Soar by Tracy Edward Wymer Page B

gets closer, I notice he’s wearing a camouflage bow tie.
    It’s Mr. Dover!
    But that doesn’t make sense. Mr. Dover loves birds. He’s helping Zeus recover from his broken wing. How can he be out here killing quail?
    I can’t let Mr. Dover strut past me without sayingsomething to him, especially after that whole speech about the lightning storm and saving Zeus’s life. What would Zeus think of all this? His own savior out killing his distant cousins?
    I stay low, hidden in the brush. The tall, bristly grass reminds me of a jail cell, and that’s about how I feel right now. Like a prisoner, trapped in Mr. Dover’s bird-killing dream.
    Mr. Dover stops walking and drops to one knee. A golden retriever bounds down the tracks, tongue hanging out, like Gabriela’s dog when it yanked me off her fence.
    The dog leaps into Mr. Dover’s lap. He pets the dog’s head and says “good boy” over and over until I think he’s never going to say anything else.
    Then he says, “Apollo, go get it,” and the dog bounds toward the quail, snatches it up, and brings it back to Mr. Dover.
    My bottom jaw hangs loose. Since when is it okay for your science teacher to shoot a bird and then order his dog to retrieve the carcass for him?
    Mr. Dover stands up and walks toward where I’m hiding.
    I wipe my sweaty hands on my shorts. Then I take a deep breath and whisper to myself, “You can do this.”
    Apollo runs his nose over the tracks. He scampers a few more feet and sniffs the grass. He comes closer, possibly tracking my scent.
    Before I can talk myself out of it, I stand up.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I ask him.
    Mr. Dover looks at me, surprised, holding the limp quail by the neck. “Eddie?”
    â€œWhy are you killing birds?”
    He puts one hand in the air. “Eddie, wait. It’s not what it seems.”
    â€œReally? Because it seems like you’re out here wasting quail and making your dog round them up for you. And you’re on Miss Dorothy’s land. I thought you had your own property .” I clench my teeth.
    â€œEddie, please, let me explain.”
    Apollo trots over to me and weaves in and out of my legs, but he’s more curious than aggressive.
    â€œMy dad was right. You’re a fake.” I storm away, hoping to never see Mr. Dover or a dead bird again.
    Mr. Dover calls after me. “You’re the fake, Eddie.”

Chicken Patty Tuesday
    I stop in my tracks. Apollo weaves around my legs again, then runs off to chase something in the tall grass.
    I turn around, facing Mr. Dover. “Me? I don’t go around talking about birds like they’re the greatest creatures on earth and then use them for target practice.”
    â€œQuail hunting is a sport, Eddie. I eat what I kill.”
    The word “kill” rings in my head. He’s a murderer, and he’s admitting it. How can this quail killer be my science teacher?
    â€œA sport? What kind of sport ends in death?”
    â€œDo you eat lunch at school, Eddie?”
    â€œChanging the subject isn’t going to convince me.” I know what Mr. Dover is trying to do, and he’s not going to persuade me to see his side of the story.
    â€œNo, really. Stay with me, Eddie. Do you eat lunch at school or bring it from home? Just answer the question.”
    â€œI eat at school,” I tell him.
    â€œWhat about Tuesdays? Do you eat cafeteria food on Tuesdays?”
    â€œI eat lunch there every day.”
    â€œThen you’re a murderer too. And you don’t even realize it.”
    â€œI don’t get it. What are you talking about?”
    â€œChicken patties. Every Tuesday you eat a chicken patty for lunch. Delivered to the school in boxes from freezer trucks. You know where those chicken patties come from?”
    I think about that for a second. “No.”
    â€œThe Brownsville Slaughter Grounds.”
    Apollo circles Mr.