Free Summer of the Spotted Owl by Melanie Jackson Page B

got it.
    I turned back to Councillor Cordes. “Sure, I know. Salmon swim headfirst.”
    After that, an official from the salmon hatchery hurriedly stepped forward to lead the Young Scientists on a tour. First stop: A display case just inside the hatchery.
    â€œFascinating,” Pantelli murmured, peering through his cracked magnifying glass.
    â€œAre you a salmon specialist?” a girl asked him.
    â€œNo, a tree specialist. The paneling behind this display case is just starting to develop wormwood.”
    With an odd look, the girl edged away from Pantelli. Meanwhile, a beanpole-ish boy with glasses even thicker than mine was gazing curiously at me over the top of his clipboard. “And what chapter of the League are you with?”
    â€œI’m here on investigative work,” I informed him and glanced round for Councillor Cordes.
    Itchy’s round, pink dad was easy to spot, even in the dimly lit hatchery. Now by the entrance, he was rapidly jabbering at the petite, chestnut-haired woman. She was just as rapidly taking notes.
    â€œYou haven’t investigated salmon very thoroughly,” Beanpole commented. “Salmon swim upstream, as any self-respecting League member should know.”
    I sidled away from him to look through a large window at the fish ladder. I watched salmon swimming up the steps to lay their eggs. The salmon struggled so hard, yet looked so graceful. Up, up they went—well, if they can keep trying, I thought, I have no right to wimp out when I have to do challenging stuff. Like practicing scales over and over and over .
    I elbowed my way closer to Councillor Cordes and the chestnut-haired lady. To my annoyance, Beanpole followed me. With a slight wriggle of his lips, he said, “The fact is, I haven’t seen you before, and there’s the question of yearly dues. One can’t just gate-crash one’s way into the League, you know.” He brandished a pen over his clipboard, which held a Young Scientists’ League membership form. “Name, please?”
    I was about to say something rude when Councillor Cordes’s words boomed through the hatchery’s soft gray light. “Have you got all the papers ready? There’s no time to waste, hon.”
    â€œWhat?” I murmured.
    â€œ Watt ,” Beanpole scribbled. “Given name?”
    â€œNo dillydallying,” Councillor Cordes told the petite lady. His assistant, I assumed. How awful to have to listen to that booming all day!
    â€œThat’s why I fired the person before you,” the councillor boomed on. “Dillydallying!” He barked with laughter.
    I strained to hear. Which papers was the little assistant not supposed to dillydally over?
    â€œGiven name,” Beanpole repeated.
    â€œI’d… uh … ” I mumbled, wishing Beanpole would go away.
    â€œIda,” Beanpole said with satisfaction and wrote it down. “Well, Miss Ida Watt, I need twenty-five dollars from you for official membership in the Young Scientists’ League.” He glared at me through his thick lenses. “We can’t have hangers-on, you know.”
    I shoved past him, accidentally knocking the clipboard against his forehead. I still wanted to question Councillor Cordes about Itchy.
    But at that moment Jack, on the lookout for me, passed close by Councillor Cordes and waved. The effect on the councillor was immediate — he started scratching furiously.
    Napoleon , I thought. Jack was covered in Napoleon’s fur. No wonder Itchy was so itchy around Rowena’s place. Rock Cordes Senior and Junior were allergic to cats!
    Hoisting his pant legs, Councillor Cordes raked his fingernails up and down his ankles. “Is there no escaping these danged felines? Not even in a fish hatchery?”
    The petite assistant bent down alongside him. “Oh dear … should I fetch your calamine lotion from the car?”
    â€œJust— let — me —