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Overview
A humorous, exciting tale of an ordinary girl who makes an extraordinary scientific discovery—a blind fish that walks
When seventh-grader Alexis catches an unusual fish that looks like a living fossil, she sets off a frenzied scientific hunt for more of its kind. Alexis and her friend Darshan join the hunt, snorkeling, sounding the depths of Glacial Lake, even observing from a helicopter and exploring a cave. All the while, they fight to keep the selfish Dr. Mertz from claiming the discovery all for himself. When Alexis follows one final hunch, she risks her life and almost loses her friend. Walking Fish is a scientific adventure that provides a perfect combination of literacy and science.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781943431069 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tumblehome Learning, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 06/01/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 186 |
| Lexile: | 730L (what's this?) |
| File size: | 2 MB |
| Age Range: | 9 - 12 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Walking Fish
By Rachelle Burk, Kopel Burk
Tumblehome Learning, Inc.
Copyright © 2014 Rachelle Burk, Kopel Burk, MDAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-943431-06-9
CHAPTER 1
When you get right down to it, I only discovered the Walking Fish because Grandpa got sloppy with a chainsaw.
Had he been more careful cutting down the maple tree, he would not have lost most of the fingers of his right hand. "Four of my favorite fingers," he said. Without them, fishing was a bit of a struggle.
"Minnow," he said, "I've been flounder-ing with my hooks these days. It would sure be hand-y to have you as a fishing partner."
"Ha, ha, Grandpa," I said. "Very punny." He's the king of bad puns. The truth is, he could still cast the line and reel in fish with the best of them, but he now needed help wrestling the squirming worms onto the hooks. Unfortunately, live bait made me squeamish, and he knew it.
It was a sunny, fall day and we drifted, just the two of us, on his little fishing boat on a lake. He leaned forward, elbows on his knobby knees. The faded swordfish tattoo on his forearm wiggled as he drummed his fingers against his other hand. His white hair was thin, but the few wisps poking from beneath his captain's hat fluttered in the breeze.
Though he was trying to relax, his posture was awkward and unnatural. That's because Grandpa is not a relaxer. He's a fisherman who feels naked without a pole in his hands.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the bright sun as I lay on the wooden bench seat, legs dangling over the side of the boat. My ponytail slurped up the little pool of water from the boat floor like a straw. Unlike Grandpa, I'm an expert relaxer.
The silence that followed gave me the feeling he wasn't just trying to be funny. Maybe he was serious about my being his helper. He was waiting for an answer.
"I don't know, Grandpa. I'm afraid if I start baiting your hooks, that would just open up a whole can of worms." I peeked with one eye to gauge his reaction to my joke. What I saw was a worm dangling over my face.
I shrieked and scrambled upright, batting the squiggly thing away.
"I came prepared in case you said yes," he said, and began to assemble his fishing pole. "You watch," he assured me, "I'll get you hooked on fishing yet."
Sure enough, in no time at all, I really was hooked, and Grandpa rewarded me with my very own fishing gear.
* * *
A few months later, my parents and I drove up the driveway of our summer cabin at Glacial Lake. The shady log-and-stone structure was familiar and inviting. It was built in a clearing about two hundred yards from the lake's edge. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as Dad pulled up to the house. There was no garage, but tall trees along the driveway kept the car from turning into a sauna on hot days.
We unloaded suitcases and boxes from the trunk and hauled them up the steps. The white paint on the front porch had started to peel, but inside the rustic cabin, nothing had changed. An oversized pine table with mismatched chairs stood in a corner of the cozy living room. Sheets covered the overstuffed couch and recliner. I inhaled deeply. The cabin smelled of mothballs, dust, and burnt firewood. I love the scent, yet the first thing my mother always did was to open all the windows to air out the place, and shake out the dusty woven rugs scattered about the wide-planked wood floor.
I went back out to the car to retrieve my fishing pole and tackle box, which I had stashed on the floor of the back seat.
"What did you bring that for?" Dad asked when I deposited the gear near the kitchen door. Mom was busy stocking the refrigerator and cabinets full of gourmet cooking supplies.
"You don't think I'd spend a whole summer at the lake without my fishing stuff, do you?" I said.
Dad shook his head. "Don't you remember? There are no fish in Glacial Lake. If there were, we could certainly convince your grandfather to come with us now and then."
My heart sank. I had planned to supply my family with fresh trout for the grill, and to help Mom invent new fish recipes.
"I'm sure I remember Dr. H saying that the lake was stocked," I said. That's Dr. Holland. He teaches environmental science courses at Glacial Lake University. He and his wife are "lake friends" of my parents. Dad is a junior high school science teacher, so he and Dr. H hit it off from the first time they met.
It was my mother who answered. "No, what he said was that the Department of Fish and Wildlife tried to stock it. A number of times, in fact. Every attempt failed. Something about the minerals in the water, right, Fred?" She looked at my father for confirmation. He nodded.
"Maybe some survived," I said hopefully.
Dad shook his head. "Sorry kiddo. Not a chance. This lake is great for swimming, canoeing, and sunbathing. Just don't plan on catching our dinner, unless the guy at the supermarket tosses you a frozen fillet."
I slumped into a kitchen chair. "Well, you never know. I heard they found an alligator in a New York sewer, so maybe I'll find fish in Glacial Lake." I yanked the elastic band from my pony tail. The tangled dark mess that is my hair fell over my face. Hiding behind a curtain of locks allowed me to sulk in semiprivacy.
"Uh oh," said my mother. "Someone is moping."
"I'm not moping," I said.
"Hair in the face, dimples have vanished. Those are sure signs."
"Well, can you blame me? I won't be able to fish for months. It'll be the most boring summer in the history of me. If Grandpa comes to visit us at the cabin, I want to go back home with him."
Okay, maybe I was moping. Maybe I needed to look at the bright side. After all, it would still be a fun summer as long as I had Darshan to hang out with. We'd go for swims and hikes and bike rides — all the things our families used to do together before his father's accident. I looked across the yard to the Mishras' house next door. "Darshan isn't home," I said. "There's no car in the driveway."
The Mishras are one of the few families who live year-round on the lake, where most of the homes are summer residences or rentals. The rest of the population lives in nearby Glacial Village where the university is located. Like many of the residents, Darshan's family is connected to the local university. Mrs. Mishra teaches Asian literature. Mr. Mishra works in the Information Technology department, making sure all the computer systems throughout the school work properly. He's a good person to know, since my parents are practically computer illiterate. Plus, the Mishras let us log in to their Wi-Fi since we don't have it at the cabin.
Dad settled into the chair opposite mine. "It's Saturday. They're probably out doing stuff. If you have nothing to do till he gets back, this is the perfect opportunity to get a head start on the next school year." He pulled an eighth grade biology book from a box on the floor and slid it to me across the table.
"Very funny, Dad." I tossed it back in the box as if it were a smelly sock.
I gazed out the kitchen window at the dazzling green mountains and rocky cliffs rising above the glistening lake. It reminded me of how I used to make mountains and lakes with my mashed potatoes and gravy. I still would, if my mother ever made plain old mashed 'taters and gravy any more. Instead, she whips up "new red skins with fried garlic and chives" or "double baked stuffed potatoes au gratin." Suddenly I felt hungry, and realized we hadn't stopped for lunch.
"Can I have a snack?"
"Check the cooler on the counter," said Mom. "I made something special."
What now? I thought.
I found something shaped like a toilet paper roll beneath the ice packs and peeled off the aluminum foil. Smoked salmon and goat cheese with dill and capers.
"You know, peanut butter and jelly would have been fine, Mom," I said, biting into the wrap.
My mother writes a column for a popular cooking magazine. In fact, she's somewhat of a celebrity. Her picture appears in every issue, her shoulder length hair youthfully framing her face. She looks a lot like me — small, round-faced, a few freckles across her nose — only her hair is a few shades lighter due to Clairol Hair Color.
Now she has a publishing contract for a gourmet cookbook that she hopes to finish by the end of the summer. She expects it to make her as famous as Martha Stewart or Rachel Ray. Dad and I, plus a few willing friends, are her official tasters.
"I'd give it a seven," I said between bites. "More salt, less dill."
The smoked salmon made me think again about fishing.
"I'm going down to the lake," I announced, pushing myself from the table. I grabbed my fishing gear on my way to the back door.
Dad eyed the fishing pole. "In spite of your apparent optimism about catching fish for supper, we'll be having spaghetti tonight."
"Not spaghetti, Fred," Mom huffed. "Linguini Carbonara."
"I'm just going to practice my casting," I said. The screen door creaked as I pushed it open.
"Why the net, then?" Dad asked.
"Frogs."
"You are not going to create Frog City on the porch again this year," Mom yelled. The screen door banged shut as I raced from the cabin.
CHAPTER 2I barely recognized our own yard as I darted across the field. The heavy spring rains the month before had dramatically changed the familiar rocky shoreline. Now two ponds, created when the lake overflowed, took up a large area about twenty yards from the edge of Glacial Lake. I figured that in another two or three weeks the pond water would likely evaporate, leaving the grass and stones high and dry and the shoreline back to its usual state.
I kicked off my shoes and waded along the rocky edge of the lake. Clouds had rolled in, making the water appear dark and flat. For a few minutes I cast my fishing line out as far as I could, but I quickly grew tired of it. The new ponds behind me, between the lake and the cabin, looked like they could be fun spots to practice my casting technique. The larger one was about the size of a tennis court, and from one edge I tried a couple of my favorite lures. A white rock peeked up from the water at the far end like a miniature iceberg. I aimed and flicked my pole. Zzzzzzzzz ... plop. The lure made a dainty splash within a yard of my target. Darshan would be impressed.
A ripple appeared in the water near a cluster of boulders, only inches from where my hook had landed. I retrieved the net and made my way around the pond to inspect the site. Again, a tiny splash. A raindrop? I examined the hazy sky, now streaked with pink near the horizon. No, those weren't rain clouds.
Standing motionless, I strained to see beneath the surface of the water, my net poised to scoop up the turtle or frog the first moment it made itself visible.
The next movement occurred near the first one, beneath a slab of gray rock. I stepped closer and squinted. The angle of the setting sun made it difficult to see beneath the water.
There it was again. Something definitely crept beneath the boulder. I set down the net, lowered myself onto my belly, and shaded my eyes. The water here was only about a foot and a half deep, and as long as I didn't stir up the mud, I could make out the bottom of the pond.
Swiping my fingertips across the surface to brush away some floating leaves, I was surprised at the coldness of the water. Shouldn't the afternoon sun have warmed this shallow water? Even the lake felt warmer than the pond.
Splish-splash. There it was again. When the water settled once more, my eyes gradually focused on the creature causing the disturbance. It wasn't a frog. It wasn't a turtle.
It was a creature like nothing I had ever seen. A fish! And it appeared to be standing on little legs and waving up at me.
CHAPTER 3"Oh, oh, oh!" I gasped. The critter seemed to have become aware of me, but instead of swimming away, it began to burrow into the mud under the flat rock. I scrambled to my feet, grabbed the net and scooped wildly beneath the surface, stirring up the silt on the bottom. The net came up empty.
"Stupid, stupid," I scolded myself. The water was now as brown and murky as chocolate milk. I held my breath and scooped blindly this time, aiming for the spot where the fish had been.
Unsuccessful, I stepped into the frigid water, crouched low, and groped around. A cool current flowed against my ankles, which I suspected was caused by the fish's thrashing tail. Again I scraped the net along the bottom. Once, twice, three times I hauled up the net, each time dumping out mud and small stones gathered from the bottom of the pond. On my fourth scoop, something flip-flopped in the mesh.
I caught it! Panting, I waded from the pond, dragging the netting just deep enough beneath the water to keep the fish immersed. My soaked capris clung to my legs and hips.
I glanced around the shore and groaned. No bucket. Oh, well, I'd call Mom or Dad and ask them to bring one down for me. I reached into a pocket and drew out my cell phone.
The screen was blank. My soggy pants had shorted the circuit.
Oops. Another ruined phone. My parents were going to kill me. I sighed and slipped it back into my pocket.
Gathering stones with my free hand, I piled them onto the handle of the net to anchor it on the shore, while the fish remained safely beneath the water in the netting. The metal rim of the net hovered just above the surface of the pond so that the fish couldn't swim out.
When I was satisfied that my catch was secure, I crouched down to study it. Something wasn't right. Not at all. I bent in for a closer look, so close that I nearly snorted water up my nostrils. What on earth had I caught? My heart began to pound. Never before had I seen a fish like this. A moment later, I took off running, still barefoot, toward the cabin.
CHAPTER 4I burst through the screen door into the kitchen. "Mom, Dad, come quick, I caught a fish!"
My father had been changing a light bulb in the pantry, and stepped down from the stool. "A shark? A whale?" he asked, tossing the dead bulb into the trash beneath the sink.
"A whale isn't a fish. And I'm serious. Please, Dad, come see," I pleaded. I hopped across the kitchen and glanced around the living room. "Where's Mom?"
"We forgot to bring toilet paper, so she went to the store. Show me what you found." He slipped his bare feet into the yellow flowered flip-flops that my mother keeps near the back door.
The small trash can beneath the kitchen sink was the closest thing we had to a bucket, so I removed the garbage-filled plastic liner from it. Hugging the empty can to my chest, I sprinted like a cheetah through the yard toward the pond. My father, on the other hand, strolled leisurely behind me like a camel through a hot desert. I hollered over my shoulder. "Hurry, Dad. You're so slow!" The sun was setting now, smearing the sky with orange and pink hues. I wanted to get there before it got dark. Even though my father sped up, my toddler cousin could have beaten him in a race. My mother's flip-flops sure weren't helping his speed.
When I reached the far side of the pond I frantically threw off the stones that anchored the handle in place, and raised the net. It was empty.
"AHHHH! It's escaped!" I flung the net and pulled at my hair. My father, hands clasped behind his back, watched me with amusement as I paced in frustration. "Dad, I did catch a fish, I swear it. How could it get away?"
"Sorry, honey," he said with a shrug, "I guess it jumped out. What was it anyway? A trout? A bluegill? I think those are the kinds they tried to stock the lake with. I guess some survived after all. That means I may have been wr ... wr ... wr. ..." He pretended that he couldn't spit out the word "wrong," but I was in no mood for his joking. My lips trembled, and when I didn't reply, he sat cross-legged on the weedy ground next to my useless pile of rocks. He reached up to me. I collapsed beside him and buried my face in his shoulder.
"It didn't look anything like either of those fish. I know this sounds crazy, but it looked like it didn't have eyes. At least not that I could see. Seriously, everything about it was ..." I straightened up and looked into Dad's eyes. "It was all wrong, like something Picasso would paint."
"It was probably a bullfrog or something." He stroked my hair, like someone trying to calm a crying baby.
"Dad, I know a frog from a fish," I snapped, pushing his hand away. I rose and kicked a stone with my bare foot. "And it was a funny looking fish, that's for sure."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Walking Fish by Rachelle Burk, Kopel Burk. Copyright © 2014 Rachelle Burk, Kopel Burk, MD. Excerpted by permission of Tumblehome Learning, Inc..
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