“But we know differently,” I say.
“But we don’t have any proof,” Darvish cries. “We need evidence.”
“Okay. What else do a rhino, a gorilla, and an elephant have in common?” I ask. “What else do we know?”
“I know nothing!” says Drumstick. Everyone ignores the chicken.
But Drumstick has cut to the heart of the situation.
We know nothing.
I bang my head against the picnic table, risking a nasty bout of tetanus in the process.
I must admit, living dangerously suits me. It’s frustrating at times. And splintery. But despite the hopelessness of our situation and wood chips sticking out of my forehead, I feel somehow more alive than ever before.
24
In my years of wandering this earth, I have learned many things.
For example, sometimes the storm is followed by the calm.
Sometimes it is darkest before the dawn.
And sometimes, when things seem at their darkest, more darkness can come and eclipse that already dark darkness, making it darker than the blackest midnight and obscuring all hope from sight. Forever.
Such a day is today. Because today, the research reports start.
Sami Mulpepper takes her place at the front of the classroom. A smile washes over her face. She is in her glory.
“Endangered Species,” she proclaims. “By Samantha Mulpepper.”
I will confess to you that her research is thorough. Her eyes sparkle with passion as she embraces her topic. Her presentation quality contains that special something. However, I do my level best to tune her out. I have bigger fish to fry. Huge fish. Like grouper. Or sea bass.
While Sami Mulpepper lectures us on the troubles of habitat encroachment facing Sumatran rhinos and California condors, I think about Tater Tot.
While she sermonizes on the dangers of poaching that threaten Amur tigers and mountain gorillas, I ruminate on Sea-Monkey and the shark-shaped growth attached to his hindquarters.
While she pontificates on the perils facing snow leopards, hawksbill turtles, Indian elephants, and spoon-billed sandpipers, I stew on Peanut.
And then it hits me like a two-ton, cube-shaped pachyderm.
I turn to Darvish. “Not just rhino,” I say. “SUMATRAN rhino.”
“Huh?”
“Not just gorilla,” I say, my certainty growing. “MOUNTAIN gorilla.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Not just elephant,” I proclaim. “INDIAN elephant!”
I stand on my desk to make myself appear larger and more impressive.
“ENDANGERED SPECIES!” I bellow. “LET IT GO OUT ACROSS THE LAND! I HAVE DONE IT! ALL YE WHO BEAR WITNESS, BE IMPRESSED AND TREMBLE!”
The room has gone silent. This can happen when a large and impressive breed like myself makes his presence known.
I have seen the light.
I have connected the dots.
I have put two and two together. And the answer is not four.
The answer is Endangered Species.
“YOU TAKE YOUR SEAT RIGHT NOW, REX DEXTER!”
It is Sami Mulpepper. She has climbed to the top of Ms. Yardley’s desk. Her presence looms over me like some sort of auburn-haired Siberian husky. She is a Great Dane to my Chihuahua. I tuck tail in the presence of this superior predator and quickly take my seat.
Ms. Yardley is stunned. But only for a moment. A wide smile crosses her face. She is clearly pleased by my recent flash of inspiration. “Sami,” she says. “Twenty extra-credit points. Please continue your wonderful report.”
Sami Mulpepper eyes me. Then she continues her well-researched oration from atop the towering roost of Ms. Yardley’s desk.
I am cowed in the face of Sami Mulpepper’s authority.
Also, I think I am in love.
25
I do not have time to entertain thoughts of love. I do not have the wherewithal to contemplate amour. I do not have the time to mull over the chestnut hair and can-do attitude of Sami Mulpepper.
I have had a complete and utter brain wave. A brain typhoon. A brain tsunami. I must bring my sidekick up to speed.
“I figured it out,” I tell Darvish.
“Figured out what?” he asks through bites of his peanut butter and banana sandwich. “How to make a fool of yourself in the middle of oral presentations?”
“I have not made a fool of myself,” I assure him. “I have made a major breakthrough.”
“Ignore him,” says Drumstick. “Tell me.”
“Yeah! Spill,” says Tater Tot. “We’re all ears.”
My lunch table is crowded. Word about the alleged “deliciousness” of my school lunch has gotten out among my dead amigos. Because Drumstick, Tater Tot, Sea-Monkey, and Peanut have all joined me for lunch in the hopes of mooching more Beefarooni. As it is not Wednesday, they have been disappointed by the cafeteria’s lack of Beefarooni. This has not stopped them from helping themselves to my Nacho Surprise.
“I’ve figured out what Tater Tot, Sea-Monkey, and Peanut all have in common,” I tell Darvish. “They’re all endangered.”
“Of course!” Darvish says.
I grin the grin of victory. “Somebody is wiping out endangered species.”
“Told you I was rare,” says Tater Tot.
“Not as rare as me!” says Sea-Monkey. “I’m practically nonexistent!”
“Oh wow. Oh wow,” says Peanut. “Nice job! Hey, pass the salsa, would you?”
“The newspaper said they were rare!” says Darvish. “I just never made the connection!”
I nod at Darvish from across the table. “It’s not your fault. We cannot all have the nimble mind and uncanny brainpower of an undiscovered genius.”
“Yeah,” says Darvish. “Good thing Sami Mulpepper is in our class.”
I sigh. “I would have reached this inevitable conclusion of my own accord. However, I will confess that her oral report may have inadvertently pointed me in the right direction.”
Darvish laughs. “That’s generous. You should tell her that.”
“I do not want to give her a big head. Let’s be honest, nobody needs that burden. But should the opportunity arise, I may convey how much I enjoyed her report.”
“Well, get ready to convey,” says Tater Tot. “Because here she comes now.”
It’s true. Sami Mulpepper is waltzing over to our table. Bold as brass, she sits right down next to me. Plopping herself right on my chicken.
Or in my chicken.
Or through my chicken.
I’m not sure of the grammar of ghost-chicken sitting.
“Hi, Darvish,” she says. “Hello, Rex.”
“Hey, Sami,” says Darvish.
“Um…” I say.
“Did you like my report today?” she asks.
“It was amazing,” says Darvish. “Rex was just saying what a revelation it was. Weren’t you, Rex?”
“Um…” I say.
“Brrrr.” Sami shivers. “It’s cold over here.”
“Sure is,” says Darvish gleefully. He is enjoying this moment far too much. “Isn’t it, Rex?”
“Um…” I say.
Of course Sami Mulpepper is cold. She is chilly because her seat is occupied by a ghost chicken. The temperature drop is because she is seated in dead farmyard poultry. Her sudden chill is a by-product of her close encounter with the otherworldly.
But she doesn’t know any of this. Nor should she. I am about to clear my throat and suggest that she find a seat in a warmer and less chicken-occupied part of the cafeteria. But my voice leaves me. Because that’s when she says something that nobody, and I mean nobody, could have predicted.
“Rex, would you like to go to the Evening of Enchantment dance with me?”
“Um…” I say.
“Um…” I say again.
“Um…” I say a third time. I am nothing if not thorough.
“I believe the word you’re looking for is yes,” prompts Sami Mulpeppe
r.
I clear my throat. “Okay.”
“Perfect,” she says with a smile. “My mom and I will pick you up at seven o’clock sharp on Saturday night. Don’t be late.”
With that, she stands and picks up her Nacho Surprise–laden tray.
“Oh,” says Sami. “By the way, my dress is turquoise. In case you want to get me a corsage that matches.” And she trots away.
“Wow. Oh wow. Oh wow,” sputters Peanut.
“That did not just happen!” says Tater Tot.
“Of course it happened,” says Drumstick. “My best buddy is a chick magnet! Trust me, I’m a rooster. I’m an expert on chicks.”
“Sweet!” says Sea-Monkey. “Give me five up top!”
But I do not give him five up top. I sit there in silence. Contemplating the universe and its many mysteries.
“You okay, dude?” Darvish asks after a moment.
“Darvish, I have just unraveled a riddle that crosses the physical and the spiritual planes of existence. I have played a game of chance against Death himself and lived to tell the tale. I am friend to rhinos and companion of sharks. Of course I’m okay.”
“All right, all right.”
“There is just one question that plagues me,” I say. “One question that lingers on the fringe of my already overtaxed mind.”
“Yeah?”
“What on earth is a corsage?”
26
I may have blacked out over lunch.
Darvish was kind enough to fill me in on the murkier details. Apparently, I am going to the Evening of Enchantment dance. With Sami Mulpepper.
The day has been a roller coaster of victorious elation and unsettling confusion. And yet, out of all the mysteries that this fathomless universe holds, I find myself in the midst of the most confounding of them all.
Gym class.
Let’s be clear about something. I have assets, both numerous and plentiful.
I can name every breed of dog known to man.
Despite what you may have heard from others, I am mature beyond my years.
My rugged good looks are really something special.
However, you’ll note that I did not list dodgeball skills among my assets.
That is because they are nonexistent. Until today.
Today, I cannot miss.
Today, I am king of the dodgeball court.
Today, the guys want to be me and the ladies want to be with me.
It is because I have a secret weapon.
Is my secret weapon some heretofore untapped reserve of athletic talent? No.
Is my secret weapon my upbeat attitude in the face of adversity? Not really.
Is my secret weapon the disequilibrium that comes from being unexpectedly invited to a social gathering by a girl? Not even close.
My secret weapon is this: I have four invisible friends on the court. Five, if you count the shark. They are making the ball go where I want it to go. And they are having the time of their lives… umm… deaths.
I rocket the ball once again. Really more of a catapult than a rocket. Actually, more of a slingshot than a catapult. But no matter. Peanut bounces it off his box-shaped behind and nails Jason Kramer right in the noggin. Jason yowls in pain and staggers to the bleachers.
Tater Tot guards the other side of the court. “Sheesh, Rex! I’m wide open!” she screams. “Send the next one my way!”
Sea-Monkey is standing directly beside me defending my flanks. This may explain why I have not been hit once. He is also telling me a story about how, one time, chimps threw 370 different handfuls of chimp poo at him, and he dodged them all without even moving. I am really warming up to this gorilla.
Drumstick is running around like a maniac, screaming “KAMIKAZE!” and tripping people.
“How did you get so good at sports all of a sudden?” asks Darvish. It seems that nobody is aware of my dodgeball support crew. I guess people see what they want to see. To the mortal eye, I just look really skilled. I could get used to this.
“Let’s just say I have a little help from the great beyond,” I whisper to my best friend.
Darvish ducks a stray ball by diving into my protected aura. “That’s cheating, Rex! You can’t have dead animals help you win at dodgeball. It’s against the rules!”
I’d like to see where that’s written in the rule book. “What are you complaining about?” I yell. “We’re actually winning for once!”
I am crazed with victory. Berserk with power. A ball ricochets off Sea-Monkey’s chest and bounces harmlessly toward me. I grab the ball and fling it with the force of a bazooka.
My ball is way off course. But this hardly matters. Tater Tot head-butts it right at Holly Creskin. It hits her smack-dab in her big fat PUPAE button.
And that’s when it hits me. Not the ball. But inspiration.
I turn to Darvish. “We need to know who would want to kill endangered species, right?”
“Not necessarily,” he says. “If we never solve this, they could stick around and help us win the Dodgeball World Championships.”
The kid has had worse ideas. “We’ll call that Plan B,” I say. “In the meantime, we need to know who is trying to wipe them out, right?”
“Yes,” he agrees. “We need to know that.”
“So, who are the enemies of endangered species?” I ask.
“I dunno.”
“Exactly!” I say. “So, who would know?”
“I dunno.”
“A group committed to protecting endangered species, that’s who.”
“I already took a ball to the head once today,” he says, narrowly avoiding a well-aimed throw. “Are you trying to make my brain hurt worse?”
“I know where we can get more info,” I say. I look at Holly Creskin limping off the court. Darvish follows my gaze.
“It’s time to go to a PUPAE meeting.”
“KAMIKAZE!!!” The other team captain trips on Drumstick and thuds to the ground, legs akimbo.
It warms the heart. It really does.
27
If only my rhino were as good at paying attention as she is at head-butting dodgeballs. She might have seen her attacker at the zoo.
If only my gorilla were as good at staying in his cage as he is at blocking errant projectiles. He might be safe at home rather than dead with a shark attached to his booty.
If only my elephant were as good at moving on to the afterlife as he is at being square. He might be in Peanut Paradise instead of following me around.
But they are not.
Which is why they need me.
Which is why I find myself spending Tuesday night at the Wombat Lodge, attending a meeting of People United to Protect Animals Everywhere. One thousand members strong.
These folks have quite a recruiting strategy. I don’t know what it is. But I am pretty sure it does not involve giving out cookies and punch at their meetings. Because I am currently cookieless. And punchless. Which is not a great recruiting strategy, but seems to be working for them.
Holly was only too happy to bring me and Darvish to her PUPAE meeting. It probably has to do with my newfound dodgeball prowess. Or those rugged good looks I mentioned before.
Except that Darvish has chickened out. I called him multiple times this afternoon.
No answer. Why he even has a cell phone is anybody’s guess. After the fourteenth call, he texted me back. He claims that he had to go visit his Nani at her nursing home tonight.
It is an unlikely story. He has clearly cloaked his chickenheartedness in concern for the elderly. But I know the truth.
He is scared of Holly Creskin.
After school, I suggested to Darvish that he invite somebody to the dance. Perhaps Holly Creskin, as an example. Then he would not have to sit at home by himself like some sort of sad sack on the night in question. Also, I would have my sidekick close at hand in case things get weird with Sami Mulpepper. As I imagine they might. I do not know what happens at dances, but I suspect it may involve d
ancing.
Darvish did not like my suggestion.
I understand his misgivings. Holly Creskin is extremely girly, even for a girl. She wears too much perfume. And she has an unhealthy obsession with unicorns. However, in spite of my Darvishlessness, I am committed to my dead four-legged friends. So, I am now sitting at a PUPAE meeting side by side with Holly Creskin, the unicorn lover. Trying to listen to Talon Smithfield.
“See? I told you he was tall,” she reminds me for the twelfth time tonight.
While I have encountered Talon Smithfield before at Buy-Buy Plaza, I confess I never paid him much attention. I examine him properly now. He is slightly above average in height. Perhaps I am misunderstanding Holly Creskin. Perhaps tall is her code word for dreamy. In which case, yes, I cannot deny that his crystal-blue eyes are rather bewitching.
“He’s so passionate about the plight of wildlife,” she whispers. “I just love that.”
“Quiet,” I whisper. “I’m trying to listen to your boyfriend.”
Holly Creskin dissolves into hushed giggles, which allows me to focus on the task at hand.
Talon Smithfield, tall, crystal-eyed high schooler, presides over this meeting. From his position up front, he holds aloft some sort of sale flyer.
“For our final piece of business, I have sad news,” he says. “Weird Bubba’s Snakeskin Emporium has once more started selling pajamas made from snakes.”
“Gasp!” gasp the PUPAE people.
“You may well gasp, as it is shocking,” he says. “So, let’s limit our pajama purchases there and show Weird Bubba and others like him that we are PUPAE! And we mean business!”
“Hooray!” shout the PUPAE people.
Talon lowers the flyer and looks around. “And that concludes our meeting for this month. Does anyone have any questions?”
My moment has come. I raise my hand.
“Yes, the little kid in the back,” he says, pointing to me.
Little kid? I stand on my chair in a large and intimidating manner for reasons that should be obvious to you by now. “What about the animals that are being killed at the zoo?” I shout.
The Incredibly Dead Pets of Rex Dexter Page 8