by Angela Ahn
We watched L.B. from the kitchen, and she yelled, “No peeking!”
This back corner of Hammy and Haji’s yard was all mine. It used to be where Hammy had a vegetable garden, but a few years ago, she said she was getting too tired to keep it up.
“Ah, I’m glad you still use the pit,” Haji said.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Sometimes kids lose interest in things after some time.”
“Don’t worry. I still love it.”
“Good.” Haji nodded.
“Haji? Um, do you think we could make some improvements?” I motioned to the pit outside.
“Sure! What do you have in mind?”
I went to my backpack and pulled out Fossil Dreams: A Young Scientist’s Essential Guide. This was my favorite book of all time. My parents bought it for me for my birthday only last year, but I had read it so much the corners were fraying. I had the page marked with a bright orange sticky note.
“I think I need one of these.” I showed him a picture of a grid that paleontologists use over an active dig. It’s useful for mapping out exactly where bones are located in the ground. He read the description carefully. There are lots of different versions, but usually they involve a wooden frame with metal wires spaced every six inches squared.
“No problem. We can do for a weekend project soon, okay?”
“Thanks, Haji.” I smiled.
“You want snack before you dig?” Hammy asked. “L.B.’s not done yet anyway.” She had taken off her scarf and cardigan. It was a warm afternoon and she opened a window.
“Always!” I answered. You don’t get to be this tall by not eating at every opportunity.
Hammy shuffled into the kitchen, opened the fridge and began to wash some fruit. She got out an old knife from her kitchen drawer and began to slice. I sat at the table and waited.
She held out a plate of cut-up fruit. Her apple slices were always perfectly even and fanned out across the plate, and instead of cantaloupe cubes, she always used a melon baller and put a toothpick in each ball. Sometimes she arranged them in a pyramid.
I grabbed a few apples and said, “Thanks!”
I chewed my fruit while I watched L.B. She was hunched over the pit, walking around it quickly and doing some final rearranging. She stood up, cocked her head to the side, and when she patted down the sand with the back of the shovel, I knew she was finished. L.B. looked up and saw me watching her. She smiled and waved.
I went to get my Field Notes and Observations journal from my backpack and said to Hammy, “I’ll be in the backyard if you need me.”
5:10 p.m.
“How was your dig?” Mom asked me when I came back inside. She was sitting next to L.B. at Haji’s computer, still in her work clothes.
“Good!” I replied. “The dust didn’t bother me today. I added a bit more water to keep the dirt wetter.” Dust usually didn’t affect me too badly, especially if I remembered to use my inhaler in the morning.
“Calcium chloride and magnesium chloride are used as commercial dust suppressants. A superior choice to water, actually, because they stay moist,” L.B. shouted from the computer. Dr. Stephanova probably taught her that.
“Probably not great to touch with my bare hands,” I retorted.
L.B. glared at me sideways before she took off her giant headphones and said, “I found something very interesting!”
“Hmm?” Mom said.
“You know how we’ve discussed a road trip as our summer holiday?” L.B. asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Did you know the Royal Tyrrell Museum offers educational programming?” L.B. asked.
The greatest dinosaur museum in Canada. I had been wanting to visit this place for years and of course I knew from their website that they offered programs, but what good does it do a kid in Vancouver when the museum is all the way over in Alberta?
“Educational?” Mom perked up.
“Yes, look here.” L.B. pointed to the screen. “A Junior Scientist Dig!” Mom concentrated on the screen. My heart started to beat faster.
“They will take you out to a real fossil site!” Mom said, turning to me with her eyes wide open.
My chest tightened at the thought of me at a real fossil site.
“Huh!” Mom leaned back in her chair and looked like she was thinking hard. “You know, your dad and I had talked about maybe driving to Banff or something for summer holidays. The museum’s in Drumheller, which is—”
“Only 251 kilometers, or approximately 156 miles, from Banff. It’s merely two and a half hours of extra driving,” explained L.B.
Mom leaned in to look at the map on L.B.’s screen. “Flip back to the museum site,” she instructed L.B., and she scanned the page again. “Peter, this program sounds absolutely perfect for you! Practical, real-life scientific inquiry!”
I leaned in to look at the screen too. Junior Scientist Dig: Hands-On Paleontology. See a real active fossil site. Dig for real fossils with paleontologists from the Royal Tyrrell Museum.
“So, Peter, should we do it? Make a vacation out of it and sign you up for this program?”
I nodded silently. My heart was pumping so hard my ribs were sore. The wobbly feeling in my legs forced me to sit down.
“Unfortunately, L.B., you aren’t old enough to join Peter,” Mom said, frowning. I tried not to smile. There was nothing unfortunate about that at all.
“That’s okay,” L.B. replied, shrugging.
“Peter, let’s sign you up! There’s only one spot left in one of the afternoon programs on July 4. We’d better grab it,” Mom said, and L.B. began typing, filling in the online form.
“Last step. Payment.” L.B. held out her hand and waited for Mom to open her wallet.
“I guess I’d better book time off work and tell your dad to do the same,” Mom said, pulling out her credit card. “We have to get some accommodations arranged too.”
“On it!” L.B. started typing furiously.
It was all coming together so quickly I almost couldn’t believe it. Me, in Drumheller…it was going to happen!
“Hammy and Haji will want to come too,” L.B. reminded Mom.
“Of course.”
“Hammy! Haji!” L.B. yelled from her seat. “We’re going on a road trip!”
They shuffled in from the kitchen. Hammy wiped her hands on a kitchen towel.
“Road trip?” Hammy asked.
“I need to check my calendar. So busy, you know,” Haji joked.
“You’re retired, Haji!” L.B. laughed. “You’ve got loads of time.”
“Okay, you just tell us when. We’ll follow.” Haji grinned.
“This will please you, Petey! You get a free subscription to their newsletter when you sign up for a program.” L.B. turned her head to look at me as she pointed at the screen.
A grin erupted on my face. My cheeks hurt, the smile was so big. I looked at Mom, L.B., Haji and Hammy, and I was just so excited I almost forgot to breathe. Even though it was still more than a month away, I just had this feeling that this was going to be the best summer of my life.
Chapter 4
ORIGIN OF THE SPECIES (L.B.)
Thursday, June 6, 11:15 a.m. (T-minus 26 days before holidays!)
Conditions: Dry, warm breeze. High cloud
Our hotel rooms were booked and the trip to Drumheller was officially on. The only problem was there were still more than three weeks of school left. Dragging myself to school each day was getting harder and harder. It is no secret that nothing useful happens in school in June. As we all sat at our desks, our restless legs kept twitching, aching to get outside. Everybody was dreaming about long, lazy summer days when parents forced kids to wear thick layers of sunscreen and everybody either smelled really good (like Hawaiian coconuts) or really bad (like a sweaty body in need of a sh
ower).
Mr. Costa didn’t get the memo. He always made us do silent reading after morning recess and today was no different in his mind. People had their books propped open, the bottom edges of the spines resting on their desks, and while it looked like people were reading, if you listened, you could tell that nobody turned any pages. I looked over at Joe. His eyes had glazed over and his book slipped out of his hand.
I was trying to focus, but it was hard even for me, and I was reading something I was interested in! The Royal Tyrrell newsletter had come yesterday and I was trying to concentrate on the article about new techniques for more accurately aging fossils, but I lost my focus and started flipping through the pages. The back page caught my eye.
IT’S CONTEST TIME!
Attention, all kids! The next quarterly newsletter will be all about kids and dinosaurs!
If you’re reading this newsletter, you are probably a dinosaur enthusiast. Show us why you love dinosaurs!
We are accepting all kinds of work: short essays, pictures, whatever you want. The only criteria? Dinosaur related—obviously!
RULES FOR SUBMISSION
All work must be done by children aged twelve or younger. Parents, hands off! Let the kids do it.
Work must be received by October 1 to be eligible.
Please send all entries to the attention of Kendra at the Royal Tyrrell Museum. We look forward to all your submissions, but only work suitable for the upcoming issue will be selected for publication.
* * *
—
I stared at that back page for a long time.
Ryan stretched and leaned back in his seat. He whispered, “Hey, Petey, what kind of nerd magazine are you reading?”
I glared over at him and held his gaze for a few seconds before I turned back to my newsletter. He looked over at Liam and they smirked together.
When the timer, set for twenty minutes, buzzed, we put our reading material away and I took one final look at the back page of the newsletter, making sure I remembered all the details, before I put it away. Then Mr. Costa stood up, smoothed his button-down shirt and grabbed a pile of paper.
He handed out our new assignments. The first people to see the paper started to moan and complain. “Another writing assignment?”
Even though there was rumbling and whining, Mr. Costa just ignored it. He cleared his throat and started his boring explanation. “To conclude our unit on narrative writing, I want you to write a paragraph between 250 and 400 words. The topic is ‘What I Hope to Become.’ ”
“Everybody knows what Peter is going to write about!” Ryan shouted. “Look! He was even reading a magazine about dinosaurs.” Before I could react, he quickly got out of his seat, reached into my desk, pulled out my newsletter and waved it around.
Ryan flipped his long bangs while he threw in a giant eye roll. He had a very specific haircut. It was buzzed around most of his head, but he left his dirty-blond bangs long on purpose. They looked like windshield wipers for his eyes.
The class chuckled. I felt my face get warm and I shot him an evil look.
“Well, you have been obsessed with dinosaurs since kindergarten,” Stephanie Aquino agreed. She tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder. If Ryan hadn’t been the most annoying kid in the class, Stephanie would have gladly accepted the job.
“Try preschool!” Liam said. I glared over at him. I could still see the sweat on his scalp from recess.
I casually put my hand over my dinosaur eraser to hide it. Then I tried desperately to remember if I’d worn my dinosaur socks. I pushed the hems of my track pants down with my feet, just in case.
“Huh, they’re having a contest. How very interesting,” Ryan said, looking at the back page. He broke up the word interesting into four very distinct, slowly articulated syllables, just how any other evil dictator would have said it.
“Give it back now!” I yelled, and I used my long arms to snatch it back. His arms were stubby like the tyrannosaur branch of dinosaurs and he was no match for me in a grabbing contest. Once I had it back, I carefully ran my hand over the pages to get out any creases and put it back in my desk.
“Ryan, Peter, that’s enough,” Mr. Costa warned. “Class, Peter has a passion. We should all be so lucky to have something we truly love to do.” He looked up wistfully. “I think having something to work toward is fantastic.” I was going to ask Mom to buy Mr. Costa a really good year-end gift, not just a Starbucks gift card.
“Whatever! It’s like a child’s hobby that he should have outgrown by now,” Ryan said. He scoffed, flipping his bangs again.
I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I yelled, “It’s a hard science! You probably don’t even know how to spell paleontology!” I glared at Ryan.
“P-A-L-E-O-N-T-O-L-O-G-Y,” Ryan said smugly. Even though I could see only one eye through his bangs, I could tell he was completely satisfied. There was a ripple of chatter throughout the class. “I’m the son of a journalist, remember? I spell and write better than everybody in this room. It’s in my DNA. I’m going to be a journalist too! That’s an important job dealing with current issues, not old, irrelevant dinosaur bones.”
Was being a total jerk-bag in his DNA too? Suddenly the room felt extra hot.
“Hey,” Joe whispered to me, casually leaning sideways in his chair. “You look like a cooked lobster. Don’t let him get to you.” I gave him a slight nod and tried to calm the rage.
The sail connecting the back vertebrae of the Spinosaurus was thought to regulate its body temperature. Right now, I wished my ears did the same thing; instead, they felt like two torches stuck to the side of my head.
Mr. Costa cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Anyway,” he said as he tried to get control of the class. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to dismiss other people’s dreams. Let’s be respectful of our different interests and goals.” He stared at Ryan, who stared right back. “You need only be worried about yourself and your own assignment.”
Mr. Costa glared around the class to make sure everybody was listening.
“Here’s something you might want to know. Your assignment is due tomorrow, so I’d use the next thirty minutes to get writing. Remember how I feel about working independently and doing the best you can do!” Mr. Costa said.
Tomorrow! He wasn’t letting up one bit. I changed my mind. Maybe a Starbucks gift card was good enough for him. I tried to settle down and to think about what to write. My chest was starting to feel tight, but I was not about to let Ryan see me wheeze, not now of all times. I closed my eyes and tried to control my breathing.
I ran my hand over the sheet of lined paper to feel its smoothness and wrote “My Future in Paleontology” across the top. I drew some interlocking femur bones around the margins. A piece of paper and a pencil in my hands always made me feel better.
“I might just enter a little something into your precious dinosaur museum contest, just because I know whatever I enter will be ten times better than whatever you do,” Ryan whispered as he walked behind my chair, using the pretense of needing to use the pencil sharpener.
My nostrils flared, but I remembered Joe’s advice and remained calm, pretending I didn’t hear him. Everybody in class settled down to work. The only sounds were Ryan cranking his pencil into a sharp spear and my blood simmering.
I put down my pencil and pulled my small notebook out of my left pocket. Pushing out the tiny pencil I had tucked inside the coil, I simply wrote the word Ryan. I drew a face with devil horns and stupid bangs. Payback: When I win the Royal Tyrrell contest. I tucked my tiny pencil back into the coil and quietly put my notebook back in my pocket while trying to suppress a grin.
There was a knock at the door. I glanced up and saw Samuel, delivering a note. A few girls in the class giggled and whispered to each other when they saw him. The boys straightened their backs, even Ryan.
Even though Samuel and I knew each other better than most people realized, I still got the feeling that he thought I was a bit of a nerd, or maybe it was that—compared to him—I just felt like one. Samuel saw me in the room and gave me a chin-up greeting.
Mr. Costa quickly read the note and put it down. “Peter, go with Samuel to the office. They need your help.”
“But it’s almost lunchtime!” I protested.
Mr. Costa walked up to me and whispered in my ear. “It’s about your sister.”
11:40 a.m.
Our walk to the office was silent. “I was there to help with lunch announcements and they asked me to get you,” Samuel finally said as he pointed to the first-aid room.
L.B. was alone, sitting slouched over on the little bed in the corner.
“Thanks, Samuel,” I replied.
“She’s calmed down a bit but, man, she was craze-balls earlier,” he whispered. He went behind the counter and set up the microphone for announcements. “Good luck, dude.”
I stepped into the first-aid room and L.B. perked up when she saw me.
“L.B., what’s going on?” I could hear Samuel’s voice over the crackling PA system, telling students about picking up their yearbooks next week.
“Ms. Tarkas! She had her baby early!” L.B. said. “She assured me she would finish the school year. Statistically, it was only an 11 percent chance that she would have her first child before thirty-five weeks of gestation. I hate it when statistics disappoint me!”
“What are you, a doctor or an eight-year-old?”