Finch Goes Wild

By Janet Gingold

Harmon doesn't fit into the hole he gets shoved into. He has to break out. With his grades at an all-time low and his weight off the charts, he knows he's headed for trouble. Even in his music he finds too many wrong notes. When the noise of his jeering classmates and nagging mother threatens to overwhelm him, he finds a whole new world to explore in nearby wild places.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet Gingold
• Release date: Aug 11, 2010
• ISBN: 9780982805138

Janet Gingold

Janet Gingold grew up in a big old house with five brothers, three sisters and two very busy parents. While at the University of Michigan, she decided to use science to solve human problems. This led her to the practice of medicine. After 20 years of general pediatrics, she decided to look for solutions through education instead of medication. She spends most of her time teaching, reading, writing and learning new cool stuff about the way life works. She is the author of three novels for growing people: Superfoot, Finch Goes Wild and Danger: Long Division. She lives in Maryland with her husband. They have three grown children.

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FINCH GOES WILD

By Janet Gingold

Copyright 2010

Finch Goes Wild

by Janet Gingold

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Janet Gingold

ISBN 978098205138

Stories for Growing People

Janet Gingold Books

Upper Marlboro, Maryland

www.janetgingold.com

Finch Goes Wild was originally published in print by the Blue Works division of Windstorm Creative in 2007.

Copyright 2007 by Janet Gingold

Print edition is available from Orchard House Press.

www.orchardhousepress.com

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Discover other works by Janet Gingold at Smashwords.com and www.janetgingold.com

Dedication

To those who listen

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER 1: Sticks and Stones

CHAPTER 2: Check-up

CHAPTER 3: Trying for Music

CHAPTER 4: Walking

CHAPTER 5: Noise

CHAPTER 6: Walking in Rhythm

CHAPTER 7: Volunteer Work

CHAPTER 8: Exploration

CHAPTER 9: Deletion

CHAPTER 10: Playing

CHAPTER 11: Toxicity

CHAPTER 12: Advent

CHAPTER 13: Bird Count

CHAPTER 14: Tally

CHAPTER 15: Family Flock

CHAPTER 16: Hypothesis Testing

CHAPTER 17: Listening

CHAPTER 18: Free Trial Offer

CHAPTER 19: Planting

CHAPTER 20: Audition

CHAPTER 21: Harmony

CHAPTER 22: Crunch Time

EPILOGUE: Finch's Song

HARMON'S BIBLIOGRAPHY

DISCUSSION GUIDE

AUTHOR'S NOTE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chapter 1: Sticks and Stones

Suspended.

The word hissed and pounded in his head. Harmon focused his fury on a rock and booted it down the sidewalk. With a dull clack, the rock stopped in the middle of his path. He sent it, hard, into the street and stomped the last half block home. When he went inside, the door slammed shut behind him. He winced in anticipation of his mother’s tirade.

Fortunately, nobody was home. He let his book bag thud onto the floor in the den and turned on the television. He didn’t watch it. He just stared at the ceiling until he couldn’t stand the drone any more. After trying six more channels, he zapped the TV off and turned on the stereo. Some stupid CD of his sister’s blared out hard rock, but he didn’t bother to get up and change it. He flopped back on the couch and thumbed the up-volume button on the remote, hoping the booming bass would pound down the hot spikes of anger his brain.

His clenched fist had barely relaxed, when he felt the cool nose of his dog nuzzling his palm. He sat up and pressed power-off. The sudden silence left his ears ringing. He rubbed his face and shook his head.

Hey, Bud. Come on. We’re going out.

Harmon heaved his bulky form up from the couch and headed for the garage door, with the dog clicking and sliding on the linoleum behind him. Outside, Bud bounded ahead, pivoted and returned to Harmon’s side. As soon as Harmon acknowledged him with a pat on the head, Bud trotted off. Harmon panted along behind him. When they reached the neighborhood park, Harmon picked up a stick and threw it. Bud raced after it, delivered it to the boy’s feet and looked up for more, tail wagging. This time, Harmon put his whole body into the throw and watched the stick soar as Bud tore after it. By the time his arm started to feel tired, the angry spikes in his brain had melted into a simmering pool.

I keep trying to throw away all the garbage that goes on at school, he thought. But just for trying to do what’s right, I get a whole truck load dumped on me. Wait till Ma talks with the principal.

Cold black despair formed a crust over his hot red fury.

Bud looked up at him expectantly and drooled on his sneaker. Harmon reached down for the stick and heaved it into the woods.

Leave it, Bud. Let’s go.

As he approached the house, he saw the car in the driveway. He pictured his mother listening to the message from school on the answering machine. His pace slowed, but Bud trotted on, his wagging tail brushing against the blooming forsythia bush, as a wall of cloud blocked the afternoon sun. The van door was open. Harmon picked up two bags of groceries on the way in. His mother put down the phone as he shouldered the door open. He said nothing. Avoiding her eyes, he started putting the groceries away. Normally, her cheerful chatter buzzed at him like a hoard of hungry mosquitoes. Now, her silence battered him like so many rocks falling from a cliff.

Methodically, he put cans in the cabinet, milk in the fridge, bread in the breadbox. Then, he picked up the new bag of chips and headed for the stairs.

Harmon.

Yeah.

Sit down.

He gave the bag of chips a little toss, caught it lightly and laid it on the table. He sat heavily on the kitchen chair, propped his elbow on the table and put his head in his hand. His mother reached over, opened the chips, took one and shoved the bag toward him.

You’d better tell me. The whole story.

Harmon chomped a chip. Then another. And another.

I have to know.

You won’t like it. It’s ugly.

There’s lots of ugly stuff that I don’t like. I still have to know.

Harmon wasn’t in the habit of lying to his parents, but usually he tried to shield them from things he knew they didn’t want to hear and couldn’t do anything about. This time, though, he’d have to tell it straight. He swallowed another chip and took a deep breath.

There’s this kid in my science class named Fareed. He’s the puniest kid in the whole school. He’s probably the scrawniest seventh grader in the state of Maryland. He maybe comes up to my shoulder. You should see him in his gym uniform. His arms and legs look like knobby sticks.

Now, be kind.

That’s the point. You said you wanted the whole story.

Yes. Go on.

"So, this kid, Fareed, came to our school probably in November. Strange accent, but really good grammar. Doubt he could’ve gotten such good English around here. I think he’s from India or maybe Pakistan. Never stops working. Half the time, his is the only paper in the basket when the teacher collects the work. You know, everybody hurries to get to the seats in the back. Not Fareed. Everyday, he sits right in the middle of the front row, and then he listens to every word the teacher says, busy all the time writing stuff in his notebook in weird wavy cursive. She asks a question? He raises his hand. If he had any sense, he would stop giving the rest of the kids a chance to make fun of his accent.

Anyhow, today Fareed climbs onto the bus with a big poster full of maps and graphs all done with colored pencils. I guess he doesn’t have a computer.

I don’t remember you doing a poster. What was the assignment?

Not part of the story. Do you want the story or not?

Go ahead.

So there’s Fareed getting on the bus with his bag of books weighing more than he does and this big poster, and behind me I hear Marcus starting up with his usual racist conspiracy junk. You know--he starts out making fun of Fareed’s English, like he could do so well with Hindi, or whatever. Marcus can barely read English and he’s been here his whole life. Then, he goes on mocking Fareed’s mother because she wears one of those things on her head. Then he gets real serious and starts telling everybody who will listen, which is most of those idiots, that Fareed’s family is part of a terrorist network that is plotting the next major attack on Washington, and how it’s so wrong that people like Fareed come to our school to get educated so they will take what’s rightfully ours. His father teaches him this garbage.

Do I know Marcus?

Don’t think so.

What color is he?

Does it matter? Lighter than me, darker than you.

Okay. Go on.

"So, finally, we get to school, and Fareed struggles his way down the steps with his poster. I thought he would blow away like a kite when he hit the sidewalk. He’s trying to hold onto it, when Marcus comes up and says, ‘Hey, Fareed, you freak. Gimme the poster.’ Fareed keeps walking. Maybe he’s ignoring Marcus on purpose. Who knows? Marcus comes up and lays his big meaty hand on that puny little shoulder and says, ‘Hey, freak, I’m talking to you.’ I’m looking around wondering where on earth those administrators are when you need them. Then, Marcus is ripping up the poster, the pieces are blowing across the parking lot, and then he’s pulling on the strap of Fareed’s backpack.

I couldn’t just stand there. Last time I saw somebody rip up Fareed’s homework I just stood there and I felt bad about that for weeks. So I said, ‘Let him go.’

Good for you, baby.

Good, maybe, but stupid. I figured I might be dead in a few minutes. Then there’s this quiet, like in a movie when everybody is waiting to see what’s going to happen. Marcus lets go of Fareed and looks around to see who said it. Fareed is no dummy. He backs off quick and I circle around to get in between him and Marcus, hoping that somebody sensible is getting Mr. Ferguson or Mr. Anderson, but I’m keeping my eyes on Marcus. He laughs. ‘You!’ he says. ‘Hah!’ He shoves me in the chest. It’s soft, he says, real loud, and then he laughs. These two girls who follow him around, Tiffany and Malika, they come over and Tiffany grabs one of my arms and squeezes it. Malika says Don’t squeeze the Charmin, and starts squeezing my other arm while Marcus yells ‘Charmin Harmon’ and laughs. I won’t repeat what he said next, but it had to do with uses for toilet paper. Then he punches me hard in the stomach. Everybody is laughing. I shake off the girls and shove him in the chest with both hands. Stupid, I guess. He hardly moves. First he looks surprised, then his mouth straightens into a hard line and his eyes go dead cold. Who knows what would’ve have happened next, but, finally, here comes Mr. Anderson, yelling ‘Freeze.’

Do I know Mr. Anderson?

Gym teacher. Six foot seven, 280 pounds.Used to play for the Terps. Probably the only person in the county that Marcus would freeze for, but he did.

Thank goodness.

Well, yeah, I’m still breathing, but that doesn’t get me out of trouble. Pushing back is called fighting, and it gets an automatic suspension and permanent report in my record.

Oh, Harmon.

Harmon raked a pile of chips out of the bag onto the table in front of him and accelerated his munching.

Your father and I will meet with Mr. Ferguson first thing in the morning. It will help if you write up a complete report of what happened and why you did what you did. What happened after that?

Mr. Anderson took Marcus and me to the office. Mr. Ferguson said he didn’t have time to deal with us because he had to go to a meeting. We got sent back to class. Lucky I don’t have to deal with Marcus in any of my classes except science which is last period, and he’s at a different lunch.

What happened in science?

Marcus wasn’t there. Don’t know why. He wasn’t on the bus either. I thought Mrs. Neale was going to lose it. Today was the day that people were supposed to share their projects, so the whole period was supposed to be oral presentations. Well, the only people who brought their projects were Jennifer and Britney. So, after their two presentations were done, we all had to write an explanation of why we didn’t have our projects. Jennifer and Britney got to work on making a Power Point presentation using the information from both of their projects.

What about Fareed?

I guess he finally wised up. He didn’t say anything.

His mother sighed and stared at the ceiling. The only sounds in the kitchen were the munching of chips and the tick of the clock.

That is so wrong, she said.

Yep.

So, Harmon, what did you write about why you didn’t have your project?

Not much. First off, I wrote about why Fareed didn’t have his, and gave that to Mrs. Neale. Then, I wrote that I didn’t really have much of a reason for not doing mine. I mentioned the websites I used to collect all the information. No excuses. I just didn’t write it up. Mrs. Neale called Fareed to stay after for a few minutes, so maybe she let him give her his report privately. ‘Course she didn’t get to see the graphs and maps. Her rule is that if it’s not handed in on time, you get an E. You think she can figure out how to give him a good grade without making him do all that work over again?

Don’t know, baby. I do know that E or not, you are going to write up your science project while you are home tomorrow. And you will give it to Mrs. Neale first thing Friday.

I’m not getting on that bus with a poster.

You can write it up as a report that fits in a folder. I’ll write a note to go with it if I have to. You can’t let people like Marcus mess up your future.

I just don’t want his knuckles messing up my face.

Harmon went to his room and booted up his computer. He typed up the details of the day as well as he could remember them. Then, dreading his mother’s inevitable fault-finding, he did a pre-emptive strike. He read it through, aloud, to make sure it sounded right, changed a there to their and fixed a few typos. He could hear his parents talking in low voices downstairs, but he couldn’t quite make out the words. They sounded angry, then desperate, then discouraged and depressed. Harmon was running the spell-check when the doorbell rang.

Harmon, come have some pizza.

Right.

Nobody said much over dinner. Harmon’s sister, Michelle, started to complain about her AP chemistry teacher, but quickly noticed that nobody was paying much attention and fell silent. Reaching for another slice with pepperoni, Harmon glanced across the table at them—his tall, solid father, his pillowy mother and his willowy sister, all of them looking anywhere but at him. After only four pieces, Harmon’s stomach hurt. He went back to his room, finished his report and then did his algebra homework with Bud curled up next to his desk. He put his music on the stand, but as he assembled his flute, the memory of nasty taunts crowded into his head, pushing out any desire to practice. He put on a CD of James Moody playing jazz flute, and lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, wondering how he was going to survive being in the same school building as Marcus, let alone the same bus.

His dad’s step in the hall broke into his thoughts and there was a knock on his door.

You have that report written up?

He went to the computer and clicked print. His dad just watched the paper feed out into the printer’s tray. Harmon picked it up and handed it over. His dad sat at the desk and read it through without a word.

Is this all true?

Yep.

Does stuff like this happen very often?

Couple of times a week. Not always that bad.

Is it always Marcus?

No, but he’s the worst because he punches hardest. Usually it’s more mouth.

Do you get picked on like Fareed?

Not as much anymore.

Since you stopped doing your work.

Harmon just looked at his father. He knew that having to put up with Pinch the Finch and Tweety bird and Fatty fairy flute fruit was no excuse. After all, his dad grew up with the name Harmon Finch, too, and he managed to keep up his grades, play a little ball, go to the University of Maryland and get a degree in accounting.

He does his work every day. I never hear him complain about all the stupidity and unfairness in the world. But I’ll never be him.

Son, you did a good thing today. But schools have to have rules. You are going to have to dig yourself out of this hole you’ve gotten yourself into, starting with that science project.