A little bird tweeting in the window at the top of the large Sycamore tree woke Speed Bump from a restless sleep.
He took off the headphones he wore to bed every night (he always fell asleep listening to his favorite music), let out a loud yawn, scratched his tail feathers, and walked to the window.
His best friend, Slingshot, was already up, slingshotting berries at squirrels. The big rubber band he’d hooked around two tree branches made a loud kaboing sound every time he fired another berry.
Did you see the look on that squirrel’s face? That berry got him right in the derrière.”
Speed Bump yawned. “In the what?” he asked, rubbing his sleepy eyes.
“Derrière. That’s French for ‘behind.’”
Slingshot had started using French words after he got lost flying south last winter.
He had ended up in New Orleans, where he met a French Hen he thought was the most beautiful bird in the world. Now he was practicing his French so he could impress her next winter.
Slingshot put down the rubber band, winked at Speed Bump, and yelled to the squirrel, “Sorry, little buddy!”
He turned back to his friend. “You had that same nightmare again, didn’t you?”
“Yeah … Wait. How did you know?”
“A little bird told me—well, tweeted me. Plus you’ve got bad nest-head.”
Speed Bump sighed and pulled some twigs from his head feathers. He hated that he flew so slowly. He hated that he had such a hard time waking up in the morning.
He hated that Early Bird always got the worm before he could himself. And the fact that Early Bird was his brother … Well, that just made it even worse.
“Speedy, you worry too much. Who cares if Early Bird always gets the worm?” Slingshot said. “There’s a lot of other stuff we can eat. Berries and seeds and nuts and those delicious little crunchy bugs that wiggle in your mouth … Mmmm, delicious little crunchy bugs … How I love them.”
Slingshot drooled a little bit, and a familiar, faraway look came over his eyes.
“Yeah, but he’s not your brother,” Speed Bump said. “And besides, seeds and nuts are boring, and I don’t like those crunchy bugs. They’re all dry and sour, and those scratchy legs get stuck in my throat. Gack.”
“Scratchy legs … Mmmm. Hey, you know what my grandma says about you?”
“Your grandma says things about me?”
Speed Bump rolled his eyes. He couldn’t fly any faster.
He’d tried every way he could think of to get up earlier and beat his brother to the worm. But nothing ever worked.
First he’d stayed up all night, but by dawn he was so tired that he started hallucinating.
Then he’d asked Slingshot to wake him early, but he always slept right through the commotion.
One time he even drank coffee.
But that stuff only made him hyper, and then he felt sick and needed to lie down.
It was hopeless. Speed Bump couldn’t fly fast, and he couldn’t wake up early. He would never beat Early Bird to the delicious worm. He was destined to eat nuts and berries and seeds for the rest of his life.
Speed Bump sighed. “All right. Forget it. Let’s go do something fun.”
“That’s the spirit, mon ami!” said Slingshot. “I know just the thing that’ll cheer you up!”
“What?”
Slingshot popped a berry into his mouth and tried unsuccessfully to wipe off the berry mustache. “Let’s go fly above people, and … well … let’s just say I’ve eaten a lot of berries this morning, and I really need to go to the … you know, GO!”
“Do you mean what I think you mean?” Speed Bump asked.
“Oh yeah. TARGET PRACTICE!”
“All right! Dibs on the first one we see!” Speed Bump yelled.
