Avenging the Owl

by Melissa Hart

  Almost.

  I picked the down off the screech owl mew and turned on the hose to soak the flowers. With a flutter of wings, Artemis loomed up on her wooden perch and glared at me from yellow eyes. Ear tufts jutted, and talons bit into wood. Fear gripped my throat.

  But the owl curled one foot up into her breast feathers and blinked at the water streaming out of the hose. She clacked her beak.

  “You … you want a shower?”

  I studied the wire around her mew. No way could she escape. She ruffled up her feathers. “It’s called rousing,” I heard Sergeant Bird Nerd say in my head. “Helps birds to clean off their feathers and realign them more neatly.”

  I aimed the hose up toward the sky. Water droplets pattered down on my face and arms. Artemis spread out her wings and clacked her beak again.

  “So, you’ve befriended our venerable great horned owl,” Minerva said beside me.

  I whipped the hose toward the flower garden. “No way!”

  “Ever notice she’s paler than Hermes?” Minerva unlocked the padlock and stepped into the enclosure with a bucket. I held my breath, but Artemis only chirped at her.

  “Eastern birds have to camouflage with snow. She’s from Philadelphia. Sometimes I think that’s why she’s so moody. She misses her home.”

  What I wouldn’t give to stand with my feet in hot sand again, waves crashing around me.

  “Two o’clock.” Minerva tapped her watch. “I’ll finish cleaning this one.”

  I looked around. The golden eagles preened in the sun. Above them, the balds sat up straight, lording over the smaller birds below. The osprey splashed and screeched in her water trough.

  Back in the trailer, I’d hide in the sweltering cave of my bedroom, listening to my father pound his typewriter—or worse, not touch it at all—while my mother concocted tofu-surprise in the kitchen with that new angry crack between her eyebrows.

  I cleared my throat. “Uh … Minerva? I can stay a while longer.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Behind the tarp, Minerva bent to examine the eggs. Artemis stayed put on her perch.

  “Um … my dad wants to know how you got your name,” I mumbled. “He says it’s classical or something.”

  “I changed it when I moved here. Minerva’s a Roman goddess, often depicted with an owl. How’d you get yours?”

  I told her about my mother’s fascination with Star Wars. She stood up and brushed her hands off on her jeans. “Solo. The one and only.”

  She got busy picking up parts then, and I went back to work. Artemis watched while I plucked the down off another owl mew. But when I headed for the clinic an hour later, she was back on those eggs. Maybe having a job took her mind off being homesick.

  Minerva’s station wagon sat outside the clinic, a purple bumper sticker plastered across her back window. FOLLOW YOUR BLISS, it read. What’s that mean?

  Lucas walked out of the clinic, swinging a bike helmet. He thumped the hard plastic. “Wear it, kid. It’ll save you from brain injury if you endo.”

  “Endo?”

  “End over. Go head over heels.”

  “Who said I’m gonna take your bike?”

  Lucas looped the helmet straps over the handlebar. “Suit yourself. But you can’t beat a bicycle for freedom of mobility.”

  Freedom.

  Cyclists rode down the Pacific Coast Highway in California all the time. We’d passed a bunch of them, their bicycles hung with big black bags, the day we moved.

  I studied the bike. How long would it take me to ride back to Redondo Beach?

  “Lucas, come help me tube feed this hawk!” Minerva called.

  “Catch you later, Solo.”

  I waited until Sergeant Bird Nerd went inside, then wheeled the bike down the driveway to Eyrie Road. I swung my backpack over my shoulders. It hit the pig, and the stupid thing squeaked.

  Edgar flew up to her perch and laughed. I ignored her. “Here goes nothing….”

  I pushed off and coasted down the hill. Trees blurred green. A cool wind whipped my face, and the knobby tires sailed over rocks that would have meant death on a skateboard.

  “Woo-hoo!” I let out a long whoop and flew past the bus stop. Kids stared at me, openmouthed. “So long, suckers!” I yelled.

  Riding up the hill felt like torture. I stood up and dug my heels into the pedals hard. Halfway up, I had to surrender. My heart whacked against my ribs as I jogged, pushing the bike beside me. A few more workouts like this and cycling a thousand miles back to Redondo Beach would be no problem.

  At the mailboxes, I stuck my hand in and pulled out a fat envelope that read: WELCOME HOME—VALUABLE COUPONS ENCLOSED! I reached in again to pull out a letter from Dad’s doctor and a postcard from Rajen—a picture of the ocean at sunset.

  Hey, Solo,

  Get a computer already! Don’t forget Operation Surf’s Up. Got carpet in tree house and my bro’s old dorm room fridge. We can have root beer floats, dude!

  Your friend,

  Rajen

  Soon, I’d be riding into that golden sunset, far away from my alien parents. I could almost taste the vanilla ice cream melting into my root beer; hear my friends cracking up over some dumb joke.

  My legs felt like limp, rubbery seaweed as I staggered up the driveway. The bandage slipped down on my sweaty wrist. The three long scabs had almost healed, so I ripped the thing off with my teeth and crumpled it into my pocket.

  Lucas had ordered me to wipe the bike down after every ride to prevent rust. I leaned it against the shed behind the trailer and scraped thick grease off the chain and gears, then rubbed the frame with an old rag. Just enough room for a Billabong surfing decal. As I worked, I thought about that bumper sticker on Minerva’s car. FOLLOW YOUR BLISS.

  Bliss. It means something you love to do. But how could I follow my bliss in Oregon?

  Impossible.

  I wheeled the bike into the shed and closed the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHAT NEXT?

  The next day, I flew through my community service hours and rode downtown, weaving through the streets until I found a bike shop.

  “Help you find something?” A skinny guy in spandex bike shorts looked up from a bicycle on a stand and walked over to me, wiping his hands on an apron.

  “I’m looking for those big black bags. The kind you put on your bike.”

  “They’re called panniers.” He studied my bike, made no comment on the squeaky pig. “You’ll need a pair of them and a rack over your back tire. Oh, and don’t you want some fenders for the rainy season?”

  I shook my head. By the time the rain hit Oregon, I’d be kicking back in Rajen’s tree house and homeschooling on the waves. “How much are the bags?” I hefted the two he handed me—sturdy black cases the size of grocery bags, each with a silver reflective strip. Metal hooks on one side affixed the panniers to the rack he pulled down from the wall.

  “They’re fifty dollars each. Where’re you touring?”

  “Uh …” I hesitated. Didn’t want to give away too much information. I’d watched enough television to know that if I ran away on a bicycle, the police would storm the bike shops first and demand to know whether I’d been in, whether I’d revealed any small detail about Operation Surf’s Up. I set the panniers on the glass counter by the cash register. “I’ll be back in soon. Thanks for your help.”

  I rode to the library crunching numbers in my head. My Darth Vader bank held $45.80. If I could persuade my parents to give me five dollars a week in allowance (five, when I used to earn twenty), I could buy a couple of panniers and be back in Redondo Beach before the end of summer.

  My parents wouldn’t miss me. Would they even know I was gone?

  They barely spoke to each other or to me. Dinner sucked—it was tofu-surprise at the miniscule table in the trailer, and all I could hear was chewing … my chewing, since they only pushed food around on their plates and stared into space.

  What the heck were they searching
for?

  “Your dad’s got writer’s block again,” Mom whispered as we washed the dishes. Then I got that he was searching for words—my father, who talked like Webster’s Dictionary.

  But what was my mother looking for? I locked my bike and sprinted up the library steps, trying to forget the look in her eyes … both hunting and haunted.

  In the library’s little computer room full of people bent over their borrowed keyboards, Rajen’s email stabbed like talons into my gut.

  Hey, dude!

  A tenth grader just moved into your house. His name’s Eldon—he surfed twenty-foot waves in Hawaii. He’s super cool. We’re using the tree house as a crash pad till you get back.

  Raj

  Not “Stay Cool, Rajen” or “Your Friend, Rajen.” Suddenly, he was “Raj,” and not one word about Operation Surf’s Up. I jammed my finger against the delete button and hurtled down the staircase, skidding on the slick surface of the library lobby.

  “Hey, watch out!” A cute little kid with wild brown curls tried to dodge me and dropped an armload of books about dragons.

  “Sorry.” I helped her pick up the books and take them to the checkout counter, then flung myself onto my bike and rode toward the river.

  Slumped on a bench, I stared out at the duck pond. Dozens of mallards and gray and white geese floated around. Some of their wings stuck out permanently at weird angles—ANGEL WING, I read on a sign near the pond, caused by too much bread. I wondered if anyone was helping them the way Minerva helped birds of prey.

  I reached into my backpack and pulled out the Altoids tin Rajen had given me that last day in Redondo Beach. I poured the sand into my palm and licked a shell with the tip of my tongue. The taste of salt had almost vanished.

  Someone’s taken over my territory. If I had talons, I thought, I’d rip this Eldon’s surfboard to shreds.

  I tossed the tin into a trash can and rode home, trying to convince myself that my eyes watered from sweat.

  Eric stood in the driveway with a long-handled net and a jar. “I like your Pig Wheel!” He squeaked the pig on my handlebar. “Wanna catch bugs?”

  “I have an appointment.” I pressed my palms against my eyes to block him from my view. “And it’s not a Pig Wheel,” I muttered, annoyed because he’d come up with the perfect name for my bike.

  “Appointment?” I looked up at the sudden worry in his voice. He cupped his fingers around his jaw, brow furrowed like one of those wrinkly dogs. “You go to dentist?”

  “Sort of.”

  My mother stepped onto the trailer porch. “The VW’s fixed, so we don’t have to rush to the bus stop.” She lowered her voice. “Your father’s not feeling well. Why don’t you play with your friend outside till it’s time to see your social worker.”

  “Mom! ” I groaned, but it was hopeless. In one sentence, the Alien Mother had fired three deadly blasts straight at me.

  Bzzzzt! Fourteen-year-olds don’t play.

  Bzzzzt! Why’d she have to tell him about my social worker?

  Bzzzzt! Eric wasn’t my friend. I had no friends since Eldon moved into my tree house.

  Eric didn’t notice any of this. He had bugs on the brain.

  “Solo! Look. A lacewing.” He held out a jar with a top that magnified stuff inside.

  I sighed and dropped my backpack. “Let me see.” A green-winged bug sat on a blade of grass. Up close, its wings had all these lines, like the loopy patterns on a sand dollar. “That’s pretty cool.”

  Eric opened the lid and let the lacewing fly free. We watched it fly off toward my mom’s square of dirt, home to a couple of carrots and a wilted zucchini plant. “My mother and me go hiking Saturday. You wanna come?”

  “I guess.”

  Nothing I did mattered anymore.

  Mom appeared again on the porch, jangling her keys. “You’re welcome to come into town with us,” she told Eric. “We can get raw-veggie smoothies while Solo talks with his social worker.”

  Bzzzzt!

  I shot Mom the evil eye. She shot it right back.

  Eric shook his head. “I want to catch dragonflies!” He waved his net. “See you Saturday, Solo. Hope you don’t have cavities!”

  “What’s he talking about?” Mom shook out her gauzy hippie skirt and untangled one dangly beaded earring from her braid.

  I dragged myself up into The Big Grape. Above me, a red-tailed hawk perched on the telephone pole, preparing for a dinner date with some innocent mouse.

  Mom’s lecture started before we hit the road. “You should be nice to Eric. He doesn’t have any friends.”

  Neither do I.

  I closed my eyes. For an instant, Rajen and I stood on the beach again, surfboards under our arms and sun baking our shoulders. But then some hotshot surfer rode a twenty-foot wave into shore, and my best friend vanished into the fog.

  “Solo, I’m talking to you!”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Mom, I just caught bugs with Eric for half an hour. What else do you want from me?”

  The Big Grape groaned, catching sight of the hill. I pressed my hands against my aching thighs. I knew from biking just how it felt.

  “You act like you’re better than him,” Mom snapped.

  “I do not!”

  But she was right. Even though Eric was a year older than me, he reminded me of Rajen’s little brother—a pest, an embarrassment, always showing up at the wrong time.

  “It’s not his fault he’s different.” The ice in Mom’s voice melted a little. “He needs our support. Imagine what you could teach him about the ocean, Solo. That kid’s a real nature lover.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I mumbled.

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  One lecture over, she started another. “Your social worker’s going to be pleased with your progress.”

  “Progress?”

  “Don’t get defensive. I simply mean you seem to be enjoying your work with the birds. You’re making fine progress.”

  Until she dragged me to Oregon, I’d washed the dishes and taken out the trash without being told. I never ditched school or smoked. And I didn’t lie, even when Eric’s father got in my face and screamed, “Did you fire my shotgun?”

  But progress meant there was a problem—something wrong with me.

  “What exactly have I progressed from?” Sergeant Bird Nerd’s precise, prissy voice came out of my mouth.

  Mom looked sideways at me. She didn’t say the words. She didn’t have to.

  My chest tightened, and my eyes stung again. “I’m not a criminal! I’m the one who got straight A’s last year, the one who cleaned the house and cooked for everyone when Dad was in the hospital, remember? I’m the one who cleans poop and chicken feet out of bird mews all day. So I shot a gun one time! It was a mistake. Why can’t you leave me alone!”

  “Don’t yell at me!” Mom’s voice ricocheted off the windshield. “You have no idea what I’m up against. First your father goes crazy, then you? What next, Solo? What next?”

  A minute later, she got her answer. Because right at the top of the hill, The Big Grape died again.

  Mom and I glared at each other. The bus rolled backwards, and she yanked up the parking brake. Gray exhaust billowed around us. There was nothing else around but trees and dirt.

  “Maybe it just needs a rest,” I choked. “Give it a minute.”

  And then my mother did something I’d seen only once before, on the afternoon my father tried to off himself. She burst into tears.

  “I’m so tired of this!” she wailed. “Always breaking down, always something wrong. No good piece of … crap!” She slapped the dashboard like she was giving the Grape a spanking. “I hate the country. I miss my friends. I miss my job. I want my mother!”

  I pictured my grandmother in her big house with the manicured bushes and the palm trees and the swimming pool out back. We’d left her along with everything else. Mom hadn’t seemed to care. But now, she covered her face with her hands and bowed h
er head until it lay against the steering wheel.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Dad’ll get the bus to start.”

  “Ha! Your father couldn’t tell a spark plug from a carrot, even if he could get up the nerve to leave the house.” She lifted her head and smacked the dashboard again. “I miss my Corvette!”

  My jaw dropped to my chest, and my eyes bugged out. I must have looked like one of Dad’s cartoons because Mom stared at me, and suddenly, she started laughing like a maniac.

  “I miss my Corvette!” she howled. “Yikes. Looks like we’re having a couple of nervous breakdowns to rival your father’s.” She looked at me, really looked at me for a moment, and the hard look in her eyes softened. “I’m sorry. What say we ditch this dinosaur, hike home, and order a pizza.”

  “Fine with me.” I jumped out of the bus and we headed down the shoulder, in the shade of tall trees.

  Lucas told me they were called Douglas firs. “Not all evergreens are pines, kid,” he’d said.

  Mom took my hand. “You’re a good son, Solo. I should tell you that more often.”

  Her hand felt sweaty, too hot. As soon as I could, I knelt to remove a pretend rock from my shoe. I didn’t need her to hold my hand, to remind me that I was good. I just didn’t want her to think I was bad.

  “Let’s run home!” Mom’s voice shot up an octave, the way it did when I had the flu two years ago and a temperature so high we went to the ER. “We’ll pretend we’re jogging on the beach. Remember what that felt like—all that sand as far as you could see … the crash of waves … how wonderful the water felt on your bare feet?”

  I remembered.

  We began to jog. Trees turned into lifeguard stands, and vultures became seagulls swooping overhead. Did my mother also see pelicans bobbing on the ocean instead of sheep grazing in the field near our acreage?

  Now I knew she missed California. But we’d sold our house and this kid Eldon, Rajen’s new best friend, was living it up in my big bedroom with an ocean view.

  If we move back, is there even a place for me anymore?