by Kym Brunner
“Guess you could say you were a feaking idiot,” Weasel teased.
I felt reassured by the fact that most falconers had done ridiculous things as apprentices, but I was even happier that we had finished talking about me. Listening to everyone’s stories made me realize that enduring a little ribbing was all part of being a successful falconer.
I had better luck at dusk. Flip caught his first cottontail, along with two dinky voles. Not too shabby. I was more than a little relieved that Flip could catch quarry other than chipmunks.
I wasn’t the only one, apparently. When I told Dad, he vigorously rubbed my head, unable to stop grinning. “Way to go, Buddie Boy!”
The excitement of catching a cottontail must have given me temporary insanity, because I started thinking maybe that nickname wasn’t so bad after all. Bella landed another cottontail and a grouse. As much as I hated to admit it, Lincoln really was a great falconer, and there was a lot I could learn from him.
We drove to Willie’s Lodge and dropped off the birds and the equipment, bringing our suitcases in for the night. Dad and Lincoln went in to take a nap before dinner, but being the lowly apprentice that I was, I had another assignment to complete before I could relax—cutting and bagging the quarry.
I had quartered my third rabbit when Lincoln suddenly appeared, scissors in hand. He said he owed me for my black eye, and, besides, he figured I’d screw things up without him. I rolled my eyes, knowing he was kidding but glad for his help nonetheless.
We sliced and diced while reminiscing about the morning. Lincoln laughed when I imitated the one know-it-all in the group, Ralph Henson, giving me advice about the best way to flush prey. I hunched over, using my old man voice. “‘Swipe left, then right, then slap your stick against the ground three times. Works every time.’ The guy must think I’m a moron.”
Lincoln looked at me thoughtfully. “Uh-huh. And your point is . . . ?” I gave him a dirty look and smeared rabbit blood on his arm, and he flung the intestines on me. Brothers.
As I started preparing one of the pheasants, Lincoln stopped me and showed me a shortcut. He said the best way to remove the legs was to dejoint the hips first by laying the pheasant on its back. When you do it right, he said, it makes a loud popping sound. I tried it the way he showed me, and pop! It worked exactly the way he said it would.
I shouted, “Off with his leg, matey!”
When we were finished, we both looked as if we’d been in a slasher movie. We lumbered inside to wash off the grime and blood. I showered, shaved my stubble, and then threw on my DON’T PUT IT OFF—PROCRASTINATE NOW! T-shirt, ready to head out to the award dinner and receive my Best Apprentice pin. Or not. I still wanted it, craved it even, but somehow, somewhere, its significance had changed for me during the hunt. I realized that instead of wanting to prove I was the best, I had wanted to prove I knew what I was doing and could handle the job. Not only to Dad and Lincoln, but also to myself.
I figured I’d already accomplished that goal.
Dad drove us to our falconer club’s regular hangout, a great restaurant called Adam’s Ribs. It was your typical Wisconsin eatery: lots of knotty pine, Packers memorabilia, and locals milling around on the barstools. They drank beers, ate pickled eggs from the large glass jar, and watched college football. The noise usually got so loud that by the end of the night my ears hurt. But I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else in the world, busted eardrums and all.
Because there were so many of us, the bar owners always gave us our own private room in the back. I sat at the end of a long table with Dad next to me, Lincoln and Weasel across from us. It took a while for the waitress to take all our orders and even longer to serve them, so by the time she brought me my dinner, I was starving. I scarfed down an entire slab of barbecue ribs; a baked potato swimming in butter, sour cream, and chives; and two servings of baked beans. The pitchers of beer and soda flowed freely, and so did the stories.
After the plates were cleared, Jack Foster announced that it was time to hand out the awards. He walked to the front table, where the pewter game pins and shiny ribbons had been laid out for everyone to ogle. There were six categories of game pins: cottontails, squirrels, ducks, pheasants, quails, grouse, and miscellaneous. They were given for success in catching a certain type of quarry, not for the largest head count in that division. I admired all the bling, at last spying what I was looking for in the far right corner of the display: a large pin of a hawk with a ribbon in its mouth with BEST APPRENTICE inscribed on it—exactly like the one I’d gazed at many a time atop Lincoln’s dresser.
Now as I leaned back on the heels of my chair, I was full of food but, as lame as it sounded, also with the knowledge that these hunters accepted me as one of their own. As was the customary practice, Jack asked the general falconers to come up to the table and grab their game pins, which had been doled out based on the quarry sheets they’d turned in to the weathering yard warden. Dad reminded me to stay at the table because next they’d be calling first-time apprentices to the front for prizes.
When Dad, Lincoln, and Weasel came back to the table with their game pins in hand, I gave them a round of fist bumps, happy for their success.
Then it was our turn. Jack called us up to the stage one by one to receive our game pins. Proudly I accepted one for Flip’s cottontail and one for miscellaneous, relieved when Jack didn’t specify what my odd capture was. After all the ribbing this morning, I’d expected the guys to tease me even more, but from what I could tell, everyone just looked pleased. Flip’s nine chipmunks might have been a bit freaky, but I had decided that, being a bit odd myself, we were perfect partners.
Jack cleared his throat. “And now, for the final award of the evening, we would like to hand out the Best Apprentice pin.” He put on his glasses, rifling through a few sheets of paper. “The score sheets have all been tallied and discussed among the board. We have some fabulous sponsors who did a great job of teaching these apprentices, and it shows. Let’s give a hand to the four sponsors out there: Scott, Santa, Rick, and Jeff.” I clapped heartily, knowing how hard it was for Dad to be patient with me. I gave him a pat on the back. “Thanks for everything, Dad. I mean that.”
Dad smiled at me and took a sip of his beer. He looked a little—I don’t know—sentimental, which kind of shocked me. I hadn’t thought he really cared all that much about how I felt about him. Guess I was wrong. I turned my attention back to Jack as he continued, “Today was truly a banner day. The weather was perfect, the quarry plentiful—”
“And so was the beer!” someone yelled out.
“I’ll take one if you’re buying, Mitch.” Jack paused a second, pretending to hold his hand over the microphone. “Methinks Mitch may have had one too many already.” Everyone laughed and Jack continued, “As I was saying, we had some good times out there today. But nothing quite matches the thrill of your very first hunt as a falconer, as I’m sure you can all attest to.”
I squirmed in my chair, trying not to care about who won but desperately wanting this particular recognition anyway. Dad elbowed me, but I didn’t want to look away and miss anything.
“This final award is the one all our first-years look forward to: the Best Apprentice pin. It was a very close call this year, but we do have a clear winner. This apprentice worked hard, listened to his sponsor, and caught a nice amount of quarry to boot.”
That could have been me. He didn’t say what type of quarry, just that there was quite a bit. I squeezed the sides of my chair.
“And so, without further ado, the Best Apprentice award for this year’s Fall Classic Kickoff goes to”—I held my breath—“Sam Hawkins and his red-tailed hawk, Chico, who snagged two rabbits and a quail this morning.”
I smiled, trying not to let my disappointment show as Sam Hawkins strode up to receive his pin. “I bet his last name influenced the judges,” I joked to Dad, winking.
Dad gently tapped my back. “Don’t worry, Mercer. You’re still the b
est apprentice in my book.”
Weasel stroked his beard, nodding slowly. “You done good, boy.”
“Yeah, dude.” Lincoln leaned forward from across the table, looking thoughtful. “You got totally chipped off, I mean ripped off.” He snickered as he took a sip of his Coke.
I dunked my fingertips into my water and flicked it in his face.
“I’ll let you all in on a secret.” Dad waved the three of us closer to him. “I happen to know that Mercer’s scores were higher than what Lincoln’s were the year he won.”
“What?” Lincoln slammed down his glass in mock anger. “You told me I was the best apprentice who ever lived! No way little bro-mite over here beat me.”
My mouth dropped open, a grin on my face. Talk about ironic. The three people I’d wanted to impress by winning the award were the three guys who basically said I already had.
Jack tapped on the microphone. “Excuse me, folks. I made a mistake. We do have one final award for tonight. Will Mercer Buddie please come up here?”
What was this about? I strode to the front table, curious about what I’d won.
“Mercer, in addition to your two game pins today, the Midwest Falconers’ Club is awarding you a trophy.”
Did he say a trophy? Lincoln had never won a trophy. Everyone cheered, making me feel pretty darn smug. That is until I saw what Jack held in his hands—a cardboard trophy cut into the shape of a chipmunk stuck in a wad of clay. Scrawled in black marker across the chipmunk’s belly were the words “Chipmunk Off the Old Block.”
When I glanced at Dad, there was a weird look on his face. I prayed it was all the cigar smoke in the room that was making his eyes watery, not this dumb-joke trophy. I accepted my chipmunk award and held it up over my head, the way a boxer does after he wins the championship belt, making the heckling begin all over again. When everyone quieted down, I said, “I accept this trophy in my hawk’s honor and just realized that Flip gave me something to give to all of you guys too.”
I reached into my pocket, grunting and struggling a bit, as if trying to pull something that was wedged in there. “Oh, here it is,” I said, dramatically sliding my hand out my pocket and flipping them all the bird. The place was rocking after that.
When I got back to my seat, Weasel was in it, so I sat in Weasel’s empty chair, next to Lincoln.
“That was hilarious, Mercer.” Lincoln smiled, his teeth glinting yellow and green from the neon Packers light behind me. For the next hour, we talked about all kinds of things, but mostly girls. Lincoln even told me a story about the time he got a D in Spanish, and Evelyn Hamilton made out with him at McDonald’s because she felt sorry for him.
“Man, I hope I get a D in French next quarter,” I joked. I swirled my ice around in my glass, suddenly uncomfortable. “Speaking of girls, I never said I was sorry about messing things up between you and Lauren.” I tipped my glass back and tossed a few ice chips into my mouth. Ha, ice chips. Even the ice was poking fun at me today.
Lincoln sighed. “Nah, it was my own fault for trying to fool her. But I couldn’t pass up the opportunity with Zola. She practically begged me to go out with her.”
I shook my head, laughing. “You are one lucky jerk; you know that?”
“Not lucky, smooth,” he corrected.
“You got a handbook on smooth? ’Cause I don’t think I’ll ever have chicks fighting over me like they do over you.”
“You’re so dumb, Mercer.”
“Thanks,” I said, hurt that he was ruining our great time by insulting me.
“Don’t you get it? You don’t need smooth, Mercer. You got something else all the girls want.” He took a sip of drink and watched as a cute waitress walked by.
I swallowed hard. Did he think I knew what he was talking about? “Wait. What do I have that all the girls want? A hole in my back pocket so my money falls out? What?”
The sound of Dad and Weasel whooping it up made me turn my head. Seeing Dad laugh so much led me to think that he needed to get out more often—as in way more often.
Lincoln smacked me on the back of my head. “Hey, pay attention when I’m telling you my secrets of snagging women. People pay for this information, you know.”
I raised and lowered my hands and head in unison, as if bowing to him. “Oh, Smooth Man, please tell ole Chipmunk Boy the answer to the question I seek.”
He grinned. “Better. The secret is that every person has his own secret. And yours is that you’re funny. Nice too. You always make people laugh. There are a lot of girls who dig nice guys who are funny, so stop trying to change.”
I scrunched up my face as if he’d just insulted me. “That’s it? You think being funny is gonna get me anywhere? Girls want strong guys with big guns, jocks who win a lot of ball games, or good-looking guys with tons of money.”
Lincoln put his hand on his chest and smirked. “Fortunately, I’ve got the whole package.” He shrugged and I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Mercer. Seriously. As hard as it may seem, some girls would rather go out with a guy like you than a guy like me.”
The cute waitress came by. “Are you done with these drinks, guys?”
“We sure are.” Lincoln handed her our empty glasses. “So how’s business tonight?”
She smiled. “Pretty crazy, but I think it’s finally slowing down.” She vigorously wiped the table with a moist bar cloth. “Luckily, my break is in five minutes.” She hurried off toward the bar with her tray of empty glasses.
Lincoln cocked a thumb in her direction. “Some girls like nice guys, but not this chick. ‘My break is in five minutes’ is code for ‘I want you, Lincoln.’” He stood up and stretched. “Off I go to work my magic on that poor, exhausted waitress. Later, dude.” He walked off, leaving me shaking my head and smiling at his self-confidence.
I thought that for a conceited jerk, he had given me some good advice. I had somehow managed to attract the hottest freshman at Woodley High by being a funny, nice guy, so potentially there would be others. I only needed to find one who didn’t have such bizarre parents.
One thing was certain. I’d never lie about who I was to impress a girl again. There were worse things in life than being a nice guy who was funny. Maybe I could even forget about those twenty-pound weights altogether and find a girl who chose humor over muscles.
I got up to play arcade games, reaching for the mound of coins nestled in my pocket. I crossed the bar to the far corner, past the electronic darts and pool table, and stopped in front of Extreme Wildlife Hunting. I slid a quarter into the slot, lifted one of the plastic orange rifles into position, and lined my eye with the front sight.
The graphics started up, and I found myself in a thick forest, facing wildlife of various sizes and speeds—lumbering grizzlies, rambling badgers, and sprinting deer—all the while avoiding clueless hunters wandering among the trees. I was nailing critters left and right and was well on my way to earning a high score when someone bumped my arm, making me miss my shot wide right. The grizzly rushed forward and attacked my video double, ending my turn.
“Hey!” I spun around to give the jerk a dirty look but saw a pretty redhead of about my age standing there. I quickly softened my approach. “You made me miss my shot and the bear ate me. Now I’m dead and it’s all your fault.” I clutched my heart in mock dismay.
“My fault?” The redhead raised her eyebrows. “Sorry, but if you missed the bear, you suck. The grizzlies are the biggest, slowest targets in the whole game.”
I dropped my jaw, pretending to be insulted. “Excuse me, but you’re speaking to the greatest hunter who ever lived. Wild animals run for cover when I show up.”
“Run away laughing, maybe.” A cute giggle escaped her lips. Mr. Nice Guy didn’t need to join a club to figure out that this girl was flirting with me.
“Laughing at me, eh?” I asked, smirking. “Sounds like a challenge.” I picked up one rifle and held the other out toward her. “You game?”
“Always.” She gr
abbed the rifle out of my hand. “Prepare to lose, pal.”
I slid a couple of quarters into the slot and smiled at her. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?” As I lifted the rifle to my shoulder, she smiled back.
Maybe I had learned a thing or two about girls after all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So you’ve come to the end of the book, and I’ve come to the end of writing it, which is an amazing, yet bittersweet place to be. Sweet—because I’m sending this book out into the world with the hope that others will connect with it as much as I did, and bitter—because I have to release Flip out into the world to be free, pushing my fledgling book out of the nest to greet life on its own.
Flip the Bird has lived in my heart (and on my computer) for many years. Like parents assessing their love for their children, authors are not supposed to have a favorite. But the more deeply I delved into the fascinating sport of falconry and spent time with characters I grew to love, the more this book resonated in my heart like no other. (Please keep this between us. I’d feel very guilty if my other books found out.)
Accolades to my wonderful agent, Eric Myers, for his continual diligence and guidance, and especially to my editor, Julie Tibbott, whose love of falconry, along with a passion for children’s literature, made her the perfect champion for this novel. I’m in awe of her brilliant guidance that made this novel so much better than when it began. Additional kudos to the many others at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Books for Young Readers who had a hand in making Flip the Bird soar. This talented team’s attention to detail blew me away.
I have so many people to thank—people who helped with the research for this novel—that it’s difficult to know where to begin. I’ll start with George and Bernadette Richter, licensed master falconers and rehabilitators, who run an amazing place called SOAR-Illinois (Save Our American Raptors), the raptor sanctuary that I modeled the Buddie Bird Rehab Center after. The love the Richters have for the multitude of raptors in their care was evident in the hours upon hours of falconry apprentice lessons I took under their tutelage. This book would not have been nearly as richly detailed without their help, and I’m so thankful to have met and worked with them. Bernadette was also my “go-to” falconer during final revisions, and I am eternally grateful for her wisdom and patience during this process.
