Finchosaurus

by Gail Donovan

  N was for Nincompoop. It had the word poop in it! Nincompoop, nincompoop, nincompoop!

  “How’s it going, buddy?” asked his dad.

  “Good,” answered Finch.

  C was for . . . he didn’t know. He tapped his pencil, trying to think. He couldn’t think of anything. All he could do was smell the scent of roasting chicken floating through the kitchen. Chicken started with a C. Maybe he should write that down.

  C was for Chicken.

  It was funny. How come the word for a bird you ate was the same as the word for being afraid? Were chickens really afraid?

  Tapping his pencil on the paper, Finch thought chicken might be a good word for him. Not the bird part; the afraid part. Because he didn’t want to do this poem for real. He didn’t want to dig deep. Because what if he dug deep inside himself and found some words, and nobody liked the poem? What was there special about him, anyway? He was just a fidgeting, impish, nincompoopy chicken.

  The screen door opened and slapped shut, and his mom came into the kitchen. The smell of cut grass came with her.

  “Well, this is a nice picture,” she said. “Dad cooking supper and Finch writing a poem!”

  Finch didn’t tell his mom she had the picture all wrong. The caption wouldn’t be Finch writing his acrostic poem. The caption would be This is Finch, who failed to do his homework and did not get to go on the trip to Dinosaur State Park, even though he probably wanted to go more than anybody in the whole entire fifth grade.

  His mom took a seat and leaned toward Finch. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “Mom, no!” he shouted, spreading his hands over the paper. “You can’t look. It’s—confidential!”

  Finch held still, breathing in the smell of freshly cut grass and roasting chicken, while his mom studied him with a making-up-her-mind look on her face. Grown-ups talked about things being confidential all the time. But would his mom buy the idea that he didn’t have to show her his poem because it was confidential?

  “Okay,” she finally said, with a smile. “I hope you’ll show me when you’re finished. But I’ll give you some space for now.”

  And then she backed off. She and his dad bustled around, setting the table, talking and laughing. And giving him space. All because they thought he was doing his homework.

  Which gave Finch an I for Idea.

  19. Olden Days

  The next day was the first day of the second-to-last week of school, and Finch had a plan. Tell everybody he was going to do his best, and then pretend he was doing his best. And then everybody would leave him alone, and he could keep doing what he wanted—trying to discover who wrote the note.

  He had to find out before fifth grade was over, and everybody scattered for the summer. For one thing, he didn’t want the year to end with a big note on his report card: Needs improvement. Recommend services in sixth grade. He wanted it to end with him being Finch Martin, the kid who helped somebody. Finch Martin, who did something important.

  And for another thing, Guppy and Gammy were waiting for him to get to the bottom of the mystery.

  First thing Monday morning, Finch put his plan into action. He told Mrs. Adler he was going to do his best to finish all his work.

  “I’m very glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Adler. “I’ll expect to see you in this room, in your seat, every day at recess and after school. Are we clear?”

  Uh-oh—no recess was going to cut into his investigation time. Finch did his best to act like he didn’t mind.

  “Totally clear,” said Finch, nodding. “Recess and after school. I’ll be here.”

  He told Miss Kirby and Mr. White, too. Because “doing his best” for Mrs. Adler meant that he couldn’t show up for the last Green Team or Paleo Pals—the club Mr. White had basically started just for him. But Miss Kirby said it was fine, and Mr. White said it was awesome, pumping his fist in the air. “Dinosaur State Park, here you come!”

  Whoa—Mr. White actually seemed to care.

  “Dinosaur State Park, here I come!” echoed Finch.

  Mrs. Adler, off his back: check. Miss Kirby: check. Mr. White: check. Finch didn’t feel too bad about pretending to them. The only grown-up he felt bad about was Grammy Mary.

  “Good morning, Finch!” she said on Monday morning.

  “Hey, Grammy Mary.”

  “Welcome back, Finch!” she said, when he came back from the cafetorium after lunch, to spend recess in the classroom.

  “Hey, Grammy Mary.”

  “Hi, Finch!” she said at the end of the day.

  “Hey, Grammy Mary,” he said.

  All the kids had gone, and Mrs. Adler had left for a meeting. It was just him and Grammy Mary.

  “I know you have some catching up to do,” she said, giving him her big Grammy Mary smile. “What are you going to work on this afternoon?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, rolling back and forth on his bouncy-ball chair.

  He rummaged through the cubby that hung beneath his desk, searching for the If you finish all your work list Mrs. Adler had given him. Other papers, a pencil, another pencil, an eraser shaped like a Stegosaurus—ooh, cookie—and there! The list. He handed it to Grammy Mary.

  “Let’s see,” she said, smoothing out the sheet and reading aloud. “Pass your twelve-times test, finish the You Were There essay, and write the acrostic poem. And let’s see, since every piece of paper has two sides . . .” Trailing off, she turned the paper over. “Good news, Finch. Nothing on this side.”

  Finch laughed. He’d always known Grammy Mary was nice, but he hadn’t realized she was funny, too. Even though he saw her every day, the only thing he knew about her was her favorite color: purple. She almost always wore something purple. Today she was wearing a lavender shirt with a picture of a horse galloping off into the sunset.

  “You really like purple, don’t you?”

  “It’s my go-to color,” she said, nodding. “But let’s not get sidetracked! What are you going to work on now?”

  Finch switched from rolling back and forth to bobbing up and down. He felt bad because Grammy Mary was so nice. And he wanted to go to Dinosaur State Park—of course he did! But there was no way he could finish all of his missing assignments, so why even bother?

  Besides, he had more important things to do. He put his hand in his pocket to touch the tin box where he kept the folded-up note. Who had written it?

  Finch bobbed up and down: Was it one of the kids they had already tried to help?

  And up and down: Or was it one of the kids they hadn’t gotten around to helping yet?

  And up and down and up and down, and suddenly, he stopped bobbing up and down. Because suddenly, he knew who might know.

  “Hey, Grammy Mary—you know all the kids in our class, right?”

  Grammy Mary nodded. “Of course,” she said.

  Maybe it was silly to ask about Atticus. He’d already said he hadn’t written the note. But it seemed like maybe he needed help anyway. It seemed like he was hungry—not just the way Finch felt starving sometimes, before he ate. Hungry, for real. Some kids got free lunch, and Finch hoped Atticus was one of them. But what about before and after school?

  “What about Atticus? Do you know, like, anything about him?”

  “I know that Atticus is a delightful boy,” said Grammy Mary.

  Finch pressed. “Do you think he’s, like, okay?”

  Grammy Mary took a deep breath, as if she was trying to decide what to say. Or not say. Finally, she said, “I think Atticus is going to be just fine.”

  Going to be just fine wasn’t the same thing as Fine now, but Finch got the message. He knew she was thinking about Atticus, and probably so were other grown-ups. And that’s all he was going to get out of Grammy Mary.

  “Now,” she said, in a moving-right-along tone. “Let’s talk about your essay on colonia
l Connecticut. How is that coming?”

  “It’s partway done,” said Finch.

  Partway done meant he had the first sentence. “I am ten years old and I live in Connecticut in 1786.”

  “Do you and your friends ever play ‘Olden Days’?” asked Grammy Mary.

  “Sometimes I pretend I’m a dinosaur,” admitted Finch.

  “That’s really olden days!” she said, laughing. “Well, when I was a little girl I had a friend, and her grandmother lived on a farm. My friend would visit in the summer, and take me along. And we used to love making believe we were little girls living a long time ago, maybe in the colonial era—we didn’t really know. But when there were no cars or telephones.”

  Bobbing lightly on his bouncy chair, Finch listened as Grammy Mary told him all about the farm. Pouring a little bit of water into an old hand-pump well to get it going. That was called “priming the pump.” Collecting horse chestnuts from a tree that was more than a hundred years old. And cooking pancakes in a cast-iron frying pan that had belonged to the grandmother of the friend’s grandmother.

  “Just think,” said Grammy Mary, holding out her hand. “This hand touched a skillet that had been touched by the hand of somebody who had really lived in olden days.”

  She looked at her hand as if it was something magical, and then she laughed a little tinkling laugh, like the song from the ice-cream truck.

  “And those pancakes were so good,” she went on. “Do you like pancakes?”

  “I totally like pancakes,” said Finch.

  They talked about different toppings for pancakes, and whether the people in colonial Connecticut might have had them. Maple syrup—yes. Raspberry jam—probably. Chocolate chips—no!

  The door opened. Mrs. Adler was back. Grammy Mary smiled and waved good-bye. Finch waved back and picked up his pencil. He might as well have fun with this, too, like the poem.

  I was born in Connecticut on June 19—that part was actually true—in 1776. On my next birthday I will be eleven. For my birthday, my mother will cook my favorite food, griddle cakes. I like them with butter and maple syrup. My mother makes the butter with milk from our cows. My father makes the maple syrup with sap from our maple trees . . .

  Mrs. Adler began wiping the whiteboard clean. “I’m glad to see you on task, Finch,” she said. “Keep up the good work!”

  Mrs. Adler looked so happy—which was not how she usually looked when she looked at Finch—that he got a funny feeling in his stomach. She thought he was trying his best, not goofing around, writing about pancakes. What was she going to say when she found out that his “best” was just a big act? If I had known you were only pretending to do your best, I would have . . . what?

  The way he saw it, he had a good reason. But he doubted Iffosaurus was going to see things his way.

  20. Thump

  The cafetorium smelled like fish sticks. Finch pushed his tray down the lunch line. He got fish sticks and carrot sticks and a carton of milk. Noah, right behind him, got fish sticks and carrot sticks and a carton of milk. At the end of the line, Finch stood, scanning the cafetorium, wondering where he should sit.

  “Come on,” said Noah. “What are you waiting for?”

  “We should split up,” said Finch. “We should sit with kids we haven’t helped yet.”

  “No,” said Noah. “We should sit together and I should quiz you on your twelves. Because don’t you want to go to Dinosaur State Park?”

  “Of course!” said Finch. “But we’re running out of time!”

  It was Tuesday, the second day of the second-to-last week of school. Finch only had until this Friday to hand in all of his missing assignments. But, more important, he only had one more week until the last day of school.

  One more week to find the writer of the note.

  “Never mind that,” said Noah. “Seriously. You gotta help yourself! Who am I gonna sit with on the bus if you’re stuck in the office with Mrs. Stuckey?”

  Across the cafetorium, the teacher’s aide on lunch duty pointed at them, in the school signal: Do what you’re supposed to do or I’m coming over there. In other words: Sit down.

  “Look,” said Finch. “I’m stuck in Mrs. Adler’s room every single day for recess and after school. This is the only time I have for investigating. And this is important. Shleep Team, right?” He made a noise like a sheep baa-ing. “Ple-ee-ase.”

  “Okay, okay!” said Noah, laughing. “Who’s left?”

  “Oscar and Oliver.”

  “No way! Why would we try and help them? They were shaking down David for milk money all year, until we stopped them.”

  “I know that,” said Finch. “They’re bullies. But it still could have been one of them, couldn’t it? Being a jerk doesn’t mean you don’t need help with anything.”

  “Okay, okay, here I go,” said Noah, and made his baa-ing noise. “Baa-baa. Get it? Bye-bye? Baa-baa?”

  “Bye-bye,” baa-ed Finch, looking around for who else was left on the list.

  Bingo! Quinn and Samantha were sitting together. He went over to their table and set down his tray.

  “Hey,” he said. “Can I sit here?”

  Quinn nodded and Samantha scooted over on the bench seat to make room for him.

  They usually spent recess French-braiding each other’s hair, so they kind of looked alike, with long blonde braids crisscrossing their skulls and running down their backs, like a spiny-ridged dinosaur.

  “What’s up?” asked Samantha. “You fighting with Noah?”

  “No!” he said.

  “Then how come he’s sitting with Oscar and Oliver?” asked Quinn.

  Finch thought fast. “Uh . . . Green Team!” he said. “We’re trying to sign kids up for next year.”

  “You should join,” said Samantha, pointing a finger at Quinn.

  “I don’t know,” said Quinn. “Maybe.”

  “Talk her into it,” said Samantha to Finch. “Next year. Okay?”

  “Sure,” agreed Finch.

  “Promise?” asked Samantha.

  “He doesn’t have to promise,” said Quinn. “I’ll do it if I feel like it!” She picked up her tray and marched off toward the garbage and recycling station.

  “What’s up with her?” asked Finch.

  Samantha explained that she was transferring to another school for sixth grade. And she’d try to stay friends with Quinn, but it would be different. They’d be weekend friends. Quinn was going to need a new school best friend.

  “I’ll ask her to do Green Team,” promised Finch. “And Paleo Pals, too.”

  “That’s pretty cool you started your own club,” said Samantha.

  “Thanks,” said Finch, wondering, was Quinn the one? Would your best friend moving away be a good enough reason to write Help on a piece of paper and bury it in the school garden?

  Samantha added, “And that you’re, you know . . .”

  “What?”

  “You know, trying to do nice stuff for everybody.”

  “Thanks,” he said again.

  He took a swig of milk and stuck a fish stick in his mouth, pretending he wanted to eat so he wouldn’t have to talk anymore. He wasn’t sure why, but Samantha thanking him, which was really nice of her and should have made him feel really good, just made him feel really bad.

  It wasn’t that she knew the secret. It was that suddenly, he doubted inviting Quinn to be on Green Team or Paleo Pals was going to help much. Suddenly, he doubted he was helping anybody.

  And so many kids needed help! There were sixteen kids in Mrs. Adler’s class, not counting him. And all you had to do was a little digging to discover that almost all of them had some kind of problem.

  He took another gulp and looked around at the hundred-and-fifty-odd kids munching fish sticks and carrot sticks. He felt himself rocking side to side, thinking. He was
think-rocking. And rock-thinking. Probably every kid in this cafetorium had a problem. Probably every kid in Acorn Comprehensive had a problem. Probably—whoa. Too much rock-thinking. The milk he had swallowed was sloshing around inside him. It made his stomach hurt.

  Finch stopped rocking, and his stomach felt a tiny bit better.

  But now his head hurt. Because thinking about how every kid in school probably had a problem was just plain too big of a thought. It made his head feel so big and heavy that he set down his carton of milk, pushed his tray aside, and lowered his head onto the table. It touched down with a little thump.

  Which felt . . . good, in a weird way. Thumping his head felt so . . . thumpy, that for a second it stopped all those other thoughts.

  He did it again—thump—and kept his head down on the table.

  “Finch, you okay?” asked Samantha.

  Finch looked up but that was a mistake. All he had to do was look around to start thinking again about how he would never figure out who wrote the note. Better make it stop again. He lowered his head back down. Thump.

  And how he wasn’t helping anybody anyway. Thump.

  And now he wasn’t even going to Dinosaur State Park. Thump.

  Because there was no way he was going to get all his work done by Friday! Thump. Thump thump thump thump thump.

  “Finch, quit it!”

  That sounded like Noah. Finch stopped thumping and picked up his head. It was Noah. And he wasn’t alone.

  21. Noasaurus

  When Finch stopped thumping and picked up his head, there was Noah. No surprise. Also Samantha, still sitting across from him, and Quinn, back in her seat. Angelika was standing there, too. And so was David.

  And so was Mr. White. Otherwise known as Awesome-

  raptor. “Finch!” he said. “What’s up?”

  Sometimes Finch thought up captions for the illustrated story of his life as a famous paleontologist. Sometimes he pretended he was a dinosaur. And sometimes, like right now, he mixed it up.

  When Awesomeraptor and Finchosaurus meet, the valley shakes with the force of their steps. They are two fierce predators. Will they fight?