Soar (17 page)

A
fter science class I get sick in the hallway at my locker, and again in the cafeteria after sitting down with my lunch tray and a chicken patty special.

One look at the chicken patty sandwich, and I lose it.

At least Mom is there to comfort me. It's a little embarrassing when Mom rubs my head and says “It's okay, sweetie,” but I don't mind it. I feel terrible, and when you feel like that, there's nothing more comforting than your own mom.

I spend the rest of the day in the nurse's office. Mom says I'm
too young to spend the day alone at home, so I have to wait until she gets off work.

After the last bell rings, Mom decides to skip working late and she drives me straight home. During the drive she says, “I'm sorry about Gabriela. Just remember, she's new in town, she can use all the friends she can get.”

“She hates me.”

“Listen, Eddie. I'm sure Gabriela doesn't hate you. She was just meeting someone new. You can't be mad at her for making new friends.”

“It's not just about Gabriela. It's everything.” I look out the window, watching the mailboxes go by in a blur.

Mom reaches over and pats my leg, letting me know she's there for me. Usually I'd pull away from her and tell her to stop, but this time I don't.

Every half hour or so at home, Mom checks on me. The bubbly feeling in my stomach is gone, but now my mouth is dry and my tongue feels like sandpaper.

Mom knocks on my bedroom door and comes in, carrying a glass of ice water. “We're out of orange juice.”

I sit up in bed. “That's okay.”

“Take small sips. It'll make you feel better.”

Mom sits on my bed, close to me, like she wants to talk. “So why'd you get sick in the first place? Did you eat an old Buck Burger from your locker?” She laughs at herself, coughing twice, her keys jingling to the same rhythm.

“There was this smell in the science room. It smelled like the funeral home, and then I started thinking about Dad. Next thing I know, I'm thinking about everything else that's going wrong. I just couldn't take it anymore.”

Mom's expression turns serious. She puts her hand on my cheek. “Oh, Eddie,” she says, her eyes becoming watery. “I'm sorry.”

I put my hand on top of hers. “It's not your fault, Mom. Like Dad told us, ‘We have to keep on living, keep moving on.' ”

Mom squeezes my hand. I squeeze hers.

“You know,” she says, “your dad looked forward to you having Mr. Dover as a teacher.”

I pull my hand away from hers. “What? Dad said that?”

Mom shifts on the bed. “Despite what your dad told you about Mr. Dover, he knows a lot about science, especially birds. Dad knew you would be in good hands.”

“Well, Dad wouldn't
think that way if he knew Mr. Dover put me with Mouton on purpose.”

“Are you sure he did it on purpose?”

“I mean, I'm not one hundred percent sure, but it seems that way.”

Mom rests her hand on my knee. “Maybe Mr. Dover knew you and Mouton would make a good team. Maybe he thought Mouton needed you.”

I take a sip of water. Mouton and I are far from a good team. We're not even a team, more like a pair of mismatched socks.

Mom messes up my hair. Then she gets up from the bed. “Get some rest,” she says. She walks out of my room, closing the door behind her.

I take a sip of water and think about everything Dad said about Mr. Dover. According to Mom, Dad thought Mr. Dover was an okay guy. And if that's right, then Dad wasn't telling me the whole truth about Mr. Dover.

I set the glass of water on the table next to my bed. I pull the covers to my chin and close my eyes, hoping this is all a bad dream.

T
he next morning I open my eyes before the sun comes up. My stomach feels better, so I get out of bed and get dressed. The science symposium is next week, so I want to spend as much time as possible at Miss Dorothy's place. The only way to prove my hypothesis—that a golden eagle can be found in West Plains—is to take a photo of it.

When I walk into the kitchen, Mom is standing at the sink. “You're supposed to be in bed,” she says. She takes a drink of black coffee. Then she puffs from her cigarette and blows smoke out the cracked window.

“I'm fine,” I tell her.

I open the fridge, but then I remember we're out of orange juice. I grab a granola bar and shove it into my pocket. Then I put on my jacket. “I'm going to Miss Dorothy's.”

Mom blows smoke at the window. It spirals into a mini tornado and slips outside between the window and the sill.

“Can I borrow your camera?” I ask her.

“What for?”

“In case I see the golden eagle.”

“Go ahead. It's on my dresser.”

Before getting the camera from Mom's room, I stand there and watch her take another puff from her cigarette. “I really wish you'd quit smoking.”

Mom puts the cigarette down in the ashtray. She looks at me for a long time.

Finally, instead of inhaling again, she turns on the faucet and holds the cigarette underneath the running water. The cigarette sizzles, its glow disappearing.

I smile.

Mom smiles.

Before I walk out of the kitchen she says, “Good luck!”

I'm sure Mom isn't going to quit smoking just like that. But she listened to me, and that's a start.

* * *

When I step outside, the cool morning air greets me. I pedal toward Miss Dorothy's, my breath rolling out in tiny bursts.

I walk my bike through the side yard.

Miss Dorothy opens the back door and waves.

“Morning, Miss Dorothy!” I shout.

She reaches into a Dan's Sporting Goods plastic bag and tosses a handful of seed out the door. Before she can throw a second handful, a flock of northern bobwhites swoops down and starts pecking at the ground.

When I get to the pond, I take out my binoculars and look up at the squirrel tied to the tree. It looks the same as it did yesterday.

Coop hasn't touched it, and she might even be protecting it.

I steer my bike through the grass while Coop scares off some scavenging crows. She knows I need the squirrel.

I squat down and wait, my fingers crossed inside my coat pocket, hoping for a glimpse of the golden eagle.

Coop flaps twice and glides overhead.

“I knew I would find you here,” a voice says from behind me.

I stand up and turn around.

Gabriela stands about ten feet away from me. Her hair is longer and shinier than ever, her eyes rounder and browner. She tucks her chin deep into a scarf wrapped around her neck. Her jacket looks too light to keep her warm. I'd offer her mine, but I'm not sure if we're still good enough friends for that.

“I've got work to do,” I say.

“Eddie. We need to talk.”

“There's nothing to talk about.”

“I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you. Your costume was the best part of the night. I had to tell someone about it, and Chase was there.”

“He was there, all right.”

“Chase and I are friends. Just like you and me. I am sorry if that makes you unhappy, but I am meeting new people every day. And this makes me feel like I belong here.”

I bury my chin in my jacket, trying to stay warm. “You're right. I should be happy for you. You're just listening to the music.”

“Yes, exactly. And you have made it easier for me.”

“I have?”

“Of course. You are funny, interesting, courageous.
And most of all, you have real feelings and you are not afraid to show them.”

“So you really like all that stuff about me?” I can't help but feel confused. Here I am trying to impress Gabriela, and the one thing she likes most about me is my most embarrassing moment when my feelings came out.

“More than anything else,” she says. “A person who reveals his feelings is a person who knows himself. A person who knows himself is a person who can know others.”

“Wow,” I say. “That sounds deep.”

“My father is a deep person. He also likes you very much.”

I can't help but let a smile escape from the corner of my mouth.

Gabriela stares at the ground. She shoves her hands deep into her pockets, her breath coming out in small clouds.

“I'm glad we're friends,” I say.

“Me too.”

I reach down and pull a long, wispy piece of grass from near the pond. I tear it apart, one small section at a time, letting the pieces fall from my hand.

“I am sorry about your project, Eddie.”

“What do you mean?
My project is still going.”

“But the eagle is not here.”

“He'll be here. You just have to be patient. John Audubon sat and watched birds for hours, until every detail about the bird was burned into his mind forever. How do you think he made his paintings look so real?”

“But what if the eagle never comes, and then you cannot prove your hypothesis?”

“He'll come,” I say.

“You keep saying ‘him' and ‘his.' How do you know this eagle is a male?”

“Dad told me so.”

Coop flies overhead, like she's been listening to our conversation and she understands what I'm saying. She lands on a branch above us, spreads her wings, and stares at us. At least there's one bird cooperating with me. That's more than I can say about the golden eagle.

“Do you believe everything your dad told you?” Gabriela asks.

I tear off another piece of grass and throw it down. “Yes. I do.”

Gabriela walks closer to me. She looks up into the tree at Coop, who still perches on the branch. “She is so beautiful.”

“And loyal.”

Coop opens her wings wide, like she's stretching to start her day, then goes back to her normal perching posture.

“Eddie,” Gabriela says.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think your father was perfect?”

I look up into the tree, at Coop. I notice her broad shoulders. Her long, rounded tail. Her hooked beak. Her sharp talons. She's the ultimate raptor. And then I notice the one thing that sets her apart from the other hawks.

Her one piercing eye.

I wonder if Dad really thought that I'd be in good hands with Mr. Dover. And if so, why didn't he ever tell me?

“No one is perfect,” I say. “But my dad was his own person. And that's good enough for me.”

L
ater in the week Mr. Dover lectures us about the cane toad taking over parts of Australia. I couldn't care less about the cane toad or anything else he has to say, so I spend the time sketching Coop in my journal.

Mr. Dover stops in mid-sentence. “Eddie?”

I look up from my journal. I close it quickly and decide I'd better pay attention, even if cane toads make me think of the death smell.

After school I stop by Miss Dorothy's to check on my traps and the squirrel tied up in the tree. I guide my
Predator around the property and notice a feather on the ground below one of the oak trees. It's long, narrow, and brown. I put down the kickstand on my bike and run toward it.

As I get closer, my heart starts beating so fast, it feels like it's coming through my shirt.

I pick up the feather and hold it. It's slender and soft. The base is white, and the top part is golden brown.

I recognize the kind of feather right away.

It's a golden eagle secondary wing feather!

I feel like dipping the feather in ink and writing “Blue Ribbon” across the sky. Instead I carefully place the feather inside my jacket pocket, close to my racing heart.

Then I take out my binoculars and look up at the squirrel tied up in the tree. Half the squirrel is gone!

I drop my binoculars, letting them dangle around my neck. I climb the tree and bag the remaining squirrel carcass. It's more evidence that a golden eagle was here. It's just what I need to prove my hypothesis. Now if only the golden eagle would reveal itself so I can snap a photo of it and document its appearance.