Soar by Tracy Edward Wymer Page A

up the whole backyard.
    I drop to the ground, flat on my stomach. I stay as low as possible. The same words keep replaying in my head—spies do NOT get caught—like they’re scrolling across a sign in my brain.
    My bike lies on the other side of the fence, free at last. But now I’m lying in Mouton’s backyard, waiting for Mouton to shine a light in my face and sit on me.
    I keep my eyes on the back windows, checking for signs of life. There’s a sudden movement in the bedroom.
    It’s Mouton.
    He’s facing the wall, his back to me and the window. He’s wearing an apron, tied in a knot. Because his back is to me, it’s hard to tell what he’s doing.
    The sight of Mouton in an apron makes me curious. I can’t help it. I should hop the fence and walk my bike into the night, with Gabriela walking next to me. I know that’s what I should do.
    But I have to find out why Mouton is wearing an apron.
    I crawl toward the bedroom window, my chest sliding over the wet grass. When I get to a tall patch, I get a face full of weeds and spit them out. I scoot past a second garden gnome, but this one has a missing nose.
    I keep crawling.
    The bicycle with the huge wheel and tiny wheel looms over me.
    When I make it to the window, I rise up into a crouch and peek over the windowsill, into Mouton’s bedroom.
    Large canvas paintings cover the place. They’re everywhere. Propped up on shelves, hanging on walls, stacked in corners. There are even paintings leaning against other paintings.
    There’s one painting of a little boy sitting alone on a park bench. There’s another painting of a multicolored bow tie, which looks like something Mr. Dover would wear. In the corner sits a half-finished painting of two little boys playing in a sandbox.
    Mouton takes a step back from his easel to admire the painting he’s been working on.
    It’s a hawk gliding through the air.
    It’s hard to tell from the window, but it looks like a Cooper’s hawk. The wings, body, head, and beak are exactly proportioned. The background—the blue sky and rolling hills—looks like a scene on a postcard. Everything about the painting, especially the hawk, is detailed and accurate and real.
    And then I notice something else about the painting. The hawk has one eye.
    Mouton isn’t painting some random hawk.
    He’s painting Coop!
    All this time, I thought Mouton was just an overgrown ogre who couldn’t control what came out of his mouth. But there’sa whole other side to him. Who knew that he’s probably the best artist in our entire school?
    But wait, how does Mouton know about Coop?
    Somewhat confused, I drop to my hands and knees and crawl toward the fence. Sliding over the wet grass, I move past the garden gnome. Just as I’m about to reach the fence and my bike, my knee lands on something sharp.
    I open my mouth, but stop myself from screaming.
    I roll over, holding my knee. The pain shoots from my knee to every part of me.
    I find the piece of whatever-attacked-my-kneecap and hold it up against the moonlight. It’s a rough piece of broken statue. With nostrils.
    The garden gnome’s nose.
    I stash the nose in my cross pouch. I’m keeping it for remembrance. If I get out of here alive, I’ll rub that nose every once in a while to remember what it’s like to be a hero.
    The bedroom light flicks off.
    I hobble up to both feet, throw my good leg over the fence, and fall to the other side. I lift my bike, stand it upright, and hop onto the seat. Pedaling through the grass, I fight through the pain, my good leg doingmost of the work. Finally I hit the driveway, which slopes downward, so I give my injured knee a break.
    In the front yard Gabriela peeks out from behind the oak tree.
    â€œCome on!” I wave her toward me.
    She hops onto the handlebars, just as I had planned, and we bounce away on two flat tires. My good leg does the hard