Soar (21 page)

After science class Mr. Dover asks me to stay behind and talk to him.

On her way out Gabriela walks past me. “Do not let Mr. Dover make mountains out of mole hills.”

She touches my shoulder, and I feel like I could fly. I never thought having a best friend could make me feel that way.

When everyone is gone, I stop by Mr. Dover's desk.

Mr. Dover stands up, straightening his bow tie. It's purple, with yellow question marks on it. He hops up onto the front table and sits there, his legs dangling free. “You know why I wear this bow tie with question marks on it?”

I wasn't really prepared for a question about his bow tie. “Uh, no.”

“Because it has to do with what happened at the symposium.”

“It does?”

“I wear it because science, just like real life, is full of unexplainable conclusions. Eddie, no one knows why Mouton brought that painting to the symposium. We may
never
know why he did it. Maybe Mouton can't even answer that.”

“The reason doesn't matter. It's over now.”

“Very mature of you, Eddie. But it wasn't Mouton's fault that you didn't win the symposium. After what happened, we decided to judge your project solely on the research. If I'm being honest with you, it was because of Sandy. He didn't think your field study was thorough enough. He thought you should have conducted research in other locations, besides Miss Dorothy's place.”

“Sandy?” I say out loud. I feel like I've been stabbed in the back by the sharp bill of a great blue heron.

“Eddie, your scientific methods were impressive. You're a natural ornithologist. In fact, Mrs. Hughes and I talked about your project for a long time. But Sandy felt your research was limited geographically. After we added up the scores, you came in just off the podium.”

I shrug, trying to make it seem like no big deal.
How could Sandy do this to me? He's supposed to be on
my
team.

Instead of asking Mr. Dover more questions about the symposium, I remember Mom telling me about how the process is more important than the result. Maybe she was right.

“You know,” I say. “I had this whole idea of winning the blue ribbon, just like my dad, and that idea became more important to me than my actual project. But then I realized that winning the blue ribbon isn't the only important part. It's about the process of getting there. I guess I lost sight of that.”

When I finish saying it, I'm not sure if I believe myself.

Mr. Dover smiles. “That is the most insightful thing I've heard from any student this year, Eddie. You're definitely growing into yourself.”

“Thanks,” I say.

The bird clock on the back wall chirps.

I take off my backpack and unzip it. “Before I leave, I have something to show you.”

I reach inside and pull out the beige envelope that was taped to Dad's symposium poster. I hold out the envelope to Mr. Dover. “I found this in my garage.”

Mr. Dover takes the envelope, slides his finger
across the seal, and opens it. He looks inside and pulls out the newspaper article. He holds it in front of him, staring at it, reading it.

I finally speak up. “Is this why you don't like me?”

Mr. Dover keeps his eyes on the newspaper article. He sighs. “Your father and I were actually good friends in seventh grade. We discussed our symposium projects, and even offered to help one another.”

“If you were such good friends, then what happened?”

Mr. Dover slides the newspaper article back inside the envelope. “We began forming our own opinions. We both loved science and birding, but we always approached our passions differently. I was more ‘by the book,' and your father was—how should I say this—‘creatively ingenious.' ”

“So that's it? You were just two different people?”

“Well, that's not exactly the whole story.”

“Then what
really
happened?”

“After the symposium your father was unapologetic about winning, and I selfishly wanted his blue ribbon. We began to go our separate ways. And then we both entered a statewide birding competition. That was officially the end of our friendship.”

Mr. Dover offers the beige envelope to me.

I take the envelope and hold it in both hands. “Who won the competition?”

Mr. Dover looks down, then at me. “Neither of us,” he says. “We were so focused on beating each other that we forgot about everyone else.”

I hold the envelope, waiting for Mr. Dover to say something else, but he doesn't. Finally I walk away.

Then I stop at the classroom door.

I turn and look at Mr. Dover and everything surrounding him.

The periodic table of elements poster on the far wall, just like the Brazilian flag at Gabriela's house.

The beakers and test tubes in the tall cabinet, next to Mr. Dover's desk.

The lab tables in the back of the room.

The bird clock on the back wall.

The green markers that Mr. Dover always uses.

Mr. Dover's rolled-up sleeves.

His bow tie, full of question marks.

Then I remember how Mr. Dover brought Zeus, the American kestrel, to school.

I wonder if he brought Zeus because he had to keep a close eye on his injured wing, or if he brought him for me. I'm pretty sure he brought him for me.

“Mr. Dover?”

Mr. Dover looks up, his legs still dangling from the front table.

“Will you say ‘hi' to Zeus for me?”

Mr. Dover nods. “I'll do that, Eddie.”

“Thanks,” I say.

I turn and leave the classroom.

While walking down the hallway, I think about what Dad said about Mr. Dover being a good teacher, and me being in good hands.

I think I'm starting to agree with him.

W
hen I wake up on Saturday morning, colorful balloons cover the backyard. Two fold-up tables and a bunch of chairs fill the screened-in porch. If that's not enough, Mom has hung a giant number thirteen on the back door.

“Mom? What's all this about?”

“It's for your birthday party. Surprise!”

“Really, Mom?”

“Oh, don't worry,” she says. “I only invited a few people.”

I go to my room and sit at my desk. I open my bird journal and look at my drawing of Zeus. It makes me
think about Mr. Dover and everything he said about my dad. I guess he's right—all friendships don't last forever. But I wonder if best friends have a better chance of surviving, and what that means for Gabriela and me.

There's a knock on my bedroom door. Mom opens the door. “Eddie, your first birthday guest is here.”

“Who is it?”

“Sandy,” she says, before blowing up another balloon.

“Mom! You invited Sandy?”

“We made up at the symposium. Hugged and everything.”

I never told Mom about Sandy's opinion of my project. I don't want Mom to be mad at him again, so my only option is to confront him myself.

I walk outside to the back porch and find Sandy hovering over the table of food.

He turns to me and holds out a small package wrapped in newspaper. “I thought you should have this. It's not much.”

I take the package and pull apart the newspaper, uncovering a blue ribbon. It's a medallion shape, with two long streamers, just like the blue ribbon Gabriela won.

“It's the blue ribbon I won in seventh grade. I want you to have it.”

“I can't take this.” I try handing it back to him.

Sandy nudges my hand away. “Lamb Dover called me last night. He told me about your conversation and what you said about losing sight of the process. You're going to make one heck of an ornithologist, Eddie. But you're an even better person.”

I run my finger along the blue ribbon's outer circle, and then over the gold lettering that says “First Place.”

Sandy takes the blue ribbon from me and pins it to my shirt. He smiles his toothless smile and pushes up his hat. “A perfect fit.”

Having Sandy's blue ribbon makes me feel better about my symposium project. But what he says about me becoming “one heck of an ornithologist” fills me with pride I've never felt before. “Thanks, Sandy.”

Sandy offers his hand, and we shake. While shaking my hand, he touches my shoulder and smiles.

After I drink two cups of orange juice, Gabriela and Papa come through the back gate.

Gabriela walks up and hugs me. “Happy Birthday, Eddie.” She looks at the blue ribbon pinned to my shirt.

“It was Sandy's. He wanted me to have it.”

“It looks natural,” she says.

Silvio perches on Papa's shoulder. Papa signs something to Silvio, and Silvio says, “Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!”

We all laugh at Silvio, and Papa laughs too.

Next, Miss Dorothy hobbles through the gate with a flock of quail trailing behind her. She throws seed on the ground, and they keep pecking at it.

“My Eddie,” she says. “Happy Birthday.” She rubs my hair, like Mom usually does, and hobbles over to the food table, which is piled high with Buck Burgers.

Soon Mom brings out the cake and everyone circles around me and sings “Happy Birthday.” Mom leads the singing, and everyone is off-key, but it's okay with me. I pretend everyone is a goldfinch and singing,
Po-ta-to-chip, po-ta-to-chip, po-ta-to-chip
.

Right as I'm about to blow out the candles, the back gate opens and slams shut. I look up, the heat from the candles warming my chin.

It's Mouton.

M
outon holds up what looks like a painting, with the red-and-white striped beach towel covering it. He looks like he's holding in a smile and can't let it out.

I want to run up and punch him in the face.

But instead I control my emotions while glaring at him. First he ruins our project. Now he's trying to crash my birthday party. I've given him enough chances. I'm not letting him get away with this.

Before I can say anything, he yanks the towel away from the painting.

We all stand motionless on the screened-in porch.

The candles on the cake burn brightly.

I straighten up all the way, looking closely at the painting.

It's a golden eagle!

I scoot around the table to take a closer look.

The golden eagle looks real, like it's alive.

Gleaming gold feathers shine from its head and neck. Long wings extend from its body, which is covered in a golden sheen. Its powerful beak points downward, ready to tear flesh from bone. The eye that you can see in the painting offers a deep and piercing stare.

“Eddie,” Mom orders. “Blow out the candles.”

I turn around and lean down toward the birthday cake. I take in a deep breath and blow out the candles. Then I walk toward Mouton. The closer I get, the more perfect and more real the golden eagle looks.

“You're not welcome here, Mouton. So get out.” I point at the gate.

“I saw your bird,” he says. “Yip.”

It takes a few seconds for his words to process in my mind. I blink hard, making sure I heard him right. “Wait a second. You saw the golden eagle?”

Mouton lowers the painting and holds it in front of him. “Yip!”

“I don't believe you.”

“It's true, so believe it. Eddie-shovel-truck.”

“When did you see it last? Where did you see it?” I can't get out my questions fast enough.

“After the symposium. At my house.”

“Have you seen it since then?”

“No,” he says.

My heart beats faster, and I begin pacing back and forth. “Okay, okay, stay calm,” I tell myself.

Mom comes over to me. “Eddie, are you okay?”

Still pacing. “Yeah, I'm fine. I just need a minute to think about whether this is actually possible. I mean, if it's possible Mouton saw the golden eagle.”

I think about the time of year. Late October. I recall Mouton's backyard, even though I saw it in the dark. Full of tall trees with large branches. Perfect landing spots for golden eagles.