From Ant to Eagle by Alex Lyttle
In memory of my friend, Darren Bishop.
CHAPTER 1
MY NAME IS CALVIN SINCLAIR, I’M ELEVEN YEARS OLD, AND THIS is a story about my brother.
I wanted to start at the beginning—the day Sammy was born—but I can’t remember the day he was born and anyway, I can’t start there.
There’s only one place I can.
Last summer.
Before the Ontario heat began to smoulder, before the corn was much higher than my knees, before I’d ever met a girl named Aleta Alvarado.
Before everything fell apart.
Let me get two things straight before I begin: First—I loved my brother. I loved him more than I knew and more than I knew how to show. Sure, I picked on him, manipulated him, excluded him, neglected him, but deep down, I loved him. It’s hard to explain, so I’ll just leave it at that.
Second—and this is the hardest part to write, but it needs to be said.
I’m the one who killed Sammy.
CHAPTER 2
OUR FAMILY HAD MOVED TWO YEARS BEFORE TO HUXBURY, A small town an hour away from London, Ontario. I’m always sure to add ‘Ontario’ because if I only say London everyone assumes England.
That’s not quite right; we didn’t move to Huxbury.
We moved to the outskirts of Huxbury.
Even the small town of Huxbury with its single strip of rundown stores wasn’t rustic enough for my parents. No, they were set on moving us straight to the boonies.
So I was plucked from my modern home in the middle of London and plopped down in an old, yellow-brick farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. No chance for discussion or argument, just, “Pack your stuff, Cal, we’re moving to the middle of nowhere.”
My street, my school, my friends—all gone. The only kid within a ten-kilometre radius was my brother, Sammy, and he was only six.
Worse, Sammy actually seemed to like the country.
He’d say things like, “Dad says the fresh air is good for us,” or “Mom says we’re lucky because the country is the most beautifulest place on earth.”
Blah, blah, blah.
To me, beautiful would have been movie theatres and fast food, not endless cornfields and dirt roads. We didn’t even have a TV!
Yep, life in the country was the crust. A twenty-four hour babysitting job that didn’t pay. So I found ways to make life a little more entertaining.
Take, for example, Operation Bee Elimination.
It was a hot July day and I watched as my younger brother trudged through the garden by the side of our house dressed in his winter gear: snow pants, jacket, goggles, knit facemask, gloves, hat. I was sweating just watching.
“Cal, are you sure we shouldn’t wait for Mom and Dad to get home? Maybe they know how to get rid of the bees.”
Sammy was right—they probably did know. But that wasn’t fun. And besides, I wasn’t putting myself in any danger.
“Stop worrying! You’ve got your Bee Proof Suit on!” I yelled back. “Mom and Dad will be happy we got rid of the hive.”
Sammy didn’t look very convinced. His big, brown eyes were nervous and pleading beneath his goggles. He wanted me to tell him the mission was over. He wanted me to tell him we could wait. Instead I pointed at the wall where the hive was and gave a quick nod.
His shoulders slumped and he turned back around. “Okay, but I still don’t get why you don’t have to help.”
“I am helping, dummy. I’m going to wait inside the screen door, ready to open it when you come running so that it’s a quick get-away.”
Sammy stopped arguing and continued to wade into Mom’s flower garden by the side of the house.
The wasps had been bad that summer—really bad—so we’d got it in our heads to follow one long enough to find the nest. A small hole in the foundation of our old farmhouse must have been the entrance to a massive hive because wasps were constantly coming in and out. Mom and Dad had driven into the city for the day so we’d taken it upon ourselves to get rid of the nest.
“Okay, you got the bee spray?” I asked.
Sammy held up the can of WD40 we’d found in the garage. It had a small, straw-like tube at the end that was perfect for spraying into the hole. Sure, it was just oil, I knew that, but it had to do something.
“All right, commence Operation Bee Elimination,” I yelled in my deepest, most serious voice.
“Okay, here goes, I guess,” Sammy replied.
At first things went pretty smoothly. He sprayed the hole for at least a minute before the initial wave of wasps hit.
I saw him take a hesitant step back.
“Get in there, they can’t sting you!” I yelled.
“These goggles are foggy, I can’t see!”
“Keep spraying!”
If there’s one skill I was blessed with, it was getting my brother to do anything. He stepped back into the cloud of wasps and continued spraying. Soon the buzzing noise was so loud I could hear it from where I stood, twenty feet away. Sammy kept spraying for a few seconds before—
“Oww! They’re stinging me!” His shrill voice pierced the hum of the wasps.
My heart jumped.
Sammy never cried unless he was actually hurt.
He dropped the can and bolted toward the screen door.