Kinsley Boggs, World Famous Naturalist (Tales of the Uncool)

  Kinsley Boggs: World Famous Naturalist

  Tales of the Uncool

  Copyright © 2015

  Published by Scobre Educational

  Written by Kirsten Rue

  Illustrated by Sara Radka

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever

  without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations

  embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Scobre Educational

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  Cover and layout design by Jana Ramsay

  Copyedited by Renae Reed

  ISBN: 978-1-62920-143-6 (Soft Cover)

  ISBN: 978-1-62920-142-9 (Library Bound)

  ISBN: 978-1-62920-141-2 (eBook)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 A New Friend

  Chapter 2 Introductions

  Chapter 3 Progress?

  Chapter 4 The Kinsley Boggs Naturalist Tour

  Chapter 5 We Will Prevail

  Chapter 6 Bird Park

  A New Friend

  I was on the outer edge of the Halsey School yard looking for new flower shoots when I heard it: “CHICK-CHICK-BAWK!” I’m not going to lie to you: I just about jumped three feet in the air. I looked around but no one else was there. It was early, early spring and kinda starting to rain. I didn’t have my good raincoat on or anything. Across the field, the Lardos were playing kickball and I was trying to stay as far away from that as possible. Near the Halsey doors—so far away they kinda looked like just a little drip of orange paint—most of the other kids stood in little circles, talking. Nobody explores like me. It’s like they forget that there is this cool nature stuff ALL around, and not just in the summertime and not just when you plant it yourself.

  Anyway, where was I . . . oh yeah, that CHICK-CHICK-BAWK! It was like nothing I’d ever heard. Not like any of the little songbirds that hop around our bird feeder. Not like the birds I’ve watched with my grandpa, using my own set of special binoculars. This was, like, LOUD. It was a BAWK! that, if you translated it, would probably say: “Kinsley Boggs! I need your attention right now, m’kay!”

  And it HAD my attention. I love birds, slugs, panthers, Ruby (that’s our three-legged golden retriever), gazelles, polar bears . . . everything! You name an animal, and I love it. I’ve maybe even read a Young Naturalists article about it. That’s how much I love all animals. So, I kinda thought, wherever this bird was, he must have known that. He must have known that I would want to help him. He could trust me.

  A little flash of turquoise flashed by to my right. Vanished. Then, another flash, this time to my left! Vanished again. It was really starting to rain hard now, and I knew the recess bell was going to ring soon. I was getting kind of annoyed at this point.

  “C’mon, bird. You have my attention, now where are ya?” I said. (This is one thing people don’t really get about animals: Sure, they don’t speak English, but you can definitely still communicate with them.)

  Then, CHICK-CHICK-BAWK! A rolling feathery ball of turquoise and red and brown and beak came plunging at me from the edge of the fence. It rolled right up to me and then . . .

  . . . It pooped on my shoe. I stared at him, and he stared back. He was plump and had feathers going all the way down to his claws. His breast was turquoise and red, and the colors on his face were a swirl of black and white. Very dramatic. He was small, but he looked pretty tough.

  “Ewwwwww!!!” I screeched. And that, if you believe it, is how I first met Bob the Chinese Quail. Bob the Quail changed everything.

  Introductions

  Every morning when I wake up, I have to poke Ruby, my dog, in the side before I can get out of bed. She usually makes a little whine (sometimes she even farts—gross!) and then that whine changes to a happy groan. She licks my face and hops down on her good front legs. Then, she scoots her butt and missing leg down at the same time. I hop down after her.

  “Morning, Rubes!” That’s how I know the day has started. Today is no different. I brush my teeth: twenty strokes on the left; twenty on the right. I give my mom a sloppy kiss on the cheek—extra sloppy on purpose so she’ll make a pretend “Gross!” sound. Then I hop on the edge of the armchair where my grandpa is sitting, watching the bird feeders. That’s his favorite thing: watching birds all day long. Like Mom always says, the two of us are peas in a pod.

  “Hey, Granddad!”

  He smiles at me, his blue eyes soft and peaceful. “Hey there, Chickadee! See who’s visiting us today?” He points out at a little, bright yellow bird.

  “I know it! It’s a . . . a . . . goldfinch!”

  “High five!” We slap palms and I go into the kitchen to make my lunch. Most of the other Halsey kids either eat the school lunch (don’t ask me why, it’s gross) or bring nice lunches from home. They have the crusts cut off their sandwiches and Diet Cokes and corn chips. I guess Mom would make me a lunch if I asked really nicely, but she knows I’m picky. “Picky eaters,” she says, “can make their own lunches.” So, I usually bring whatever sounds good to me that morning. Today, I’m in the mood for dill pickles, goldfish crackers, and some slices of fake chicken.

  Oh, did I not tell you? I’m vegetarian. Have been since, like, forever. When you love animals like I do, you just kind of have to be.

  I put everything in the lunch sack I sewed myself at camp over the summer—it has a print of brown bears on it. I sneak Ruby the crust of my mom’s toast, and she gobbles it up in one bite. Then, I pour myself some cranberry juice in a thermos . . . AND, how could I almost forget?! I pack a little plastic baggie of bird pellets for Bob the Quail.

  You didn’t think I’d forget about Bob, did you? Bob is expecting me. We have a daily date, at least Monday through Friday. At 12:30 p.m. sharp, Bob will be waiting for me where I first discovered him. It’s right up near the fence, where all the eighth graders throw their Freeburger cups (and where I pick them up). I think I get why Bob picked that spot. It’s far away from the footballs getting thrown around, for one thing. He gets some peace and quiet. Also, there’s a little clump of shrubs and a little pond—well, a big puddle—where he can dip his feet and drink. If I’m not there, I’m pretty sure he just hides in the shrubs.

  According to Granddad, that’s normal for a quail. Actually, it was Granddad who first helped me identify Bob the Quail. After I got over the shock of Bob “introducing” himself by pooping on my shoe, I took out my phone. Just before the recess bell rang, I snapped a picture of the bird and then splashed across the rainy field and back into school.

  “Hmmmm,” Granddad muttered, “hmmmm . . . verrrrry interesting. Now this is really something.” He had put on his glasses and was squinting at the small photo on my hand-me-down phone. He compared it with various pages of his Encyclopedia of North American Birds. “Now, I’m pretty sure what we’ve got here is a quail, but the funny thing is, it doesn’t seem to be from around here.” Eventually, my mom brought her laptop down from upstairs and we started doing searches for “blue and red quail.”

  “Ah ha!” Granddad shouted in triumph. “I think we have a Chinese painted quail on our hands!”

  “From China?!” I asked. I mean, that seeme
d like a long way to fly. And why come to our town? Or to Halsey?!

  “Well,” said Granddad, “It says here that these suckers are found in India, southeast China, and all over these tropical islands. Even near Australia!” He pointed at a map on the screen.

  “Wooowww.” I pictured the islands like New Guinea that I’d seen on some of my nature shows— jungles and bright parrots and blue-green water. Once again, I had to ask myself why the quail would trade all of that for Halsey. Not exactly a tropical retreat . . .

  “You want to know my professional opinion?” Granddad asks. He never studied birds in school, but he does know a whole lot. Plus, he always likes to call things his “professional opinion,” even if he’s just telling me that I should wear a hat to school. “I think Bob might have been raised to be someone’s pet. But somehow he got out.”

  “And now I need to take care of him!” I butted in.

  “Well, I’m sure your quail could use a new friend.”

  “Bob,” I said. “His name is Bob.” I don’t why, but the name just seemed perfect for the plump little bird I’d seen earlier that day.

  “Bob definitely needs a friend,” Granddad agreed.

  So, at school today at twelve-thirty, I walk over to the edge of the Halsey yard. There are a few more late February flowers poking out of the grass. That’s good. Bob’ll like that.

  “Chick-chick-bawk!” I’ve been working on my quail call, but it’s still pretty tough. I even put a special app on my phone so I can listen to the calls before I go to sleep at night. Being a naturalist takes a LOT of hard work. My heroes are people like Jane Goodall who have lived with apes in Africa, or people that try to preserve coral reefs. So, I guess what I’m saying is, yeah, a fat little blue quail isn’t the most “glamorous” way to start. But why am I the first one to discover Bob? It has to be for a reason, and Bob is special. He needs my help. This is a good first step in my career.

  After I call, Bob scuttles out from his favorite shrub. He looks up at me with his shiny black eyes. I squat down and spread some pellets on the ground. I’ve tried to pet him on his head, but he doesn’t like that. I know Bob doesn’t want me to treat him like a pet. He may have been raised to be one, but here’s my opinion: Bob is a free quail and I should respect his independence. So I just leave some food for him and tell him about my day. Mrs. Pruggle has been really hard on us lately. So much homework, you wouldn’t even believe! And Stella Sweet, the meanest and most popular girl in sixth grade, made fun of my lunch bag yesterday. I guess bear prints aren’t her style.

  Bob eats, and bobs his little head up to look at me. His red and turquoise feathers gleam. He makes a happy little chick-chick-chick sound.

  “Alright, Bob. See you tomorrow!” With that, I head back across the field and Bob goes to stand in his puddle. As much as I like him, I also wish he could go home to where he’s really from. I mean, does he get cold in this climate? Does he get lonely for other birds to hang out with? I feel bad that he has nothing but some scraggly shrubs, a puddle, and a sixth-grade girl to keep him company.

  In Ms. Arple’s science class, my friend Esperanza sits next to me. Lately, though, she’s been trying to get everyone to call her “Espere.” I don’t know. It sounds kind of fake to me. Esperanza has always been really good at drawing, so I bet she’s trying to sound more artistic. Still, what’s wrong with her regular name? Maybe I should change my name to Kin-SALA.

  “Where do you go at recess?” Esperanza asks. “I know you do your ‘walks’ or whatever, but have you ever thought about my recess? I hate standing out there all by myself.” She makes a little frown at me.

  That’s one thing my mom always says: I don’t always make enough of an effort to keep my friends. Last year, Esperanza and I talked a lot about having our own nature show someday. She’s really good at science, though now she tells me she’s more interested in the stars and planets. We called ourselves the Dynamic Duo and set up all kinds of experiments in Esperanza’s big back yard. (Our back yard is tiny, so Ruby and I are always on the lookout for a good yard.) Then summer came around and I went to a camp far away where we spent all day tromping around the forest. That was AWESOME. By the time I came back, I sorta forgot about calling Esperanza. I was back in my own little world. But now that I think of it, Bob the Quail is just the kind of thing Esperanza would probably understand. She is my only science friend, after all. Plus, she can sketch.

  “Tomorrow I’ll take you there,” I say.

  We shake on it.

  Progress?

  Except, the next day when Esperanza and I are walking out over the fields, we notice something. Over there, in Bob the Quail’s section of the Halsey Schoolyard, a crew of men with stakes and measuring lines are walking all over it. Bob the Quail is nowhere in sight. Have these men come to take him away? I break into a run.

  “Hey! What are you doing over there?!” I shout at them. They turn.

  “Kinsley!” Esperanza huffs from behind me. “Stop running! My shoes are sticking in the mud! You’re going to get us in trouble.”

  I cross the field so fast that I can feel flecks of mud splattering my jeans. Well, my naturalist heroes had to get dirty, too, right? All in a day’s work. . . . I stop short in front of the men with their clipboards and plaid shirts. They all look at me like, “Oh, great, now we have to deal with this weirdo kid.” Once I’m up closer, I notice that Mr. Speck the activities director is standing with them. Orange lines have been spray painted in the dirt in a square pattern.

  “Excuse me,” I say, but then I have to stop for a moment to catch my breath. It’s not every day that I sprint straight across the whole Halsey field. “Excuse me,” I say again, resting my hands on my knees. “Don’t you know this is rare habitat of the endangered Chinese painted quail?”

  “Huh?” All the workers stare at me.

  “This is protected land,” I continue. “It’s a . . . a crucial, um—” What’s the word? What’s the word?!— “watershed”—Bingo!—”for a quail that’s already living here. And has been living here!”

  Mr. Speck crosses his arms and looks annoyed. He’s one of the youngest teachers at Halsey, but everyone says he plays favorites with the football Lardos. If you aren’t good at sports, then don’t even bother, they say. “A what-now?” he asks. “Who’s living here?”

  “His name is Bob,” I tell him matter-of-factly. “Bob the Quail.”

  “Right.” He glares. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  Esperanza catches up to me and shoots me a warning glance.

  “No, I’m serious.” I say, keeping my voice calm, even though it sorta wants to shake. “I discovered a rare species of quail on this property and this is his home. He needs to be protected.” I stick my chin up and throw my shoulders back, too. Just for good measure.

  (So, sidenote: I’m not actually sure if the quail is endangered or is supposed to be protected. I guess I’m kind of . . . stretching the truth? But it’s for a good cause, I swear! I’m Bob’s only friend in the world, and like it or not, Halsey is his home!)

  Mr. Speck has muscly arms and a crease in his brow that’s getting deeper the longer he has to talk to me. Esperanza reaches out and pinches my arm—I can feel it even underneath my coat sleeve.

  “Ouch!” I elbow her back. Even though we haven’t spent as much time together lately, I can still read her look one hundred percent. It says, “Kinsley Boggs, you are in BIG trouble.”

  Still, I can’t stop myself. I even stomp my foot. “Mr. Speck, I have to demand that you stop whatever you’re doing now!”

  The workers with their measuring equipment stare at me. Esperanza stares at me with her mouth open. And Mr. Speck? I figure he’s going to send me straight in to see Assistant Principal McCloud. I mean, you’re not exactly allowed to yell at the teachers. But maybe because there are workers around or maybe just because he woke up on the right side of the bed, he doesn’t.

  “What’s your name?” he asks me.

  “Kinsley.
” I try hard not to stare at the crease between Mr. Speck’s brows. I feel like somehow he’ll be more annoyed at us if he catches me doing that.

  “Well, Kinsley. We’re building the new athletic equipment shed out here. I don’t know what this thing about a bird is all about, but if you’re concerned, you’ve gotta prove it.” With that, he turns his back on me and strides back over to the others. “Ahem, gentlemen, I’m sorry for that little interruption,” he says. He puffs out his chest. He actually reminds me of a bird when I really think about it. Like a goose strolling along the edge of a pond with his breast pushed out. Or a rooster, maybe.

  I’m about to follow after him and try to explain even more, but Esperanza grabs my arm and starts dragging me back to the school. “Kinsley, we’ve got to GO! The bell’s going to ring!”

  “But, Bob! I didn’t get to feed Bob!” I struggle to pull my arm away for a moment, and then Esperanza grabs my other arm and looks straight into my eyes. I’ve always liked her eyes. They’re a coffee brown and it seems like she has little flecks of green in them, too. We’re staring at each other, face to face.

  “Look,” Esperanza hisses at me. “I’m trying to HELP you. Maybe we can save this dale or Bob or kale or whatever. But NOT NOW.”

  “It’s a QUAIL. Rhymes with ‘jail.’“ I feel just a teensy bit like crying in frustration. Usually I try to count to ten and take deep breaths to stop from crying, but this afternoon has been a lot to deal with. To top it off, Bob is probably hidden in his shrub, totally terrified right about now. He has no idea why his little corner of Halsey yard has suddenly been invaded. He didn’t even get his lunch! It’s all so unfair. But, Esperanza is taking this moment to continue to drag me towards the recess doors.

  “Chop, chop,” she says to me. “Get a move on.”

  We make it inside just as the bell begins to sound and she keeps pulling me towards science class. “Just keep moving,” she says. “Don’t get stuck.” I guess that’s kind of good advice. Poor Bob is stuck, and as I collapse into my desk in science class, I know there’s gotta be something I can do to get him un-stuck.