by Bruce Hale
Cinnabun arched one perfect eyebrow. “Are you suggesting we assault Mrs. Flake?”
“If that’s what it takes, then yeah!” cried Igor. “Storm the barricades!” For a cold-blooded creature, he got pretty hot under the collar sometimes.
“Sugar, you want to know the surest way to get kicked out of this school?”
“Not particularly,” said Igor.
“Attack the principal,” said Cinnabun. “Oh, no, I think we’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”
“Why are we catching flies?” came a creaky voice from above.
Fuzzy turned to see Marta the Russian tortoise creeping down the ramp.
“It’s … a long story,” he said.
“Principal Nutjob might ban all pets,” said Vinnie. “We’re tryin’ to talk her out of it.”
Fuzzy smirked. “Well, maybe not that long a story.”
“Gather round, y’all, and let’s put our heads together,” said Cinnabun. “This is going to take all the brainpower we can muster.”
Like a dizzy bumblebee at a botanical garden, the debate meandered this way and that. Bribery, protests, and threats were all suggested and discarded. Someone even proposed holding a sit-in at the principal’s office. But at last, Cinnabun came up with what she considered to be the perfect strategy.
“We’ll charm her socks off,” she said.
Mistletoe frowned. “I don’t get it. Why her socks?”
“Figure of speech,” said Fuzzy gently.
“She means we try beguiling Principal Flake into keeping us,” said Marta.
“Oh,” said the mouse. “That makes more sense.”
Sassafras groomed her wing feathers. “But if we can’t leave our cages during school, how do we get to the principal?”
That set off a fair bit of head scratching. Finally, Fuzzy snapped his fingers. “Photos,” he said.
“Blackmail?” Igor asked doubtfully.
Vinnie gave a thumbs-up. “I like the way ya think.”
“Not photos of her, photos of us,” said Fuzzy.
“We blackmail ourselves?” said Mistletoe.
Fuzzy threw up his paws. “No, we take cute selfies and leave them in her mailbox. That way we can charm her without leaving our rooms.”
“Bless your pea-pickin’ heart,” cried Cinnabun. “That’s brilliant!”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” said Vinnie. “But not bad, Parsley Breath. Not bad.” He bopped Fuzzy on the shoulder.
“Only one problem,” said Luther. “Unlesss one of you’s been holding out, nobody has a picture-taking cell phone.”
“No problem at all,” said Cinnabun. “Miss Nakamura has an old-fashioned camera in her closet. It makes a photo right on the spot.”
“Bingo-bongo!” crowed Sassafras. “What are we waiting for?”
Cinnabun, Sassafras, and Igor hustled off to fetch the camera, returning shortly with a funny-looking contraption like nothing Fuzzy had ever seen. It was wide, gray, and most un-camera-like.
“How’s it work?” he asked dubiously.
“Here,” said the bunny. “Hold this side of it, and I’ll lift the other.”
The camera was surprisingly heavy. Still, Fuzzy and Cinnabun managed to heft the device and aim it. The rabbit squinted through a tiny window at Mistletoe. “All right, sweet girl. Smile and say ‘shoofly pie!’ ”
The mouse obliged, and Cinnabun pressed a button on the back.
Click! Whirrrr went the camera. Fuzzy nearly dropped it when a stiff little sheet of paper stuck out the front like a square tongue.
Taking the image in his paws, Vinnie squinted at it. “Ya sure this antique still works?” he said. “Yer picture’s a dud. All we got is fog.”
Setting down the camera, Fuzzy came to peer over his shoulder. Slower than a sloth in summertime, a dim shape was emerging on the gray paper.
“A ghost!” Mistletoe pointed with a shaking finger.
“Your ghost,” said Igor, craning his neck to see.
And bit by bit, the mouse’s face took form. After a minute more, they were all staring at an image of a grinning Mistletoe.
“Coolio!” squeaked the mouse.
“Not bad,” said Igor, “except for that smile. Ugh.” He made an exaggerated shudder, and Fuzzy poked him with an elbow.
Brushing her paws together, Cinnabun said, “One down, seven to go. And I’m next!”
One by one, all the pets had their photos taken, and one by one, their images emerged. Rather than striking an adorable pose, Luther opted for “harmless,” because, as he said, “Snakes don’t do cute.”
Using crayons borrowed from a kindergarten classroom, each pet wrote a message on the white border at the bottom of his or her photo, like:
Pets are cool,
Pets love you, and
Criminals hate snakes (Luther’s contribution).
When everyone had finished, Fuzzy, Luther, and Vinnie volunteered to carry the photos to the office and leave them in the principal’s mail cubbyhole. Off they headed through the crawl space, toting their precious cargo.
As the three of them neared the office, Vinnie asked, “So whattaya think? Does this harebrained scheme stand a snowball’s chance?”
“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Fuzzy.
Luther smirked. “Harebrained it might be, but we’ve got to start somewhere.”
“Look, some dames like the mushy stuff, and some don’t,” said the rat. “All I’m askin’, is Flake the type that would fall for it?”
Fuzzy cocked his head. “Hard to say. But she did protect you when that assistant janitor wanted to chop you up like broccoli.”
“That’s true.”
“So she’s either got a sssoft heart or a sssoft head.” Luther grinned.
“Oh, har-de-har,” said Vinnie.
Prying up a ceiling tile, Fuzzy poked his nose through to see if they’d reached the office yet—and froze, stock-still. Adrenaline pumped through his veins like a springtime flood.
Directly below, he recognized a familiar, close-cropped head: Mr. Darius. The janitor was wiping down the table, whistling a tune.
“What’s the holdup?” asked Vinnie.
“Shhh!” Fuzzy hissed, as loudly as he dared.
“Ya paintin’ a picture or what?” said the rat, even louder.
Fuzzy shushed him again, frantically waving one paw for quiet.
Below, Mr. Darius straightened. His head swiveled this way and that.
Don’t look up, don’t look up, thought Fuzzy.
And then, in a motion that made Fuzzy’s stomach drop, the janitor craned his neck and began to look up.
Too late to replace the ceiling tile. Zip! Fuzzy ducked back out of sight.
Had the janitor spotted him? Mr. Darius had turned a blind eye the last time he’d caught Fuzzy out of his cage, but this time he might not be so forgiving.
“Huh,” said the janitor. “What happened here?”
Putting a finger to his lips, Fuzzy glared at Luther and Vinnie. Both pets held still.
The scrape and creak of a chair being moved into place drifted up from below. Fuzzy nearly jumped out of his skin when Mr. Darius’s hand grabbed the ceiling tile beside him.
Would the man investigate further?
Fuzzy held his breath. The moment stretched like a spandex skirt on an elephant seal. Then the light from below winked out as the janitor slid the tile back into place.
Fuzzy sagged in relief. Vinnie mimed wiping sweat off his forehead. Luther looked as cool as ever.
The three pets put an ear to the ceiling tiles and listened for the telltale door closing that meant Mr. Darius had moved on to another room. At last it came. They gave him another minute to leave the area, then lifted the tile again.
Poking his head through the gap, Luther checked things out. “Clear as a cube of sunshine,” came his muffled voice.
Fuzzy and Vinnie carefully dropped the photos onto the workroom table below. Then, al
l three pets jumped onto a high bookcase and clambered down it to the tabletop.
Once they reclaimed the photos, Fuzzy and his friends had a few rough moments figuring out how to get their pictures up to the mail cubbyhole. But escape artist Luther came through in the crunch. By wrapping his tail around the staff refrigerator’s handle, he was able to dangle downward and accept the photos in his mouth, then twine upward and deposit them into Mrs. Flake’s box.
Vinnie clapped. “Impressive moves, Mr. Forky Tongue. Do ya also like to limbo?”
“Not for love or money,” said Luther.
Quickly and quietly, the three pets retraced their path back to the bookcase and up to the ceiling. As he slid the tile into place after them, Fuzzy had a moment of doubt. Would the charm approach really change the principal’s mind?
It had better, he decided. The alternative was too awful to contemplate.
Over the next two days, the pets went all out with their charm offensive. They laboriously scrawled anonymous pro-pet letters and delivered them to the principal’s mailbox. They tried to look extra-winsome whenever Mrs. Flake happened to visit one of their classrooms.
They even attempted to sweeten her up by leaving cafeteria cookies on her desk. (Mistletoe reported that ants got to these before Mrs. Flake did.)
But after two days, no results. Rumors still swirled, and by Thursday, the pets still had no evidence that their efforts were softening Principal Flake’s heart. Fuzzy was so keyed up, he spent that morning pacing around his habitat.
When Miss Wills noticed this, she went over to his cage, crouching so they were eye to eye. “Is something bothering you, big guy?”
Fuzzy had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Was something bothering him? Oh, not much. Only the death of happiness, the loss of purpose, and the possible end of his career as a classroom pet.
“Is he sick?” asked Heavy-Handed Jake, who sat nearest to Fuzzy’s cage.
The teacher frowned. “I’m not sure. Sometimes when guinea pigs pace like that, it’s a sign that something’s wrong.”
Something’s wrong, all right, thought Fuzzy. But it’s not a simple case of scurvy.
“Will Fuzzy be going to the vet?” asked Sofia.
“If he keeps it up,” said Miss Wills. “But first I’d take him to see Mr. Wong.”
Zoey-with-the-braces crinkled her nose. “Our school nurse? Um, doesn’t he only help people?”
“Not always.” Miss Wills straightened, brushing back her bangs. “Before he worked in schools, Mr. Wong used to be a vet’s assistant. Let’s keep an eye on Fuzzy. If his symptoms continue, Mr. Wong can check him out.”
Fuzzy turned away. Their hearts were in the right place, but it wouldn’t do him a lick of good to see the school nurse, whose room was in the main office, right across from the principal’s …
Fuzzy’s jaw dropped. Luther’s idea of setting a spy in the office flashed through his mind, and he put a paw to his chest.
Leaning across his desk, Jake stared at Fuzzy. “Is that one of his symptoms?”
“No,” said Miss Wills. “Probably just gas.”
“So what do we look for?” asked Sofia.
The teacher glanced from Fuzzy to her students. “Watch for behaviors like circling the cage, hiding, chewing on the bars, and over-grooming.”
Suddenly, Fuzzy wanted nothing more than to visit Mr. Wong. He decided to give the kids all the symptoms they could handle.
After Miss Wills returned to the front of the room and resumed her lesson, Fuzzy went back to circling his cage. He paced around, and around, and around, and around … until he was good and dizzy.
Heavy-Handed Jake nudged Sofia and pointed at Fuzzy. So far, so good.
Next, Fuzzy began gnawing on the bars of his habitat. Yuck. Honestly, how could other guinea pigs stand this? The metal tasted bitter and harsh—nothing at all like yummy parsley.
Zoey-with-the braces watched him closely.
Finally, Fuzzy took a break from bar biting and groomed himself for a while. Lickety-lickety-lickety-slurp. Even his own fur tasted better than the metal, although he accidentally swallowed some of it and had to hack it back up with a hyakk-hyock-hyeww. Fuzzy pasted a woeful expression on his face.
That did it. Three hands shot into the air.
“Miss Wills! Miss Wills!”
The teacher called on Zoey.
“Fuzzy’s been doing all those things you mentioned,” said the girl. “Plus, he’s even coughing!”
“Oh my.” Miss Wills glanced at Fuzzy. He favored her with an extra-pitiful look and coughed again for good measure.
“I’ll take him up to see Mr. Wong,” said the teacher, hurrying over to Fuzzy’s habitat. “Class, turn to page 180 in Reflections on America and read about the lead-up to the Civil War. I won’t be long.”
And with that, Miss Wills reached down and collected Fuzzy in a secure two-handed grip. She definitely had the softest hands of anyone who’d ever carried him.
Together, they left the room and hurried down the halls toward the office. As they went, Miss Wills muttered, “I can’t believe you’re sick. I try to feed you right, give you lots of love and exercise …”
Fuzzy winced. It bugged him that Miss Wills thought she’d failed him. Far from it. She was the best human a guinea pig could hope for. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
He rubbed his head against her hand, trying to offer some comfort.
“Aw, don’t worry, big guy,” she said. “We’ll have you feeling back in the pink in no time.”
Fuzzy didn’t know what pinkness had to do with anything, but he appreciated her concern.
When they entered the office, the school secretary, Mrs. Gomez, was sitting at the counter. She glanced up from a stack of forms.
“What’s with your little friend?” she asked.
“We’re not sure,” said Miss Wills. “Is Mr. Wong in?”
The secretary gestured with her pen. “Go right ahead.”
As they headed down the hall, Fuzzy peered about with interest. The office smelled of magic markers, muffins, and burnt coffee. Its cheery, butter-yellow walls were plastered with safety posters, flyers for school events, and a row of old-timey portraits. Fuzzy figured these were of people who’d been around when the school was built, way back before the dawn of time.
Then he spotted his own face. What the …? Fuzzy only had time to read the poster’s SAVE OUR PETS headline before he was whisked down the hall. His spirits lifted like that floaty thing in a toilet tank. Somebody was on their side!
Miss Wills passed the teachers’ workroom, which Fuzzy recognized from his after-school field trip with Vinnie and Luther. Just past that, she zeroed in on a half-open door on the left, but Fuzzy was more interested in the door on the right.
That door boasted a big frosted glass panel in its top half. Stenciled on the glass in golden letters was PRINCIPAL KIMBERLY FLAKE, and behind it, Fuzzy could see the dim shape of the principal herself, talking on the telephone at her desk.
He strained to overhear her conversation. Nothing but mumbles.
Miss Wills rapped on the nurse’s door. “Knock, knock? Paul, you there?”
“Come on in,” said a man’s voice. “We’re just finishing up.”
As they entered the room, Fuzzy grimaced at the sharp tang of disinfectant. A curly-haired boy sat on the exam table with his elbow held forward and a world-class pout on his face. Tears streaked his cheeks.
“Ouchie-ouch!” he cried as a lean man with thick, short-cropped hair put a Band-Aid on his arm.
“There, all better,” the school nurse said.
“Hurts.” The boy snuffled.
Mr. Wong ruffled his hair. “Aw, come on, kiddo. I thought you were Iron Man. Does Iron Man cry at every little boo-boo?”
“Um, no?” said the boy, wiping his runny nose on the sleeve of what Fuzzy now saw was a superhero T-shirt.
“That’s right, Devon. He just brushes himself off and gets right
back into it.”
A tentative grin spread on Devon’s face. “Yeah, he does.” The boy slid off the table and headed for the door.
“Just be careful out there,” the nurse called after him.
With a quick backward wave, the boy was gone. Off to stir up more trouble, Fuzzy had no doubt.
“So, Jessica,” said Mr. Wong, “what’s up? Here to practice your dance moves?” He did a little shoulder shimmy.
Miss Wills laughed. “I’ll save those for Zumba class. No, Fuzzy has been acting funny today.”
Leaning forward, Mr. Wong extended a finger to scratch behind Fuzzy’s ears. “This little guy? He was born funny.”
Fuzzy knew he was being teased, but somehow he didn’t mind. The scratching helped.
“He’s been pacing around his cage, chewing on the bars, and coughing,” said Miss Wills. “I’m worried. Could you take a quick look at him?”
Mr. Wong touched the teacher’s arm. “For you, anything.”
“Thanks.” Handing Fuzzy over to the nurse, Miss Wills said, “I have to get back to class. Can you keep him here for a bit? I’ll claim him at lunchtime.”
“Can do,” said Mr. Wong. “Your little fuzzball will be safe with me.”
The paper cover crinkled as the nurse set him down on the pallet. When he turned to fetch his instruments, Fuzzy took the opportunity to look around. The room was decorated in greens and pale blues. Posters proclaiming THE FLU AND YOU, YOUR HEALTHY DIET, and THE DEPARTMENT OF OWIES! covered the walls. The place smelled of fear, disinfectant, and cherry lollipops.
Despite himself, Fuzzy gave a little shudder.
“Now, let’s see what’s up with you,” said Mr. Wong. Placing two earbud-looking thingies in his ears, he lifted the metal disk attached to the other end of a length of rubber. The nurse cradled Fuzzy expertly. “This may be a teensy bit chilly,” he said, placing the disk on his chest.
Wheek! Fuzzy squealed, wriggling like mad. Chilly? That thing was colder than skinny-dipping in Antarctica.
The nurse listened intently for a few heartbeats. When he slid the icy metal down to listen to the lungs, Fuzzy wiggled again. Mr. Wong poked and prodded him in various places.
“Eee-hee-hee, that tickles!” cried Fuzzy.