by Gail Donovan
Finch picked up a pencil and wrote down the first letter of his name. F.
Not being able to settle down was the whole reason Finch had started digging in the first place. His mom used to say, “Finch, you’re bouncing off the walls. Settle down with a book, or go outside.”
Reading a book or going outside? That was a no-brainer. Finch always chose outside. Outside, he didn’t feel quite so bouncy. But he still had to do something. So he had started digging. Whenever he was digging, it felt like he could “settle down” and be doing something at the same time.
And there were so many cool things under the ground. Some were alive, like clams (he dug those up from the mudflats when they visited his grandparents), and worms and beetles. Some had been alive a long time ago, like bones and fossils. Either way, everything under the ground was like a wrapped present at a birthday party. And he was going to unwrap it.
“How are you doing, Finch?” asked Mrs. Adler.
“Good,” said Finch.
To show how good he was doing, he wrote the other letters of his name, one to a page, in big capital letters. I. N. C. H.
H, for Help.
Finch had a good feeling about this. A pile-full-of-wrapped-birthday-presents feeling. Somebody needed help, and he wasn’t going to stop digging until he found out who.
3. If You Had Thought of That
“That’s so funny,” said Noah. “Did you really think ‘Digging Deep’ was gonna be a science unit?”
Noah thought most things were funny, which was one of the best things about having him for a best friend.
“Yeah, thanks for telling me,” said Finch. “Did you know it was gonna be poetry?”
“I did,” said Noah, and in his best Mrs. Adler imitation, added, “and if you had been listening . . .”
Finch laughed. “Come on,” he said. “Green Team!”
“Green Team,” echoed Noah. “Let’s go!”
It was the lunch/recess block, but after lunch Finch and Noah hadn’t gone to recess. As members of the Green Team, they got to go up and down the halls every Monday, checking the recycling bins in all the classrooms.
Up until last year, “all the classrooms” had meant kindergarten through fifth grade. That was when Finch’s school was called Acorn Primary. Then the town decided to change everything. Instead of having four elementary schools and two middle schools, they were going to have four schools that went from kindergarten through eighth grade. Finch’s school turned into Acorn Comprehensive.
So the year Finch got to fifth grade—the year he should have been king of the school—all of a sudden there were kids who should have been in middle school, roaming the halls and the playground. Big kids. When he and his friends should have been the big kids!
At least none of the big kids was on Green Team. They didn’t think it was cool. That was one of the good things about Green Team. Also, he got to wear a Green Team badge that meant he could roam the halls. Also, he got to visit all his old teachers.
“Hi, Mrs. Murphy,” said Finch, bouncing into his old kindergarten room.
“Finch and Noah!” said Mrs. Murphy. She was by herself, eating a sandwich. A sign on her desk said Warning: Peanut Butter in Use. “You two are peanut-friendly, right?”
They nodded, and she pointed to the big green bin. “All right, then, do your stuff.”
Finch took his time rummaging through the recycling bin. He loved being back in his old room.
He loved the chairs that looked so tiny now. He loved the terrarium where they kept a toad in the spring. He loved it when Mrs. Murphy used to play music so everybody could “dance their wiggly-jigglies out.” She hadn’t minded that he was so bouncy. She hadn’t minded that he couldn’t use scissors, or make the L-sound. Kindergarten had been the best.
But by first grade they had him so busy trying to fix all the things wrong with him that he was out of the classroom—away from his friends—more than he was in it. He had speech therapy with Mrs. Hunter. He had occupational therapy with Mrs. Davison. And he sometimes had to go see Mrs. Blake, the social worker, to talk about how he should be a cooperator with Mrs. Hunter and Mrs. Davison.
“Plenty of recycling,” whispered Noah, “and no yucky garbage. Let’s give them ten points.”
“Wait,” said Finch. “Let’s look for extra points.”
The classroom with the most recycling earned the Golden Bucket Award for the week. Mrs. Murphy’s class hadn’t won yet, and Finch wanted them to. He kept searching, turning over pieces of paper. Because a class could get Every piece of paper has two sides bonus points for paper written on the front and the back.
Noah kept track, counting aloud. “One, two, three, four, five, six . . . seven!”
On the clipboard, Finch wrote 10 + 7 = 17.
Then he cried, “The Green Team strikes again!” zooming from the room and zigzagging down the hallway, with Noah right behind him.
The hallway of this wing was extra good for zigzag zooming because it was so wide. It was extra wide because K–1 kids didn’t have hallway lockers; instead, they had cubbies in their rooms.
Lockers.
Finch stopped short. Noah, right behind him, stopped short, too—by crashing into him.
“Hey!” said Noah.
Lockers. Lockers were where he could look for clues. He shoved the Green Team clipboard at Noah.
“Take over, will you?”
“By myself?” asked Noah. “Why? What’s up?”
A little part of Finch wanted to tell Noah. He and Noah could investigate together, like Green Team. But a bigger part of him didn’t want to tell. He wanted to do this himself.
“Nothing,” he said. “I just gotta go somewhere.”
“Where?” demanded Noah.
“Nowhere,” said Finch. “I just . . . gotta go.”
“Oh,” said Noah, with an I-get-it grin. “Like, you gotta go?”
Finch didn’t have to go—not the way Noah meant—but he said yes anyway.
“Yeah, I gotta go. Like, bad. You do the next room and I’ll catch up, okay?”
A minute later, Finch was standing by the fifth-grade lockers. There were two fifth-grade classes—Mrs. Adler’s and Mrs. Tomlinson’s. Finch knew the note couldn't have been buried by a kid from Mrs. T’s class, though, because they had their own garden plot.
He made a field note in his mind.
May 21. Lunch/recess block. I began investigating an area close to where the note had been found.
But he didn’t begin investigating right away. For one thing, even though lockers didn’t actually have locks, looking in anybody else’s was against the rules. For another thing, he couldn’t decide which one to open. He scanned the row of lemon-yellow lockers. Some had magnets stuck on the outside, so kids could find their locker quickly. Finch’s had a magnet of a Stegosaurus. Noah’s had a foot. People were always giving him toy feet as a joke, because of his toes. There was a magnet of an angel. He wondered if that was Angelika’s locker.
Which made him wonder—how come she hadn’t raised her hand, even though she probably knew the answer?—when he heard somebody coming. He froze.
“Finch! Hello!”
It was Mrs. Hunter, the speech therapist. Finch used to see a lot of her back in first and second grade, when he was tromping down to her tiny office once a week to learn how to make the L-sound. And the R-sound. And the S-sound.
“How have you been?” she gushed. She always gave some words an extra zing, like she was sprinkling hot sauce on them. “I miss you!”
“I’m on Green Team!” he blurted, pointing to his badge. “I’m allowed to be here!”
“Well, don’t let me stop you,” she said, giving him a funny smile. “Carry on. And make sure you drop by and say hello sometime!”
Finch waited until she was out of sight. Then he waited until hi
s heart stopped feeling like it was punching him from the inside. Then it was time. He took a breath. Reached out to the locker in front of him. Silver handle—up. Yellow door—open. Inside—
“Hey!” came a voice right behind him.
Finch turned around to see . . . Angelika! Looking fierce. Tyrannosaurus rex fierce. Like she could rip his arm off, if she decided to.
“What are you doing in my locker?” she demanded.
Finch had two options. Tell the truth—that he was looking for clues because somebody needed help. Or not.
He picked not. It wasn’t exactly picking, though. It wasn’t as if he had time to think, Should I tell the truth, or tell a lie? It was more like, If you’re in a fight with a T. rex, you’re just gonna defend yourself!
“I’m not in your locker!” he said.
“You totally are,” said Angelika. “It’s my locker, and you’re in it!”
“I made a mistake,” tried Finch. “I thought it was mine.”
Angelika shook her head. “No way,” she said, pointing down the row of lockers. “Since yours is way down there. Why were you looking at my stuff?”
“I wasn’t looking at your stuff!”
Which was true, technically. Sort of. He had opened the door, but he hadn’t touched anything. He hadn’t even had a chance to look at anything!
“Yes, you were!” she shouted, pushing him aside and slamming the door shut.
“Was not!” he shouted right back.
Which was when the door to their classroom opened and Giganotosaurus stepped into the hall. Otherwise known as Mrs. Adler.
“Finch Martin,” she said. “Angelika Sanchez. What’s going on here? Why aren’t you two where you’re supposed to be?”
“He was looking in my locker!” cried Angelika.
“I was not!”
“Was, too!”
“Broccoli!” said Mrs. Adler.
Finch backed away. So did Angelika.
“Three breaths,” commanded Mrs. Adler, staring at Finch as if he might not breathe if she wasn’t watching.
Finch took three deep breaths. So did Angelika.
“Finch, come with me,” said Mrs. Adler, “and Angelika, please go back to the playground for the rest of recess.”
Angelika started to run off, then caught herself. Running in the halls wasn’t allowed. She speed-walked away.
“That’s not fair!” blurted Finch. “How come I’m in trouble and she’s not?”
But Finch already knew why. Some kids could do almost anything and teachers still assumed they were innocent. Angelika was one of those kids. So even when Mrs. Adler didn’t know what had happened, she took Angelika’s word for it. She figured Finch was the troublemaker, because he was always bouncing around and because this morning he had bounced a bagful of dirt all over the classroom.
Since they both knew the answer already, Mrs. Adler didn’t bother answering his question. Instead she asked, “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
For a second, Finch thought about showing her the note. What if she knew he had a good reason? He’d still be in trouble, but maybe not as much. But for sure he’d lose the note. He’d lose the secret. He’d lose the investigation.
Finch shook his head. No. Nothing to tell.
“All right, then.” Mrs. Adler turned and began striding down the hall. “Follow me.”
Finch tagged along beside her.
“I have Green Team!” he tried. “Noah’s waiting for me.”
“If you had thought of that,” said Mrs. Adler, “then you wouldn’t be here now.”
Finch decided Mrs. Adler shouldn’t be Giganotosaurus anymore. She should be a whole new species: Iffosaurus. The dinosaur that could destroy your day with the word if.
If you had been listening, you would have known the new unit was poetry, instead of something good.
If you had thought of that, you’d still be having fun with Noah, instead of being marched down to wherever she was marching him.
4. Awesomeraptor
Waiting was not something Finch was good at. Luckily, he had the bench in the school office to himself. He started at one end and slid on his butt until he reached the other end. Then he went back to the first end. Then back to the other end.
“Finch,” said Mrs. Stuckey, the school secretary.
“Sorry,” said Finch.
He sat still for a minute, trying to decide whether it was worse to wait for something you wanted to happen—like dessert. Or something you didn’t want to happen—like a friendly chat with Mrs. Blake, the social worker.
Then he started sliding slowly along the bench. He would slide so slowly that Mrs. Stuckey wouldn’t even notice. Because he didn’t want to make her mad. She was the one who gave passes to kids who were late. She kept track of the attendance sheets. Basically, she ran the whole school. After five years here—six, counting kindergarten—Finch knew enough to try and stay on Mrs. Stuckey’s good side. And that’s why he was moving . . . in . . . slow . . . motion.
“Finch!” said Mrs. Stuckey.
“Sorry!” said Finch.
“Let’s put that energy to good use,” she said. “Come lend a hand.”
Mrs. Stuckey explained the job. She had printed 150 pieces of paper, each with two copies of the same notice. She needed each page cut in half, so she could send 300 notices home with 300 kids.
“Like this,” she said, showing him how to use a ruler to tear each piece in half.
“Hey, you should get some Green Team points!” said Finch. “You’re saving paper!”
“I’ll settle for some help,” she said, laughing.
Finch took the first piece of paper, but before he tore it in half, he read it. Attention Parents: Due to the number of snow days this winter, it is necessary to extend the school year. The last day of school is now Tuesday, June 19. Please mark your calendars!
“My birthday!” said Finch, right out loud. “Mrs. Stuckey, the last day of school is my birthday!”
“That’s great,” said Mrs. Stuckey.
“It’s not like I want the year to be longer,” said Finch. “But if it’s gonna be longer, at least it’s going until my birthday. ’Cause that never happened before! I never, ever got to hand out birthday cupcakes. And you never got to wish me Happy Birthday on the announcements. This is gonna be the first time!”
“Well, that’s something I’ll look forward to,” said Mrs. Stuckey, giving him a big smile and taking the stack of papers.
“But I didn’t finish,” he said. “I didn’t even start!”
“You can help another time,” she said, pointing to the open door of the social worker’s office. “Mr. White is ready for you.”
“Mr. White?” asked Finch. “What happened to Mrs. Blake?”
“She’s home with her new baby,” said Mrs. Stuckey. “Mr. White is filling in. And he’s waiting for you.”
Finch dropped his speed into slow motion again. He walked. Slowly. Into the social worker’s office. He took a seat. He looked around.
Same old office, with kids’ artwork plastering the walls.
Brand-new social worker, Mr. White.
Mr. White matched his name—white skin and snow-white hair and beard. But the rest of him was definitely not white. He wore a bright red-and-white-checked shirt that reminded Finch of a tablecloth.
“So,” said Mr. White. “Atticus. How are you?”
“Finch,” corrected Finch.
“Sorry,” said Mr. White. He glanced at a thick folder on his desk and read aloud, “Atticus Finch Martin. So, you go by your middle name?”
“Because there are so many Atticuses,” said Finch.
“Got it,” said Mr. White. “Awesome. Thanks for letting me know. I’m still getting up to speed here. So, Finch,” he tried again. “How are you?”
“Awesome,” said Mr. White.
Finch nodded in agreement. This guy sure liked the word “awesome.”
“So, are you looking forward to summer?”
Finch could never understand why grown-ups asked that question. It almost seemed like they were pretending to be stupid. Because there was no such thing as a kid who wasn’t looking forward to summer vacation. Or maybe it was some kind of trick question? Finch couldn’t figure it out. Finally, he just told the truth.
“Yep,” he said.
“Me, too,” said Mr. White. “Summer is awesome. What do you like to do during the summer?”
Now Finch knew what was happening. He had been expecting a lecture about personal space and private property. But Awesomeraptor wasn’t rushing straight toward his prey. He was trying to sneak around and ambush him. He was trying to get Finch talking until Finch told him why he was looking in somebody else’s locker. No way!
“Umm,” said Finch, “just . . . stuff?”
“Like, what kind of stuff?” asked Mr. White.
Finch shrugged.
“I might go camping with my dad,” he said. “And my mom always takes me and my brother to Maine to see our grandparents.”
“Awesome!” said Mr. White.
“Awesome,” agreed Finch, nodding.
Except he had just remembered something that wasn’t awesome.
Every summer they went to visit Gammy and Guppy. (His grandma had been Grammy until Finch couldn’t make the R-sound, and then she became Gammy. Finch couldn’t remember how Grandpa had turned into Guppy.) His grandparents lived on the coast of Maine. That’s where Finch dug clams from the mud. Gammy soaked the clams in water to get the sand out, and steamed them, and they ate them dipped in butter.
But Finch had forgotten something. Gammy was in a nursing home now. Guppy was still in their house, but Finch’s mom kept saying things like, “We’ll see how long he can manage.” Finch figured that they would still go visit his grandparents. But it would be different.