by Bart King
Copyright © 2016 by Bart King
Cover illustrations © 2016 by Nicebleed
Cover design by Tyler Nevins
All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.
ISBN 978-1-4847-2577-1
Visit www.DisneyBooks.com
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
Field Notes
Endnotes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To Peter
IMAGINE IT’S THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.
And you’re way out in the wilderness. I mean, it’s so dark, you can’t even see your hand in front of your face. (Or your foot, if you’re really flexible.)
Above you is a deep black sky, with a sweep of glittering stars. And for some weird reason, there are rows and rows of dominoes around you.
Look, just play along, okay?
Some of the rows are short, while others lead far off into the distance. Step one way, and you’ll knock over one domino. Step a different way, and you’ll knock over another domino. Then that domino will hit another one, and so on and so on and so on….
Life is sort of like this. It’s hard to see where we’re going when we’re always in the dark.
Take me, for example. This week, I started an avalanche of dominoes. People went to the hospital. My school was nearly destroyed. I had a strange adventure with peanut butter. And most amazingly—
Well, I’ll get to that. But guess what earth-shattering act of mine caused all these disasters?
I got off at the wrong bus stop.
As usual, I was riding the school bus home. As usual, I was sitting next to Ronnie Ramirez.
And as usual, Ronnie was wearing dress pants.
RONNIE RAMIREZ (Balbuttio stuteris)
APPEARANCE: Dark-haired. Slightly chunky. Eyes bulge a bit from head.
VOICE: Frequently repeats consonants and vowels.
RANGE/SOCIAL BEHAVIOR: Girls call Ronnie “adorable,” which gives him access to a wider range of cliques than would normally be the case.
STATUS: Despite no defensive abilities, not endangered.
PLUMAGE: Dress pants.
Why does Ronnie wear dress pants? I don’t know. Like the dominoes, it’s just one of life’s great mysteries.
It was a hot afternoon. As the bus climbed Pleasant Ridge Road, the heat lulled me into a daydream. So my head was just sort of bouncing against the window when there was a raucous crow of laughter from behind me.
Someone was getting teased, but I didn’t turn around to look. Instead, I glanced over at Ronnie—calm, defenseless Ronnie, who was currently picking his nose.
How does he do it? I wondered.
Ronnie saw me looking at him, so he quickly removed his finger from his nose and tried to look innocent.
“How do you do it?” I asked him.
“D-do this?” Ronnie asked, holding up his finger.
“I know how to pick my nose, Ronnie,” I said impatiently. “I’m wondering why you never get picked on.”
Ronnie looked genuinely surprised. “But why would someone p-pick on me?”
“You’re pretty small,” I answered. “And you’re almost as bad at sports as I am.”
Monique Wilson leaned forward from the seat behind us. She always sits there. Monique’s claim to fame was inhaling a piece of banana at lunch last year and then turning a weird color.
“Plus, Ronnie, you stutter,” she pointed out helpfully. “Noah’s right. You really should get picked on more.”
Ronnie pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well, m-maybe there is one reason it doesn’t happen,” he said. “I try to never, ever argue with p-people.”
“What? How would that matter?” Monique demanded.
“You’re r-right,” Ronnie said agreeably. “That can’t be it.”
Monique and I rolled our eyes at each other, and the bus wheezed to a stop. Our school is K–8. That means seventh graders like us ride home with younger life-forms—like the third graders who were standing to get off.
And as the bus door swung open, I heard a high-pitched sound that changed my life forever:
Hoo-wett! Hoo-wett!
It may sound bizarre, but I was pretty sure that call was made by a duck. Yeah, I know it wasn’t a quack, but lots of duck species don’t quack. Instead, they whistle, burp, chirp, squeak, purr, grunt, bray, honk, groan, and growl. And male ducks, called drakes, often make a completely different sound from the females. Like, if you ever hear a duck make a classic “quack” sound, it’s probably a female. (Drakes aren’t big quackers.)
Anyway, after the Hoo-wett! Hoo-wett! call, there was a thin, high whistle, like someone had just stepped on a squeaky toy. I was also pretty sure only one duck makes that sound—the male wood duck! I hadn’t ever seen one, so my American Birding Association checklist looked like this:
□ Wood duck (Aix sponsa)
See how the box isn’t checked off? That kind of thing’s really annoying.
So yeah, I’m a bird-watcher.1 And I know what you’re thinking: you think I’m some kid in a floppy hat, peering up into trees through my binoculars.
If so, good job—that’s exactly what I do!
Anyway—there I was on the hot school bus. And after hearing what might’ve been a wood duck, I made a quick decision. Grabbing my backpack, I stood up.
“W-where are you going, Noah?” Ronnie asked.
“Just checking something out,” I said. “See ya tomorrow.”
Now, remember what I said about being surrounded by invisible dominoes? As I walked to the front of the bus, I knocked one of them over. I just didn’t know it yet.
Mr. Berry, the bus driver, glanced at me. “Takin’ a field trip?”
“Just today,” I said. “I can walk home from here.”
I looked out the bus door. From high up on Pleasant Ridge, I could see my whole neighborhood. The thing is, I don’t actually live very far from Robert F. Moral School. I could ride my bike there, or even walk. But I take the school bus for my own safety. (You’ll see what I mean by that in a second.)
Stepping down off the bus, I kept my eyes on the trees, hoping to catch a lucky glimpse of my bird. (Unlike most duck species, wood ducks like to perch in trees.) And so I didn’t see the deep pothole in front of me—until I stepped right into it.
Rolling my ankle (“Ouch!”), I stumbled and started to fall. But by waving my arms around like a lunatic (“Whoooa! Whoooa!”), I lurched wildly around and somehow kept my balance.
Finally I stopped staggering
and got my footing back.
“Whew!” I said to myself in relief. “Close call.”
I glanced up at the bus to see a bunch of the first graders in the front seats squealing with laughter and pointing at me. One was waving his arms around, making funny faces, and going, “Whoooa! Whoooa!”
Know what’s bad for your self-esteem? Having little kids make fun of you.
Hoo-wett! Hoo-wett!
The wood duck! I instantly forgot about the first graders, spun around, and grabbed my binoculars out of my backpack. (Yes, I carry binoculars with me.) I barely noticed as Mr. Berry closed the bus doors behind me.
Oh, hang on. I forgot to finish explaining what the big deal is with the wood ducks. See, I’d actually been thinking about those ducks a lot. Here, maybe this shortened version of my sixth-grade science fair project will help explain:
The Drake Equation:
An Ongoing Experiment
by Noah Grow
OVERVIEW: Santa Rosa’s wetlands were once home to a healthy wood duck population. Over the last twenty years, their numbers have sunk about 4 percent annually. Today, only a few wood ducks are left in Santa Rosa, and experts—okay, I—believe this is due to three factors:
□ Cutting down trees (wood ducks perch and nest in trees)
□ Draining wetlands for construction (wood ducks like wet, forested areas)
□ Illegally hunting male wood ducks, “drakes” (wood ducks have pretty cool feathers)
HYPOTHESIS: The good news is that based on my carefully crafted formula—aka the Drake Equation—the local wood duck population can rebound. It’s simple math:
v + w + x + (y • 2) = z
KEY
V = Nesting Box Construction
W = Habitat Restoration
X = Habitat Conservation
Y = Hunting Regulation Enforcement
Z = Local Wood Duck Population Growth
ACTIONS TAKEN: This summer, I helped local volunteers plant new trees in the Santa Rosa wetlands. Wood ducks are “cavity nesters,” meaning they like to make homes in small holes where branches fall off trees, so we built and installed twenty-five nesting boxes for the wood ducks up in the existing trees. As a further experiment, I put in one extra box at the waterfall at Noyd Woods Nature Preserve.
CONCLUSION: For now, only time will tell if the Drake Equation is valid!
My project display looked pretty cool. I had a video loop of my group installing nesting boxes in the wetlands, and my display board had photos of me putting up the Noyd Woods nesting box. That location was a long shot, because the waterfall wasn’t in the wetlands. In fact, it was really close to where I was getting off the bus right now.
And that’s why I was excited about hearing a wood duck call. A nesting pair of birds might have moved into the home I’d made for them!
Anyway, as Mr. Berry drove off and the rumble of the bus’s engine faded, I scanned the trees below the steep ridge with my eyes. See, wood ducks have gleaming feathers of green, purple, and chestnut brown, so if I spotted a flash of color, then I’d raise my binocs for a closer look.
“Come on,” I said. “Where are you?”
“I’m right here,” said a familiar voice behind me.
WHAT? I WAS SO FOCUSED ON THE DUCK, I hadn’t noticed that someone else had gotten off at the bus stop after me.
I turned. And there, grinning and holding a big stick, was a chilling sight: Coby Cage.
My stomach dropped like a diving osprey. Remember when I said that I take the bus for my own safety? Coby is who I’m trying to stay safe from!
COBY CAGE (Tyrannus solitaria)
APPEARANCE: Tall. Lean. A little pigeontoed.
VOICE: Varies from whispered threats to full-throated calls of anger.
PLUMAGE: Medium-long hair covered by a baseball cap. Likes T-shirts that have to be turned inside out at school because of their antisocial messages.
RANGE: Unpredictable. Able to access wide number of locations by bike, skateboard, or bus.
SOCIAL BEHAVIOR: Can attract large flocks, but prefers being alone. Sometimes seen in company of high school kids. Known to relentlessly pursue a single victim—like me.
STATUS: Endangering.
I know better than to get caught out in the open by Coby. He’s the reason why I don’t walk or ride my bike to school. But Coby’s routes are inconsistent. And when he does ride the school bus, it’s not always the same one.
Yet I’ve learned that as long as I take the bus, I get home under the watchful eye of Mr. Berry. So even if Coby’s along for the ride, I’m usually okay.
Usually. But now it was just me and him. Alone.
Coby adjusted his baseball cap and grinned. If you saw him and caught the glint of mischief in his eyes, you’d probably think Coby was just an average troublemaker.
But looks are deceiving. Coby is an above-average troublemaker.2
Last year, someone hacked into the school’s telephone list. Then, during computer lab, that someone sent a one-word text message from the school’s official account to all of the parent contacts:
Earthqwake!
The resulting panic was not caused by the message’s bad spelling. There were so many phone calls and e-mails to the school, its computer system crashed. Ronnie Ramirez suspects that Coby was the hacker. If he really was responsible, our school must have a Gifted and Talented Program in Advanced Pranks. Or maybe Coby was in an after-school program like “Destination Insubordination.”
As I stood up there on Pleasant Hill Ridge, he reached out and lightly poked me in the chest with his stick.
Think, I thought, backing up a step. What would Ronnie do in this situation? In my best nonargumentative way, I said to Coby, “I see you found a stick.”
Coby laughed. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I thought for a second, then replied, “Well, owls can turn their heads almost all the way around, but they can’t move their eyes. One local species we have here in Santa Rosa is the short-eared owl. It has zygodactyl feet, which sounds complicated, but it just means that two talons face front and two face back.”
Coby was just looking at me blankly, so I took that as a good sign and kept going. “Female short-ears make sort of a barking ‘kee-ow’ sound, but males have that ‘voo-hoo-hoo’ call that everyone knows. They migrate, too, but usually at night, so it’s not like you’re ever going to see a flock of short-eared owls heading south for the winter—” But now Coby was glaring at me. “Wait, did you know all this already?”
“Did you know you’re the most annoying kid at our school?” asked Coby, shaking his head. Almost to himself, he added, “Man, you totally remind me of him.” Coby spat out the last word like it tasted bad.
What did I do? And who’s this him who’s so annoying? But I didn’t have time to wonder long, because then Coby swung the stick back behind his head like a baseball bat.
“Maybe someone just needs to knock some sense into you,” he said angrily.
Uh-oh. My “what would Ronnie do?” strategy had backfired. For an instant, I thought about Fake-Fu, a game I invented with my best friend, Jason. To play, we face off and then start making insane martial arts moves. When it comes to weird face expressions and bogus sound effects, I have a black belt. But could a menacing grimace and “Hai-bojo-socky!” battle cry help me now?
Closing my eyes, I pictured a movie scene where I used my Fake-Fu powers to swing my binoculars around and around by their strap, like nunchuks. The scene ends with my binoculars smacking Coby in the head and knocking off his baseball cap.
How great would that be?
I opened my eyes. Coby was still there. His cap was still on.
The stick bobbed back and forth, and as Coby got ready to swing, I got ready to duck. But then he stopped and used the stick to point down the Pleasant Ridge hillside. The ground there dropped steeply for the first hundred feet. In fact, it was more of a cliff than a hill. Then it leveled out into the trees inside the Noyd Woods Natur
e Preserve.
“I’ll give you a choice,” said Coby. “If you want to go home, just head that way.”
I hesitated. Did I mention I was standing by a cliff?
Swish.
A breeze blew across my face as Coby swung his stick past me. “So what’s it gonna be, my fine feathered friend? The stick or the hill?”
I nervously rubbed the scar on my forearm. Looking down the ridge again, I thought: If I can keep my speed up, I just might make it—
Swish.
This time, the stick nicked the end of my nose.
I ran and jumped off the cliff.
AT FIRST, THINGS WENT GREAT. I cleared the edge of the embankment, and with a couple of flying leaps, left Coby behind me.
But as I flew downhill, I realized that:
A. The top half of my body was leaning farther and farther forward, so…
B.…I couldn’t stop.
After another couple of leaps, I wasn’t running downhill anymore. I was falling downhill—
“Have a nice trip, Noah!” Coby called.
I took another flying leap over a small bush, and then—without warning—an invisible force wrapped itself across my upper chest, belly, and waist. As my downhill velocity pushed me against it, the invisible force pressed back harder and harder.
“URRRK!”
My arms and legs flung forward even as my body was slowing down—and then, for a brief instant, I just hovered in the air, with my eyes wide and my cheeks puffed out!
Oddly, it didn’t hurt that much. And I bet, it probably looked pretty awesome, too.
Then the invisible force shot me backward, like a marble in a slingshot. I flew a short distance, and then smashed into the hillside with a WHUMP.
Now that hurt.
I moaned.
It didn’t seem to help.
I groaned.
Still nothing.
Coby called down to me. “Are you okay?” If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought he was concerned. “Sorry! Guess you should have looked out for that fence.”
Fence? Weakly, I raised my head. What fence? And there it was, shining in the sunlight. Three solid wires were strung between sturdy fence posts at the bottom of the hill. But I’d been moving so fast, the wires were invisible until I nose-dived right into them.
