Soar (5 page)

I walk closer to the locker, stick my head inside, and smell.

It's honey.

I pull my backpack from the locker, but it's too late. The bottom of it is caked in stickiness.

“Problem, honey?”

It's him again.

Mouton.

MOO-TAWN.

He's leaning against his locker on the other side of the hallway.

“ ‘Look out, look out. I need to talk to the principal about my schedule.' You really bought that bag of smoke, didn't you, Bird Boy?”

I wipe my hands across my shorts, but that only spreads the honey and makes everything twice as sticky.

I throw my backpack down and take off toward the bathroom.

Grabbing the bathroom door handle, I slam face-first into a sheet of red, otherwise known as Gabriela's dress.

“Eddie?” she says. “This is the
girls'
bathroom.”

“Oh, sorry,” I say.

I turn around and hurry away, my face and neck and every other part of me becoming hot and tingly.

“Eddie,” Gabriela calls after me. “What is wrong?”

“Mouton!” I say, without turning around.

Great. The first day of seventh grade is going just how I imagined it.

Not.

I
've been in science class for twenty minutes, and my dad was right, Mr. Dover is full of hot air. First off, he wears a navy-blue bow tie. Everyone knows that only people who think they're really smart wear bow ties. The only good part about his bow tie is that it's covered with little white ducks.

Mr. Dover began class by talking about rocks and minerals, and then he started talking about a rock he found at his house, and the next thing you know he's telling a story about an owl plucking a rodent from his property. I don't mind stories about birds. I mean, owls are silent assassins and ninja-like hunters, so I can
see why Mr. Dover talks about them. But every other sentence out of Mr. Dover's mouth has to be about
his
property.

Mr. Dover rolls up his sleeves and takes a green marker from the white-board tray. He writes “SCIENCE SYMPOSIUM” in capital letters on the white board.

“West Plains has a reputation for producing world-class scientists,” he says. “Seventh graders, just like you, who have gone on to become leading experts in their fields. You have a chance to become one of them when you display your project at our annual event, the Seventh-Grade Science Symposium.”

Last year, when I was in sixth grade, the whole grade was invited to tour the symposium during the last fifteen minutes, once the parents and judges had seen all the projects.

If you ask me, the projects were pretty average.

There were the usual inventions: automatic dog food dispenser, high-tech garden-watering system, and lap desk with lights and drink holders. One kid actually tried to create a real homework machine that only did math. The homework machine would've been cool, but every answer came out wrong.

There were also creative projects: blindfolded
roller-skating dogs, pickle jar binoculars, and diet candy that makes you lose weight.

Then there were the real contenders: sheep and their abnormal family structure, microwavable shape-shifting Play-Doh, the social networking agenda of flowers, and the winner—professional sports and its influence on the lightning bug's life cycle.

There was only one project about birds, but it was sloppily thrown together—probably the night before. It compared the red-bellied woodpecker with the red-headed woodpecker, which is the most ridiculous and most obvious bird project ever done, if you could really call it a project.

When my dad was in seventh grade, he won the blue ribbon. His symposium project proved that the number of sharp-shinned hawks in a given territory negatively correlates to the number of songbirds. Basically, the more sharp-shinned hawks, the fewer songbirds, because the hawks eat them all.

If I can just find that golden eagle, and win the blue ribbon—like Dad—then maybe everyone will believe Dad actually saw it—that he really
was
telling the truth.

Mr. Dover caps the green marker, and the classroom
door opens. Standing there is Mrs. Hughes, with her arm around Gabriela!

I smile big and wave at her. She smiles back, but doesn't wave.

“Mr. Dover,” Mrs. Hughes says, “this is our newest seventh grader, Gabriela.”

Mr. Dover steps forward, drumming the green marker in his hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.”

Mrs. Hughes pats Gabriela on the arm and walks out, closing the door behind her.

“Gabriela,” Mr. Dover says, “we were just discussing the science symposium.”

“I have been told it is a big event,” she says.

“You hear that, folks? Even our newest student knows about the symposium.”

Gabriela smiles, her cheeks turning pink.

“But for now,” Mr. Dover says, “we're going to move on to our first unit. For the first few weeks we'll be studying birds.”

My heart flutters and flaps its wings. I want to stand up and shout “Yes!” so the entire school can hear me. But instead I rest my hand on top of my bird journal, which is sitting on top of my science book.

“I hate birds,” Mouton says.

I glare at Mouton, my eyes telling him to
BE QUIET!

Mr. Dover ignores him and keeps talking. “A bird-watcher is a special kind of person. Most of the time they live a solitary life, one that revolves around their subjects. It takes patience, commitment, and compassion to understand the full existence of a bird.”

I feel like Mr. Dover wrote this lesson for me!

Mr. Dover straightens his bow tie, and the little white ducks move (fly) up and down. “Does anyone know the three rules to bird-watching?” he asks.

I shoot my hand into the air. So does Mouton.

I'm pretty sure that Mouton doesn't know the difference between a canary and a crow. He definitely doesn't know the Rules of Birding.

Mr. Dover calls on me. “Eddie, go ahead and tell us.”

“I prefer the term ‘birding', not ‘bird-watching.' ‘Birding' includes everything: adaptations, calls, nesting and feeding habits, migration patterns, mating, not just
watching
birds.”

“That's great, Eddie,” Mr. Dover says. “But do you know the answer to the question?”

Everyone turns to me, including Gabriela. She's probably thinking I'm way out of my league here.

I've known these rules since I could talk. Every time
I went out with Dad, he'd say them at the beginning of our trip, and then he'd make me repeat them at the end.

“That's easy,” I say. “Get as close as you can to the bird. Never take your eyes off it. Don't let anyone get in your way.”

Everyone laughs, but I don't know what's so funny.

“That's quite a list, Eddie,” Mr. Dover says. “But whoever told you these rules has unfortunately misled you. The first rule of birding is to stay at a comfortable distance, so you don't scare the bird. Rule number two is to only look at the bird long enough to make your observations before writing them in your journal. Every birder knows that if you stare at one bird for too long, then you may miss another bird flying your way. The third rule is the exact opposite of what you said. You should strive to be courteous to others in the field. You never know when you might need a helping hand from a fellow birder.”

“Take that,” Mouton says. He leans back in his chair while tapping his pen on his desk.

“Eddie,” Mr. Dover says, “the rules of birding have been around longer than trees. A real birder would not only know these rules by heart, but he would live by them every day. Where did you learn about these rules?”

“From my dad,” I say.

“Hmm,” he says.

“My dad also said that a real birder would never put red food coloring in hummingbird feeders, like you do, because two recent studies have shown it could be harmful.”

I've never talked like this to a teacher before. I don't know why I'm saying these things. It's like I can't control myself. I don't know whether to be embarrassed, proud, or scared for my science grade.

Mouton's chair drops to the floor. “Bird Nerd, Bird Nerd, Bird Nerd,” he says. Then he makes the same weird sound he always makes when he's nervous. “Yip!”

Mr. Dover glances at the clock hanging on the back wall above the bulletin board. On the clock common backyard birds fill the spaces where numbers usually go. “Time's up. Eddie,” he says, “I'd like to speak to you after class.”

Everyone picks up their books and walks out. I hope for a glance from Gabriela—just one glance—but she offers nothing.

So much for being best friends.

Mouton walks by and says, “Eddie-shovel-truck! Yip!”

Once everyone has left the classroom, I gather my
books, with my bird journal resting on top, and walk to the front of the room. I'm sure this conversation is going to be short. It will probably end with me sitting outside Mrs. Hughes's office.

How am I going to explain to Mom that I got sent to the principal's office on the first day of school?

I don't waste any time. “I'm really sorry, Mr. Dover. I didn't mean what I said. It just sort of slipped out. I won't do it again.”

Mr. Dover says, “Eddie, I want to show you something.”

He walks behind the front table and puts on a leather falconry glove. He bends down and fiddles with what sounds like a metal cage. He stands up, holding a bird on his gloved hand.

The bird is striking. It has a blue head and wings, and a rusty-red back and tail, and black specks cover its body. Its beak is small and points sharply downward, exactly like Coop's. It's a good-size bird, smaller than a peregrine falcon but bigger than a red-winged blackbird.

“That's a male American kestrel,” I say. “The smallest falcon in North America.”

“Very good, Eddie. Say hi to Zeus.”

“Hi, Zeus,” I say.

As much as I like birds, I've never actually talked to one. It feels as weird as it sounds.

“I found him hobbling around on my property. He was in a tree that was struck by lightning. He has a broken wing. It's healing, but gradually. Go ahead, you can touch his head.”

The bird stares at me. I stroke his head, and he looks up toward the ceiling. My other hand rests on my bird journal. What I wouldn't do to take my journal out right now and compare one of my American kestrel sketches to Zeus.

Mr. Dover strokes Zeus's nape, the back of his neck.

“Eddie,” he says, “your father was his own man. He did things his own way. I'm not saying that's a bad thing, but not everyone always agreed with his way.”

“Did you agree with his way?” I ask.

“Not very often.”

“Why not?”

“Look, Eddie. The most important thing is that you and I have one thing in common, a very important thing. We both love birds. We can agree to disagree on the Rules of Birding, I'm fine with that. But we have a long year ahead of us in science, so let's start over. What do you say?”

The bird clock chirps. The hour hand rests on an American goldfinch, which means it's ten o'clock.

With his free hand Mr. Dover scribbles on a notepad and rips off the top sheet. “Here's a pass. You have five minutes to get to your next class.”

I take the pass and walk toward the classroom door.

“Hey,” Mr. Dover says. “Zeus likes you. I can tell.”

I give a half smile and walk out of the room.

I'm sure Mr. Dover says this to every student who shows any signs of trouble, especially those who point out his poor birding methods in front of the whole class.

The way Zeus looks at me is kind of weird, though. It's like he knows me already, or we've met before.

I wonder if that's how the golden eagle would look at me.

During lunchtime in the cafeteria, while sitting alone, I open my bird journal to a clean page in the Raptors section and begin drawing Zeus. I sketch the head and the small, sharp beak, including the black vertical lines on both sides of his face. Then I draw the slate-blue wings, with brown spots, and the rust-colored back and tail.

The American kestrel is about the size of a mourning
dove, so the drawing doesn't take that long. Below the drawing I write:

Bird: American kestrel (Zeus)

Location: Mr. Dover's classroom

Note: Zeus's wing is healing; I hope he flies again.

Dad: Do you think Mr. Dover doesn't like me

because of something that happened between you and him?

I wish you were here to tell me more.

I wish . . . I wish . . . I wish . . .