From Ant to Eagle(3)

He thought for a second then agreed.

Later that afternoon, I went back to the journal and opened it. The first page read “Levels—Top Secret” in cursive writing I’d done using the ‘Easy Steps to Learning Calligraphy’ set Mom had bought me a few years before. Underneath in plain block writing I’d written, “Awarded to members of the team who demonstrate bravery, valour, honour and loyalty to the clan.”

All of the other pages contained colourful drawings of animals with a small entry below explaining what the task had been to get that Level.

I flipped to a fresh page and carefully drew a picture of a fox with pencil crayons. It took me over an hour and when I was done it looked sort of like a fox, sort of like a dog. Underneath I wrote, “For bravery demonstrated in Operation Bee Elimination. Calvin Sinclair. July 12, 1995.” Then I signed it to make it official.





CHAPTER 3

THE START OF THAT SUMMER CAME AND WENT THE SAME AS THE previous one. Sammy and I spent most of our time exploring the woods behind the house or playing in the creek that ran through it. Dad had built a fort in the low branches of a tree not far into the woods and on rainy days we’d sit inside and read.

I should rephrase that. I read. Sammy listened.

Sammy couldn’t read more than “Spot was a dog.” He was bad at reading because he never practiced like Mom said he should. Instead he’d just beg and beg and beg until I’d read one of my Goosebumps books out loud. I’d only agree because I liked watching him squirm at the scary parts. Before I’d start, I’d always make him promise not to get nightmares. He’d swear he wouldn’t, but it didn’t matter—he’d still get nightmares. In the evenings after a particularly scary chapter, I’d hear him crawl from his bottom bunk after he thought I was asleep. He’d cross the room to his dresser and fish out the stuffed alligator that he called his ‘Elligator’ from underneath. It was his comfort toy but he kept it hidden since I’d called him a baby one time during a fight.

“I’m not a baby!” he’d argued.

“Then why do you still sleep with a stuffed animal?”

The next night Elligator was gone.

He didn’t even tell Mom where it had gone when she asked—he just shrugged and said he wasn’t sure.

Really, I couldn’t have cared less if he still had a stuffed animal. I just had a bad habit of saying mean things when I was mad and Sammy had a bad habit of taking them too personally.

On the days we didn’t feel like exploring, we’d play basketball in the driveway. I had just finished grade five at Huxbury Elementary and basketball was the favourite game on the playground. Since Huxbury only went to grade six, I had aspirations of being the best kid in the school the next year. My shot was pretty good but since the driveway was uneven gravel, it was difficult to practice dribbling. Dad had promised that the following year I could join a basketball league in London and he’d drive me to all the practices and games.

Sammy was going into grade two and had basketball aspirations of his own. Bump was the popular game for the younger kids and he had hopes of one day winning—a task that would first require him to be able to throw the ball all the way to the rim. At school there were lower nets but at home, we only had a regular-height net. That summer was the first Sammy was finally able to get the ball as high as the rim. Getting it in, however, was a whole other issue.

So that’s how the summer started—a boring affair of having no one to play with but my little brother who couldn’t quite read and couldn’t quite keep up. Still, I would have gladly spent a hundred hours with Sammy for the chance to miss even one Sunday morning.

Sunday mornings meant church and church meant “Sunday Bests”—code for “most-itchy-and-uncomfortable-clothing-known-to-man.” The church itself was an old converted barn that they’d gutted and put pews in. It still smelled like the animals that had lived there and the pews were rotted and gave splinters if you slid along them too quickly.

The pastor’s name was Reverend Ramos and he had a funny way of talking. Whenever he’d say a word with an ‘R’ in it, he sounded like a pirate—or at least that’s what Sammy and I thought. Mom said it was because he was from Mexico but we preferred our pirate story. Whenever he said something funny, I’d turn to Sammy and repeat it.

“I am R-r-r-reverend R-r-r-amos,” I’d say, and Sammy would laugh.

But then Mom would tell us to be quiet and we’d have to sit for the rest of the sermon being bored.

Yep, Sundays were the worst—every Sunday that is, until the Sunday I met Aleta.

It started off like every other Sunday except that it was pouring rain.

“Psst, Sammy, you awake?” I whispered from my top bunk.

“Ugh…what?” he replied.

The grogginess in his voice told me he hadn’t been.

“Nothing, just seeing if you were awake. It’s raining.” I wanted him to be awake because I was awake.

“Oh.”

“At least it’s raining on a Sunday so we won’t be missing a good morning to play outside.”

Our conversation ended there as footsteps in the hall told us Dad was coming to wake us up. On Sundays and school days it was always a game to see how long we could stay in bed.

I heard the creaking of the door opening followed by a few seconds of silence where I did my best not to move a muscle. “Boys?” I heard Dad whisper. Then, after a few more moments of silence, “I’ve got great news. Church has been cancelled and we’re going to go to Disneyland instead.”