by Bart King
The man and woman looked at me with interest—but neither one freaked out. Why not? Then I realized that giant ferns were surrounding my legs. So from their view, it just looked like I was perched on an unseen rock or log.
The black swift leaped from the mossy cliff, flew in a tight circle, then shot beyond our view, leaving the three of us craning our necks to follow its flight.
“Excuse me,” the woman said to me, “but did you happen to file a Rare Wildlife Sighting report a few days ago?”
“How’d you know that?” I asked.
“So you’re Noah Grow?” Mustache Man said my name like he was as amazed as me. And that was when I saw the round, yellow seal on the front of Mustache Man’s jacket. It had a flying duck on it—the symbol of the U.S. Department of Fish and Wildlife.
I nodded.
“Pleased to meet you! My name is Garr Dion. I processed your form.”
“And after that, Mr. Dion contacted me,” said the woman. “I’m Noelle Noyd.” She came forward, holding out her hand.
Uh-oh—can’t let her see my legs!
I tried to step toward Noelle Noyd, but it felt like I was inside a bouncy, inflatable castle. Somehow I bobbed forward a little, and the ferns pressed up against my legs and covered my floating feet.
Although Noelle Noyd’s eyes widened at my bumbling, she politely kept walking toward me. So I reached out and took her hand as she said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you—oh!”
As soon as I touched her, Noelle Noyd seemed to rise in the air! I let go of her fingers—and she dipped back down, lost her balance, and fell into a pile of ferns.
“Sorry!” I said. “Are you alright?” Noelle Noyd got to her feet and gave me the kind of look you’d give to a kid whose hobby is floating in ferns. And then the importance of the woman’s name sank in. “Wait, are you one of the Noyd Woods Noyds?”
“I am,” said Noelle Noyd, dusting the fern spores off her pants. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Noah. In fact, it’s even been…uplifting,” she added, slyly.
As for Garr Dion, he was grinning so hard, it looked painful. “Young man, it’s a real pleasure to meet you!”
“And for me.” Noelle Noyd gestured around us. “Noah, these woods have belonged to my family for three generations. After my parents passed away, my brothers—Norris and Nathan—and I inherited it. I’ve always loved it here, so I was stunned when my brothers wanted sell off Noyd Woods. Of course, I argued against the sale, but in the end, I was outvoted.”
She pointed to the survey stakes. “When I found that Norris and Nathan had hired a construction company to begin work, I was heartbroken. And then, just as this”—she made a disgusted face—“this Cataract Grove development got under way, I got word from Mr. Dion about the black swift.
“Mr. Dion went to my brothers to argue the case against developing this land. And the beautiful thing is that they actually listened. Between this unique species and the community pressure to leave Noyd Woods open to the public, my brothers actually changed their minds!”
I wasn’t sure I understood. “So Cataract Grove is postponed?”
“No.” Noelle Noyd smiled. “Cataract Grove is cancelled.”
A wave of joy and relief swept over me. Yes! Wow! Epic! Wait, does anyone say “epic” anymore? I don’t care! I really wanted to dish out a high five, but didn’t want to make anyone float.
Instead, I bobbed slightly up and down.
As a rugged outdoors guy, Garr Dion didn’t let that scare him. (Or he just didn’t notice.) “Noah, you must already know that there may be only a few dozen black swift colonies in the United States,” he said, “so habitat conservation like this is key for the species to survive.”
Plik-plik-plik-plik.
Mr. Dion blinked as another black swift emerged from behind the falls. Upon seeing us, it stopped.
“So now we know there are two adults!” Dion said. “The first black swift must be foraging for food while this one keeps an eye on the chick.”
And right on cue, the baby swift cheeped from behind the waterfall.
Plik-plik-plik-plik.
“We’re very lucky,” said Noelle Noyd. “And I think Noah here is the reason why.” Then she snapped her fingers. “Wait, you said your last name is Grow? Isn’t it your backyard where the police found the bulldozers?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know how they got there,” I said, adding, “there’s no reasonable explanation.” Just like there’s no explanation for why the quincunx is making me float in the air right now.
“How mysterious!” Noelle Noyd pressed her lips together and looked thoughtful. “There seems to be more to you than meets the eye, Noah. But rest easy. I’ll see to it that my family doesn’t press charges. If anything, we owe you a favor.”
My parents aren’t going to jail! My parents aren’t going to jail! I was so happy, I didn’t know what to say.
So I just kept hovering in the air.
Noelle Noyd turned her head from me to scan the sky, and Mr. Dion started taking notes on his tablet. And that gave me a chance to press the quincunx’s stem.
And then, to my surprise, I gave a mighty “BUUURRRRP!” It sounded like the belch of a water buffalo, or Jason after he chugged a soda.
“Wow, excuse me,” I said, as my epic flight ended with a gentle drop back to the ground—and my normal height.
I felt short.
As I slipped the quincunx into my pocket, Noelle Noyd turned to watch me curiously. “Noah, I’d love to talk to you,” she said. “You look like a great weight’s been lifted from your shoulders.”
“What can I say?” I said, beaming like a goofball. “I like birds!”
IN A HAPPY DAZE, I said good-bye to Noelle Noyd and Garr Dion. Then I bounced down the Nature Trail.
Things were looking up!
But then I reached the trailhead by the road and saw two automobiles parked by the Cataract Grove sign. One was an empty sedan with a “U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service” emblem on the door. The other was a pickup truck with green camouflage flames painted on the front.
Uh-oh.
Two heads in the truck’s cab turned toward me.
“That’s him!” said Coby Cage from the passenger seat. The driver’s door opened, and Brock got out. He started running toward me, his heavy combat boots crunching on the dry soil.
BROCK CAGE (Impalus excubitor)
APPEARANCE: See entry for “Coby Cage”—now increase size and buffness.
PLUMAGE: Short-cropped hair. Multiple tattoos of fire, skulls, and barbed wire. Currently wearing tight black T-shirt with the words SEARCH AND DESTROY.
RANGE: He has a truck.
SOCIAL BEHAVIOR: Rumored to be expert in Mixed Martial Arts. This would mean this specimen fights other large, tough life-forms and then beats on them like drums.
STATUS: Does not appear to be kid-friendly.
What to do? There was no time to use the quincunx, and I was too weak in the knees to run.
Suddenly I thought of the Arabian babbler (Turdoides squamiceps). It’s not a very tough bird, but if a cat or an owl attacks it, the babbler won’t fly off. Instead, the bird bluffs. It will actually attack its predator first, while making a loud call that sounds like “tzwick!”
This call signals all the other Arabian babblers to answer the alarm—and the next thing you know, a feathery mob of babblers gathers to drive off the predator.
Of course, I didn’t have a gang to call for help. And yelling “tzwick!” probably wasn’t going to be much use, either. But like I told you, I’ve had practice bluffing. And now it was time for me to harness the mysterious powers of Fake-Fu.
So as Brock ran up, I started dancing my hands around in front of my face. “Waaaah!” I warned him in a high-pitched call. Then I let loose a jabber of low, croaking vowels—followed by a fighting scream.
“Hai-bojo-gween-socky! OOO-YAH!”
Brock slid to a stop in front of me, paralyzed by fear.
It worked? Good on
e, Arabian babbler!
Then he laughed. “Kid, those are the fakest moves I’ve ever seen,” he said in a surprisingly quiet voice. “It’s like you took a Tae Kwon Do class once, but never made it to Kwon or Do.”
Cracking his tattooed knuckles, Brock leaned in and dropped his voice. “Listen, I was actually hoping we wouldn’t find you. But my brother won’t let this go. For some reason, you remind Coby of our dad.”
“Um—is that bad?” I asked.
“Very.” Brock sighed, and he gave me a pained half-smile. “Dad bailed on us when Coby was eight. And we haven’t seen him since. All that he left behind were unpaid bills and bird books.”
“Wait—your dad was a birder?”
“Yeah. Birds were one of the only things he really cared about.” Brock glanced back at his brother with a fond look, maybe even tender. “Ever since, Coby has thrown himself into computers. He refuses to even talk about Dad. And as for you, Coby also insists you did something to him.”
“Hurry up, Brock!” yelled Coby from the truck. “Get him before he does something weird!”
Brock sighed. “So now I have to ‘do something.’ Trust me, it’s better that I do this than Coby. Just so you know what to expect, I’ll start with a simple leg sweep. Go with it and try to land gently. Then I’ll lightly punch your face. Remember, I’m a pro. You’ll barely feel it.”
Yay. I’m going to have my face punched lightly.
And with that, Brock raised his hambone fists and came forward. “Relax, kid,” he said soothingly. “You’re going to be just fine.”
Oh, well. I closed my eyes and steeled myself. After all, Brock knew how to hit opponents who were expert in kung fu, jiujitsu, judo, kickboxing, and karate. But did he know how to hit a birder? I was about to find out.
With my eyes shut, I sensed that there was a remnant of ? still inside me. If my Arabian babbler defense hadn’t helped me, could the quincunx?
Desperately I grabbed at ?’s runaway balloon string—and I caught it.
With a loud gasp, I gulped in a double-lungful of air, and my sneakers lifted off from the dirt. And as I opened my eyes, Brock stepped forward and gracefully dropped to the ground, swinging his leg out beneath me.
But his leg sweep only met thin air—because I was floating again!
Brock popped back up to his feet incredibly fast—where he found me bobbing at his eye level. I could almost read his thoughts: This kid must have jumped in the air…but why is he staying up?
Brock didn’t seem scared of the floating boy with giant ears in front of him. Instead, he looked curious. “That’s remarkable,” he said. “Do you know you’re floating?”
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
Meanwhile, Coby saw what was happening. He slid to the driver’s seat and honked the truck’s horn. “Brock, get out of there before he makes your guts show!”
Brock hesitated. “That seems unlikely, Coby,” he called back.
“Hurry!” Coby started the truck up and revved the engine.
I don’t know if Brock was more worried about the floating kid in front of him or Coby driving his truck. But either way, he turned and ran, his boots spitting up gravel behind him. Then, to my shock, he opened the truck’s door, pulled Coby from the cab, and started to drag him over to where I was floating.
Or where I was floating. Because as Brock grabbed Coby, the last traces of ? vanished, and with a quiet little burp, I dropped to the ground. It was a short drop, but I still managed to land on my butt.
“Unusual situations require creative solutions,” Brock said as I picked myself up. “So let’s get everything out in the open. Coby, what’s your issue with Noah?”
Coby pulled himself free from his brother’s grip and sullenly avoided looking at me. “I don’t talk about Noah. He’s dead to me.”
“Whoa!” Brock held up his hands in alarm. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
Coby reluctantly sighed. “Okay, Noah’s just nearly dead to me. He’s like, gasping for breath and barely hanging on to life by a thin thread.”
“See, now we’re making progress!” Brock said encouragingly. “Now then, what exactly do you have against this guy?”
“He knows what he did.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “What I did? I can’t help it that I’m a birder. And it’s your own fault that your skin turned invisible!”
“That’s not what I mean,” said Coby. “Think back to the first time you saw me.”
I thought back. “You stole my glasses.”
“Nope, that was the second time you saw me. I’m talking about the very first day of classes, when we were in fourth grade.”
What was Coby talking about? On my first day at Robert F. Moral School, my parents had dropped me off (for once!). I went to my classes. At the end of the day, I took the bus home—And then I realized what Coby was getting at.7
“Oh, yeah!” I looked at Coby questioningly. “Do you mean the thing with the bus seat? That was you?”
Brock laughed. “Hey, you must be the kid who offered to share the seat! Even I heard about that.” He looked at me with something like appreciation. “You’re just full of surprises.”
Coby grimly nodded. “Some surprise. That was my bus on my route. And everyone heard about the kid who got away with stealing my seat.”
“Seriously. A bus seat?” THIS was why Coby hates me? I upset the pecking order on the bus? “I did offer to scooch over, you know.”
Coby pursed his lips. “True,” he admitted. He glanced at his brother and sighed. “Dude, I guess I overreacted. Mr. Gillespie’s working with me on not doing that so much.”
Brock clapped his hands. “So we’re good here? Nice work, gentlemen. Now shake hands—good. Coby, let’s get home. I’ll even let you drive part of the way.”
Coby’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
A moment later, the two of them got in the cab. Coby rolled down the driver’s side window and called over to me. “Hey, Noah,” he said. “You know how Anemona tricked you into handing over your thingamajig?”
“Yeah?”
Coby revved the engine. “Just so you know, that was all her idea.” And with that, he shoved the truck into gear. “See ya.”
He hit the gas and the truck lurched backward, snapping off one of the posts for the big Cataract Grove sign. As Coby locked up the brakes, the sign teetered and half-fell into the truck’s bed.
“Stop!” Brock yelled.
Coby stopped.
“Now scoot over.”
Coby scooted.
Brock walked around the back of the truck to look at the damage. The truck seemed fine, but the sign had twisted around into the truck’s bed, and even repeated tugs wouldn’t free it. “I’m going to have to pull forward,” he said. Brock got in the cab and gave me a mock salute. “Hang in there, kid.”
As Brock hit the gas, the big sign snapped off from its other post and fell the rest of the way into the truck with a thud. A moment later, the pickup fishtailed down the road, the Cataract Grove sign disappearing into the distance.
Watching the Cage brothers drive off, I realized something. I may have just saved the black swifts, but the quincunx had just saved me from being lightly punched in the face.
But I was still left with one burning question:
Camo flames…WHY?
THE GARAGE DOOR WAS OPEN, and the air hockey game echoed down the driveway.
Pock.
“So the police released your mom and dad,” said Jason, lunging for the puck. “And you saved Noyd Woods—”
Pock. Pock.
“—AND the black swifts,” I added, blocking his shot.
“And you did all that,” Jason continued, putting some spin on the puck, “by filling out a form?”
I glanced up. “Weird, huh?”
Pock. PING!
Jason raised his hands triumphantly. “And that’s game!”
With a scornful snort, Jenny took my place. “I like your new hair co
lor,” I said, handing her the paddle.
“Thank you.” Jenny tossed her mostly green hair back like a model. She fished the puck out of her goal and glanced at her brother. “Ready?”
“I was born ready,” Jason bragged, swaying from side to side like a pro, confidently spinning the paddle. In his deep-blue Golden State Warriors jersey, he actually looked like he knew what he was doing.
Jenny laughed. “Since I was born first, I don’t think that’s true.” She made a sudden move.
Pock. PING!
The twins talked trash while I wondered if I should tell them the rest of the story. See, I still hadn’t said anything to them about T’wirpo. I know, I know. Look, I’d meant to. But the longer I waited to tell them, the harder it became. And as I tried to decide how to break the news, my eyes fell on the game shelf’s box of dominoes.
Dominoes.
You remember my invisible domino theory? Well, now I had a pretty good idea of who’d been setting up dominoes around me—T’wirpo.
“Hey, g-guys!”
Ronnie Ramirez came pedaling up the driveway. His bike had the biggest yellow banana seat I’ve ever seen. Also, the right leg of Ronnie’s dress pants was stuffed in his sock. This kept his cuff from getting caught in the bike chain.
He definitely knows how to catch your attention.
“Hey, Ronnie,” I said. The twins stopped playing air hockey. They started fiddling with their paddles and avoiding eye contact. There was an awkward silence.
“Uh, why is everyone acting weird?” I asked.
Ronnie shifted uneasily on his banana seat and looked at the twins. But they were busy having a whisper argument.
“YOU tell him,” hissed Jason.
“I’m not going to tell him. YOU tell him!” responded Jenny.
“Fine!” Jason turned to me with a guilty expression. “Noah, Ronnie knows everything.”
I laughed, but then saw he was serious. “What does ‘everything’ mean, Jason?”
“You know,” said Jason. “About your quincunx…and all that.”
I’m pretty sure my eyes started to bug out of my head. “I can’t believe it!” I yelled. “My own BEST FRIEND can’t keep his mouth SHUT about the biggest secret—”
