Seventh grader Eddie is determined honor his father’s legacy and win the school science fair in this heartfelt and funny book that School Library Journal says is “perfect for middle school students looking for realism.” Eddie learned everything there is to know about birding from his dad, including the legend of the Golden Eagle, which Dad claimed he saw once down near Miss Dorothy’s pond. According to his dad, the Golden Eagle had wings wider than a creek and talons the size of bulldozer claws. But when Eddie was in sixth grade, Dad “flew away” for good, leaving Eddie on his own to await the return of the elusive raptor. Now Eddie is starting seventh grade and trying to impress Gabriella, the new girl in town. The annual seventh grade Science Symposium (which Dad famously won) is looming, and Eddie is determined to claim the blue ribbon for himself. With Mr. Dover, the science teacher who was Dad’s birding rival, seemingly against him, and with Mouton, the class bully, making his life miserable on all fronts, Eddie is determined to overcome everything and live up to Dad’s memory. Can Eddie soar and make his dream take flight? Tracy Edward Wymer grew up in Missouri and Indiana. He spent most of his childhood riding his bike, playing neighborhood Wiffle ball games, and reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory over and over again. He is the author of Soar and The Color of Bones , and he is part of the anthology Been There, Done That: Writing Stories from Real Life . When not plowing through stacks of books on his nightstand, he likes to run, write, look for birds, and root for the Kansas City Royals. A long-time educator, Tracy lives with his family in Los Angeles. Soar Searching for Gold I’m looking for a bird, but not just any old bird. I’m looking for Dad’s golden eagle. And I’m not stopping until I find it. Dad said it was the most magnificent, most spectacular bird he’d ever seen, and that’s saying something, because Dad had seen more birds than John Audubon himself. And if you don’t know who John Audubon was, he was like the Beatles of birding. Yeah, he was that famous. This golden eagle’s wings were wider than the creek behind our house, and its talons were the size of bulldozer claws. Dad saw the golden eagle swoop down near Miss Dorothy’s pond and snatch a rabbit the size of a lawn mower. The most unique thing about the golden eagle was that it had a gray spot on its wing. Dad called it a birthmark. A birthmark! Can you believe birds have birthmarks? Dad told everyone about the golden eagle, including his friends in his local birding group. He wasn’t expecting to see such a spectacular bird, so he didn’t have a camera with him. And without a picture, no one believed him. But Dad stood by his golden eagle story. After a while his friends said they were sick of his lies and told him to take his stories elsewhere. They even voted him out of their birding group. So much for being “professional” friends. The rumors got so bad that other birding groups wanted nothing to do with him. They thought the golden eagle (and Dad) was a big joke. Still, Dad never gave up. We went looking for the golden eagle at least once a month. He said that seeing a bird that magnificent was the ultimate once-in-a-lifetime sighting, but I hadn’t used my once-in-a-lifetime card yet, so there was a chance we could see it. He promised it would eventually come back, and I’m going to be here when it happens. But since Dad’s no longer here to defend his story, finding that golden eagle and restoring his reputation depends on one person. Me. So here I am—just me, my bike, my binoculars, and my backpack—on the very last day of summer vacation, the day before seventh grade begins, looking for that golden eagle at Miss Dorothy’s place, which sits at the far end of my neighborhood. I walk around Miss Dorothy’s pond while twigs crunch under my shoes. The late afternoon sun cooks the black water, and the smell of algae and dead fish slaps me in the face. I’ve been here a thousand times, and the smell is so bad that I still have to cover my nose with my T-shirt. The end of summer is the worst, because on hot and humid days like today, the stench burns your nose hairs and sticks to your clothes. High up in an oak tree, a house finch lets out a long, complicated warble that ends in a low-pitched slur. Then a different call—cak-cak-cak—overtakes the singsongy chatter and echoes through the trees. It’s Coop. She was born twelve years ago, the same year as me, which is pretty old for a Cooper’s hawk. She wears speckled plumage like a lot of ordinary hawks, but Coop is far from ordinary. First off, she’s really old. Second, she only has one eye. Dad said she lost it to a black vulture in midair. Coop won the fight, because the vulture flew away from Coop’s territory and never came back. Hawks are supposed to have better eyesight than Superman. Their eyes drive the hunt. That’s how they eat, how the