Soar (16 page)

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.

Guns—proving my shotgun-carrying science teacher wrong.

There's a beige envelope—the same kind Mr. Dover uses to send detention slips to the office—attached to the back of the poster board. I pull the envelope off carefully, but it takes a thin layer of poster board with it.

Sorry, Dad.

I open the envelope and pull out a newspaper article. The paper is thin and yellowish, and the ink is fading. It's a page from the
West Plains Post
.

JOE WILSON WINS SCIENCE SYMPOSIUM LAMB DOVER TAKES SECOND PLACE

I hold the article in front of me, staring at the words. I feel like going to Mr. Dover's house and asking him why he doesn't like me, and then right when he's about to answer, showing him the newspaper article.

Instead I slip the article back into the beige envelope and seal it. I tuck the envelope under my shirt and go inside the house.

A greasy Freeze Queen sack sits on the kitchen table. I open the fridge, but there's not much in there. A quarter gallon of milk, a half-empty bottle of ketchup, and something wrapped in foil. I take out the orange juice container and drink the last gulp. I pitch the orange juice carton into the recycling can.

The theme song from
One Last Life
blares from the living room.

Mom jingles into the kitchen, holding a cigarette between two fingers. “Use a glass, you barbarian.
Where were you?” She breathes out of her nose, filling the space above the sink with smoke.

“I was at Miss Dorothy's, working on my project.”

“I thought so.” She scoots the grease-spotted Freeze Queen sack closer to me. “I got our Buck Burgers. Cold cow's better than no cow.”

My stomach growls as soon as Mom says “Buck Burgers.” I reach into the sack, pull out a burger, unwrap half of it, and take a bite.

Mom stands close to me. I can feel her looking at me. “You okay?”

I talk through a mouthful. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

“You sure about that? Do you want to talk about this Gabriela situation?”

“There's no situation, Mom. But thanks.”

I walk into my room and shut the door.

The Buck Burger doesn't taste as good as it usually does. I pitch the rest of the burger into the trash can. I bury it underneath a bunch of old bird sketches so Mom doesn't see that I've wasted food.

I pull the beige envelope from underneath my shirt and put it safely in my desk drawer. I open my bird journal to a blank page in the Raptors section and begin sketching the owl from Miss Dorothy's place.

Like Dad told me in second grade after I successfully identified my first American robin call, “Identifying a bird by its call is better than identifying it by sight, because that means you're finally opening your ears and listening to the music.”

The owl's beak is short and curved. The head is round, the body full; the ear tufts stick straight up. Owls are easy to draw, but it's hard to make the head the right size compared to the body. I always draw the head too big or too small, and then it turns out looking like a caricature.

I think of owls as silent assassins and guardians of secrets—just like ninjas.

Bird: Great horned owl

Location: Miss Dorothy's place

Note: With Mouton's voice, there is hope for our project.

Dad: Making friends is a tough business. Sometimes I wonder if it's worth the trouble.

I'm trying to listen to the music, but it's hard to hear the words.

O
n Monday morning I get up early and get dressed. When I walk into the kitchen, Mom is standing at the sink.

“Where are you going so early?” she asks me. She cracks the window above the sink, her keys clinking together. She strikes a match and lights a cigarette.

I shut the fridge door. “We're out of orange juice.”

“Drink water. It's good for you.” Mom flicks ashes out the window. She blows smoke out her nose, and it billows in the sink.

“I'm going to Miss Dorothy's.” I sling my jacket over
my shoulder, along with my backpack, and head for the front door.

“I better be the first to know when you see that bird.”

“Don't worry. When I see it, the whole town will know.”

I get my bike from the garage, hop onto it, and pedal down the street.

When I arrive at Miss Dorothy's, the traps are knocked down. One trap even has a squirrel by the leg! The dirty work is out of the way. It's already dead. It had to be either Coop or the great horned owl. Whoever did it saved me time and left the squirrel in decent shape.

Using the leftover string from the trap, I tie the squirrel by the legs and sling it over my back. I climb up the tallest of the trees and tie the dead squirrel to a branch.

Eagles are the most dominant hunters on earth, but while migrating, they can also be serious scavengers. Once I read about a group of ornithologists setting out an eagle buffet like this. Right now, with the science symposium coming up soon, it's my best option.

As I climb down the tree, Coop lands on a branch close to me. She flaps her wings, as if saying,
Good morning
.

“Hey there, Coop. Now listen, you stay away from this squirrel. It's not for you.”

She stares at me, and then lets out a loud
cak-cak-cak
,
which is a call that Cooper's hawks use to defend their territory.

I'm not worried about Coop feeling threatened by me. We've known each other forever. But I do get the feeling that she's interested in the squirrel.

“Listen, Coop. I need you to protect this squirrel, okay? I need it for my project at school. I have to find that golden eagle. Now, you let me know if anything happens, okay? I want to hear you loud and clear.”

I realize Coop doesn't understand what I'm saying to her, but if there's a chance that birds understand human desperation, then maybe she'll decide to lay off the squirrel. And if I'm really lucky, she'll chase away any vultures.

Coop flaps her wings and flies through the trees, probably looking for a house sparrow or mourning dove for breakfast. Maybe even a northern flicker, because they spend a lot of time on the ground, which makes them easy targets.

I climb down the tree and ride away on my bike. At home I park my bike in the garage and then walk toward the bus stop.

When I get there, Gabriela is standing close to the stop sign. She doesn't look at me, so I pretend to ignore her.

A
t the bus stop I stand at least twenty feet away from Gabriela. I have nothing to say to her. But every thirty seconds or so, I glance at her, then look away.

Each time I look over at her, she's writing in her notebook. I can't help but wonder what she's writing about.

Mouton walks up and stands close to me. “Morning, Chicken Legs.”

“Morning,” I say.

When we get on the bus, I stare out the window. I'm sure Gabriela is writing down all the reasons she wants to be friends with Chase instead of me.

In Mr. Dover's class it's frog dissection week, which explains why the classroom reeks of formaldehyde and slimy amphibians.

I spend a lot of time in nature, but smells really get to me. The worst was when Mom and I walked into Longburger Funeral Home. Trixie's parents greeted us at the front door like they were welcoming us into their home. I guess they kind of were, since they own the place. I remember their sympathetic faces and clammy hands.

But that smell. I'll remember that smell forever.

It's hard to describe the death smell in words, but you recognize it right away, and then it stays with you.

In the science classroom Mr. Dover weaves through lab tables, peering over shoulders. He's wearing a light blue bow tie covered in flies. We have to complete the frog dissection with our symposium partner because Mr. Dover says, “It's a way to build camaraderie.”

I'm staying on top of things and watching Mouton closely. There's nothing scarier than Mouton with a scalpel. He can paint and all, but I don't fully trust him with a blade.

I wipe the scalpel clean with a rag. “I'll take it from here, Mouton. Cover me, I'm going in.”

“Sure thing,”
he mumbles. Then, as clear as can be, he says, “Eddie-shovel-truck!”

I pause before cutting the frog and look up at him. As badly as I want to say “Seriously, stop saying that,” I know he can't control it, even though he might be trying his hardest.

I refocus on the frog and press the scalpel into the frog's abdomen. I make one horizontal incision and two vertical ones, and then I peel back the skin. Inside the frog is a cluster of dark-colored balls.

Mouton shoots his arms into the air, like we just won a contest. “Raisins! We found raisins!”

“They're babies. Not raisins,” Mr. Dover says, standing behind us. “Your frog was going to have tadpoles.”

I can't decide which is worse, Mr. Dover standing behind me or the frog death smell. Or that Mouton thought our frog was going to have raisins.

Mr. Dover straightens his bow tie. “Eddie, that was a precise incision. Now finish removing the organs and complete the lab report with Mouton.”

Mr. Dover moves on to Gabriela and Trixie's table. Gabriela handles the scalpel like a pro during the dissection process. She's calm and in control, like a surgeon.

Trixie is a different story. She watches from behind
Gabriela with a grossed-out look on her face, like the frog's going to come alive and jump on her head.

Mr. Dover watches them closely. “Gabriela, have you ever done a dissection before? You're very good at this.”

Gabriela tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I helped at an animal shelter in Brazil. But those animals were alive.”

“Very nice,” Mr. Dover says. “Keep up the good work.”

Mr. Dover moves on to the next table.

I clean the scalpel, wrap it up inside a paper towel, and place it on the metal tray next to the other dissection tools.

Gabriela and Trixie move back to their desks to work on their lab reports.

Mouton leans over our frog, examining the eggs.

I sneak over to Gabriela's dissection table to check out their frog. Mr. Dover was so impressed with Gabriela's incisions, but I want to judge them for myself.

Their frog's organs are spread out over their table. There's the liver, spleen, stomach, pancreas.

And that's when the death smell hits me. Between the dead frogs, the cleaning solutions on each table, and the freshly waxed tile floors in the classroom, the odor is the same as the funeral home.

The smell makes me think of Dad lying in the casket, dressed in his favorite birding outfit, his binoculars tucked beside him, his hands resting at his side.

But it's not just about Dad anymore.

In my mind I see Mr. Dover holding the tiny slip of paper from the robin's nest and saying, “Mouton.” I picture Gabriela and Chase sitting in the booth at the Freeze Queen. I imagine the winners of the science symposium standing on the big stage, holding shiny blue ribbons, and I'm not one of them.

My stomach can't take everything at once.

I swallow twice to keep from getting sick, but it doesn't help. I cover my mouth and run out of the classroom.