Soar (8 page)

“A sport? What kind of sport ends in death?”

“Do you eat lunch at school, Eddie?”

“Changing the subject isn't going to convince me.” I know what Mr. Dover is trying to do, and he's not going to persuade me to see his side of the story.

“No, really. Stay with me, Eddie. Do you eat lunch at school or bring it from home? Just answer the question.”

“I eat at school,” I tell him.

“What about Tuesdays? Do you eat cafeteria food on Tuesdays?”

“I eat lunch there every day.”

“Then you're a murderer too. And you don't even realize it.”

“I don't get it. What are you talking about?”

“Chicken patties. Every Tuesday you eat a chicken patty for lunch. Delivered to the school in boxes from freezer trucks. You know where those chicken patties come from?”

I think about that for a second. “No.”

“The Brownsville Slaughter Grounds.”

Apollo circles Mr. Dover's feet and licks the toe of his boot.

“Eddie, those chicken patties start as real, live chickens. Do you know how they kill chickens at the Brownsville Slaughter Grounds?”

I stand there, listening, but don't say anything. Mr.
Dover must be smart enough to figure out that this means I don't know the answer.

“There are these kids who work there. They're about your age or maybe even a little younger. They run around the pen chasing down chickens and grabbing them by their hind legs. When they catch one, they bring it over to a tree stump, where a man in a white suit—usually his name is something like Jeb—kindly thanks the kid for bringing him the chicken. Sometimes Jeb even gives the kid a piece of candy for doing his job properly.”

I shrug. “Lucky kid.”

“Then Jeb slams the chicken onto a tree stump and pins it down by the neck. The chicken squirms and squawks and pleads for help. But Jeb has a job to do. He raises an axe and chops the chicken's head off. He pitches the head into a bucket and then frees the body. The chicken runs around headless for a few minutes while the kids laugh and point at it. It knocks other chickens over, like it's all a big game of blind chicken bumper cars. Then it falls over and bleeds to death. And that, Eddie, that headless body, is what you eat between two buns on Tuesdays.”

Axes? Jeb? Headless chickens? Kids laughing? Mr.
Dover tells the story so casually that it makes my stomach turn. It's like he's been there to see it all happen.

After hearing the story about Jeb, I can barely get words out. “Whatever. Frozen chicken patties are different.”

“Jeb kills chicken, you eat chicken. I shoot quail, I eat quail. There's no difference, Eddie.” He adjusts the shotgun, holding it across his chest the other way.

Apollo must sense that Mr. Dover's story is over. He darts toward an opening in the brush. He leaps over the tracks and disappears behind a wall of overgrown grass that's as tall as me.

“Eddie, I've been honest about why I'm here. But what exactly are
you
doing here?”

I tell him the truth. “I'm looking for the golden eagle.”

Mr. Dover smirks. “Oh, Eddie. You have a higher probability of finding a grizzly out here than a golden eagle.”

My heart speeds up. “How do you know?”

“Every scientist knows that strong data leads to an accurate hypothesis. There's never been an official golden eagle sighting in this town.”

“Yes, there has. My dad saw one right here. It had
wings wider than a creek and talons the size of bulldozer claws. And it had a gray spot on its wing. I swear, he saw it right here.”

“Eddie. I know plenty of birders in this town, some of them professionals. Do you really believe a golden eagle that big could fly through this town without anyone else seeing it?”

“My dad wasn't a liar.” My heart won't slow down. It feels like it's sprouting wings and about to burst out of my chest.

Apollo comes bouncing from the tall grass.

Miss Dorothy hobbles out behind the dog, steadying herself with her cane. She looks mad at the world.

M
iss Dorothy is wearing a bright pink robe, and she's barefoot! How did she make it barefoot from her house all the way to the railroad tracks?

Apollo runs up to her, his tail wagging back and forth, slapping Miss Dorothy's legs.

“Shoo!” She motions for Apollo to get lost. “Get outta here, Old Yeller.”

Apollo turns and runs over to Mr. Dover, his tongue hanging out, his yellow fur shining in the morning sun.

Mr. Dover takes one of Miss Dorothy's arms to help her.

“Shoo!” she says again. “I don't need your help.
Who are you anyway? And what's with all the boom noise out here?”

Mr. Dover walks alongside her. “I'm Lamb Dover. I was clearing out quail for you. They wreak havoc if you let them overpopulate.”

“Lamb?” Miss Dorothy questions. “Your mother must've hated you. I bet you came out screaming and peeing all over the place. As quiet as a lamb.” She laughs at her own joke. I kind of laugh too.

Mr. Dover holds the quail by its short neck, showing it to Miss Dorothy. “See this bird? If quail overpopulate, they can suffer dire consequences. Lack of primary resources, limited nesting habitats, these factors can cause territorial distress and lead to—”

“Oh, please,” Miss Dorothy interrupts. “I've lived in this house since I was twelve. I grew up with these quail. You're the only dire consequence I've seen come through here in eighty years.”

Mr. Dover reaches down and rubs Apollo's head. “Quail populations depend on us, don't they, boy?”

“Listen here, Lamb Man.” Miss Dorothy steadies herself with her cane while pointing a finger at Mr. Dover. “I don't care what you're shooting. I don't want to see you on my land again. And for heaven's sake, take
that hideous bow tie off. There are some things my little Eddie shouldn't see.”

I can tell by the way Mr. Dover sticks out his chin that he wants to defend himself. Instead he looks at me. “See you in class, Eddie.” He starts down the tracks. “Come on, boy,” he says, and Apollo trots after him.

Once Mr. Dover is out of sight, I walk with Miss Dorothy toward her house, giving her my arm to lean on.

“Oh, Eddie, I used to love seeing you here with your dad,” she says. “He was such a good man.”

“Miss Dorothy?” I pause, deciding how to ask what I'm about to ask.

“What is it, Eddie?”

“Was my dad . . .” I swallow hard, unable to finish my thought.

“Go on, spit it out,” she says.

“Was he an honest person?” I finally ask her.

She stops walking.

A northern bobwhite runs across the ground in front of us. With three quick wing beats, the quail flies away, taking cover in the trees.

“Put it this way,” she says. “Your father was his own person. He was true to himself. The way I see it, that's as honest as one can be.”

I nod. “Thanks, Miss Dorothy.”

She takes hold of my arm, and we walk the rest of the way to her house.

As I'm walking toward the bus stop, the bus belches smoke from its tailpipe and leaves me behind in a dark cloud. I could chase the bus down, but what's the point? I'd rather get pegged with dodge balls in PE than sit in Mr. Dover's science class.

From the back of the bus, Mouton sticks his head out the window. “Eddie-shovel-truck! Eddie-shovel-truck! Yip-yip!”

I want to yell something back at Mouton—like Dad did once when he told another birder who wouldn't get out of his way to “Move it or lose 'em,” in reference to the guy's teeth—but then Mouton will mess with my locker or do something worse.

It's smarter to ignore him, so that's what I do.

After catching Mr. Dover in the act of killing quail, I have a bad feeling about school. Will Mr. Dover call on me in front of everyone? Will he make my tests harder on purpose? Will he tell my mom about what happened this morning at Miss Dorothy's place?

I walk to school, thinking about that quail falling
from the sky. Then I imagine the same thing happening to my science grade.

Bird: Northern bobwhite

Location: Miss Dorothy's place

Note: Mr. Dover is a hypocrite. Do not trust him.

Dad: Miss Dorothy says you were true to yourself. I believe her.

But is that the same as being an honest person?

A
week goes by, and the whole time I stay low-key in science class. I don't look at Mr. Dover, and he doesn't look at me.

Mr. Dover straightens his canary-yellow bow tie. “Today you will be assigned your partner for the symposium project.”

His mouth keeps moving, but I don't hear anything after the word “project.”

Killer.

Murderer.

Liar.

Those are the only words that come to mind.

Mr. Dover continues. “And did you know, ladies and gentlemen of the seventh grade, that we are in the presence of greatness. Well, actually the heir of greatness. Eddie here is the son of a birding legend.”

My face gets hot and my neck itches. Why is he dragging
me
into this? If anyone deserves a hot face and an itchy neck, it's
him
, not me.

“Eddie, why don't you tell the class about your father's symposium project? After all, he was famous around West Plains.”

I know exactly what this is about.

“That's okay,” I respond. “Maybe another time.”

From the front row Gabriela turns around and looks at me. “I would like to hear about your father's project.”

First Mr. Dover, now Gabriela? What's going on here?

“No, really,” I insist. “I don't feel like talking about it.”

“Please, Eddie.” Gabriela smiles.

I have to admit, Gabriela's smile is hard to resist. And if I want to have friends, then I have to put myself out there, like Mom said.

“Okay,” I agree.

I tell the story about Dad's project, how he took home a blue ribbon the size of a grandfather clock, which still hangs in Mom's bedroom.

Dad's
project was so good that it gained attention from regional birding groups, it earned him a full-length feature in
BirdWatching
magazine, and a reporter from
National Geographic
came to school and wrote an article about him.

Dad was even interviewed on the local news channel!

He also won a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar scholarship that he never used, because he didn't go to college. He said college was for smart people, and that he wasn't smart but full of enough common sense to feed logic to seven smart people for a lifetime. I'm not sure I understood what he meant by saying all that, but it sounded good.

Dad's project poster board now sits in the garage, tucked away in a corner, collecting dust and spiderwebs.

When I finish telling the class about Dad's project, Gabriela smiles, like she's satisfied or maybe even impressed. Now if only I could rig today's drawing so we could be symposium project partners. That could be the first step in a friendship that could last forever.

“Inspiring story, Eddie,” Mr. Dover says. I can't tell if he's being serious or sarcastic. “I can't wait to see how much of your father's talent rubbed off on you.”

He takes a robin's nest off the counter. “Now for the partner drawing. Remember, it doesn't matter who your partner is, or if you have a past with this person, positive or negative. We start over in seventh grade. The slate is wiped clean. It's important to respect your partner's opinions and abilities in order to produce the best project.”

How can Mr. Dover talk about respect? What about respect for birds?

“The first symposium pairing is . . .” He reaches into the robin's nest and pulls out two folded slips of paper. “Trixie . . .”

Trixie grins, showing off her orange braces.

Mr. Dover unfolds the second piece of paper. “And Gabriela.”