Maybe because he smelled like throw-up.
We drove home slowly. But word got around Marysville fast.
Things at Washington Irving Junior High School did not go well the next day. Every time someone looked at me, the look said I know.
In geography, I didn't draw the Chapter Review Map of Northern Africa, because I didn't read the chapter on Northern Africa. In world history, I told Mr. McElroy, "Who really cares about the creation stories of the aboriginal tribes of eastern Australia?" In English, we were still on the Introduction to Poetry Unit, and I'm not lying, if I ever meet Percy Bysshe Shelley walking down the streets of Marysville, I'm going to punch him right in the face. I cut Advanced Algebra. Coach Reed can chart his own Presidential Physical Fitness charts. And in Mr. Ferris's class, I wasn't so all-fired excited that the command ship and the lunar module of Apollo 9 had separated and flown a hundred miles apart and then come back together, just like they would for the real moon shot, which was now really going to happen, said Mr. Ferris. He put his hand on Clarence's head. It was the first time astronauts had transferred from one space vehicle to another while in space, he said.
Terrific.
The next morning, Principal Peattie was waiting for me when I got to school. He told me to come by his office after Mr. Barber's class—Mr. McElroy already knew I'd be late for world history. And I'd better not try to get out of this, he said.
Terrific.
Do you know what it feels like, reviewing North Africa's geography, which you still haven't read about, while waiting to go to the principal's office, which you'd better not try getting out of ?
You wish there was room on the moon shot.
I waited for my half hour and when I finally got into Principal Peattie's office, he looked like he wished there was room on the moon shot too. For me.
"So," he said, "you're up to your old tricks."
Lucas—the old Lucas—might have pointed out that cutting Mrs. Verne's class was a new trick, but I still get it. I didn't say anything.
"First PE, then Algebra."
"Advanced Algebra," I said.
"Not anymore," he said. "Principal Peattie does not give a student who lacks the discipline to go to assigned classes the privilege of attending advanced classes."
Did you know that the Brown Pelican's beak is about as long as its whole body? It's huge. It looks like it could open wide and fit in a whole lot. Like a principal.
"Do you understand that all actions have consequences? That's what Principal Peattie is trying to teach you here," said Principal Peattie.
The pelican is standing mostly on one leg. The other is lying like it doesn't care on the branch, like the pelican doesn't believe that actions have consequences—which he doesn't.
"You are assigned three days of After School Detention," said Principal Peattie. "Starting this afternoon. Principal Peattie will be calling your home to explain why you'll be late."
The Brown Pelican, the way he looks out at you, that eye, he knows he's...
"Are you listening to Principal Peattie?"
...noble.
Principal Peattie stood up.
"Yes," I said. "I'm listening."
"Do you want to explain to Principal Peattie why you cut Mrs. Verne's class?"
I didn't say anything.
"Douglas, is it because of your brother?"
If you wanted to draw the Brown Pelican, I'm not lying, it wouldn't be easy. There's something like nine or ten rows of feathers. Maybe eleven. Maybe twelve. And they're all shaped differently, and they all layer over each other. And the composition is fabulous. He's standing on this big old branch that's starting to decay, but it's still putting out leaves. The Brown Pelican is right in the middle of the picture, balancing on this one leg, and it doesn't seem like a body with so much beak in the front could be balanced, but it is. It looks like it should tip forward. All movement, you might remember, relies on that kind of tension. But he wasn't moving. He was balanced just right. It would take a while to figure out how Audubon did that.
Principal Peattie sat back down. "If you're not even going to look at Principal Peattie, he can't help you," he said.
I looked at him.
"My brother didn't do anything," I said.
He sighed, like it was him that was in some sort of pain. "Principal Peattie has spoken with the police about this," he said. "Your brother stole merchandise from the Tools 'n' More Hardware store. He almost certainly was the one who robbed the store last fall as well. He probably is also the one who robbed Spicer's Deli last fall."
"You don't know anything," I said.
"The sooner you face the facts—"
"Here's a fact," I said. I might have been yelling, but I'm not sure. "That bird belongs back in the book it was stolen from."
Principal Peattie looked sort of startled. He turned around to the Brown Pelican, and then he looked back at me. "That plate was a gift from the Education Committee when Principal Peattie assumed the responsibilities of being the principal of this school," he said. "It was not stolen. And Douglas, it has nothing at all to do with the problem you and Principal Peattie are talking about."
"I have an idea," I said.
Principal Peattie sighed again.
"When the police figure out who the thief really is, and it isn't my brother, then you have to give the bird back to the library."
Principal Peattie considered this for a long time. A long time. Then he nodded, like he'd decided something, and stood. "All right," he said. "All right. Principal Peattie will take a chance. He will do that. Meanwhile, you, Douglas, have to promise to attend all of your classes without missing a single one."
"And I get to stay in Advanced Algebra."
He considered this, then nodded again. "But you still have three days of After School Detention," he said.
I held my hand out.
He held his hand out.
We shook.
Over us both, the noble Brown Pelican watched, keeping his balance like it was no trouble at all.
***
I served After School Detention with Miss Cowper. She gave me three more poems by stupid Percy Bysshe Shelley that she was sure I would enjoy. "'Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert,'" she said. "'Near them, on the sand...'"
I really will punch him right in the face.
It was late in the afternoon when I finally got out of school on the third day of detention, and even though it was a pretty nice spring day still, I was a whole lot colder than I wanted to be because, if you remember, I didn't have Joe Pepitone's jacket anymore. Which is why, I think, Mr. Ballard stopped when he saw me while driving past. He leaned across the seat and rolled down his window. "Hey! My partner!" he called.
I waved.
"Get in," he said. "I'll drive you home—unless you have time for a few horseshoes."
I got in. I looked out the window. We drove a few blocks.
"Horseshoes always help me think things out," Mr. Ballard said.
Another block. The Dump came in sight.
"I guess I have time," I said.
Mr. Ballard turned toward the paper mill.
***
Mr. Ballard was keeping the horseshoes in his office until it got warmer. So we went in together and he got them from behind the door—you should have seen the orchids blooming with all that sunlight coming in—and we went down to the horseshoe pits. The ground was still pretty soggy from the winter, and the sand around the stakes was all wet through. "It'll be a practice round," said Mr. Ballard.
I threw the first shoe. Way over.
He threw the next one. It clanged the post and bounced off.
I threw the next shoe. Way over.
He threw the next one. A leaner.
And that's pretty much how it went, until it got too cold and we went back to the mill.
Here are the stats for that practice round:
Shoes way over: About fifty for me. Two for Mr. Ballard.
Shoes thrown
short: None for me. Four for Mr. Ballard.
One-pointers: Three for me. About fifty for Mr. Ballard.
Leaners: None for me. Four for Mr. Ballard, which he said was unusual.
Ringers: None for me, which he said was unusual. Twenty-three for him, which wasn't unusual.
"Did you have a good game?" said Mrs. Stenson when we brought the horseshoes back up.
"It was a practice round," Mr. Ballard said.
He went into his office and set the horseshoes behind his door. Then he came back out. I was standing by the window. All that sunshine.
Mr. Ballard stood next to me. He picked up an orchid, put it back, and chose another that was in fuller bloom. It was all purple and white and yellow, like some artist had designed an impossible bloom without worrying about composition, like he went wild and let it all go. "This is for your mother," he said, and handed it to me.
And suddenly, I felt like I was going to cry. Right there in the middle of the office of the president of Ballard Paper Mill. Just start bawling like I was four years old or something. Holding this orchid for my mother.
"It's all right," said Mr. Ballard. "Things will work out." I looked up at him. "Things always do."
I didn't want to tell him that he was wrong. I had seen the Black-Backed Gull. I didn't want him to start crying too.
"I'll drive you home," he said. "Give me a minute." He went back into his office. Mrs. Stenson smiled at me, which was probably her trying not to laugh, me standing there about to cry, holding a flower. Then Mr. Ballard came back out of his office. He handed me a jacket. "This doesn't fit me anymore," he said. "I'd be glad to have someone use it."
I took it. You won't believe what kind of jacket it was.
And no, it wasn't a Yankee jacket.
Even though a Yankee jacket would have been terrific.
It was a flight jacket. I'm not lying. A flight jacket. Dark leather. Lined on the inside with this soft flannel stuff. Deep pockets. Turned-up collar. A flight jacket. Like you'd wear if you were an astronaut on vacation walking around Marysville before you were going to blast off to the moon.
"Try it on," he said.
I did.
"It's a little big," said Mrs. Stenson.
"It's perfect," said Mr. Ballard, and he looked at me with eyes like the Brown Pelican's.
I drove home with him, wearing the flight jacket, carrying the orchid.
I don't think I need to tell you what my mother did when she saw that orchid.
But I do need to tell you what Lucas said when I told him I had a new flight jacket: "Would it fit me?"
"Not in a million years," I said.
He started to laugh. "I guess you're right," he said, and laughed some more.
You know how good it was to hear Lucas laugh?
It was even better than wearing this flight jacket, which—unless Joe Pepitone's jacket turns up—is the only thing I own that hasn't belonged to some other Swieteck before me.
On Saturday morning, Mrs. Mason said that my flight jacket looked "snazzy" and she wondered if someone who wore such a snazzy jacket would still like a chocolate doughnut or if he was too grown up for that. I said I would love a chocolate doughnut, and she gave me a glass of cold milk so I could dunk it.
Mr. Loeffler said my new flight jacket reminded him of something, and he went up into his attic so he could find it while I brought the groceries in. I waited, and when he came back, he was wearing—I'm not lying—a flight jacket! Its brown leather was all creased and soft, and it had a yellow woolly collar and yellow woolly stuff at the ends of the sleeves. "Mr. Loeffler," I said, "that's terrific!"
"Lieutenant Loeffler," he said, and pulled the jacket trim around him. "Not bad. Not bad at all after thirty-five years."
He was right. It wasn't bad at all. So I brought my feet together and my hand up, and I saluted him. Just kidding around. But you know what? He got this serious look on his face, like we weren't just kidding around in his kitchen. And he snapped his legs together and got straighter than I had ever seen him, and he whipped his arm up, and saluted back. His hands weren't shaking. Not at all. And it sort of startled me—not the salute, but because of his eyes.
I think you can probably guess what they looked like.
Ben, Polly, Joel, Davie, and Phronsie loved the flight jacket. They all wanted to try it on, and I let them, even though Joel almost disappeared in it, and Davie and Phronsie could both have worn it together and still had plenty of room.
Mrs. Windermere said my flight jacket made me look like Errol Flynn.
"Who?" I said.
"Errol Flynn. The actor. At least, he thinks it's acting."
I shook my head.
"Never mind," she said. "I've been trying to write Mr. Rochester's dialogue all day, and every time he speaks, he sounds like Errol Flynn. It's driving me crazy." She looked at the packages of groceries I was putting away. "What kind of ice cream did I order?" she said.
"Pistachio," I said.
"Pistachio?"
I took it out of the grocery bag and showed her.
"I hate pistachio," she said. "I would never have ordered pistachio. It's ... green."
"That's what Mr. Spicer packed."
Mrs. Windermere raised an eyebrow. "Skinny Delivery Boy, Mr. Spicer is not infallible."
I shrugged.
She looked at the pistachio ice cream. "Go get two spoons," she said. "And take off that jacket. I don't want to write with Errol Flynn and I don't want to eat ice cream with him either. Even if it is only pistachio."
When I got to the library that afternoon, Mr. Powell and Lil were already upstairs, and Lil had a stack of books that, she said, she got out for both of us because we were supposed to be working on a project about New Zealand for Mr. Barber and did I remember that we were partners and the project was due in two weeks?
I'm not a chump. I said I remembered.
Then Mr. Powell said I looked great in my flight jacket.
Lil said I looked great too, only the way she said it made it sound a whole lot better than the way Mr. Powell said it.
She smiled and opened up one of the books on New Zealand. You know how pretty someone can be when she opens up a book? Especially if she has brown hair the color of the pelican's feathers?
"Mr. Swieteck," said Mr. Powell, and we got to work.
***
"Balance can be achieved in two different kinds of conditions," said Mr. Powell. "Stable and unstable."
"Stable and unstable," I said.
"Let's say that you were going to draw Lil sitting by that table, working on the project that you better get going on as soon as we're done here. Let's say that we draw the table with its legs on the floor, and Lil with her feet on the floor, and maybe the drawing will be wider than it is high so we can show the whole table. That painting would be stable. Why?"
"Because nothing would look like it could fall over," I said.
"Exactly. A stable composition is fixed firmly to the ground."
"So in an unstable composition, I could have Lil floating away to New Zealand."
Lil smirked at me.
"Yes," said Mr. Powell. "What else?"
"Maybe the table could be slanted and the right legs up in the air."
"In such a painting, do you see how much more tension there would be?" said Mr. Powell. "You don't know where anything is headed."
"The Brown Pelican is stable," I said.
And after a moment, Mr. Powell said, "Yes, he is."
He is, you know. It might look like he isn't, standing mostly on this one leg on a curved branch that looks pretty rotten. But he is. He wouldn't move if a hurricane blew in. That's what makes him so noble.
I drew the Forked-Tailed Petrels again, from scratch, because that's what Mr. Powell said I needed to do. They weren't smiling. The water was going every which way beneath them, and the wind was a storm blowing so bad, they could hardly control their wings.
"You sure can't tell where they're headed," said Mr.
Powell.
And he was right.
Afterward I got to work on the New Zealand project—alone, since Lil left because she had a stomachache. But she made sure to leave all the books with bookmarks at the right places. She could hardly wait to see what I came up with, she said from the stairs.
Terrific.
The first of April was a gray and half-rainy day that still thought it was early March. After school, Lil and I walked over to the Ballard Paper Mill to bring Mr. Ballard a note from my mother about the orchid and to maybe throw a few horseshoes. You know how good a flight jacket feels on a cold day like this? You know how good it felt walking with Lil to throw horseshoes, even though it was half rainy? Even though everyone in stupid Marysville thought Christopher was...
I went into Mr. Ballard's office and he was talking with Mrs. Stenson and when he saw us he called, "My partner!" and I introduced him to Lil and they shook hands. I gave him my mother's note and he said thanks and he hoped that my mother liked the orchid. I told him that she turned it every morning in the sun so that it would grow evenly, and when she watered it, it was like she was feeding a baby. He laughed and asked if we wanted to throw some horseshoes, and Lil said we did, and I got the shoes from behind the door, and by the time I turned around Lil was picking out an orchid for herself and the sun had come out suddenly and was throwing everything it could through that window and it was all landing on Lil, and she was smiling and brushing her hair back the way she does and being kind of embarrassed because Mr. Ballard was giving her this orchid that was almost as beautiful as she was, a pale purple one with white just barely on its edges.
She looked at me and smiled, holding the orchid. "What do you think?" she said.
"Beautiful," I said.
We left the orchid and went out of the office and across the mill floor. The sun was still shining when we opened the door, and some of the people on the floor gasped when they saw the light pouring through. "Leave it open," someone said, and we did.
We went outside, and there, standing against the wall, I guess on another break, were my father and Ernie Eco.