Soar (18 page)

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?”

M
outon! 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.

T
he 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.

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 his 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.