Finchosaurus

by Gail Donovan

  “Finch?” asked Mr. White. “Something on your mind?”

  “No,” said Finch. “Not really.”

  Mr. White kept asking friendly questions and Finch kept giving friendly answers until finally, the bell rang.

  “Well,” said Mr. White, “I better let you go. But it’s been great getting to know you. Let’s talk again soon, okay?”

  “Sure,” agreed Finch, “that’d be awesome.”

  He bolted from the social worker’s office. He had gotten away! He had escaped from Awesomeraptor!

  But not from his mother.

  When he got back to his classroom, Mrs. Adler handed him a note. Finch wondered what it would be like to not have your mom working in your school, finding out everything instantly.

  Hi Finch! Please wait for me after school, so we can walk home together. I’ll come find you on the playground. Love you! Mom.

  Finch would rather have walked home with Noah, as usual. But instead, when the last bell rang at the end of the day, he had to wait for his mom. And waiting was still not something he was good at.

  The afterschool sky was still an empty, no-cloud blue, but the playground wasn’t empty, like it had been that morning. It was full of kids in aftercare, swinging on the swings, scaling the spiderweb climber, swarming over the field in a soccer game. Finch didn’t feel like swinging, or scaling, or swarming.

  He felt like looking for more clues.

  May 21. I excavated the area on all sides of the original find. I excavated about five holes. Each hole was about five inches deep. There was nothing in the holes, so I excavated five more holes, for a total of ten—

  “Finch!”

  Finch looked up.

  His mom was standing there, with a look on her face that meant she did not see a scientific dig. She saw ten piles of dirt beside ten unauthorized holes.

  Worse, she wasn’t alone. On one side of her stood Iffosaurus. On the other, Awesomeraptor.

  Mr. White had a look on his face that said, I think I need a few more friendly chats with this kid.

  Mrs. Adler had a large piece of paper in her hand.

  5. 4/7, My Friend

  “The paper said what?” asked his father at the supper table.

  “Help,” said his mom.

  They weren’t talking about his paper. The tiny piece of paper he had dug up from the garden. Nobody had seen that one. And now it was folded back up to the size of his thumb and squished inside a small tin box that used to hold Band-Aids. Under the table, he stuck his hand in his pocket. Touched the box, double-checking. Safe.

  That wasn’t the paper his mom was talking about. She was talking about a different piece of paper. Poetry paper. Which Finch did not want to discuss. He wondered if he could steer the conversation in another direction, like when a cop directed traffic, blowing a whistle and waving his arms around to say, Don’t go this way—go that way!

  “Can I have the pasta?” he asked. “I’m starving!”

  “They’re writing acrostic poems,” explained his mom. “Each letter of his name will be the first letter of a word.”

  She scooped a spoonful of tortellini onto her plate and passed the bowl to Finch’s dad, who served himself and passed the bowl to Sam.

  “We did those in fifth grade, too,” said Sam, as he dumped a huge spoonful of tortellini onto his plate.

  Finch was thinking about those picture books where you searched for what was funny, or wrong, in the illustration. What was wrong with this picture?

  Not the hair. All the Martins had orange hair. His and Sam’s was bright orange, like it was straight from a bottle of tempera paint. Apparently, their mom and dad used to have that bright orange color, but now their hair looked like some white had been mixed in. But, basically, their hair was all the same.

  What was wrong with this picture was the food. Everybody had food except him.

  “Food, please,” he said. “I’m hungry, here.”

  “Stargazer,” began Sam. “Appreciative. Mellow.”

  “Stargazer?” scoffed Finch. “You don’t stargaze!”

  “Mrs. Adler said it could be a metaphor,” explained Sam, as he took another giant spoonful, then launched into another list. “Marvelous—”

  “Wait!” interrupted Finch. “We have to do last names, too?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said their father. “We are getting way off track. Let’s get back to the Help.”

  Sam didn’t get back on the track their dad wanted. He stayed on the Sam track.

  “It was optional,” he said. “Like, if you had a short name, you could do your last name, too.” Waving the spoon, he recited, “Marvelous, Artistic, Risk-taker, Toast-lover—which was sort of silly, but she let me do it—Inventive, Nice!”

  Sometimes it felt like Sam wanted to hog everything. Like the pasta—and Finch was hungry! And all the attention—which tonight maybe wasn’t a bad thing. But it was still annoying.

  “You’re not a risk-taker,” objected Finch. “You’re a tortellini-taker. Mom, he’s hogging it. I don’t have any food.”

  “I love your poem, Sam,” said their mom. “Now please pass your brother the pasta.”

  Finally! Finch got the tortellini from the bowl to his plate, to his fork, and into his mouth. Yum. Soft and salty, with cheese.

  His mom kept going with the report to his dad.

  “Mrs. Adler was concerned because Finch had written out all the letters of his name, like he was supposed to, but—”

  “One letter on every sheet,” interrupted Sam. “First draft!”

  “Yes, thanks, Sam, I get the concept,” said their father. “Now let your mother talk.”

  “But the only page he had worked on was the letter H. And the only word he had written was the word Help. All over the page.”

  “Finch?” asked his dad. “What’s this all about?”

  Finch shrugged and tried to say, “I don’t know,” but his mouth was full of food, so it came out more like Hm-mm-mo.

  “Maybe he needs help writing the poem,” suggested Sam.

  “But that’s not everything,” said Finch’s mom. “Mrs. Adler found him going through other kids’ lockers.”

  “Stealing?” asked his dad.

  “Hm-mm-ma!” said Finch. He swallowed and tried again. “I did not! I didn’t steal anything! I swear!”

  “Let me get this straight,” said his dad. “You wrote Help, not once, but many times. Then you—at the very least—went into somebody else’s locker.”

  “I didn’t take anything!” said Finch again.

  Which was true, so he tried to put an I’m-telling-the-truth look on his face. Then he put more tortellini in his mouth. Yum.

  “That’s not the end of it,” said his mom.

  “There’s more?” asked his dad.

  “After school I found him digging in the school garden.”

  “News flash!” said Sam. “Finch Martin dug a hole!”

  “Not just one hole,” said Finch’s mom. “A lot of holes.” She turned to Finch. “Honey, what’s going on with you?”

  Finch tried to figure out a good answer. The only thing “going on with him” was that he was on a mission. A mission to find out who had buried a note that said Help. And it was a solo mission. He wanted to do it by himself, without any help from anyone. Which meant not telling his mom what was going on.

  He took another bite, for that special sound effect—

  talking with your mouth full. “Nuffeeng,” he said.

  “Please swallow, and answer me, Finch!”

  Finch swallowed. “Nothing,” he said with a shrug.

  “Finch, if you say you weren’t stealing, I believe you,” said his dad. “But it still doesn’t sound like nothing’s going on.”

  “It sounds more like something,” agreed his mom.
/>   “He just wants attention,” complained Sam. “Don’t give it to him!”

  “I think that’s exactly what we’re going to do,” said his mom. “We’re going to give Finch lots of love.”

  That was another reason Finch didn’t like long books with lots of words. Some of them were books on how to be good parents. Like the one his mom and dad had read about what to do when kids were in trouble. Give lots of love. And pay lots of attention.

  Finch speared a tortellini and popped it in his mouth, wondering how he was supposed to do his investigation, when they were going to be investigating him? Because “lots of love” in Martin-mom-and-dad speak meant one thing. He was under surveillance.

  “Lots and lots of love,” agreed Finch’s dad. “Like, twenty-four/seven, my friend.”

  6. Double Blackmail

  Just like she always did, Grammy Mary chirped, “Good morning, Finch!” when he walked into the classroom the next morning.

  And Finch said, “Hey, Grammy Mary,” just like he always did.

  Then he made his way over to his desk and plopped down on his bouncy ball, just like usual, and other kids drifted in and took their seats. Just like usual.

  Everyone was acting like everything was the same as always. Except he knew it wasn’t. Finch started swooshing back and forth, because how was he supposed to sit still until he found out who needed help? He was still swooshing when the bell rang for morning announcements, and Mrs. Stuckey’s voice came on over the loudspeaker.

  “Good morning, boys and girls. Welcome to Acorn Comprehensive. Today is Tuesday, May twenty-second. Hot lunch today will be breakfast for lunch.”

  “Yes!” shouted Oliver.

  “Yes!” echoed Oscar.

  Mrs. Adler held a finger to her lips: Shhh.

  “Today we are wishing Happy Birthday to Liam Woodbury.”

  Birthday wishes!

  Finch felt like his insides were bouncing around. And that made him feel like he needed to bounce on the outside, too. He started back-and-forth swooshing, and up-and-down bouncing, all at the same time. He was swoosh-bouncing. He was bounce-swooshing. Because this was the year he was going to hear his name over the loudspeaker. This was the year he was going to bring cupcakes to class.

  “Last, but not least, this week’s Golden Bucket winner is Mrs. Murphy’s kindergarten class.”

  Yes!

  Mrs. Stuckey was wrapping it up. “We have one more month of school, so there is still time for your class to win. Keep up the good work on recycling, and have a wonderful day!”

  The door opened and the Atticus who went by the name of Atticus came in, late.

  This was his first year at Acorn, and Mrs. Adler had never put them together when she split them up into small groups. So pretty much all Finch knew about Atticus Paley was what he could see: shaggy, sandy hair on his head, and sneakers with no socks on his feet. In between, skinny.

  “Good morning, Atticus!” said Grammy Mary.

  Atticus didn’t answer. He just walked to the back of the room to hand Mrs. Adler his late pass, dropped into his seat, and turned his face to the window.

  Now Finch knew who he wanted to investigate first. Atticus.

  Except how was he supposed to do that, the way the desks were arranged now?

  For most of the year the desks had been bunched in pods of four, so you could at least talk to the kids in your pod. But after spring break Mrs. Adler had split the pods up into rows. She said that rising sixth graders needed to be doing a lot less talking and a lot more working.

  She had also moved her desk to the back of the room—behind all the student desks—so she could watch them when they were supposed to be working.

  Which meant that Finch wasn’t going to be able to talk to Atticus until lunch.

  At lunch, the cafetorium smelled like scrambled eggs and French toast, and sounded like a hundred and fifty kids talking at the same time.

  Finch went through the lunch line with his tray and then stopped in the middle of the room. If everything was still normal, like last year, he would have looked for Atticus around the best tables, by the windows. Those tables should have been for kids in Mrs. Adler’s or Mrs. Tomlinson’s class. Fifth graders.

  But Acorn Comprehensive had “Learning Leaders,” which was something about big kids showing little kids how to behave. Which meant they didn’t give the middle-school-aged kids their own lunch block. First lunch was 150 kids from K through 8, and so was second lunch. Which meant the eighth graders had taken over the best tables.

  Finch was still scoping the room, but before he found Atticus, Noah found him.

  “Hey!” called Noah, waving. “I saved you a seat!”

  Finch plunked his tray down on the long, picnic-style table and slid onto the bench seat opposite Noah, because there was no way you couldn’t sit with your best friend at lunch. They both opened their milk cartons, stuck in their straws, and slurped some milk.

  “I hate these healthy lunches,” complained Noah. “No more chocolate milk.”

  “No more potato chips,” agreed Finch.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” asked Noah, holding up an apple slice. “Put it in my ear?” He held an apple slice to each ear. He had just gotten a buzz cut, so his ears already seemed to stick out from his face. Now he had giant sticking-out apple ears.

  Finch cracked up. “I can’t hear you!” he said, laughing and holding an apple slice to each of his ears, too.

  “That’s because you weren’t listening,” said Noah.

  In unison, they said, “If you had been listening . . .”

  Finch was still laughing when somebody set their tray on the table and sat down beside him.

  “What’s up?” asked Sam.

  “Nothing,” said Finch, on his guard.

  Sam always sat with his eighth-grade friends at lunch. The only time he had sat with Finch was when they were forced to because it was Siblings Day.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Sam peeled the tinfoil off a plastic cup and poured big swirly circles of syrup over his French toast.

  “Here’s the deal,” he said. “Mom and Dad want me to spy on you.”

  Noah asked, “They said that?”

  “Obviously, no,” said Sam, spearing a French toast stick. “They said it would be nice if I could be a good big brother during the day.”

  “And you said yes?” asked Noah.

  “They said they’d make it worth my while,” Sam explained.

  “Like, pay you?” asked Noah.

  “They didn’t say that, exactly,” admitted Sam. “They just said they would really appreciate it. Wink wink.”

  Finch groaned. “I don’t believe this,” he said.

  “So here’s the deal,” said Sam. He ate another French toast stick and licked the spork. Making them wait. “Why don’t you show me how much you’d appreciate me not being a good big brother?”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” demanded Finch.

  “Duh,” said Sam. “Money. You give me your allowance and I’ll tell Mom and Dad that we eat lunch together every day.”

  “That’s blackmail!” said Noah.

  “It’s a deal,” said Finch.

  “Shake on it, little brother,” said Sam, holding out his French-toasty spork.

  Finch took hold of the sticky spork and shook on it. Then Sam let go, leaving it in Finch’s hand.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” he said. “And I’m outta here.” He picked up his tray and headed for one of the eighth-grade tables.

  “Wow,” said Noah. “I’m glad I don’t have a big brother.”

  “You’re lucky,” agreed Finch.

  Noah really was pretty lucky, thought Finch. He didn’t have any brothers or sisters trying to hog all the attention at home. Or blackmailing him. P
lus, he got to have two dogs—Penny the poodle at his mom’s house and Rozzy the chocolate doodle at his dad’s. Finch couldn’t think of any reason Noah would have to bury a note that said Help.

  “So, what gives?” asked Noah.

  “What?”

  “Yesterday you ditch me during Green Team, and now your parents are on your case.”

  “So?”

  “So, spill,” said Noah. “Or I go tell your mom about the blackmail.”

  “But that’s blackmail!” objected Finch.

  “It’s, like, double blackmail,” agreed Noah, grinning and giving him a whaddya-gonna-do shrug.

  What was he going to do? Yesterday he hadn’t told Noah. And then he hadn’t told Mrs. Adler, or Mr. White, or his parents. But now that all the grown-ups were on his case, maybe he could use a little backup. Besides, Noah was his best friend. If he was going to tell anyone, it would be Noah.

  Noah put an apple slice to his ear again. “I can’t hear you,” he said in a singsong teacher voice.

  Finch grinned, and gave in.

  “Okay, fine,” he said. “But you have to promise not to tell anybody.”

  7. Do Not Disturb

  Noah wasn’t the one who ended up telling; Finch was.

  Because he had no choice.

  An hour after lunch he and Noah and the rest of Mrs. Adler’s class trooped into the library, which smelled like cooked eggs because it was right down the hall from the cafetorium.

  “Welcome, everyone,” said his mom, handing out rulers. “Welcome. I want to remind everyone to please use your mark-the-spot rulers when you take a book from the stacks, so you can put it back in the exact right place if you decide you don’t want it.”

  Filing past his mom, Finch took a ruler. “Thanks, Mrs. Martin!” he said, as if he was just a regular kid.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Martin,” said his mom. “Happy book hunting!”

  Kids fanned out across the room. Everybody was supposed to choose two books—one of poetry and one for free-choice. Finch cruised by the poetry section and grabbed Bone Poems, which he happened to know was poems all about dinosaurs. He picked Dinosaur Valley from nonfiction, another old favorite. Then he took one of the “traffic signs” his mom had made and hurried to the end of the stacks, with Noah right behind him. They plunked down on the carpet behind the sign: Do Not Disturb: Student Reading.