It looks like we have all the elements in place, right?  We have a setting, we have characters, we have action.  But there's one more vital part that will appear in this chapter: the problem.

The problem has already been hinted at: Besides the normal difficulties of growing up, Roy Ray has to deal with being a mutant.  And wings aren't that much fun if you don't know how to use them.  We already have an idea how his parents and neighbors are dealing with it.  The problem in this chapter becomes, how will Roy Ray deal with it?

What do you make of the way Roy Ray is handling his central problem?  Does it seem like an ordinary boy in his situation would react this way?  Do you have any sympathy for him?  Give me your thoughts here.

Oh, and a heads-up: four important characters will appear in this chapter.  Two may be obvious, two are not.  Can you guess?

Another heads-up: A theme is beginning to emerge.  A theme is idea that keeps reappearing.  It's no accident--the author includes themes for a reason--or maybe just for fun.  I've hinted at this theme  already: "Urban Legends."  These are stories that sound true but aren't--which doesn't keep them from getting passed along like they're true. Did you hear about the lady who put her cat in the microwave to dry it out?  If not, you've probably heard another one.  More about urban legends later . .  .

Chapter 2

GOING TO THE BAD

For some reason (wink, wink) Roy Ray was always chosen to play the Angel Gabriel in the Christmas pageant at church.  In a white robe and sparkly halo, his appearance always fetched a gasp of wonder from the audience, so that no one heard his opening "Fear Not!" (which often came out squeaky anyway).  Everyone agreed he was the closest thing to a real angel most would see in this life.

            Too bad--they also agreed--he didn't act much like one.

            Until the age of five or so, he was no more bratty than most kids.  That's because, in spite of the wings, he could only do the same things they did: kick, bite, hit, and throw himself on the floor screaming.  But when other forms of birdiness developed, like the shape of his chest and length of his feet--not to mention a double-dose of energy--one might say he began to act out.

            "It's hard for him, being so different from other boys," explained his mother to a neighbor who called about Roy Ray dive-bombing her dachshund with eggs.

            "So? You think it's easy growing claws and feathers?" demanded Mr. Rappaport, of the local cop who'd caught Roy Ray on top of a telephone pole with a pair of wire clippers.

            "The boy is a perfect example of substitutionary compensation," gushed Aunt Flavia to her Thursday evening Star-gazers' club, as a way of explaining the blue heron incident, the stink bomb incident, and the Mexican jumping-bean incident.  But she wasn't so philosophical a year later, after the Moon-over-Maxwell incident. 

That one occurred during the annual Copernicus Days, when the Aunts opened the house and observatory for tours.  Besides curious locals, Aunt Flavia welcomed the Tobias twins all the way from Australia.  Bob and Maxwell had been guests of honor for as long as Roy Ray could remember; they always stayed for a week and by the time they departed, Flavia was usually engaged to one of them.  She sometimes got a little confused as to which one but it didn't matter because she would break off the engagement within a month--being wed, as she put it, to the mysteries of the midnight sky.

The year he turned ten, Roy Ray climbed unseen to the roof of the observatory, and when Maxwell (or Bob) was guest-lecturing about the moons of Jupiter, he fluttered down and mooned the audience.  While old ladies twittered and his mother died of shame, he'd leapt across the roof of the castle and jumped off a stone gargoyle's head.  They (meaning the grownups) caught him later.  They always did.

"You're on notice, young man," Aunt Agnes told him, while he was paying his debt to society by helping her in the garden.  "Straighten up and fly right--you're making folks madder than a rained-out pyromaniacs convention." 

"I can't even fly," Roy Ray grumbled while picking leaves off a lilac bush.  "All I can do is flap."

Aunt Ag sat on the bench by the kitchen door to pull on her gardening galoshes.  "Stop defoliating that bush, please.  You've got the potential to fly."

"The what?"

"The potential.  You've got what it takes if you apply yourself."

"Oh."  Oh, that.  Roy Ray had hoped "potential" might be something interesting, like superhero powers.  Not the same thing your teachers told you to work up to every single day.

"But," Aunt Ag continued, "Even if you have the equipment, you still need to learn how to use it."  She sneezed, quickly pulling a hanky out of the cuff in her sleeve.  "You've slacked off on the preening again, haven't you?  I recommend you find a flight coach."

"A flight coach?  You mean for birds?  Birds don't need coaches to fly, they already know how.  Or if their parents teach 'em, you think I could get a bird mom or dad to teach me?  How would I--"

"Not for birds.  For flying mammals, like Bat Boy here."  She picked up the newspaper at the end of the bench, where a weasely human face with fangs screamed out under the headline: BAT BOY ADVISES NASA!

"Dad thinks Bat Boy's an urban legend."

"Humph," she humphed.  "Let's suppose for a minute he's not.  If there is a Bat Boy advising NASA, stands to reason he didn't get his smarts on his own.  Think about it, while you help me pick beans."

Picking beans does help you think, even if your primaries keep getting tangled up between the rows.  Roy Ray tended to think out loud: "How do we find a coach?  Could we advertise, like in the Global Scoop?  Or maybe--this would be really cool--we could find one that coaches flight and baseball.  Like batting--I'm a great catcher but my batting's not too good.  Do you think Aunt Flavia could consult her Nostradamus and find a flight and batting coach?"

"My stars and bars, Roy Ray, your mouth could run the Red Sox.  Between you and me, Flavia can't prognosticate what we're having for dinner tonight.  And Nostradamus was an old blowhard--that's also between you and me.  Now look at all these beans you missed while you were yammering on."

"Um."  Roy Ray concentrated on picking beans for a minute, also eating a few.  "See, I want to be a baseball player when I grow up.  I'm not the only one thinks I'm a great catcher.  Dad says so, too.  And Mr. Moss, you know, the P. E. teacher?  He says we can be anything we want to be but I'm not sure about that.  I mean, if I wanted to be a Sumo wrestler I might not ever be able to bulk up like them.  But baseball's different.  All kinda guys play baseball--short, skinny, tall, fat.  Ordinary guys like me, except extra-good at throwing or batting.  I think--what do you think?"

Aunt Agnes set down her garden basket and gazed at him so long he got a little squirmy.  "Let's face some facts, Roy Ray.  You're not really an ordinary guy, are you?  There are things you can do that nobody else can.  But because of that, there are things you can't do.  Now, people who ignore the obvious make me madder than a bee in a bottle.  You might not be cut out for a baseball player.  But . . ."  Here, she gazed even harder.  "You can bet your last shirt button there's something you're cut out for.  You'll know in time."

This wasn't what he wanted to hear.

When Roy Ray turned eleven, his dad talked to the little league coach about letting him play outfield with the Mile-High Paint Cyclones.  "I don't know," Coach said slowly, as the boy stood by scratching his armpit with his left foot.  "Don't you think those things might . . . get in the way?"

"What things?" asked Mr. Rappaport, ignoring the obvious.

           Coach sighed.  "I guess we can give it a shot."

           Roy Ray had his strong points, like quickness and agility, not to mention a magnetic glove that called out "Kiss me, baby!" to any passing ball.  However, there was a potential problem in his style, which became an actual problem in their first exhibition game with the rival home team, the Stuff-For-Less Choppers. 

The problems started early in the second inning, when the Choppers noticed Roy Ray leaving the ground for longer than normal to leap or dive after a ball.  The loudest complaints came from Billy Gecko, the Chopper's star batter, whom Roy Ray caught out at the bottom of the fourth. 

But it was in the eighth inning that disaster struck.  Billy was up to bat again and the score was tied with bases loaded.  After two strikes and one ball, Billy's bat cracked and sent the ball sailing over the shortstop and second base, straight at Roy Ray but impossibly high.  At least everybody thought so, until he caught it.  The problem was, he caught it while ten feet in the air.

He wasn't even aware of what he'd done until the field erupted.  Chopper fans yelled their outrage and Cyclone fans yelled right back, but clearly, Roy Ray's catch had to be disqualified.  The Cyclones gained three points to win the game, and Coach regretfully informed Mr. Rappaport it wasn't going to work: "It'll happen again; poor kid can't help it.  The Cyclones are complaining about that bouncy way he runs bases, too."  So, with apologies, Roy Ray got kicked off the team.

A would-be baseball player whose dreams have been dashed is not a pretty sight, and he broke a few things on purpose after that.  But a couple of months later things started to look up, as it were.

He was pedaling madly down Suicide Hill on his bike.  Wings are not an advantage on a bike, because they present more surface area for the wind to push against.  And lately Roy Ray's wings had taken a growth spurt, making them even more awkward than usual.  On this particular day he was struggling with a playful crosswind.  One wingtip flashed out, and as soon as he tucked it in the other wagged loose.  He'd just worked up to a decent speed when they both shot out to the sides like glider wings.  Before he could do anything about it, he felt himself rising--and rising, until he was a good twelve feet above his bike, watching it wobble and fall into the ditch.

Whoo-hoo!  Sometimes it wasn't so bad, this freaky-appendage thing.  He sailed over a pinion grove, the railroad track and a barn before seriously losing altitude and coming down in a goat pen, where he got butted.  But the trip was worth a few butts.

After that, he became an expert at gliding off Suicide Hill and Stoplight Hill and every other hill in town with a road or path going down it.  His bike took a beating--and so did Roy Ray, because of the unpredictable high-plains wind.  A month of crashes followed: into a pine tree and a garage door, and one really scary incident when an updraft flipped him over in a beet field and he barely managed to get unflipped before slamming the ground.  His mother had a fit and his dad locked the bike up, telling Roy Ray he could have it back when he'd learned not to be stupid.

Before losing the bike, though, he used it to score one on Billy Gecko.  Billy was now thirteen and better known as Bill the Lizard, leader of a gang called the South Side Punks.  Some said his bad turn was due to grief at losing his parents: both school bus drivers, who had vanished on Cruikshank Pass while taking the buses to their annual maintenance tune-up. 

But there was no question that as a gang leader he'd found his calling; not only did he have a mean streak wider than his back, he was also big and tough and sported an eye patch.  Yes--Billy was the boy who really had "put an eye out with that thing," though nobody could remember exactly what "that thing" was. 

The Punks, when they weren't terrorizing little kids or hot-wiring cars, hung out at the elementary school playground smoking stolen cigarettes.  They also liked to throw rocks and other guided missiles at Roy Ray when he was in the air.  Or on the ground--whatever.  They followed the bully code of picking on kids smaller than they, and with or without wings, Roy Ray qualified.  So he cooked up a little surprise for them based on his new-found ability to glide.

One lovely Saturday in early May he loaded up his backpack (specially altered by his mom to accommodate the you-know-whats) and pedaled out to the elementary school that lay at the bottom of Stoplight Hill on the edge of town. 

Sure enough, the Punks were hanging out on the playground outside the cafeteria, shooting baskets with an old soccer ball.  There were only four of them today, though the gang never numbered more than six.

Roy Ray pulled a tub of Field Fresh large-curd cottage cheese out of his backpack.  Actually, it wasn't so fresh, and he'd doctored it up a little besides.  Stuffing it down the front of his t-shirt, he took a deep breath and pushed off down the hill.  Once up to speed, he spread like a glider and rose like a kite. 

The Punks were too involved in their match-up to notice anything until he was right over them, dumping big dollops of cottage cheese streaked with black ink.  He got each one, though Calvin he almost missed and Mike got most of his on the shoulder.  But Weevil got it right on the head, and Bill was best of all, because he was looking up with his mouth open when the cottage cheese hit.

With the black ink and a little sour milk to thin it out, it appeared to be what comes out the other end of a bird.  Roy Ray managed to curve around and land on the roof, where he looked down on four furious Punks, yelling at him.  When Bill shouted, "You're dead meat when you come down, Bird Boy!" Roy Ray recognized the essential flaw in his plan. 

He had to come down sometime, and they'd be waiting for him.

Prospects for escape did not look good.  From the roof, with a good tailwind, he could only glide as far as the maintenance garage on the other side of the playground.  From there he might be able to get to that oak tree over there by the nearest house--but all of his hops could only take him to lower and lower perches until he landed on terra firma, where wings were more hindrance than help.

"How long you want to wait, Bird Boy?" Weevil yelled, combing cottage cheese out of his hair (which only made a bigger mess).  "You want we should pulverize you now or later?"

"Wait a minute," Bill said.  "I've got an idea.  Maybe we can make a deal.  You interested, Rappaport?"

Two weeks later, Roy Ray was on the roof of the City Hall on Main Street with another tub of large-curd thinned with sour milk and black ink.  Bill was across the street on top of Rose's Antiques and the rest of the gang were spread out among the crowd gathered to watch the Memorial Day parade. 

The saddle clubs and church floats had already passed and the high school band was approaching, followed by the float bearing the Prom Queen and her two attendants.  When the tubas had turned the corner of Main and Maple and the float was just about to, Roy Ray swooped off the roof.

Splat!  A big dollop of cottage cheese hit the front of the prom queen's satin gown.  Of the attendants, Christie Pease got it on her head, while the rest went into Patty Applegate's lap.  All three girls went ballistic and brought the parade to a shrieking stop. 

Once again, Roy Ray understood the flaws in the plan after it was too late.  As soon as he landed safely on Rose's roof, Bill disappeared and it didn't matter how much Roy Ray protested the prank was not his idea.  Bill was nowhere to be found, whereas Roy Ray was easily found and hard to mistake.

He also felt a little bad about embarrassing Patty Applegate, who'd always been nice to him, but felt even worse when his Dad received the cleaning bill for three satin gowns.  Roy Ray was thinking he should have declined the Lizard's proposal and taken his lumps from the Punks, but then Bill himself sent him a note: "You passed the test.  We think your punks materiel."  Over the two weeks he was grounded--his parents never seemed to realize the irony of that word in his case--Roy Ray had plenty of time to think about the offer.

This was how things stood at the beginning of the summer: parents despairing of him, aunts disappointed in him, little brother adoring him, other kids fearing him, neighbors shaking their heads over him, and bad company looking to recruit him.  Taking the long view, Roy Ray's potential seemed to be unraveling, until ten days after the Memorial Day parade. 

That was the morning Mrs. Rappaport answered a knock at the door and found herself looking directly into the dark snappy eyes of a short-legged, barrel-chested man of uncertain age.  "Mrs. Rappaport, I presume?" asked he, and immediately went on, in an accent that sounded English, Australian or South African:  "Yes, of course.  My salutations: the name is E. Ponymous Godwit."

Click here for Chapter Three