Oil-Soaked Wings Page 4

  Norah nodded. “Yeah. We all wanted to come help when we saw your posts. And I was really glad to see you tagged Coastal Oil and the local news. We always try to get exposure for the events we do. It makes more people aware of what’s going on.”

  “There’s no one from Coastal Oil here now,” I said. “But a reporter, Zannie Davis, asked if she could come. I don’t see any news trucks yet, though.”

  “She might show up later. That would be really helpful,” Norah replied.

  Everyone got to work, and soon I was shoveling steadily near the tide line with a small group of volunteers, including the wavy-haired boy who’d first spoken to us. Each shovel of black sand I emptied into the garbage bag beside me, revealing white sand underneath, felt like a victory. It was like I was personally healing a tiny section of beach.

  I noticed the wavy-haired boy was struggling to tie up his garbage bag. It was so full, the flaps kept sliding out of his hands. “Hey, let me help you,” I said. I held the top steady while he tied it up.

  “Thanks.” He wiped his oily glove on the seat of his coverall and held it out. “Tom Bartel.”

  “Elsa Roth.” I shook his hand with my rubber glove, which made us both laugh.

  “How long have you been with this group?” I asked, helping him lift the heavy bag. We staggered toward the truck, where a pile was slowly building.

  “Ah … here.” He grabbed the bag from me and manhandled it on to the pile. He didn’t answer my question. Maybe he hadn’t heard me?

  “It’s really nice of your group to come out all together like this,” I said, trying again as we made our way back to the shoreline. Side by side, we started shoveling up more dirty sand.

  “Yeah. I-I mean, we … really wanted to. We feel responsible, you know?”

  I glanced over at Tom. His cheeks were pink, and he was shoveling the sand into a bag with a little more concentration than was necessary. Was I missing something?

  “Elsa! Olivia!” I looked up and saw Mr. Hauser waving me over. He was standing beside a dark-haired woman and a guy with a ball cap and a big camera on his shoulder.

  Zannie Davis! I recognized her. I’d forgotten all about the news crew.

  “Hello, girls,” Zannie greeted us as Olivia and I both trotted over. “This is quite a cleanup effort you’ve organized.” She was wearing more makeup than I’d ever seen in real life before, but I guessed that was because of the camera. “Would you mind if we asked you a few questions on tape?”

  “Sure,” I said. I tried to wipe off my rubber gloves, wondering how a white coverall shaped like a garbage bag would look on camera. I didn’t even have to look at Olivia to know that she would be trying to hide behind me. Interviews really weren’t her thing.

  The cameraman turned on his camera and adjusted it, then Zannie asked us a bunch of questions, like where we lived, how we found out about the oil spill, how Mr. Hauser was helping us, and why we decided to clean up the beach.

  “Elsa, except for one person, everyone on this beach is a kid,” Zannie said. She was using that buddy-buddy voice you hear on television. “What does it say that kids are cleaning up Coastal Oil’s mess? If you had to send a message to Coastal Oil, what would you say to them?” She positioned the microphone in front of my face.

  I leaned over and spoke carefully. I wasn’t sure if I should be talking right into the camera or not. “We want to tell Coastal Oil that people should clean up their own messes. The animals and plants were just minding their own business on this beach, and now they’re dying. Coastal Oil should be ashamed that they left the cleanup of this environmental disaster to kids.” I looked at Zannie Davis. “How was that?”

  She grinned. “Fantastic. You can look for the segment tonight on the six o’clock news and on our website. We’ll also post it to all the social media sites where we have accounts.” She frowned over my shoulder. “Is that—? Do you know that boy’s name?”

  I turned to see Tom Bartel loading another bag a few yards away. “Um, yeah. That’s Tom Bartel. I think he’s part of the Action Network.”

  The newswoman’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s a lot more than that. The Bartel family owns Coastal Oil. Tom is their only son.”

  My mouth dropped open. Olivia and I stared at each other. Someone from Coastal Oil had shown up. Just not who—or how—we expected.

  “Zannie? Can you look at this tape?” the cameraman said, and the reporter turned away.

  I nodded to Olivia. We made our way over to Tom, who was standing against the side of the truck, wiping sweat from his forehead. His face and coverall were streaked with oil and grime. I could see the fatigue on his face.

  “Why didn’t you tell us your family owns Coastal Oil?” I asked. No point in beating around the bush.

  Tom looked up, his eyes wide and startled. “I—um, sorry. Do you want me to leave?”

  “No!” Olivia said. “Don’t leave. We’re just surprised, that’s all. The reporter told us who your family is.” She paused. “If you don’t mind me asking, um, why are you here?”

  “You have to admit, it’s kind of weird,” I added, my fists on my hips. “Your family’s company clearly isn’t willing to clean up the mess they made.” I waved my hand at the contaminated beach.

  “I know.” That was all Tom said, but he looked so destroyed, standing there covered in oil, that the anger I was feeling melted out of me. “It’s my father. He thinks it’s no big deal. I’ve tried to talk to him, but he doesn’t listen. I wanted to do something. So when I saw the post, I came out.”

  “That was kind of brave,” Olivia said quietly.

  Tom shuffled his feet. “Not really. Not like what you guys have done.”

  Suddenly there was a commotion over by the trucks. We glanced over to see Zannie Davis and Mr. Hauser standing toe to toe. He wasn’t quite holding her back but almost.

  “Well, I’m going to interview him!” Zannie Davis was saying. Her words carried on the ocean breeze. “What is he doing here?”

  “Please leave him alone,” Mr. Hauser pleaded. “He’s here because he cares, no matter what his family thinks. I’ll give you whatever interview you need.”

  Eventually Zannie subsided, and we turned back to Tom.

  “I’ll talk to her,” he said. “I don’t care what my parents say.” He started to march over to the camera.

  “Wait!” I reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his coverall to stop him. “I have a better idea. Don’t make your parents mad by talking to the media. It would be way more useful if you talked to your parents about contributing money to the cleanup. Maybe once you tell them what happened today—and that the media was there—they’ll listen to you.”

  Tom listened and then nodded slowly. “OK. I’ll try again tonight. My dad will be home after eight o’clock.” He took a deep breath and looked from Olivia to me to the beach and back again. “It’s the least I can do.”

  Chapter 8

  “Mom!” I shouted as Olivia and I tumbled out of the truck back at Seaside Sanctuary. “Abby!”

  They ran out of the office, looking alarmed. “What’s wrong?” Mom called.

  “Everything’s fine, no, it’s not that,” I panted. As fast as we could, our words tumbling over each other, Olivia and I explained what we’d started calling “The Strange Appearance of Tom Bartel.”

  Mom and Abby looked at each other, listening until we were done. I could see their brows furrowed, even in the setting sun.

  “Do you think it will work?” I asked when we were finished. “If he talks to his dad again?”

  Mom sighed. “I don’t know. It does sound like he feels badly about his family’s role in the spill. And he did come to the cleanup.”

  Olivia nodded. “I don’t blame him for not wanting to brag about who his family is. I’d be ashamed to show my face if my family was Coastal Oil. I’m just grateful he came to
help anyway.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Let’s check on Pellie before it gets dark.”

  We hurried toward the bird pens and skidded to a halt at Pellie’s. The door was open, and the white curtain pushed aside. Olivia and I peeked past the curtain. The inside of the pen had a desolate look. There were no pelicans bobbing in the water, and the food dish was overturned on the floor.

  Olivia and I looked at each other. I was afraid to see the truth in her face. “Maybe they released them early,” I said hopefully.

  “Maybe,” Olivia echoed, but her voice sounded hollow.

  My stomach was heavy, like it was filled with rocks. Then footsteps crunched down the walkway, and Katie appeared. She was carrying a bucket of soapy water and a mop. She stopped when she saw us, setting the bucket down by the pen door and leaning the mop against the outside.

  I knew she was about to speak, and I knew what she was going to tell us, but I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted to press my hands over my ears and sing loudly, the way I used to when I was little.

  “Girls, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. It happened very quickly. There was nothing we could do.”

  “No, no, no!” I cried out.

  “I’m sorry,” Katie repeated. “This is always the hard part of spills. You get attached. It’s impossible not to.”

  Olivia stood at my side, taking deep, careful breaths, as if she were steadying herself. “Can we see him?” she asked faintly.

  Katie gave us a long look, then nodded slowly. “If you’re sure.”

  She went over to a wheelbarrow parked beside the pen that I hadn’t noticed earlier. It was covered with one of the white curtains that hung in front of the pen. She pulled the curtain back to reveal three dead pelicans.

  I recognized Pellie on top immediately. His bright eye was already sunken and cloudy. His cleaned feathers were in disarray, and his beak hung open. I’d never seen anything look as dead as he did.

  Olivia and I looked for a long time, not saying anything. Then I put my hand out and caressed Pellie’s beak. Olivia stroked the soft feathers on his head. Then we stood back and watched Katie replace the sheet. There was nothing else we could do.

  “There are always some like this,” Katie said softly. “They seem to be recovering, but their systems are too damaged. They can’t recover from the shock. I’ve been working these spills for years, but that part never gets any easier.”

  “He should have just died on the beach!” Olivia burst out. Her face was red and clenched. “He should have just died …” Her voice disappeared in a storm of sobs. She sank onto the ground and lowered her head into her hands.

  “That’s not true!” I knelt down, trying to see my friend’s face. “At least here he had a chance. He could be clean and swim in his pool with the others.”

  Sadness seized my heart as I spoke. It wasn’t enough. I knew that. Pellie should have lived. He’d never skim above the surface of the water now, diving for fish, bobbing on the waves.

  “We did the best we could,” I said sadly.

  “That’s right,” Katie said. She helped Olivia to her feet and put an arm around each of us. “We did. We can’t just abandon these animals, no matter how sick they are. We have to try with every single one.”

  Olivia nodded and wiped her eyes. “I know. I didn’t mean what I said about leaving him on the beach.”

  “I know you didn’t,” Katie said. “Come on, girls. Work is the best medicine. Ten birds are waiting to be washed.”

  Olivia and I looked at each other and quickened our steps up the path. Pellie was dead. Nothing could change that. But these birds weren’t. And we were going to do our best to save them.

  * * *

  “Let’s go check the KQTD website,” I said, wiping my hands on a towel. It was nine o’clock, and we were done with the birds. I was nowhere near ready for bed, though. Olivia and I hurried from the washing tent up to my room and opened my laptop.

  Olivia rapidly navigated to the news channel’s website. “Here it is!”

  We both scooted close to the screen. There was Zannie Davis with a microphone in front of her mouth. Mr. Hauser’s truck was in the background.

  “The Coastal Oil spill on Sullivan’s Island has been called the worst South Carolina environmental disaster in ten years,” Zannie said. “Three miles of beach are coated with oil. And who is cleaning it up? Area children.”

  The camera cut to a shot of all the volunteers in our white coveralls, shoveling sand into trash bags. “There’s me!” I pointed to the end. “Next to Tom.”

  “Darn, I’m over by the granola bars. I guess she didn’t film that,” Olivia said.

  Zannie Davis was still talking. “The children have just one message for Coastal Oil: Are you out there? We’re cleaning up your mess. For KQTD, I’m Zannie Davis.”

  The video ended. We sat for a minute, staring at the screen. “Well, what now?” Olivia said, just as my phone rang.

  “Elsa?” a voice said when I answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “This is Tom,” the caller said. “Tom Bartel.”

  “Oh, Tom!” I’d given him my phone number at the cleanup, but I was still a little surprised to hear from him. I hit the speaker button, so Olivia could hear too.

  “Listen, I’ve got some news.” Tom’s voice was excited, as if he couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “I talked to my dad again tonight. I told him about the cleanup and all the kids who showed up. He saw the news story, and then his work phone started just blowing up with calls! He had an emergency meeting with his board on conference call. They’re fully committing to the cleanup! There’s going to be a press conference in the morning announcing that Coastal Oil will supply one-hundred percent of the funds to remove the oil and wash the animals. Plus three hundred more volunteers!”

  “Wow! That’s—just wow!” I wished I could think of something more profound to say, but I was too happy.

  “Whoo!” Olivia did a happy dance around my room. “We did it!”

  “You really did.” I couldn’t see Tom, but I could tell he was smiling.

  “You did too, Tom,” I said. “You went to bat with us. You showed up. And together, we changed things.”

  “That’s right,” Tom said. “We did it together.”

  Epilogue

  “Wake up, honey.” Mom shook my shoulder in the darkness. I blinked up at her, then fumbled for my jeans and sweatshirt. It was one o’clock in the morning, and Olivia and I were going with Mr. Hauser to release the pelicans.

  The oil spill was over. At least, Seaside Sanctuary’s part in it was over. Coastal Oil had come through with money and volunteers, and bird-cleaning operations were being transferred to a big facility further up the coast.

  The temporary buildings at Seaside Sanctuary had been taken down. The bird pens had been dismantled and driven away in trucks. The beach—well, it was as clean as it was going to get. Not the same as it was, but better than it had been.

  But for the pelicans, the story wasn’t quite over. They had one last part to play. And so did we.

  Out in the pitch-black night, I found my way to the big van where Mr. Hauser was loading the last pelican crates. Olivia was already in the front seat, looking as sleepy as I felt.

  “Glad you girls could get up,” Mr. Hauser said, slamming the van doors and coming around to the front. “We’ve got a few hours’ drive. The pelicans need to be released early so they have plenty of time to acclimate themselves before nightfall.”

  “We’re glad to,” I managed to get out before an enormous yawn took over.

  “Hey!” a voice said. I turned and saw a tall figure emerging from the darkness.

  “Tom!” I said, recognizing him as he drew closer.

  “Room for one more?” he asked.

  “Sure!” Oliv
ia shoved over on the seat.

  Mr. Hauser grinned at us. “I didn’t think you girls would mind if our friend here joined us.”

  “Oh no, you were right!” I assured him. “Tom deserves to be here to see the release. This is as much his victory as it is ours.”

  “I thought so too,” Mr. Hauser said. He started the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot. We all waved goodbye to my parents. “Let’s get on the road.”

  * * *

  Three dark and sleepy hours later, we bumped to a halt along a lonely beach road. Jumping out, we opened the van doors and pulled out the crates, lining them up along the beach facing the ocean. The sky was dark gray in the west, but in the east, a pale pink glow was starting to spread across the horizon.

  “OK, when I say when, start opening the doors,” Mr. Hauser told us. “Just go along the row. The pelicans will come out on their own. After that, it’s up to them.” He paused for a moment. “Now!”

  Tom, Olivia, and I hurried along the row of crates, swinging the doors open. Then we stood back and watched. One by one, the pelicans waddled out, blinking in the growing light. Some stood quietly on the beach. Others waded into the surf. Then one spread his wings and flapped.

  “Look!” I cried.

  The bird flapped his wings again and then, as I held my breath, he soared up and away, skimming along the surface of gray water. Another followed and another. Soon the air in front of us was full of pelicans wheeling and flapping above the ocean.

  “They’re back!” I said. “Back where they should be.”

  “And let’s hope they can continue to fly here,” Mr. Hauser said. “Thanks to you all, they have a better chance.”

  About the Author

  Emma Carlson Berne is the author of many books for children and young adults. She loves writing about history, plants and animals, outdoor adventures, and sports. Emma lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, with her husband and three little boys. When she’s not writing, Emma likes to ride horses, hike, and read books to her sons.