Finchosaurus Read online

  Finchosaurus

  By Gail Donovan

  Islandport Press

  PO Box 10

  Yarmouth, Maine 04096

  www.islandportpress.com

  [email protected]

  Copyright © 2018 Gail Donovan

  First Islandport Press edition published October 2018.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-944762-65-0 (hardcover)

  ISBN: 978-1-944762-55-1 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-944762-56-8 (ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018940792

  Dean L. Lunt, Publisher

  Cover, book design, and interior illustrations:

  Teresa Lagrange, Islandport Press

  Front and back cover art: Amy Preveza

  Printed in the USA

  For Gregory

  Other middle grade titles by Gail Donovan

  The Waffler

  What’s Bugging Bailey Blecker?

  In Memory of Gorfman T. Frog

  Other titles from Islandport Press

  What the Wind Can Tell You by Sarah Marie A. Jette

  The Door to January by Gillian French

  The Sugar Mountain Snow Ball by Elizabeth Atkinson

  Azalea, Unschooled by Liza Kleinman

  Uncertain Glory by Lea Wait

  The Five Stones Trilogy by G. A. Morgan

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  1. Atticus Finch Martin

  2. Digging Deep

  3. If You Had Thought of That

  4. Awesomeraptor

  5. 4/7, My Friend

  6. Double Blackmail

  7. Do Not Disturb

  8. Broccoli!

  9. Busted

  10. Welcome to Maine

  11. Digging Clams

  12. Bonus Points

  13. Paleo Pals

  14. The Fruits of Our Labor

  15. Martin Martin

  16. In a Blur

  17. Trick Question

  18. F for Fidgeter

  19. Olden Days

  20. Thump

  21. Noasaurus

  22. Iffosaurus

  23. The Day Was Dark as Night

  24. Rising Sixth Graders

  25. Every Piece of Paper Has Two Sides

  About the Author

  1. Atticus Finch Martin

  Deeper. If he could dig deeper, he could find something good. Not just a worm. He’d dug up plenty of worms. Not just a turd, which he’d also dug up, which he was pretty sure was the cat’s, but who cared? He didn’t want worms. And he didn’t want turds. Unless it was a fossilized turd. Because that’s what he wanted: a fossil. If a bulldozer driver like Edward McCarthy could uncover the fossilized tracks of a dinosaur only a few miles away, then he, Finch Martin, could find a piece of dinosaur, right?

  “Thank you. Thank you,” he said to an imaginary audience. “Thank you so much. I’m honored to have the dinosaur I discovered named after me—”

  That was where Finch got stuck. Which name should he use? His first name was Atticus. His middle name was Finch. And his last name was Martin.

  The Martin part came from his dad. The Atticus Finch part came from a book. His mom was so crazy for books that she a) was a librarian at his school, and b) actually named him for a character in a book, which Finch thought was pretty weird until he got to kindergarten, where there were three kids named Atticus. So he started going by Finch, which he liked because a finch was a bird, and birds were related to dinosaurs.

  But he still had to decide: Atticusaurus? Finchosaurus? Or Martinosaurus?

  “The Finchosaurus was an amazing dinosaur—”

  “Finchosaurus?”

  That was Sam, his brother, interrupting Finch’s famous-paleontologist speech.

  “Maybe Finchoraptor,” said Finch. “I haven’t decided. It depends on what I find. Like if it’s a plant-eater or a meat-eater.”

  Sam shook his head. He had carrot-orange hair, just like Finch. But orange hair was the only thing about them that was the same. Sam was a bookworm, like their mom. Finch didn’t like books, unless they had plenty of pictures. And facts. Facts about dinosaurs.

  “Mom says bedtime,” said Sam.

  “In a sec,” he said.

  Finch’s brother was thirteen and in the eighth grade. At school, he and his friends roamed the playground like they were the biggest, baddest, meat-eating predators around. But even if Finch was just ten going on eleven, and in fifth grade, Sam wasn’t the boss of him.

  Besides, how could it be time for bed? The sky was still blue. The air was still warm and smelled sweet because he was digging underneath the lilac tree. Honeybees were still nuzzling the purple flowers. They weren’t going to bed, and neither was he.

  Sam loped off and Finch kept digging, shoveling up scoop after scoop of dirt. He stopped to watch their cat, Whoopie Pie, stalk a moth, her black tail switching back and forth, and then he went back to his digging.

  “Finch. Time for bed.”

  That was his dad.

  “I told you he was digging,” said Sam, and made a told-you-so face at Finch.

  “You must have been a woodchuck in another life,” said Finch’s dad.

  “I’m not a woodchuck,” said Finch. “I’m a paleontologist.”

  “Well, woodchuck or paleontologist, it’s time to stop digging.”

  “Five more minutes,” said Finch. “Please?”

  “I like the please,” said his dad. “But no. Besides, how can you even see what you’re doing?”

  Finch looked around. When had the sky gone from bright blue to inky blue?

  “I can see,” he insisted. “And this is for school. It’s homework.”

  Technically, it wasn’t a must-do homework assignment. It was a choice. Tomorrow they were kicking off their new unit—‘Digging Deep’—and Mrs. Adler had said anyone who wanted to could bring in something to share. And Finch wanted to!

  Finch’s dad crossed his arms over his chest. “Less arguing, Finch. More cooperation. Now.”

  Finch’s dad was named Lester Martin. Everybody called him Les, which was a little funny because it sounded like less, which was pretty much what he was always telling Finch to do. Less bouncing (inside the house). Less digging (outside the house). Less asking why. Less arguing.

  “But I need something for tomorrow! Why can’t I stay up?”

  “Bedtime,” said Finch’s dad.

  It wasn’t fair that Finch wasn’t allowed to not answer a question from a grown-up, when grown-ups didn’t answer his questions all the time. Or they just answered with a command. Stop digging. Go to bed.

  “Come on, Finch,” said his dad. “You too, Sam. Let’s go.”

  “No way,” said Sam. “I’m older—I’m not going to bed when he goes!”

  “You’re not that much older,” argued Finch.

  “Thirteen minus ten is three,” said Sam, holding up three fingers. “Or can’t you subtract?”

  “I know how to subtract,” said Finch. “But I’m practically eleven.” His birthday was next month, in June.

  Sam made a huffy, offended noise. “Yeah, and then it’s my birthday and I’m fourteen. Plus, I’m in eighth and you’re in fifth.”

  “So what?” asked Finch.

  “Boys,” said their dad. “Enough.”

&nbs
p; “What’s going on out there?”

  That was Finch’s mom, coming across the grass.

  “Wow,” she said. “This is quite a picture.”

  Finch could picture it, too, just like in a book. Stars twinkling in the blue-black sky. Him digging underneath the lilac tree. And the caption would say: On a warm spring night, a young Finch Martin dug up a fossil of the largest dinosaur ever to roam the earth, the Finchosaurus.

  But apparently Finch’s mom saw a different picture.

  “I see a kid up way past his bedtime.”

  “Mom, I need something for tomorrow,” cried Finch. “Mrs. Adler said!”

  “I’m sorry,” said his mom. “But if Mrs. Adler has a consequence for you not getting your homework done, you’ll have to pay it.”

  “Just one more shovel!”

  “Now I see a kid who is digging himself into a whole lot of trouble,” said his mom. “Because he is arguing with his parents. Les, would you give Finch a hand?”

  Finch threw down his shovel and pawed through the dirt.

  “I’m done!” he said. “I got it.”

  Finch held up what he had found. Wriggling around in the palm of his cupped hands, like it was just as unhappy about this as Finch, was a long, brown worm.

  Maybe the worm was even more unhappy than he was, thought Finch the next morning.

  He was just bummed because he had brought in a worm for sharing instead of a dinosaur fossil.

  But the worm had gotten dug out of its home. Then, because nobody could find a see-through container with a lid, the worm had gotten put in a plastic bag of dirt. The bag was the kind with the zipper at the top, which Finch decided he’d better open, because what if the worm couldn’t breathe?

  He only unzipped the bag a little.

  And he was only bouncing a little on his chair (which was actually a giant bouncy ball that Mrs. Davison, the occupational therapist, gave him because he had so much trouble sitting still on a regular chair).

  But somehow he bounced the worm—and all the dirt—right out of the bag!

  “Mrs. Adler,” he called. “Mrs. Adler—I dropped my worm!”

  Kids scrambled for a look, laughing and shouting and crowding in.

  “Broccoli!” said Mrs. Adler.

  Broccoli was Mrs. Adler’s special code word. It meant everybody was supposed to stop doing whatever it was they were doing. Then back off. Step away.

  Kids began backing away from Finch and the worm, while Mrs. Adler padded slowly across the room, like she was a Giganotosaurus and the kids were just some Micro-

  ceratops, too small to worry about.

  Mrs. Adler was actually pretty tall. She wasn’t old-old, like some of the teachers, with gray hair. She was just regular grown-up old, with brown hair she wore clipped up into a messy bun.

  Mrs. Adler looked down at Finch. She looked at the worm. She looked at the dirt spread all over the floor. She shook her head, as if she had known all along the bouncy ball was a bad idea, and now she had proof. Then she told Finch that she would call the janitor to clean up the dirt, and that he should go outside and put the worm in the class garden. She asked Grammy Mary, their class volunteer, to go with him.

  Five minutes later, Finch was outside. All by himself. Well, by himself, with Grammy Mary. The playground was empty because nobody was at recess. The sky was an empty, no-cloud blue.

  He didn’t want to leave the worm on top of the ground, so he set down the bag and started digging. Then he saw something white in the brown dirt. What was it?

  A tiny piece of paper. Not a scrap, but a big piece, folded and folded until it was as small as his thumb. Finch unfolded and unfolded, until it was flat, and he could read what was written on it. A single word.

  Help.

  2. Digging Deep

  Finch dropped the worm into the empty hole and stuffed the paper in his pocket, feeling something already in there—ooh, jelly beans!—and went over to where Grammy Mary was sitting on a big boulder.

  Perched on the rock, Grammy Mary reminded Finch of a gnome. Her hair was white and she was almost the shape of the boulder—short and round. She was wearing a purple shirt that said I brake for unicorns.

  Grammy Mary came every day to help out in Mrs. Adler’s room. Finch wasn’t sure exactly how she was supposed to be helping. She didn’t try to teach anybody anything, because she wasn’t a teacher or a teacher’s aide. Sometimes she walked with kids going to the nurse’s office or for special services. Sometimes she sat with kids in the hallway if Mrs. Adler said they could take five minutes to “collect themselves.” But mostly her job seemed to be saying hello. And smiling. Hello! she said to each kid as they arrived. I’m so glad to see you!

  She gave him her usual big smile now.

  “All done?” she asked.

  “Yup,” said Finch, nodding and holding out his hand. “Jelly bean?”

  Two jelly beans—one purple and one green—sat in the palm of his hand, which even he had to admit was pretty dirty. Most grown-ups would say no thanks.

  Grammy Mary picked the purple one. “Did you find a new home for that little guy?”

  Finch popped the green jelly bean in his mouth. “Yup,” he said.

  Because that was the truth. He had found a new home for the worm. He didn’t tell Grammy Mary about what else he had found, though. The note that said Help. Because he didn’t want any help with the help note. He was going to find out himself: Who had written it? What kind of help did they need? And why had they buried it? Maybe they had hidden it there like a wish—like when you put a baby tooth under your pillow and hoped to get something good in exchange.

  Back in the classroom, Finch dropped onto his bouncy chair and checked the whiteboard for the date. Because that’s what real scientists did. They kept track of their discoveries.

  Date: May 21

  Place: Acorn Comprehensive School, Oakford, Connecticut

  Object found: a scrap of paper with the word Help

  “Welcome back, Finch,” said Mrs. Adler. “Take out a few pieces of paper, and write each letter of your name on a different one. Who can tell Finch why we’re doing this?”

  Mrs. Adler and Finch both looked up and down the rows. She was wondering who to call on, and Finch was wondering who needed help. There was a chance it wasn’t somebody in this room, but Finch doubted it. Each classroom had its own garden plot, and you weren’t allowed in another plot. Probably it was one of the seventeen kids in Mrs. Adler’s fifth-grade class. Sixteen, not counting him.

  Right now, half the class had their hands raised in the air. Graciela (who loved to answer questions). Oscar and Oliver (who loved to hear themselves talk). Charlotte and Haley and Millie and Khalid and Mohamed.

  The other half kept their hands down. Angelika and Fatouma and Samantha and Quinn. David and Kael and Noah and the Atticus who went by Atticus.

  “Oscar,” said Mrs. Adler. “Why are we writing the letters of our name?”

  Oscar answered, “Just because?” and looked at Oliver for approval. Oliver cracked up, laughing.

  Mrs. Adler took the not-dignifying-this-with-a-response approach, and moved right along. Graciela was waving her hand back and forth, holding a pencil with a fluffy, puffy thing on the end. Usually Mrs. Adler tried to keep things fair, which meant not always calling on Graciela. But probably she wanted to get the right answer this time.

  “Graciela?”

  “Poetry.”

  “Poetry. Yes,” said Mrs. Adler. “But who remembers the kind of poem we’re going to write?”

  “Oliver!” shouted out Oliver without being called on.

  “Oscar!” shouted Oscar.

  Mrs. Adler didn’t say anything to Oscar and Oliver but she wrote their names on the corner of the whiteboard, right under the word Warning, and Grammy Mary pulled her chair up right beside Oliver
. Then Mrs. Adler looked around, searching for a kid who had actually been listening ten minutes ago.

  “Angelika?” she called.

  This was the first year he and Angelika Sanchez were in the same class, and she didn’t talk much, so Finch didn’t know much about her. But if Mrs. Adler was calling on her, it meant she thought Angelika probably knew the answer. Angelika didn’t answer, though. She just shook her head and twirled her long, dark hair around her finger.

  Nobody had their hands up anymore. Mrs. Adler took a chance on Noah.

  “Noah?”

  Noah Smith-Dodson was the kind of kid who knew the answers but hardly ever raised his hand, because he wasn’t a show-off. Finch knew plenty about Noah, because Noah was his best friend. He had two last names—one from each of his parents. He had two dogs, too—a poodle at his mom’s house and a chocolate doodle at his dad’s. And the coolest thing about him was kind of gross: He had webbed toes. On each of his feet, the two littlest toes were stuck together.

  “Acrostic,” answered Noah.

  “Correct,” said Mrs. Adler, finally smiling a smile as big as one of Grammy Mary’s. “You are going to write an acrostic poem. Each letter of your name will begin a word that describes you. But I don’t want you to pick the first thing you think of. That’s why you’re starting with a whole page for each letter, with lots of room for lots of ideas. Now is the time to really dig deep to answer the question: Who are you?”

  Finch almost rolled off his bouncy-ball chair. Dig deep?

  “Mrs. Adler!” cried Finch, not waiting to be called on. “Mrs. Adler, when are we starting the new unit?”

  “This is the new unit, Finch.”

  “I thought it was Earth Science!”

  Mrs. Adler closed her eyes for a second and then opened them, as if she was hoping that this was a dream and when she woke up, he would be gone.

  “Is that why you brought an earthworm to school?”

  Finch nodded. Yes.

  Mrs. Adler shook her head. No.

  “No, Finch,” she said. “I didn’t say anything about Earth Science, and if you had been listening, you would have known that. ‘Digging Deep’ is a poetry unit. Now please settle down and get to work.”