Soar (2 page)

The screen door creaks and swings open. I do another forward pull-up to see who's coming out of the house. It's a dark-skinned man—actually, he looks really tan—with black hair and a long black beard.

But the best part is, a giant parrot stands on his shoulder!

It's
the brightest, most colorful bird I've ever seen. Red feathers cover its head and stomach, and the wings are yellow, green, and blue. Its red tail feathers point straight down, and its beak looks as big as my fist.

You only see these kinds of birds in three places: books, jungles, or zoos. Since the closest jungle is in South America—maybe Mexico—and the closest zoo is across the Indiana–Ohio border in Cincinnati, I don't have much experience with parrots. But thanks to the
Encyclopedia of Macaws
in the West Plains Library, which has my name listed on the checkout card three times, I'm sure this bird is a scarlet macaw.

On the covered porch the man unhinges the door to a huge wire cage and sets the macaw inside. The bird hops onto a long, thin bar, where it perches next to another macaw that could be its twin.

My arms begin to tremble, so I lower myself and rest my feet on the basketball. I shake out my hands one at a time to get the feeling back. Then I take a deep breath and do pull-up number three, more than I've ever done in gym class.

The screen door swings open again. This time it's a tan girl with long, dark hair that hangs to her lower back. She looks like she's in high school, but I hope she's in
middle school. She doesn't have to be in seventh grade like me, but at least middle school.

The girl says something to the tan man, but “papa” is all I understand. Papa gestures while mouthing a few words, but no sound comes out of his mouth.

My grip weakens. It takes all my strength to keep my eyes above the fence.

I'm about to lower myself onto the basketball again when a shaggy yellow dog sprints around the corner of the house, barking and growling.

The dog pounces toward me and knocks the basketball out from under my feet. I hold on to the fence, my legs dangling beneath me. The dog jumps up and bites at my shirt.

At the same time the two macaws scream:

Caw! Caw!

Papa and the girl turn and see me.

Uh-oh.

My spy mission is over.

I jump down from the fence and take off running, but my foot catches something in the yard, and I trip.

The last thing I remember is thinking
spies don't get caught
before face-planting into a rock.

M
y head is cold. I blink twice and open my eyes. I'm lying on a couch.

Where am I? How long have I been here?

The tan girl pulls a bag of ice away from the throbbing spot above my right eye. She kneels on the floor in front of me. Straight black hair outlines her face. Her round eyes look like the acorns I sometimes collect at Miss Dorothy's place.

The man she calls Papa stands between the living room and the kitchen, stroking his black beard. One of the scarlet macaws perches on his leather shoulder strap. The bird is massive, and now that I'm closer to it,
its colors are even more impressive. It glares at me like it's about to belt out another warning call.

“You tripped over this.” The girl holds up the Donald Duck walkie-talkie set I spotted in the side yard.

From the way she talks, she's definitely not Indiana-an. And now that she's right in front of me, she looks fifteen, maybe sixteen.

I sit up on the couch, and the room goes wobbly for a second.

“Does your head have pain?” she asks.

“A little.” I wince and feel the bump above my eye. I blink three times, hoping one of the blinks will straighten everything out.

I look around and realize I'm inside the Lathams' old house. I've been in here for a snack and a drink of water, but it looks way different than it used to. Now all the furniture is made of polished wood, and there are brightly colored pillows everywhere. Boxes fill the empty spaces in the room, and a green-and-yellow flag hangs on the far wall. I don't recognize the flag's words. They're not Spanish but some other language.

“I'm Gabriela. This is my father, Papa. Here, drink this.” She takes a bowl from the coffee table and offers it to me. Steam rises from the top of it. I'm afraid if I
drink this stuff, it'll burn all the way down to my toes.

“What is it?” I try to sound curious, not rude.

“Papa makes it from acai berries. He says it gives you strength.”

Papa pets the macaw's head and smiles.

The macaw glares at me. I can tell it wants me to leave.

I take the bowl from Gabriela. The steam smells like grape juice and black licorice. Whatever it is, it can't be that bad. I blow on the purplish liquid, purse my lips, and take the smallest sip ever while trying to keep my mouth from catching fire.

The liquid burns on the way down, but only for a second. Then the burning goes away and a cool sensation spreads through my chest and shoulders. I shiver and smack my lips together. I have to admit, it tastes pretty good, like a combination of Miss Dorothy's blueberry pie, purple Skittles, and Mom's frozen grapes.

“What do you think?” Gabriela asks.

“It's good.”

The macaw squawks.

Caw! Caw!

The sound echoes through the house and rattles my brain.

Gabriela's cheeks turn red. “I am sorry,” she says. “Silvio
can be protective. He makes a good dog watch.”

“You mean ‘watchdog,' ” I say, before I can stop myself.

Gabriela glances down. “Sorry, my English is not that good.”

Great, now I've embarrassed her. I try covering my tracks. “No, I'm sorry. Your English is great.”

She smiles, and for the first time I realize she has dimples, just like my mom's. “
Obrigada
,” she says. “That means ‘thank you.' ”

I adjust an orange cushion and sit back on the couch. “This place looks totally different from when the Lathams lived here.”

“Papa does not know much about decorating, so he leaves it to me.”

Papa smiles and continues petting Silvio's head.

I find the green-and-yellow flag again on the far wall. I try to read the words, but I still don't get what it says. “That flag,” I say, “where's it from?”

“Brazil,” she says.

“You mean, like, Brazil in South America?”

“Yes. It is the only one I know about.”

“You moved here all the way from Brazil?”

She looks over her shoulder at Papa and smiles. “We were tired of living there. We wanted to change.”

I say the only thing I can think of: “Change can be good.” Dad told me about a time when he said that to Grampa once, but Grampa told him to shut the heck up. Grampa didn't like change very much, so I bet he didn't even say it that nicely. So far, this is going much better.

“I will be in seventh grade,” she says. “I am very nervous, but Papa says he will be with me in spirit.”

“Seventh grade? Me too!” I can hardly contain my excitement. “You have nothing to be nervous about. West Plains is a good place to live.”

She smiles. But I wonder if she's smiling because we're in the same grade, or because she could care less that we're in the same grade but she doesn't want to hurt my feelings.

“That is good,” she says. “You can show me the school and answer all of my questions.”

I take another sip of Papa's special drink made from berries. Something about this drink really does make you feel better. “Thanks for taking care of me,” I say. I turn to the window and notice the orange and blue in the sky meshing together like the plumage of that eastern bluebird. “I should get home before dark.”

Gabriela hands me the bag of ice. “Press the ice on
the bump so it does not grow. But do not fall asleep with the ice on your head, or you will wake up with a head pain.”

I'm sure she means “headache,” but I don't say anything about it. Instead I hold the ice on my head and say, “Okay, thanks.”

On my way out I walk past Papa. He flashes a wide smile while scratching his beard. He's thin, with square shoulders and long arms. He taps me on the shoulder and signs something to me, still smiling.

“Papa is deaf and mute,” Gabriela says. “He says it was nice to meet you.”

I stand at the front door. “Tell him I said it was nice meeting him and Silvio, even if Silvio wants to eat me for dinner.”

Gabriela laughs. This time I can tell that her dimples are bigger than Mom's. “Before you leave,” she says, “I have one question for you.”

I shrug. “Sure, go ahead.”

“What is your name?” she asks.

“Oh, right. Sorry about that. I should've introduced myself. I'm Eddie. I live down the street.”

I hold out my hand to shake hands, but she crosses her arms.

“Eddie
Who Lives Down the Street. Do you always watch your neighbors?”

“You said
one
question, not
two
.”

“I am only joking,” she says. “You are curious and you want to make sure we are good neighbors. I understand, Eddie.”

“I figured you were joking,” I tell her.

I'm glad Gabriela has a sense of humor. She lives down the street from me, so there's a good chance I'll see her a lot. Dad and Mom used to laugh all the time, and right now I could use more laughing in my life.

I say good-bye and walk out the door, carrying the bag of ice.

In the driveway the moving guys are still unloading boxes from the truck. One of them pauses from picking up a box and looks at me.

“You okay, kid?” he asks.

“Yeah. I'm fine.” I walk toward the ditch, feeling good after Papa's berry drink and my talk with Gabriela.

But when I get to the ditch, it's empty.

My bike is gone.

W
hile walking home, I start to panic on the inside. I sort through all the people who might've stolen my bike. The list is short, and I already have a top suspect in mind.

I pick up a rock and aim at the trunk of a sycamore tree. I imagine the top suspect's face pinned to the bark and throw the rock as hard as I can.

But the rock completely misses the tree.

When I get home and walk in the front door, Mom is folding laundry in the living room and watching TV. Her eyes are watery. She's watching one of those talk shows where everyone sits in a half circle and a special guest
doctor tries to fix a broken family, all while the audience watches like it's a weirdo circus act. Mom cries when she watches these shows. Seeing all those broken families sitting onstage must remind her of our family and life without Dad.

Mom switches the channel to
One Last Life
, her favorite soap opera, and turns to me, the keys on her belt loop jingling. Mom is the head janitor at my school, so she has about fifty keys attached to her belt loop all the time. I'm okay with her working at my school. She's been taking care of that place since before I was born.

“I told you to be home by dark, Eddie,” she says. “Where were you?”

“I was at Miss Dorothy's place.”

“The whole time?”

“Well, not the
whole
time.”

I tell her about meeting Gabriela from Brazil and having Papa's special berry drink and how it tasted like a mixture of her frozen grapes and Miss Dorothy's blueberry pie.

“What happened to your eye?” she asks, walking closer to me.

“I swerved on my bike and hit my head on a tree branch.”

“Eddie, that doesn't look good. I'm getting you some ice.” She walks into the kitchen to get an ice pack for me.

Lying makes my stomach wad up tight, but if Mom knew I was spying on our new neighbors she'd lecture me to death. She'd tell me it's rude and then say how disappointed she is. I also don't tell her about my bike being gone. That would mean a double lecture and a triple grounding.