by Kym Brunner
I spied a chunk of loose curb, but before I could pick it up, the Cubs hat guy yelled, “You like the blood of innocent dogs on your hands? Here you go, Director of Death!” Before I knew what was happening, the two guys ran full speed toward us.
Maddie screamed, “Watch out, Mom!”
The shorter, buff guy pulled the lid off a pitcher and flung the entire contents on my mom, creating a waterfall of thick red liquid, drenching her suit. The scent of tomato soup punched the air. Chunks of what I assume was fake fur pebbled the ground.
“You’re all going to jail, you punks!” Dad grabbed the buff guy by the shirt, but one strong push almost knocked Dad down, so the guy got away.
“You got to catch us first!” the Cubs hat guy replied, laughing as he ran.
That did it. They thought this was funny? Freaking my mom out? Scaring my little sister? “You jagoffs!” I screamed, my face flaming hot. I knew what I had to do. I took two steps toward the loose cement chunk, dragging Maddie with me. She let out a loud shriek and let go, burying her face in her hands.
I ran and picked up the loose chunk of curb and chased after them. Mom yelled, “I’m fine! Forget it, Mercer!”
But I wasn’t about to forget it.
Blind with rage, I watched the two guys jump into the car and start driving off.
Dad snapped, “Let them go, Mercer!”
I could still hear Maddie screeching in the background as Mom shouted, “Get their license plate number!”
Screw the license plate; they were getting away! I bolted after them, racing through the parking lot, cement chunk in hand.
“Mercer! Don’t!” Dad called out. “They could have weapons!”
What were they going to do? Fling empty soup cans at me? Before they could get any farther, I stopped and whipped the curb hunk as hard as I could at the back window of the station wagon. It fell short, the piece skidding across the blacktop and landing under a gray Buick. Me and my stupid, weak arm muscles! Never again, I vowed.
I walked back toward my family, embarrassed. Mom had her arm around Maddie, who was still sobbing her guts out. “It’s okay, Maddie. I’m fine, honey.”
“Are you sure, babe?” Dad pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to my mother.
“Yes, just aggravated; that’s all.” Mom looked at Dad. “Call the police, okay?”
Dad stepped away, sliding his cell phone out of his back pocket. A moment later, two university security guards came bustling over. They were too late to catch the guys in the Chevy but just in time to get an earful from my mom for failing to man the back entrance—the same back entrance that Mom herself had said the protesters would never hang out at, but I wasn’t about to bring that up.
After the cops arrived, I sat on the curb next to Maddie, listening as my parents rattled off a description of the three guys in the Chevy wagon. We all added what little we knew, but there wasn’t a whole lot to say. After that, Mom announced she’d work from home for the rest of the day. I totally understood why we had to scrap our plans, but I couldn’t help mourning the loss of medium-rare sirloin steak and the huge baked potato with all the toppings. Friggin’ protesters had ruined my mother’s suit and our awesome lunch. Damn them!
As we waited for the police to finish their investigation, the unsettling thought that these guys were part of Lucy’s group crossed my mind. God, I hoped not. There was no way I could even think of going out with Lucy if she did stuff like that to people like my mom. But I wasn’t ready to give up on my dream girl. Not yet. Not before I’d had a chance to figure things out.
My parents decided to pick up Mom’s Camaro the following day, so we all headed to Dad’s truck. He grabbed a blanket out of the back and placed it on the passenger seat for my mom to sit on, while Maddie and I slid into the back seat. The little drama queen kept making gagging sounds every few seconds, so Dad gave her an empty grocery bag “just in case.” The smell of the rotting tomato soup concoction was pretty horrendous, so Maddie and I opted for a windstorm over a stink tornado, and Dad kept the windows halfway open the whole way home.
Mom pulled napkins out of the glove box and blotted her sleeve vigorously. “Those HALT people are brainless idiots.” She tsked loudly, dabbing and blotting at spots on her blouse. “They think it’s noble to fight for animals, but they have no clue that the whole point of our testing is to save their sister, their husband, or their own sorry selves. Ridiculous.”
My heart sank. So those guys were part of HALT after all, it seemed. For several minutes, I stared out the window of the car, watching stores whiz by, emotionally spent. Figures that I’d finally meet a cool girl who might even like me back and now it was over before it had started. Why would Lucy be part of a group that did nasty things like throw fake animal fur and spoiled soup on scientists? I ran a hand through my hair, pissed off. This sucked.
“Mom?” Maddie asked, her voice high and whiny. “Why don’t you just do your testing on mice? That way people wouldn’t be so mad at you.”
I tuned in, curious about the answer to this one myself.
Mom turned around partway and faced her. “Because a dog’s cardiovascular system is very similar to ours. No other animal species mimics what happens to humans so closely. For this study to yield any sort of useful results, it has to be canines.”
“But dogs are so cute,” Maddie insisted.
Mom’s face softened, but I could tell she was trying not to lose it. “Yes, dogs are cute, honey. But they’re also really important to our research. The FDA doesn’t allow us to test our new drugs on humans until extensive trials on animals have concluded.”
“So you’re required to test on animals first?” Somehow I was relieved to hear that the scientists at Mom’s work didn’t have a choice.
She nodded, looking a bit surprised that I didn’t know this already. “Absolutely. The FDA needs indisputable success in the clinical trials before they approve a new drug.” She tossed a piece of soggy gray fur out the open window.
“So they should be protesting the FDA people, not you?” Maddie asked.
Mom smiled. “Well, the FDA probably wouldn’t be too happy about that either. But yes, in a way, you’re right. I can’t change those laws, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. While I dislike taking a dog’s life, I’d be horrified to test our drug on humans. That’s inhumane.”
Dad piped in with “I guarantee if one of those HALT people had a heart attack, they’d be begging for these drugs. Wish they’d ask questions before acting on things, that’s all.”
That’s when I decided to take my parents’ advice. Instead of acting against Lucy, I’d ask questions, perform my own clinical trials, and hope for indisputable success.
SEVEN
WHEN WE GOT HOME, I INHALED TWO CHEESE sandwiches and half a bag of beef jerky—an unsatisfying replacement for prime rib—but I cheered up on the way to the rehab center to work with Flip. The second I walked in, I caught a hint of the aroma I craved—a blend of leather, dust, and lanolin oil—and sucked that scent into my lungs like a chain smoker. Dad had Sasha, our sharp-shinned hawk, on his fist, bringing her to the examination table for her daily weigh-in.
I watched as he set her on her T perch on the bird scale. “When you’re done with Sasha, can we work with Flip?”
“Hold on, Buddie Boy. We have something to discuss first.”
My anger simmered as I gripped the edge of the worktable. Why did Dad insist on calling me that lame nickname after I’d told him a thousand times I didn’t like it? But getting into an argument over it was off the list for today. I needed his help manning Flip. So I sat on the stool and waited while he worked the soap up into a lather, methodically washing every surface of his hands.
He finally turned off the water with his elbow and grabbed a paper towel. “We haven’t discussed your apprenticeship duties yet. Before you work with Flip today and every day, I’ll need you to hose down all thirteen mews. I’m releasing Lincoln of that du
ty and handing it over to you. Let me know when you’re done. Then we’ll start manning your hawk.”
“We have to wait until I clean all the mews?” I threw my hands up in exasperation. “That’ll take me at least half an hour!”
“More like an hour if you do a good job.” He eyed the scale, pausing as he observed the digital readout. “I tell you what—skip Flip’s mews for today so you don’t frighten him.” He woke his laptop with a tap of a few keys and noted Sasha’s weight on his daily log. “Why are you acting so shocked? Cleaning the mews is one of the burdens of being an apprentice and you know it.”
I did know it. I complained only so he’d think I was overwhelmed and wouldn’t add any more responsibilities on top of all the cleaning. Serious about falconry? Definitely. Dedicated to cleanliness? Not so much. I’d helped Lincoln with this particular job many times. The process was the same for each mews: remove the bird, attach it to the holding perch in the hallway, go back with the hose, and obliterate every mushy, gray mute pile lying on the floor that you cared to notice, change out all the used food and water bowls with clean ones, and then return the bird to its home. Do that thirteen times without having a major artery clawed open, and you were hired.
I strolled into Monocle’s mews first, wasting a solid ten minutes with her so Dad would think I’d spent an entire hour cleaning. I scratched between her ear tufts and on her chest while she stared back at me with her gorgeous yellow eye. I found an especially good spot on her neck, so she rubbed her face against my hand in pleasure. I chuckled, thinking Monocle was one seriously cool owl. Even though Dad was adamant that rehabbed birds of prey are not pets, I’d always thought of Monocle as my dog substitute. Although, after what I found out today, maybe I’d better keep Monocle as far away from Mom as possible.
Lincoln peered in through the steel bars of the mews I was cleaning. He had a barbell in each hand and was doing biceps curls, a softball-size mound appearing with each flex of his arm. “Make sure you do a good job over by Bella. She ate a whole pigeon last night, and she’s been slicing it out like an automatic rifle all day.” He let out a blast of laughter, as if cleaning massive amounts of his bird’s crap was funny.
“I’ve been slicing a lot today too.” I squirted his chest with a blast of the hose.
Now that was funny.
“What the hell?” Lincoln looked down at his bare chest. “You ever do that again, you’re dead meat.” He pointed a barbell in my direction, which would have worried me if there hadn’t been twelve steel bars between us. Even Lincoln wasn’t strong enough to pry them apart.
I hoped.
“My hand slipped, sorry!” I needed to soothe the savage beast that was my brother because he was unpredictable when angry. Wish he’d lighten up. As I watched him skulk off to continue his workout, I wondered, were big muscles really the key to getting girls to chase after you like a free coupon to Starbucks? I was definitely going to hit the weights later on. Maybe it would help me win Lucy over.
Speaking of which, I thought I’d better rehearse what I’d say to Lucy if she called. While I was thinking about possible funny lines, a gruff voice behind me asked, “Where’s that butt-ugly apprentice I heard is around here?”
I grinned, recognizing Weasel’s voice. Since he was Dad’s closest friend and falconer confidant, I knew him almost as well as I knew my father. I poked my head into the hallway. “Sorry, I can’t help you, pal. Only extremely good-looking apprentices work here.”
Weasel tugged at his crazy beard, which he probably hadn’t shaved since he was a toddler. It had intermingled patches of brown, red, and gray hairs throughout, and if you looked long enough, probably a few missing children as well. “Eh, you’ll do.” The toothpick poking out of the side of his mouth wiggled up and down as he spoke. He looped his thumbs through his suspenders and twanged, “So I hear you done got yourself a hawk, boy.”
“Yup. Wanna see it, mister?”
“Why you think I came? I tell you, boy, you is ugly and stupid.” He looked serious for a second, and then gave me that whacked-out belly laugh of his, the kind that makes you laugh too. “How’s it going, Skinny?” He pulled me into a headlock and messed up my hair at the same time.
“Pretty good.” I wiggled out of his embrace, flicking my hair out of my eyes.
He poked my ribs. “Don’t look like it. When you gonna get some meat on those bones?”
Dad appeared out of nowhere, answering for me. “With as much meat as Mercer eats, you’d think he was prepping for the Caveman Olympics.” He smiled, but it quickly faded. “I noticed you cleaned the mews like a caveman too, Mercer. You’re going to have to do way better than that in the future.”
I hunched over and took a few loping steps toward Dad, doing my best caveman act. “Ooh, ooh. Me clean cave good.”
Dad shot me his Joe Falconer look. “I’m serious. No more half-ass jobs from now on.”
Weasel chortled. “Yeah, they’d better all be whole-ass jobs or you’re out of here, boy.”
“Don’t encourage him, Weasel,” Dad said, but I saw him wink. He looked at me. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go get Flip so we can start his training.”
Finally! I practically ran to Flip’s mews and peeked in the window. There he was, my new hunting buddy, waiting for me. I turned the doorknob and Flip leaped off his perch faster than a high-rise BASE jumper. Make that a low-rise jumper, since the floor post was only six inches off the ground. But we had to tether our new birds to the post or they’d fly around, crisscrossing the mews like a game of tag gone wrong when you went to retrieve them. After they were “manned,” or spent enough time with us so that they came to trust us, which took anywhere from a few days to a week, we could let them fly anywhere they wanted inside their mews, but Flip was far from ready for that.
Spying Dad’s flannel shirt hanging on a nearby hook, I decided to put it on for a little extra protection. After sliding my elbow-length glove on to my left hand, I took a deep breath and walked in. Flip hissed and flapped his wings as if his tail was on fire. I inched forward until he relaxed before unhooking his leash and grabbing hold of the jesses that were attached to his legs. Flip began bating again, flapping his wings a hundred miles an hour in my face, but I hung on and righted him back up each time he landed upside down. He eventually tired and grabbed on to my heavily protected forearm with his steel claws, panting like crazy.
All his hostility toward me made me wonder how the heck I was going to transform Flip from “wild hawk who reviled the sight of me” into “ace hunter who killed like a trained assassin” in twenty-three days. Flip needed to snag some major game at the falconry meet, or I wouldn’t have a chance of winning the Best Apprentice award.
I joined Dad and Weasel out in the training area, the only swath of grass that we keep trimmed in the entire football-field-size lawn that lies between the house and the pond way out back. We call the pond Buddie Waters, named after some famous old blues guitarist my dad loved. It was my favorite place to hang out. You could swim, fish, take out a paddleboat, or just sit and vegetate.
Heading to the rounded steel bow perch, I knelt down and Flip stepped onto the pipe wound with rope. So far, so good. I hooked his leash onto the metal loop.
Dad spoke quietly. “Now walk backwards toward me slowly.”
I backed up about five feet, stopping just in front of him and Weasel. Weasel handed me a small chunk of rabbit meat from one of the pockets of his green falconer’s vest. “Now hold it out on your fist where he can see it, Skinny. When he flies toward you, stand perfectly still.”
I did exactly what Weasel said, but Flip kept flying off the perch, trying to get away instead of coming toward me. And each time, it took him another fifteen seconds of flapping around before he landed back on the perch. Flip sat there breathing heavily, his wings held away from his body in an angry posture. “What’s wrong with him?” I asked Dad, the heat of frustration warming my face. “Why won’t he come to me? Isn’t he hungry?”
<
br /> “Settle down, Mercer. It’ll happen,” Dad responded calmly. “All in good time.”
“Try it real nice and slow,” Weasel coaxed, patting my back for encouragement. “Once he figures out he can’t go anywhere, he’ll settle down and see the food.”
After five more failed attempts, Dad sighed. “Well, that’s enough for today.”
I spun toward him. “Enough? I didn’t do anything with him yet.” Even though Flip wasn’t playing nicely, I wasn’t ready to put him back in his mews. If Dad and Weasel were both experts, why didn’t they do whatever it was they did to calm a skittish hawk?
Dad stroked his mustache. “Relax, Mercer. You did do something—you’ve started socializing him. That’s it for tonight. Put him away and we’ll try again tomorrow.”
Right when I was about to storm off, Weasel put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “If you stress Flip out too much, he’ll develop a fear of you. You don’t want that now, do you?”
I shook my head no, but secretly I wanted to ask how Flip could be any more afraid of me than I was of him.
Dad motioned with his head toward the mews. “Only give him a small portion of dinner so that he’s hungrier tomorrow. Little baby steps.”
Weasel smiled at me. His beard moved in any case, so I think that meant he smiled. “Once ol’ Flipper realizes you’re in this together, things will get better, I promise.”
“Yeah, I know.” As I walked back toward the mews with Flip bating like crazy on my arm again, I wondered how’d I get this lunatic bird in shape to hunt in time for the meet if he wouldn’t even fly five feet to get some free food from my hand. Maybe Dad and Weasel were just being nice and didn’t want to tell me that Flip was a dud. A sick feeling hit me like a punch to the gut as a new idea crossed my mind: maybe they thought I was the dud.
