Finchosaurus

by Gail Donovan

  David spoke up. “Dino demo,” he said.

  “Dino demo?” asked Mr. White.

  Awesomeraptor is distracted by another dinosaur, who could be easier prey. He follows it down the valley.

  “Dinosaur demonstration,” explained David. “He was showing us how some dinosaurs have such a hard skull, they could pound it like crazy.”

  “Pachycephalosaurus,” added Noah. “Its skull was, like, ten inches thick. We learned that in Paleo Pals.”

  Mr. White did not say Awesome, like usual.

  Awesomeraptor circles back to where he left Finchosaurus.

  “Finch,” said Mr. White. “It’s almost time for recess. Let’s go to my office where we can talk.”

  Suddenly a Tyrannosaurus rex comes between Awesome-

  raptor and Finchosaurus.

  “No!” said Angelika.

  It’s another deadly predator!

  “She means—he can’t,” said Noah.

  What sort of dinosaur should Noah be? wondered Finch. Noasaurus, of course! A small dinosaur from the late Cretaceous.

  Noasaurus walks slowly down the valley, looking like easy prey, drawing Awesomeraptor away from Finchosaurus.

  “Because he has to report to Mrs. Adler’s room for recess,” said Noah.

  “So he can try to finish all his missing assignments,” explained David.

  “So he can go on the class trip,” added Quinn.

  “The end-of-the-year trip,” echoed Samantha. “To Dinosaur State Park!”

  Together, a pack of smaller dinosaurs is almost a match for a big predator.

  Mr. White had a puzzled look on his face. He stood, tapping his finger to his white beard, as if he was trying to decide whether to turn “Let’s go to my office” into a command. Or whether to back off.

  “We’re really, really sorry we disrupted lunch,” said Samantha. “Really.”

  “And it won’t ever, ever happen again,” said David.

  “Exactly what won’t happen again?” asked Mr. White.

  “No more Pachycephalosaurus demonstrations on the lunch tables,” said Angelika.

  “Promise,” said Noah. “I’ll sit with him every day and make sure.”

  Mr. White turned to Finch.

  “You’ve been awfully quiet,” he said. “Is there anything you want to say?”

  There were a lot of things Finch wanted to know, but that he didn’t want to say. Like, Why is everybody being so nice to me? Instead, he said the words that would make Mr. White go away.

  “I won’t bang my head on the table anymore,” he said. “Promise.”

  “All right, then,” agreed Mr. White. “And good luck finishing your work, Finch. I really hope you can go on the trip. I’m tagging along as chaperone, so I hope to see you then.”

  The bell rang just as Mr. White was walking away, and everyone scrambled to bus their lunch trays and head outside for recess. Everyone except Finch, Angelika, and Noah.

  “That was awesome!” said Finch, laughing. “You guys were great!”

  “That was not awesome,” said Angelika. “You almost got in a lot of trouble!”

  “That was not funny!” added Noah.

  Whoa. That was strange. Noah thinking something wasn’t funny?

  “What?” cried Finch. “It was totally funny!”

  “No,” said Noah, shaking his head. “Not funny! I told you, I’m not going without you. So you better sit with me tomorrow, like I told Mr. White. I’m not kidding!”

  The next day, Finch found out exactly how not kidding Noah was.

  Noah stuck with Finch from Mrs. Adler’s room to the cafetorium. He stuck with Finch in the lunch line. He stuck with Finch as they found a table and sat down.

  Outside, rain was slooshing down the big cafetorium windows. Inside, the smell of chicken tacos filled the air. Finch opened his milk carton and stuck in his straw, as Angelika plunked her tray down beside Noah, and Fatouma plunked hers down beside Finch.

  “Twelve times one,” said Fatouma. “Go.”

  “What?” cried Finch.

  “Fatouma’s going to quiz you,” said Noah.

  “This is one of the things on your list, right?” asked Angelika. “What you need to finish so you can go on the class trip?”

  “You asked me to help Millie with her times tables,” said Fatouma. “And I did, and she passed. I can help you, too. Come on, twelve times one.”

  Instead of answering, Finch took a big bite of his chicken taco. This was so embarrassing! He didn’t want anybody’s help.

  “Come on, Finch,” pressed Noah. “This isn’t all about you. What about me?”

  Suddenly Finch felt like all that thumping yesterday had jiggled something loose in his brain. Good question. What about Noah? Noah’s dog Rozzy was so old and sick she had to be carried outside so she could go to the bathroom, and that didn’t just start happening last week. It could have been happening back when Finch found the note. How come he had been so quick to assume the notewriter wasn’t Noah, just because Noah was helping him? He could have been faking!

  “Here’s the deal,” he said. “I answer Fatouma’s questions. You answer mine.”

  “Deal,” said Noah, nodding.

  “Twelve times one,” said Fatouma.

  “Twelve,” answered Finch.

  “No,” said Fatouma, shaking her head. “Say the whole thing. Twelve times one is twelve. It works better that way.”

  “Twelve times one is twelve,” said Finch, and turned to Noah. “Noah, was it you? Did you write the note?”

  “What note?” asked Fatouma.

  Fatouma already knew he was trying to help kids. She just hadn’t known exactly why. But finding out the truth about Noah was more important than trying to keep a secret. Besides, it wasn’t much of a secret anymore.

  “I found a note,” he explained. “Somebody wrote a note, asking for help.”

  “That’s why you asked me to help Millie?” asked Fatouma.

  “Yeah, basically,” he answered. “I knew she needed help, and I thought you could help her, maybe. But I don’t know if Millie wrote the note, or not. We still haven’t figured out who wrote it.” He turned back to Noah and asked again, “Was it you?”

  “No,” said Noah. “I mean, it stinks. You know. But it wasn’t me. I swear.”

  “What stinks?” asked Angelika.

  “His dog,” said Finch.

  “Your dog smells?” she asked Noah.

  “Actually, yeah, she does a little,” said Noah with a small smile. “But that’s not it. She’s really old, and the vet says it’s time to . . . put her to sleep.”

  “Wow,” said Angelika, giving Noah a sorry-for-him smile. “That’s really sad.”

  For a second nobody said anything else. The cafetorium was filled with the buzz of kids all around them, talking, and the sound of the rain slooshing down the windows.

  Finally, Fatouma broke their silence. “Twelve times two.”

  “Twelve times two is twenty-four,” answered Finch, turning to Angelika. “What about you?”

  “No,” said Angelika. “I swear.”

  Finch turned to Fatouma.

  “It wasn’t me,” said Fatouma. “But I’m kind of glad you found it.”

  “Why?”

  Fatouma shrugged. “If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have asked me to help Millie. And if you hadn’t asked me, we wouldn’t be friends now.”

  “Or be on Green Team,” added Finch. “Don’t forget Green Team. You better not quit next year just because you’ll be in sixth grade.”

  “I won’t,” she said, grinning.

  “All right, people,” said Noah in his best Mrs. Adler imitation. “More math.”

  Everybody laughed and Fatouma went on to twelve times three.

 
By the end of the week, Finch and the number twelve were solid, and he knew a trick in case he forgot: break twelve into ten and two. For example, twelve times seven was the same thing as ten times seven plus two times seven, which was easy. That was seventy plus fourteen, which was eighty-four.

  Finch had answers for his twelve-times test, but that still left him with one big question scratching at his brain. Who? Who? Who?

  22. Iffosaurus

  On the last day of the second-to-last week of school, Finch sat down on his bouncy chair and began to bob softly up and down. He looked at the clock: 8:30. In about five minutes, everyone was going to find out he hadn’t tried his best.

  Mrs. Adler went to the front of the room and raised her hand in the air, signaling for silence. Grammy Mary sat quietly with her hands in her lap, to model “paying attention.” One by one, kids stopped talking.

  Iffosaurus appears on the scene, and a hush settles over the valley.

  “Listen up, fifth graders,” said Mrs. Adler. “If you have handed in all your assignments, you will be cleaning out your desks this morning. We have an extra trash can, but please do not pick up the contents of your entire desk and toss everything into the trash. The green bin is for paper, and we are still recycling. I, for one, would love to end the year with a Golden Bucket Award. Wouldn’t that be nice, Grammy Mary?”

  “That would be awfully nice, Mrs. Adler,” agreed Grammy Mary.

  Mrs. Adler wrapped up her instructions. “For those of you who have not handed in all of your assignments, I will be meeting with you individually.” Then she headed toward her desk in the back of the room.

  Iffosaurus walks slowly down the valley, and slowly, the smaller dinosaurs return to their foraging. For the moment, all seems safe. But suddenly, Iffosaurus stops. Finchosaurus holds still. If Iffosaurus is hungry, and she sees him, there is little he can do against this giant foe.

  “Finch,” said Mrs. Adler. “Come here, please.”

  Finch followed Mrs. Adler. Standing by her desk, swaying back and forth, he had a funny feeling, as if people were watching. He snuck a peek. Noah was definitely watching and listening. Angelika, too. Other kids seemed to be cleaning their desks in slow motion. Quietly.

  Mrs. Adler picked up a paper. “This is your You Were There in Colonial Connecticut essay. I have to say, I was very surprised.”

  Facing Iffosaurus, Finchosaurus must decide—does he run? Or does he stay and fight?

  “Pleasantly surprised,” added Mrs. Adler, as she handed Finch his essay, which had a giant smiley face in the upper right-hand corner. “This is wonderful, Finch! You’ve really captured how it felt to be a boy two hundred years ago, eating pancakes. It’s imaginative and well written. Well done.”

  Finch was swaying back and forth, and so were his feelings. First he felt happy, because who doesn’t like a smiley face on their homework? Then he felt hopeful, because maybe he’d get to go on the trip? Then he told himself he shouldn’t get his hopes up because this was only one of the assignments. Besides, how could he take credit for something that wasn’t his idea? He couldn’t.

  “Uh, thanks,” he said. “But I kind of got the idea from Grammy Mary.”

  “She told me about your conversation,” said Mrs. Adler, nodding. “That’s fine. You were the one who used your resources and turned that material into something new.”

  “Really?” asked Finch.

  “Really,” said Mrs. Adler with a smile. “Now, are you ready for your multiplication test?”

  “Uh . . . sure,” said Finch.

  He recited the twelve-times table. He raced through twelve times six. He remembered twelve times seven. He got eight—the even numbers were easier—but then he tripped up on twelve times nine. So he did Fatouma’s trick. Twelve times nine was the same as ten times nine plus two times nine. That was ninety plus eighteen. That was 108. Then he cruised through to the end.

  “Twelve times ten is 120,” he said. “Twelve times eleven is 132, twelve times twelve is 144.”

  “Excellent!” said Mrs. Adler, and a few kids started clapping.

  “Fifth graders,” scolded Mrs. Adler, “we are cleaning our desks and minding our own business.” But she didn’t sound mad. She actually sounded happy. “Now, if you can hand in your acrostic poem, you’ll be all set.”

  “I don’t have it,” said Finch.

  The smile on Mrs. Adler’s face sank into a frown. “Really? But I spoke with your mother and she said you had written one.”

  “No,” he said. “Not really.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. He had written a poem. But it wasn’t a real poem. It was a joke. And he hadn’t even finished.

  Fidgeter

  Impish

  Nincompoop

  Chicken

  H

  H he’d left blank, because what he really wanted it to be wasn’t true. H for Helper.

  Mrs. Adler drew a deep breath and put the this-hurts-me-more-than-it-hurts-you look on her face. “I am really disappointed, Finch,” she said. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  Finch nodded. Of course he knew what it meant! It meant he was a fidgeting, impish, nincompoopy chicken who wasn’t going to Dinosaur State Park. It meant that she and Mr. White and his mom and his dad would all say they were “disappointed in him,” which just meant that they would pretend to be sad and surprised that he had messed up.

  Worst of all, it meant that Noah would be bummed. Not “disappointed”-bummed. Actually, seriously bummed for real, because he was Finch’s friend. His best friend. Who actually cared.

  “Mrs. Adler! Mrs. Adler!” called Noah, waving his hand back and forth.

  “Noah, I’m extremely busy,” said Mrs. Adler. “What is it?”

  “Does he have until the end of the day?”

  “Noah, this is really not your concern. But the answer is yes. If Finch makes up his mind to try, there is still time to hand in his poem. And I really hope he does,” she added, in a voice that did not sound hopeful.

  Back at his desk, Finch bobbed lightly up and down on his bouncy chair. He pulled a bunch of stuff from his desk, so he could pretend to be cleaning.

  It seemed like all he did anymore was pretend.

  He pretended he was a dinosaur. He pretended he was going to be a paleontologist. He pretended he was doing his best work.

  The dinosaur pretending was like make-believe. In make-believe, you knew what was real and what wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t really a dinosaur. Obviously. Maybe it was a little babyish, but it wasn’t doing anything bad.

  Pretending that he was going to be a paleontologist was another kind of make-believe. He really did want to be a paleontologist. It was like making a wish. Maybe it was stupid, because to be an actual scientist you probably had to go to a lot of school, and school was not something he was good at. But at least it wasn’t wrong to wish something.

  But pretending to other people that he had been doing his best—that was like telling a lie. He had told himself it was okay, but it wasn’t. He could tell that from Noah’s face, which looked scrunched up tight, the way it had when Noah was telling him about Rozzy being sick.

  And now, pretending that he didn’t care about the trip to Dinosaur State Park—that was ridiculous. He wasn’t fooling anybody. Everybody knew how much he wanted to go.

  Finch didn’t like this feeling. He needed to feel something different. He bounced a little higher on his chair.

  “Finch,” said Mrs. Adler. “Settle down, please.”

  Finch didn’t want to settle down. He wanted to bounce. Bounce, bounce, bounce.

  “Finch!” said Mrs. Adler.

  Bounce, bounce, bounce. Bounce bounce bounce bounce bounce!

  “Finch! If you can’t settle down, I will—”

  Nobody heard what Mrs. Adler would do if Finch couldn’t settle down, because e
verybody was laughing. Because Finch had bounced himself right off his chair and slam-landed on the floor. Which landed him out in the hallway with Grammy Mary so he could “collect himself.”

  Excellent. Out here he didn’t have to see Noah, looking so bummed, which just made him feel more bummed than he already was. He was dreading lunch, when Noah would probably bite off his head.

  23. The Day Was Dark as Night

  Finch got his lunch of spaghetti and meatballs and made his way through the cafetorium. He plunked his tray down on the table where he and Noah always sat and slid onto the bench seat. David and Atticus were already there. But not Noah.

  Finch scanned the room. There was Noah, wandering around like he was searching for a place to sit. Was Noah that mad? Was he ditching him? Noah never sat down, though. He just went from table to table, talking to different kids for a little bit and then moving on. Finally, he landed at their table.

  Finch dug his spork into a meatball. “What took you so long?”

  “No fair!” said Noah. “You got four meatballs and I only got three. I want one of yours!”

  “But that’s not fair, either,” pointed out Atticus.

  “Hey, whose side are you on?” joked Noah.

  “Uh . . . Finch’s?” said Atticus.

  “And this is a bully-free zone,” said David, grinning. “No stealing meatballs.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Finch. “No bullying.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Noah. “I’m just goofing around. But you kind of owe me.”

  Finch twirled up a sporkful of spaghetti. “Why?” he asked. “What for?”

  “For helping you write your acrostic poem,” said Noah as he pulled a pencil stub from his pocket. “Come on, let’s do this.”

  “Noah,” groaned Finch. “Give it up. It’s over. I’m not going.”

  “Your name has five letters,” argued Noah. “That’s five words. You don’t even have to think them up. We’ll give you ideas and you can choose one.”

  “What if I don’t want your help?”

  “Then you would be totally two-faced,” accused Noah. “You want to do all the helping but you won’t take any help yourself.”