Summer of the Spotted Owl by Melanie Jackson

challenge was to be the first to spot a purple hang glider.
    â€œThere’s one,” I murmured, in case Dad, wherever he was now, could hear me. I was sure that sometimes he could, though I never told anyone so.
    Jack, Pantelli and I were close enough to the couple to overhear them.
    â€œNow, Mr. Lake, you’ve had your lessons. Paid your money for our world-class, expert instruction in hang gliding. Here’s your chance to try it for real — to make like an eagle. C’mon, I’ll be beside you all the time.”
    The man sighed. “I dunno, Tiffany. My therapist says I should be adventurous. Then I’d loosen up, she says. I’d stop fretting about the office. But I’m scared.” The man turned away from the hang glider and gripped his ample tummy as if he were afraid of losing it. Or, at least, of losing its contents. “Maybe some of us weren’t intended to be adventurous.”
    â€œThat poor guy,” Jack commented in a low voice. “Why doesn’t he just try jogging? You don’t go straight into extreme sports if you’ve led a chair-bound office existence.”
    Behind us, in the woods, pine needles crackled. I glanced round — in time to see Itchy hurriedly withdraw among the fir trees.
    â€œThere he is again!” I exclaimed.
    Glimpsing Itchy’s carrot-top, Jack jumped up. “What’s the idea of spying on people?” he shouted at Itchy. “And what’s with the reckless hang gliding? You have some things to answer for, buddy!”
    Itchy cast a frightened glance back. He protested, “It’s not my fault!” and dodged behind a fir.
    By sheer force of repetition, Itchy was starting to convince me. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to fly the hang glider. Maybe someone had pressured him into it, on a bet, say. Itchy didn’t seem like the type who would stand up for himself. He was as cowardly as my cat, Wilfred (though certainly not as cuddly).
    â€œJack, I’m not sure he’s spying,” I said. “Hiding is more like it.”
    Nevertheless, Jack was in he-man, protective mode. “I’m going to question this guy,” he announced darkly and sprinted after Itchy.
    â€œCool,” breathed Pantelli. “Maybe he’ll punch Itchy out. Remember when Jack punched out the thief on opening night of The Moonstone ?”
    â€œAh, yes,” I said. “A most satisfying moment.” The thwack ! of Jack’s fist had echoed round the theater. The thief had deserved it: a true creep.
    I didn’t think Itchy was a creep. A whiner, a complainer and a klutz, maybe. But whatever he was up to, he wasn’t happy about it. Not like a creep would be.
    â€œNo violence, please, Jack!” I yelled.
    Down the tunnel of Douglas firs, Jack paused to glare back at me. “I’m not a violent person, Dinah,” he yelled back. “I’m gentle. I believe in compromise. I reason with people.”
    Itchy took the opportunity to pause too — for a good scratch up and down his arms.
    Mr. Lake and his instructor were staring after Jack, the hang-gliding lesson momentarily forgotten. “What is this,” Mr. Lake demanded crossly, “an outdoor loony bin? My therapist told me to de-stress, not re-stress.”
    In a cunning move, Itchy darted out of the woods. He raced toward the hang glider.
    â€œRock, what are you doing?” the instructor shouted.
    Another guy named Rock!? I thought.
    The instructor began flipping her long blond hair about in agitation. “I’m really sorry,” she told Mr. Lake. “This isn’t part of the Grouse High Spirits Hang Gliding program.”
    Itchy bent, grabbed one of two sets of straps attached to the hang glider’s long, horizontal metal bar. He snapped at no one in particular, “That’s the story of my life. I’m never with the program.” He buckled the straps around his waist. Mr. Lake stepped back in