Free Soar by Tracy Edward Wymer Page A

you’re not going to mess it up.”
    My pencil lead breaks on the paper. I get up to sharpen it. “I’ll be right back.”
    I walk past Gabriela. She holds out her arm and stops me. “Sorry about your partner.”
    I shrug. “It’s okay.”
    But it’s not okay. I want to say this stinks like a skunk, but I figure that doesn’t fall under “putting myself out there.”
    When I get back to my seat, Mouton is rolling the pen back and forth on the desk. “I have an idea,” he says.
    â€œGreat. I can’t wait to hear it.”
    â€œWe can make a poster of woodpecker pens. We’ll order one from every state.” He holds up the pen. The woodpecker floats up and down, then side to side.
    â€œAre you kidding me? We’re not doing that. And not every state sells those pens.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œI just know!”
    I write down my symposium idea and slide the paper over to him.
    He reads it over. “You write sloppy.”
    I snatch the paper away from him. “We’re going to hypothesize that a golden eagle lives right here in West Plains, and then we’re going to prove it. That’s our project.”
    Mouton folds his arms over his chest. “Woodpecker-woodpecker-woodpecker.”
    At the end of class Mr. Dover collects the papers. When he gets to me, he stops. “How did your first brainstorm session go?”
    â€œGreat.” I hold out the paper. At the top is my paragraph explaining the golden eagle project. “This is our official proposal.”
    Mr. Dover skims my paper, then looks at me. “I’ll have to approve this topic before you can take it any further. As for Mouton’s idea, I’ll need a hieroglyphics expert to read it.”
    â€œIt says woodpecker pens,” I explain. “It’s not that hard to read.”
    Sticking up for Mouton seems like the only thing to do. I can’t let Mr. Dover think he’s getting the best of me by pairing me with Mouton on purpose.
    The bird clock chirps.
    Mr. Dover turns to the class. “Time’s up, everyone. See you tomorrow.”
    I go back to my seat and open my bird journal. I rip out the drawing of Quailzilla’s destruction and fold it in half.
    On my way out of class, when no one’s looking, I drop the folded drawing onto Mr. Dover’s desk. Mr. Dover probably thinks he can keep me from winning the blue ribbon at the science symposium.
    This makes me think about Dad and what he would do in this situation. I think the first thing he would do is remind me of rule number three: No one gets in your way.
    Let the bird wars begin.

Order and Progress
    O n Saturday morning, I walk up the driveway to Gabriela’s house. Papa is trimming bushes with hedge clippers. He stops, holding the clippers in one hand, and waves. Silvio perches on his shoulder, staring at me. I knock on the door and wait. From the yard Silvio gives me the stink eye.
    Finally Gabriela comes to the door. “Eddie? What are you doing here again?”
    Again? What’s that supposed to mean? Is she keeping track of how many times I show up at her house?
    â€œSorry to stop by like this, but I need help.” I try looking desperate.
    â€œHelp with what? You need to be exactly.”
    â€œYou mean ‘exact.’ ”
    â€œRight.” Gabriela rolls her eyes.
    I could kick myself for correcting her English. Who wants a friend correcting you all the time? “I need help with my symposium project.”
    â€œYou? The Heir of Greatness? I am surprised. I did not think you would even need a partner.”
    â€œWell, Mouton’s not exactly a partner.”
    â€œHe is better than nothing. Right?”
    â€œIf only I could find something Mouton is good at besides saying ‘Eddie-shovel-truck’ all the time. So will you help me out?”
    Gabriela opens the screen door and signs something to Papa. He nods and