. Eric’s mom was cool—I could persuade her to swing by the post office downtown, and she wouldn’t ask questions.

  The trailer kitchen was so small that barely one person could fit in it at a time. My father stood beside the stove all tied up in a red checked apron, pouring waffle batter into a hot iron. When I squished past him to the fridge, he leaned over and gave me a one-arm hug. “Good morning!”

  “Not really.” I poured orange juice and sat at the table with my back to him so I wouldn’t have to look at his apron. In California, Dad had worn khakis and a leather bomber jacket. Now, he wandered around in cutoff blue jeans and a T-shirt with a big yellow happy face on the front. His hair hung shaggy over his ears. But I had to admit he made killer waffles. I never knew he could cook before.

  “Tofu, sugarless jam, soy milk, tempeh …” I searched the fridge for maple syrup. “Mom expects us to eat this stuff?”

  My mother walked out of the bathroom and reached into a cupboard. “Try these on your waffles.” She handed me a jar of spiced apples. “They’re healthier than syrup.” She put a hand on my bandaged wrist for an instant, then turned away. “I’d better go. The bus needs time to get over the hill.”

  The Hill loomed long and steep on the road beyond our house, inevitable if you wanted to get downtown. My skateboard could make it to the top faster than The Big Grape.

  Mom gave Dad a quick hug. “Are you feeling okay? Figured out the bus schedule?” Her eyes searched his, and her hands clutched his shoulder blades beneath his shirt.

  Dad’s hollow cheekbones lifted in a tight smile, giving his happy face T-shirt some fierce competition. “I’m great! Good luck with your interview.”

  Mom released him then, and her words flew out high and fast. “The university is full of fascinating history. I’d love to teach there. I’m off to yoga after the interview, okay? Have a good day, boys!”

  My father’s hundred-watt smile dimmed as she walked out of the trailer. “She really wants this job.”

  I shrugged and dumped spiced apples over my waffle. She’d had a good job in Redondo Beach. We both knew why she’d quit.

  He stared out the window above the sink. Back home, we could watch waves crashing to shore while we washed dishes. But here, everything just blew around in the breeze, a billion shades of green—trees, bushes, grass. Boring.

  My father cleared his throat. “I’m going to the library to research Japanese internment. Did you know your grandparents were forced to leave their home and relocate to a camp in California, because the government thought Japanese Americans were a threat during World War II?” His eyes glistened. “My father was a business owner, respected throughout his community.”

  I put down my fork. The hypocrisy was killing me. Here was Dad crying because someone made his parents leave their home for a year … but he’d made me leave my home forever.

  “Dad, you’ve told me this story a million times,” I sighed.

  My father went back to gazing out the window while his waffle burned to a crisp, and I sat there biting my tongue so I wouldn’t say anything else to upset him. I swear, I was almost glad when Mrs. Miller’s green pickup rumbled into the driveway. Eric bounced on the front seat, rocking out to country music.

  “There’s my ride. Fishing date. Mom’s orders.”

  I looked at Dad sideways to see if he’d spare the fis
h and spoil the child. But he didn’t notice. “Catch a big one,” he mumbled.

  I reached into the fridge for my water bottle. My father stood so near I could see the corner of his eye twitching.

  Up close, it was hard to hate him.

  I followed his gaze to see what he was staring at. A fly, trying like crazy to escape a spiderweb stretched across one corner of the window. As I watched, the spider crept up and injected the fly with venom, then wrapped it up tight in a silk shroud. I bit my lip.

  What if he’s not here when I get back?

  I pushed the thought away and walked out the door. But halfway down the driveway, I froze. Sweat jumped out all over my body. Is this the first time he’s been alone since he tried to …?

  I sprinted back into the kitchen to find Dad pulling a bottle of maple syrup from behind stacked cans of tomatoes and beans.

  “Oops!” His face flushed like a kid who’s been caught sneaking Oreos before dinner.

  Relief turned to anger. I stomped down the hall and snatched up my Dodgers hat, then stalked back out the door without looking at my father. If he wanted to hoard secrets, that was his problem, but he could’ve let me in on his sugar stash.

  “Howdy, Solo!” Mrs. Miller called to me in her Texas accent. She reached across her son and opened the pickup door. “Good to see you, honey.”

  Now, I felt like a pathetic little loser. I hadn’t seen Eric or his mother since we’d sat in the courtroom and his father tried to throw me in jail. I messed around with the straps on my backpack so I wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. “Hi, Mrs. M.,” I mumbled. “Hey, Eric.”

  “Hi, Solo!” Eric smiled his humongous smile and scooted close to his mom, making room for me on the bench seat. A white bandage peeked through his brown hair, which was cut in an upside-down bowl shape like The Beatles had when they were really young—I saw their picture on the record album my dad had. The spiced apples squirmed in my stomach.

  The Millers lived on the next acre over. Before my parents bought the trailer, Eric and his mother had hiked around on our land, picking blackberries and cutting back the poison oak. Mrs. Miller walked over the day we moved in, arms full of pies and canned fruit from her trees. My mother told her, “Mi casa es su casa,” which is Spanish for “My house is your house.” That’s when I met Eric. He thought my parents’ pond was his pond.

  Now, I wished I’d never found him crouched down in the mud beside the water with his stupid magnifying glass.

  “I hear the fish are jumping in the canal.” Mrs. Miller turned her truck toward the riverside park downtown. “If you boys catch some, we’ll fry ’em up for dinner. I’ve got a hair appointment and I need to swing by the garden store, but I’ll be back by noon. Then we can mosey on over to McMenamins for burgers and fries.”

  Eric clapped his hands. “We have ice cream?”

  “You got it.” Her cowboy hat bobbed up and down. “We’ll rope ourselves a chocolate cone or two.”

  Ice cream.

  Apparently, my mother hadn’t told Mrs. Miller about the no sugar rule. I looked out the window at a flock of white geese strutting across the road and smiled grimly. What Mom didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her … or me.

  Eric’s mom let us out near the university’s mammoth football stadium. “See y’all at noon.” She leaned over to kiss her son’s head. There was way too much kissing in Oregon. People here didn’t shake hands or slap five. They smooched—heads, cheeks, lips. Gross.

  I jumped out of the truck before Mrs. Miller could plant a wet one on me, but she got ahold of my arm. “Thank you, Solo. This is the first time Eric’s ever had a playdate with a friend.”

  A playdate? If Rajen and Blinky were here, they’d crack up at the sight of me loaded down with fishing poles, running after some thick-tongued kid in a T-shirt silkscreened with beetles.

  “C’mon, Solo!” Eric hollered, swinging his red plastic tackle box. “Let’s rope us a salmon!”

  There were other kids fishing at the canal. I pulled my hat brim low over my eyes. Someone snickered. Across the water, a boy pointed his fishing pole at me and laughed.

  “Shark bait,” I muttered. “Couldn’t catch a wave if it rose up under your butt.” Didn’t he know fishing was for old men hunched over the pier? The cool kids surfed.

  Eric sat cross-legged in a patch of dandelions with his fishing pole. He looked like a mushroom in his brown hat stuck through with feathered lures.

  “Want a red one!” He chose a plastic worm from his tackle box. “Help me hook it, Solo?”

  “Can’t you do it?”

  He shook his head. I smashed the fake worm onto his hook. He stood up and flung the pole back. I jumped out of the way as he flipped it over his head and cast his line far into the canal.

  “Yikes, Eric. Watch it!”

  “I fly fishing.” His tongue stuck out between chapped lips as he yanked his pole out of the water and flung it back. Again, I heard snickering. I grabbed the other pole and collapsed on a nearby log.

  I cast my line into the canal and watched the dogs running in the park across from me. The sun tried hard to burn a hole through my T-shirt. I reached into my backpack for sunscreen, and my fingers touched a cool rectangle. The Altoids tin Rajen had given me before I left California.

  I wedged the fishing pole under the log and popped off the lid. Sand. Redondo Beach sand. I poured it into my hand. There were shells, too, and a piece of green glass the ocean had smoothed into a jewel. I sniffed. The sand smelled salty and sweet.

  I swallowed hard and poured it back into the tin. My eyes stung. I pulled my baseball cap down, hiding my face from the kids across the canal.

  “LA Dodgers are losers!” someone hollered. Someone else laughed.

  Then I remembered something Mr. Davies once told our screenwriting class: The strongest stories are born of pain.

  I reached into my pocket for my notebook and pencil.

  FADE IN

  EXTERIOR. CROWDED BEACH - DAY

  GUYS and GIRLS with surfboards stand on the sand, looking out to sea. They’re pointing and shrieking. The camera follows one girl’s finger across the water to where SOLO HAHN rides the crest of a twenty-foot wave.

  GIRL #1

  It’s Solo Hahn. Look at him go!

  GIRL #2

  I heard that he loved the ocean so much he ran away from his parents at only thirteen. He lived in a tree house and surfed ten hours a day, since he couldn’t go to school. Now, there’s no wave he can’t ride.

  The crowd goes wild, cheering for the champion surfer. Solo raises one hand to wave, and then …

  “Why d’you hang out with retards?”

  I looked up from my notebook and blinked at a skinny kid with shoulder-length wavy hair—so blond it was white—and a missing front tooth. He sneered at me, hands stuffed into baggy shorts pockets.

  “This my friend Solo!” Eric tottered over to us. “He live in a trailer next door.”

  Missing Tooth loved that. “Hiya, trailer trash.”

  There was another kid—even shorter than me, with curly hair flattened under a bandana and a blue fisherman’s hat. He scrunched up his sunburned nose. “My dad’s a cop at juvenile court. He said you shot the retard with his father’s gun. You gotta play with him, or you’ll go to jail, right?”

  “He’s not a retard.” I glanced at Eric’s beetle T-shirt. “He’s got Down syndrome, that’s all.”

  “Whatever.” Missing Tooth stared at the bandage around my wrist. “So what about that gun?”

  I covered my wrist with my hand. “None of your business.”

  Three weeks in Oregon and I already had a reputation. Forget new kid on the block—I was the new gangster on the block.

  “Solo! Help me!” Eric pointed to his fishing hook, wedged high into a tree branch. “It stuck!”

  The two boys practically fell on the ground laughing. I prayed for one of Ed Wood’s B-movie spaceships to drop down and whisk them away to some Styrofoam-planet galaxy a billion
light years away. “Stop fly fishing!” I scowled at Eric and hauled myself into the tree. “Just drop your hook in the water and leave it, okay, Eric?”

  “Okay, Solo.”

  By the time I got the hook unstuck, Missing Tooth and his friend were gone. Eric grinned. “You the best!” His face glowed pink and sweaty. He rubbed it with one arm, and his bandage fluttered to the ground. I could see a long, crusted-over scab above his right eye.

  “Ow. I cut my leg on that tree.” I rubbed my ankle and looked across the river. Missing Tooth ran over a bridge with his short friend. They met another kid with a dog on a leash and took off toward the woods.

  I reached into my pocket and touched the tin full of sand. Rajen and Blinky and I were supposed to go to high school together in a year—the Three Musketeers, only cooler. Now I was just cold—lonely as a glacier.

  All that afternoon, I couldn’t stop thinking about the question Missing Tooth had asked me. Even when Mrs. Miller handed Eric and me each a double scoop of chocolate raspberry truffle from the shop near the university, the white-haired kid’s words wouldn’t stop echoing in my head.

  What about that gun?

  Shooting it was the worst decision I’d ever made in my life.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MENACE TO SOCIETY

  Imight’ve gone my whole life without firing a gun if I hadn’t met Eric. He was my age, but he acted like a little kid. A week after my parents dragged me to Oregon, he bounced into my life like one of those grasshoppers he was so gung ho about. I’d been holed up in the trailer with a stack of surfing magazines when my kitten padded through the door with Mom’s ponytail holder in her teeth. She dropped it at my feet.

  “What’cha want, kitty cat?” I looked up from an ad for Costa Rica and some of the best surfing in the world.

  She mewed, eyes on the red circle of elastic. I tossed it across the room. She raced after it, pounced, and carried it back to me.