Soar (19 page)

“Good luck, Eddie,” she says.

“Thanks. I'll need it.”

“Where is Mouton?”

“I don't know. Have you seen him anywhere?” I fidget with Dad's night vision binoculars on the table, deciding whether to stand them upright or lay them down. I decide to display them upright because it makes them look more important.

Gabriela adjusts the shoulder strap on her dress. “I thought you and Mouton had everything figured out.”

“We do. I mean, we did. It turned out different than I expected, but I guess that's part of the scientific process. Kind of like order and progress.”

“Good memory,” she says.

Chase walks up, tossing the electrical tape in the air again and again. He's a full head taller than me, and his arms are the size of my thighs. “Nice display, Eddie.”

“Thanks.”

I can't figure out why he's calling me Eddie. He's never called me by my real name.

Chase rubs his chin like Dad used to after shaving. “Good luck, man. Hope you win the blue ribbon.”

Gabriela punches Chase in the shoulder.

“Ouch,” he says. “Actually, I hope you get second place.” He walks away, tossing the tape roll into the air, catching it between his elbows.

“What was that all about?” I ask Gabriela.

“Chase is a nice person. He is not as bad as you think.”

“I think he's just acting that way to impress you.”

She rolls her eyes. “If it is not one thing, it is another. And if you really want to know, I did not tell Chase to be nice to you. That was his own choice.”

“Oh yeah, prove it.”

“After you left the Freeze Queen, I told him more about you, and then he felt bad about how he talked to you.”

“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.

A
t 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 this 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.

S
ilence 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!”