"Wait, listen to me," Roy said urgently. "We already talked about this, me and Beatrice. We want to help you save the owls. Seriously, we're locked and loaded."
He unpacked the camera and handed it to the boy. "I'll show you how this works," Roy said. "It's pretty easy."
"What's it for?"
"If you can get a picture of one of the birds, we can stop the pancake people from bulldozing that lot."
"Aw, you're full of it," the boy said.
"Honest," Roy said. "I looked it up on the Internet. Those owls are protected-it's totally against the law to mess with the burrows unless you've got a special permit, and Mother Paula's permit file is missing from City Hall. What does that tell you?"
Mullet Fingers fingered the camera skeptically. "Pretty fancy," he said, "but it's too late for fancy, Tex. Now it's time for hardball."
"No, wait. If we give them proof, then they've got to shut down the project," Roy persisted. "All we need is one lousy picture of one little owl-"
"You better take off," the boy said. "I got stuff to do."
"But you can't fight the pancake people all by yourself. No way. I'm not leaving until you change your mind."
"I said, Get outta here!" Mullet Fingers seized Roy by one arm, spun him clockwise, and launched him out of the ice-cream truck.
Roy landed on all fours in the hot gravel. He was slightly stunned; he'd forgotten how strong the kid was.
"I already caused enough trouble for you and my sister. This is my war from now on." Beatrice's stepbrother stood defiantly in the doorway of the truck, his cheeks flushed and his eyes blazing. In his right hand was Mrs. Eberhardt's digital camera.
Roy pointed and said, "You keep it for now."
"Get real. I'll never figure out how to use one a these stupid things."
"Let me show you-"
"Nah," said the boy, shaking his head. "You go on back to school. I got work to do."
Roy stood up and brushed the gravel off his pants. He had a hot lump in his throat, but he was determined not to cry.
"You done enough already," the running boy told him, "more than I had a right to expect."
There were about a million things Roy wanted to say, but the only words he choked out were: "Good luck tomorrow."
Mullet Fingers winked and gave him a thumbs-up.
"Bye, Roy," he said.
The newspaper contained several items that would have been excellent for current events.
A missing Green Beret soldier had been rescued in the mountains of Pakistan. A doctor in Boston had invented a new drug to treat leukemia. And in Naples, Florida, a county commissioner had been arrested for taking a $5,000 bribe from the developer of a putt-putt golf course.
When Roy's turn came to address Mr. Ryan's class, he didn't use any of those articles for his topic. Instead he held up the newspaper and pointed to the torn page where the Mother Paula's advertisement had been.
"Most everybody here likes pancakes," Roy began. "I know I sure do. And when I first heard that a new Mother Paula's was going to open here in Coconut Cove, I thought that was pretty cool."
Several kids nodded and smiled. One girl pretended to rub her tummy hungrily.
"Even when I found out where they're going to build it-that big empty lot at the corner of Woodbury and East Oriole-I didn't see anything wrong with the idea," Roy said. "Then one day a friend of mine took me out there and showed me something that changed my mind totally."
Now the other students stopped talking among themselves and paid attention. They'd never heard the new kid say so much.
"It was an owl," Roy went on, "about this tall."
He held up two fingers, one eight or nine inches above the other, to show them. "When my family lived out West we saw plenty of owls, but never one this small. And he wasn't a baby, either, he was full grown! He was so straight and serious, he looked like a little toy professor."
The class laughed.
"They're called 'burrowing' owls because they actually live underground," Roy continued, "in old holes made by tortoises and armadillos. Turns out that a couple of owl families hang out on that land at Woodbury and East Oriole. They made their nests in the dens and that's where they raise their babies."
Some of the kids shifted uneasily. A few began whispering in worried tones and some looked at Mr. Ryan, who sat thoughtfully at his desk, chin propped in his hands.
"Roy," he said gently, "this is an excellent subject for biology or social studies, but perhaps not for current events."
"Oh, it's definitely a current event," Roy countered. "It's happening tomorrow at noon, Mr. Ryan."
"What is?"
"They're going to start bulldozing to make way for the pancake house. It's like a big party or something," Roy said. "The lady who plays Mother Paula on TV is going to be there. The mayor, too. That's what the paper said."
A red-haired girl in the front row raised her hand. "Didn't the paper say anything about the owls?"
"No. Not a word," Roy said.
"So what's gonna happen to 'em?" called a freckle-faced boy from the back of the classroom.
"I'll tell you what's going to happen." Roy looked at Mr. Ryan. "The machines are going to bury all those burrows, and everything inside."
"No way!" the red-haired girl cried, and the class erupted in agitated conversation until Mr. Ryan asked everyone to please be quiet and let Roy finish.
"The grown-up owls might try to fly away," Roy said, "or they might just stay in the dens to protect their babies."
"But they'll die!" the freckle-faced kid shouted.
"How can the pancake people get away with this?" demanded another.
"I don't know," Roy said, "but it's not legal, and it's not right."
Here Mr. Ryan interrupted firmly. "Hold on, Roy, what do you mean it's 'not legal'? You need to be careful when you're making those kinds of serious allegations."
Excitedly Roy explained that the burrowing owls were protected by state and federal laws, and that it was illegal to harm the birds or disturb active burrows without getting special government permits.
"All right. Fine," said Mr. Ryan, "but what does the pancake company have to say about this? I'm sure they got the proper permission-"
"The file is missing," Roy cut in, "and the foreman tried to tell me there weren't any owls on the property, not a single one. Which is a lie."
The class started buzzing again.
"So tomorrow at lunch," Roy continued, "I'm going out there to… well, just because I want the Mother Paula's people to know that somebody in Coconut Cove cares about those birds."
Mr. Ryan cleared his throat. "This is a sticky situation, Roy. I know how upset and frustrated you must feel, but I've got to remind you that students aren't supposed to leave school property."
"Then I'll get a note from my parents," Roy said.
The teacher smiled. "That would be the way to do it." The class was expecting him to say more, but he didn't.
"Look," said Roy, "every day we've been reading about regular people, ordinary Americans who made history 'cause they got up and fought for something they believed in. Okay, I know we're just talking about a few puny little owls, and I know everybody is crazy about Mother Paula's pancakes, but what's happening out there is just plain wrong. So wrong."
Roy's throat was as dry as prairie dust, and his neck felt hot.
"Anyway," he muttered, "it's tomorrow at noon."
Then he sat down.
The classroom fell quiet, a long heavy silence that roared in Roy's ears like a train.
NINETEEN
"I'm worried about the owls," Officer Delinko told Curly.
"What owls?"
Darkness had fallen on the construction site and swallows were swooping back and forth, chasing mosquitoes. Tomorrow was the big day.
"Come on, I saw 'em with my own eyes," the patrolman said. "Isn't there a way to, like, move 'em someplace safe?"