The Boston Breakout Read online

  Eventually, the worker went over, scooped up the little bird and placed it back where it had been. He then took Sam’s hand and helped her out of the water and back up the rocks to where she could step out of the exhibit again and join her teammates.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the worker said in a rather theatrical manner, “may I present to you Mother Penguin!”

  Everyone laughed at Sam’s new name.

  “What you just saw was a baby penguin imprinting,” the worker said. “The first creature he sees, he assumes it’s his mother, and he’ll follow his mother anywhere.”

  “Where’s its real mother?” Fahd asked.

  “This egg was incubated,” the worker said. “Naturally, it’s far better to have the mother and father care for the egg until it hatches, but once in a while an egg is abandoned or, in the wild, an accident happens to one or both parents, leaving the egg to freeze in the cold. So, sometimes, the staff here have to become the orphan’s ‘mother’ for a while.

  “We release the orphans into the exhibit and they imprint on the first bird – or, in this case, young lady – they come across.”

  “So sweet,” said Sarah, sighing.

  “I love him!” Sam said, looking back at her “baby.”

  “I’m gonna hurl,” someone hissed from the back of the gathering.

  Travis didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

  With Jocelyn guiding them, the Owls walked up a wide ramp that circled like a corkscrew around the largest tank any of them had ever seen.

  “This tank is over four stories high,” Jocelyn told them. “It holds more than two hundred thousand gallons of water. That’s nearly one million, seven hundred thousand pounds pressing on the glass, about ten full-size swimming pools’ worth of water, so you can just imagine how strong it has to be to withstand that kind of pressure.”

  Nish, unable to resist, dashed from the group, leaped in the air, and butt-checked the glass as if he’d just scored one of his glory goals. He bounced off the glass like a housefly off a kitchen window. The other Owls laughed at him as he rolled partway down the ramp.

  “See what I mean?” Jocelyn told them, laughing herself. “That glass is strong as a wall.”

  They stopped at various points and watched an endless parade of sea creatures swim by: large groupers, stingrays, sand sharks, barracuda, moray eels, flashing schools of herring, traveling in perfect formation, and hundreds of exquisitely colored reef fish.

  “How many creatures are in there?” Fahd asked.

  “About six hundred,” Jocelyn answered, “but we’re never quite sure. We do a census about once a year – in fact, we’re starting it tomorrow – where divers go right into the tank and count them. Usually it’s about six hundred, give or take several dozen.”

  Jocelyn positioned herself so she could see what creatures were coming. “Get ready for a surprise,” she announced.

  “What?” several of the Owls shouted.

  Instantly, it was apparent what was coming – the largest turtle any of them had ever seen drifted by, moving slowly, deliberately, and effortlessly, almost as if it were on a space walk rather than swimming through water.

  “What is that?” Jesse asked.

  “That’s Myrtle, queen of the aquarium,” Jocelyn laughed. “She’s a green sea turtle, and she’s been here for more than fifty years. No one knows how old she really is. We weighed her once, though – and she’s almost six hundred pounds.”

  “About Nish’s size,” Sam whispered to Sarah.

  Nish shot them both a raspberry.

  “Isn’t it dangerous in there?” asked Lars. “You’ve got eels and sharks and all sorts of things.”

  Jocelyn smiled. “We send divers into the tank every day,” she said. “If you come down to the lower windows, you’ll see them playing with the sand sharks right now.”

  “Playing?” Derek said, incredulous.

  “Sure,” Jocelyn said. She led them down the ramp to where, indeed, two divers inside the tank were playing with a very large sand shark. “They all know each other. The sharks are happy to see the divers, and for a very good reason. Anyone know what that is?”

  Jeremy answered. “Food?”

  “Right. They carry down some of the food the sharks like best. So the sharks look forward to their visits.”

  “Aren’t they food themselves?” Nish asked.

  “Sand sharks are fine,” Jocelyn answered. “We keep the dangerous sea animals in separate areas. Like the poison dart frog and certain jellyfish you wouldn’t want to touch. You’ll see them in different sections of the aquarium. We even have a special tank where you can pet eels if you like.”

  “No way!” Nish shouted.

  “The eels love it,” Jocelyn answered. “They like people.”

  “Not this people, they wouldn’t,” Nish said.

  “Then the eels are just like us,” said Sam, giggling.

  The guide caught on that Nish was – well – a bit different from his teammates.

  “What’s your name?” Jocelyn asked.

  “Wayne Nishikawa,” Nish answered.

  “Call him Nish,” Sam said. “We all do.”

  “Okay, Nish,” Jocelyn continued. “Would you mind helping me out with our next exhibit?”

  “What is it?” Nish asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  The guide took the Owls over to a large open tank off to one side of the giant aquarium building. It was filled with what looked at first like floating kites.

  “There are sixteen different species of rays and sharks in this tank,” Jocelyn said. “And they all like to be petted.”

  “Petted?” several of the Screech Owls asked at once. Surely Jocelyn was pulling their legs. Petted? Sharks and rays you could pet?

  “Come over here, Nish,” Jocelyn commanded, moving to the side of the tank.

  “No way!”

  “C’mon,” she laughed. “I don’t bite.”

  “But they do!”

  “No, they won’t. Really. Come here.”

  Nish’s face twisted into that tortured tomato that the Owls knew so well. He moved reluctantly to the side of the tank. Jocelyn reached out and took his arm. He snapped his hand fearfully away from her. She reached again, and this time he let her take it.

  With Jocelyn guiding his hand, Nish was able to reach into the tank, where, to the Owls’ amazement, a number of rays had come over and seemed to be lifting their “wings” in an effort to reach back.

  Nish let Jocelyn guide his hand over the wings.

  “They’re smooth!” he said, surprised.

  “Now we’ll try touching a shark,” she said.

  “No way! I’d die first!”

  “Don’t be silly, Nish,” Jocelyn said, guiding his hand this time toward the flat head of a small shark that had twisted its way through the mass of rays. “This shark is very friendly. It’s a kind of hammerhead shark.”

  Sam and Sarah looked at each other and nodded.

  “Maybe Nish should give it a headbutt,” Sam said.

  5

  The light blinded Travis – the noise all but deafened him.

  The Screech Owls had just come out of the New England Aquarium into the brilliant sunlight of a July noon hour. The sun stabbing into Travis’s eyes caused him to blink until he could regain focus. The noise, however, remained the same: thunder-like and echoing. Made by people shouting angrily.

  There was a rally going on. The broad walkway to the aquarium was filled with two hundred or more protesters holding up placards and shaking them while several television crews filmed.

  “Free the penguins!” they shouted.

  “Close down the NEA prison!”

  “Put the scientists on display, not the sharks!”

  “Drain the tanks!”

  “Release the penguins!”

  A platform and microphone had been set up to one side. Beside the platform, the woman in the penguin costume was conferring with a couple of other prote
sters.

  “What’s this all about?” Sarah asked.

  “Animal rights protest, I suppose,” said Data. “They think zoos should be shut down and the animals released back to nature. I guess it’s the same with aquariums.”

  Men and women wearing buttons saying “Free the Penguins” were walking about the boardwalk, handing out leaflets. Nish waved them away when two of them approached the Owls, but Sam stepped forward and took one. A woman held out a leaflet in Travis’s direction; being too polite to refuse it, Travis took it, folded it carefully, and stuffed it in his back pocket.

  The woman dressed in the penguin suit was now at the microphone. Feedback screeched loudly over the speakers, and a man wearing earphones at a nearby control panel quickly turned some dials. Instantly, the area filled with the booming, echoing voice of the woman in the penguin suit.

  “We are here today in support of those in captivity!” she shouted. “We are the voice of the prisoners of the New England Aquarium. We are here to see justice served, to see those who belong to the sea returned to the sea.”

  The woman in the penguin suit went on about the rights of animals to live their lives as nature intended. She spoke about how penguins that were hatched in the aquarium were fooled into believing human beings were their parents. “How ridiculous is that?” she shouted. “How wrong is that?”

  The Owls stood there, watching and listening, Mr. D checking his watch every minute or so. It was fascinating. The Owls had never heard anything like it.

  After the penguin woman, a man talked about how chickens were raised in mass poultry farms where their captors cut off their beaks so they couldn’t peck each other to death. He talked about how geese were force-fed so that their livers swelled up, and how the bloated livers were used to create a gourmet dish called pâté. Another man talked about how cows and pigs never saw the light of day, never felt sunshine on their bodies or grass under their feet. They were kept in “animal prison cells” where food was pumped in one end and waste material pumped out the other. “Meat factories,” he called them.

  “Sick,” said Fahd.

  “What’s that got to do with the aquarium?” Sarah asked. “The animals we saw inside were wonderfully well cared for and weren’t going to be eaten by anyone – or anything, for that matter.”

  “Still,” added Sam, “it’s wrong, no matter how you look at it. What right do we have to decide the fate of others? Just because we’re humans doesn’t mean we get to do whatever we want to other animals.”

  “I’d like to eat another animal right about now,” said Nish. “Maybe some KFC without the beaks!”

  Sam turned furiously on Nish, her eyes blazing.

  “How would you like to be raised in a cage?” she shouted.

  “I have been,” Nish shot back. “It’s called school – and I’m about to break free!”

  This time it was Sam who blew a raspberry at Nish – but at the same time she was clearly starting to cry.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” Mr. D said, bringing an end to the exchange between Nish and Sam. “We’ve got a lunch to make and a game to play.”

  “What’s for lunch?” Nish asked. “I’m in the mood for seafood.”

  Travis reached out and pinched the inside of Nish’s arm. A signal for him to cool it. He was going too far.

  But it was too late. Sam was running ahead of the rest of the Owls, and Travis could tell she was truly upset.

  6

  Clang!

  “Yes!” Travis shouted to himself, the sound contained inside his face mask. He had just cranked his first shot of the warm-up off the crossbar, the puck sailing high into the wall of glass behind Jeremy Weathers’s net.

  This one was going to be different.

  The Screech Owls were again at the Wilmington arena, this time up against the Pittsburgh River Rats, a team they knew only too well. The two teams had met previously at the Peewee Winter Classic played outdoors at Heinz Field in the River Rats’ home city.

  It was the big winger on the Pittsburgh side who had drilled Travis headfirst into the boards in Game 1 of that tournament. The hit had given Travis a concussion. Travis didn’t like to remember it: the pain of the hit, the unshakable sense of being awake in a dream, the headaches, the way he had to avoid light and sound – but mostly being unable to play until cleared by the doctor. He never wished to go through an experience like that again.

  Travis scanned the opposition during their warm-up. He couldn’t see the big player who had hurt him. Sarah, it turned out, had been doing the same and also noticed the player’s absence.

  “Mr. D says that the guy felt so bad about causing the accident, he quit hockey for good,” Sarah said, as she and Travis lined up to take practice shots at Jeremy and Jenny.

  Travis could only nod. It was too emotional for him to say anything. He hated being the reason someone had given up this wonderful game. The winger hadn’t deliberately set out to hurt him.

  He changed the topic. “I can skate a lot better today,” he told Sarah.

  He could see her smile behind her face mask. “Me, too,” she said. “Feels good.”

  The Owls were not the same team that had been thrashed the day before by the Young Blackhawks. They had jump this time, and speed, and their timing was coming back fast. Travis no longer had to think about his skating. He was thinking about where he should be and what he would do when he got there. He was “thinking the game,” as Muck always said they needed to, and no longer “thinking the player” – himself.

  Lars led the Owls’ first rush against the River Rats. He flew out of his own end with the puck dancing on his stick as if it were attached by invisible strings, up to center, where he dished off to Dmitri on his right, who skated over the opposition blue line but left the puck sitting right on the line for Sarah to pick up as she came up behind him with speed.

  Sarah threw a pass over to Travis, the puck flying over the reaching sticks of the Rats’ defense, to be knocked down by Travis with a quick chop. He kicked the puck ahead to his stick blade, faked a shot at the goaltender, but instead twisted a pass back to Lars, still coming with the rush.

  Lars had an empty net to fire at.

  1–0, Owls.

  The Pittsburgh team wasn’t ready to lie down so the Owls could feel better with a comeback win. They were a good team. They had replaced the big winger with a highly skilled little guy who could outrace every Owl but Sarah and Dmitri.

  Early in the second period, the little River Rat came down Travis’s side and sent himself a perfect pass by bouncing the puck off the boards and picking it up again after he’d raced around Travis.

  Travis turned and gave chase, furious at himself for getting caught in such a predictable play, but he stood no chance of catching the little speedster.

  Up ahead he saw Nish coming cross-ice fast. Nish didn’t have the speed of Dmitri or Sarah, but in times of great need he could move quickly.

  Nish left his feet! He wasn’t falling – he was flying. He hurled himself into the air and seemed to float a moment – seemed even to turn his head in Travis’s direction and grin – before slamming down on the ice, chest and stomach first, and barreling into the path of the speedster.

  Nish swung his stick along the ice and clipped the puck off the stick of the little rusher. The River Rat tripped over Nish and crashed harmlessly into the far corner, the puck trickling in underneath him.

  The River Rats were sure the referee had called a tripping penalty. Fans in the crowd cheered, and players on the bench rapped their sticks hard on the boards to signal their approval. But the referee had called no penalty. He had lost sight of the puck and blown the whistle, as he was supposed to.

  The River Rats’ coach was screaming for an explanation.

  “The kid played the puck first,” the referee told him. “Fair and square. And then your guy fell over him on the ice. No trip. Good play.”

  Now the Owls started rapping their sticks on the boards by the bench, an act that
was instantly halted by Muck.

  “We’ll have none of that,” he said. “This is a hockey game, not a theatrical performance.”

  When play resumed, Andy took the face-off and managed to slip the puck back between his skates to Nish. Nish looked down the ice, faked a pass up to Jesse, then took off himself.

  Travis and Sarah were watching from the bench. “Let’s not have the Mario move,” Sarah said.

  Nish was at center ice, still carrying the puck. He wasn’t the fastest on the ice, but he had more determination than anyone. And when Nish decided to play, he could really play.

  Up over the blue line and he still had the puck, though three Rats were trying to check him. He stopped suddenly, slipping the puck back just as one skater flew past, then tucked it between the skates of the defenseman ahead coming straight at him.

  Nish had only one player to beat. He faked a quick shot and instead pushed the puck to the side, looping back in a curl toward the blue line, where the one remaining defender tried a poke check and fell.

  He was in free.

  “No Mario!” Sarah screamed from the bench.

  No worries. Nish came in, faked the shot on net, forehand, backhand, and then back to front. The Rats’ goaltender, trying to anticipate the shot, made the first move. The wrong move, it turned out.

  Nish very gently tucked the puck into the open net and turned to skate back.

  The River Rats and the crowd roared their disapproval. The Rats’ coach was livid. “Fatso shoulda been in the box!” he screamed at the referee. Travis was glad Muck never screamed like that. Nor would Muck insult a player, no matter how upset he might be inside.

  You could almost always predict what Muck might say or do. Nish, however, was not behaving like Nish. Where was the fist pump? Where was the slide on shin pads? Where was the leap into the air and the butt-check against the glass? (“Nish’s Ovechkin,” the kids called it.) Where was the race to the Owls’ bench to punch gloves with his teammates and soak in the praise?