Free Summer of the Spotted Owl by Melanie Jackson

whitewashed?”
    â€œSavagely.” Madge had been snuggling into his shoulder; now she sat up and regarded him with curiosity. “Hey, you’re here early. I thought you had a staff meeting every day at this time.”
    â€œI was summoned by a rare and glorious event,” Jack informed her. “Your sister left a message at the soac office, pleading , the receptionist said , for me to take her to a meeting of the Young Scientists’ League this afternoon.”
    Madge stared at him, then me. “The Young Scientists’ League … my sister?”
    â€œYes,” I said brightly. “While you’ve been painting, Madge, I’ve been nurturing a love of all things scientific. And when I found out that the Young Scientists were meeting just down the road, at the Capilano Salmon Hatchery, I — well, I just knew I had to join them.”
    I made my eyes very round and sincere behind my glasses. When Jon Horowitz directed me in The Moonstone , he’d told me my hazel— that’s a nice way of saying green blotched with muddy brown — eyes were expressive. The bad news was that the next time I appeared in a play, I’d probably have to wear contacts. Yech!
    â€œSalmon hatching,” said Madge. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “More likely mischief hatching.”
    â€œAw, leave the kid alone,” said Jack, amused. “If our Di has even a salmon-egg-sized interest in the goings-on at our local hatchery, the trip will be worth it.”
    â€œI do, I do,” I said and slid the Bugle article I’d ripped out— Egg-Citing: Councillor Cordes To Greet Young Scientists At Hatchery Today— into my pocket and safely out of sight.
    My plan was to corner Itchy’s dad and tell him his son was involved in the threats and pranks against Rowena Pickles. Subtle, or what?
    Predictably, Madge and Jack then started in on the subject of my somewhat low science marks. I responded by turning the volume up on Tomorrow’s Cool Talent . Darwood King was listing the acts that had been selected for the next week’s show.
    â€œâ€¦the singing Butterwick family from Mississauga!” the host shouted, dodging a cream pie.
    Mississ–er, whatever, was a suburb of Toronto. What was with this show? Did the rest of Canada just not exist?
    A second cream pie flew. Splat ! “ Aaagghh !” Darwood yelled.
    The yelling continued. It took us a moment to realize that yells were now coming from outside the front door. We ran out on the porch to find out what the excitement was.
    On the sidewalk, Pantelli, who’d be joining Jack and me in our salmon hatchery visit, was pointing to Rowena’s house. “Bald Guy!” he shouted. “I just saw him! He put down another sign and zoomed off!”
    â€œWhere’d he zoom?” Jack demanded.
    Pantelli flapped his cracked pocket magnifying glass in the direction of the canyon. “He ran past Rowena’s, and then I heard a loud crackling sound, like he was somersaulting through the underbrush.”
    Just like Itchy, I thought. Whatever happened to dignified getaways?
    While Jack peeled round the side of Rowena’s house, Madge, Pantelli and I checked out the latest sign. Yup, another witchy one. Depicted in rough strokes of black paint, a wild-haired woman was skyborne on a twiggy broom. Several cats were perched behind her on the broom. GO AWAY, WICH, read the crude black letters underneath.
    â€œOur bald friend is nasty and a bad speller,” observed Madge. She held up the sign distastefully between thumb and forefinger. “However, unlike me, he obviously isn’t having any trouble with painter’s block. He seems to churn these out quite easily.”
    Rowena poked her head out from an upstairs window. Her long gray hair dangled, Rapunzel-like, over the sill. “Never mind about these silly signs. Have I told you, Madge, about the history of women accused of being