Alley & Rex

by Joel Ross

  “—and they’ll let you enroll in Steggles as a favor to me,” she’s saying, when the car stops flickering. “As long as you live with me half the week. Oh, we’re home.”

  Except we’re not at my home. We’re at hers.

  10

  11

  That is the Shrieking Horror that awaits me if I don’t get an A on my test: three nights a week with used handkerchiefs, and five days a week with soulless kidroids.

  I spend the next morning thinking about that. Worrying about it. Trying not to cry about it. Which is no fun, so here’s a picture of an intergalactic giraffe fighting a robotic butt.

  When I trudge past the gym, Rex is sitting in the hallway, looking about as cheerful as I feel. His ears are drooping, his head is bowed.

  So I plop down beside him and say, “Hey, Rex.”

  “Greetings, Alley,” he says.

  “What’s up?”

  He sighs. “To my shame, I’ve been instructed to remain here for the duration of my physical education class.”

  “You got sent to sit in the hall, huh?”

  “That is precisely the case.” He lowers his voice. “And I am concerned about incurring a blemish on my permanent record.”

  After I run that through my Rex-to-English dictionary, I’m pretty sure he means that he’s scared of getting in trouble. So I tell him, “Nah, they won’t even call your parents the first few times, unless you did something really… what’s that word? Ingenious?”

  “Egregious?”

  “That too,” I agree. “Like if you accidentally drew goofy faces on all the basketballs with a permanent marker.”

  A smile quivers on the edge of his mouth. “ ‘Accidentally?’ ”

  “Yeah, I only meant to do the dodgeballs, but I got carried away.”

  “Which could happen to anyone,” he says, his ears perking slightly.

  “Exactly!” I squint at him. “So why are you in trouble?”

  “On account of repeated dress code violations.”

  “Huh?”

  “I am not comfortable wearing gym clothes.”

  “Oh! Yeah, you’re not a big fan of shorts and T-shirts, are you?”

  “Regretfully not. The teacher requested that I wear my ‘gym kit,’ but…”

  “But what? What’d you say?”

  “That I prefer not to change.”

  I laugh. “Right on, you legend. Never change.”

  He starts to say something, then stops. Then we just sit there quietly, together, listening to the squeak of sneakers from the gym.

  I can tell he feels better, though, after a minute or two.

  And, for some reason, so do I.

  * * *

  By lunchtime, I’m ready to get back to work. Not to schoolwork, obviously. To sneakwork.

  So I corner Maya in the cafeteria. “Are you ready to be lookout?”

  “If you’re not stealing gold,” she asks, “why are you raiding the teachers’ lounge?”

  “Because I don’t want to spend my days in a robot factory and my nights rubbing lotion on an old lady’s feet.”

  “Zounds!” Maya says, which she got from her game. “Let’s go!”

  Two minutes later, I’m peering around a corner toward the lounge. It’s quiet and still, like a haunted house on a sunny summer day. Still, there’s no telling when a fright of teachers will appear, rattling their chains at the coffeemaker and moaning at the fridge.

  “Warn me if you see anyone,” I tell Maya. “Stay quiet and—”

  “Hey!” Chowder yells, galumphing closer. “What’re we doing?”

  “Staying quiet!” I whisper.

  “What’re we doing that for?” he roars.

  “I’m on lookout for Alley,” Maya tells him.

  Chowder squints at her. “Um, he’s right there.”

  “No, I’m watching for teachers.”

  “Oh! I’ll help,” Chowder says. “They’re easy to spot.”

  “Fine,” I say. “If anyone comes, yell something.”

  “Like what?” Maya asks.

  “Something no teacher would ever say.” I think for a second. “ ‘Badger butts!’ or ‘Who farted?’ or ‘My nose is full of boogers.’ ”

  “Sure,” Maya says, swiping at her phone.

  Chowder squints at the screen. “Are those the goblins?”

  “Yeah, they’re almost across the Forgotten Mountains.”

  “Which mountains?” I ask, quick as a flash.

  Then I slip away.

  12

  I tiptoe around the corner and sneak down the hall.

  I camouflage myself against the bulletin board.

  I wait for the perfect moment, then dive, roll, and leap into the teachers’ lounge.

  I expect to find comfy couches, a hot tub, and a popcorn machine. Instead, the room looks like the leftovers of other classrooms.

  At least it’s empty.

  Still, I listen with all my ears for “badger butts” or “booger nose.” In fact, there’s a chant inside my head: badger butts who farted boogers, badger butts who farted boogers… If I hear any of those words, I’ll scramble out the door and sprint away.

  To my left, there is the Saddest Couch in America. It’s gray and saggy. It looks like the place where cushions go to die.

  To my right, there’s a cafeteria table with a GRATEST TEECHER EVAR mug. Which is a little boastful, if you ask me.

  And directly across from me, tucked into exactly the right place, there is a complete lack of cabinets. I’m not even talking zero cabinets. There are negative cabinets against that wall.

  The teachers’ lounge whirls around me like a hammock in a hurricane. I grab a chair to steady myself, gaping with horror at the Wall of Cabinetlessness.

  And that’s when I spot a rectangular shape on the wall. A cabinet-shaped shape. A place where the cabinet used to be.

  They moved it.

  Which means the cabinet is still somewhere—and I still need the combination. I will find this cabinet. I will unearth the Golden Keys. I will achieve a test score never before seen at Blueberry Hill—or, at least, an A-minus-minus.

  I scramble along the wall, peering at posters until I stop at one showing a kitten hanging from a branch. There, in the corner, is a four-digit number: 5-4-3-2.

  “Yes!” I punch the air, then recite the number aloud so I’ll remember: “Five-four-three-two-one.”

  Perfect! I’m halfway to the door before I realize something isn’t right.

  I turn back. 5-4-3-2. Very tricky, leaving off the 1 like that, but I’ve got it now. Five-four—

  A teacher opens the door.

  My eyeballs explode and my lungs catch fire. I’m caught! I’m trapped! There’s nowhere to run, no time to hide.

  So I cleverly launch plan B, which is “Freeze and Tremble.”

  Except the teacher doesn’t come inside. He doesn’t even look inside. He stays in the doorway, talking to someone in the hall.

  Most kids, at this point, would stick with plan B. After all, it’s working perfectly so far.

  Not me! I burst into action, and a second later I’m sliding beneath the table.

  Safe!

  Well, actually… trapped! But at least I’m out of sight.

  The teacher comes inside. Then another teacher, and another and another. Talking to one another. Pouring coffee. Sitting at the chairs around my table.

  And listen, I like teachers. I’ve always been a fan. Still, you don’t want to be surrounded by their knees. Trust me on this. It’s not a pretty sight.

  I don’t make a sound. I barely breathe. Okay, new plan: hide until the next class starts, then run for it.

  Except just then one of the chairs scrapes the floor, making a BRRRRRAP sound.

  And a teacher says—I am not even kidding—“Who farted?”

  Seriously, who hires these people?

  That’s not the big problem, though. The big problem is that I’ve been listening so hard for “who farted” that
I lose my mind. The instant I hear the words, I scramble from under the table and race for the door.

  In full view of all the teachers.

  Including Ms. Vergara, the PE teacher, who grabs my arm.

  13

  “Alley!” Ms. Vergara barks. “What on earth were you doing under the table?”

  “Guh, um,” I explain. “Ha ha!”

  “You are in serious trouble, young man.”

  “Well, the thing is,” I say. “What the thing is, is—”

  A knock sounds at the open door.

  “Yes, Rex?” one of the teachers asks. “Can we help you?”

  “Alley found it!” Rex announces, reaching out to take my hands.

  So I let him, because I am polite. Other things I am: stunned and terrified.

  “What is going on here?” Ms. Vergara demands.

  “I’m sorry for the trouble,” Rex tells her, one bunny ear flopping down apologetically. “Someone threw my asthma inhaler into the lounge. I was fearful of entering, so Alley did so in my place.”

  A silence falls.

  I hold my breath.

  The entire school teeters on a seesaw.

  “It must have slid under the table,” Rex says, and shows them the inhaler he’s holding.

  It looks like he just took it from me. Like I found it under the table and gave it to him. It’s so convincing that even I think that’s what happened.

  “Oh, Alley!” a teacher gushes. “Well done.”

  “Now that is a good choice,” another teacher says.

  Ms. Vergara says, “He has the intellectual capacity of a chicken nugget, but he always sticks up for younger kids.”

  I would thank her, because everyone knows that chicken is the smartest of the nuggets, but I’m too busy gazing at Rex in awe. How did he do that? This kid is magic. He’s a unicorn. I don’t know why a unicorn is wearing a bunny suit, but no doubt he has his reasons.

  I’m stunned and smiling as the teachers’ praise wafts me from the lounge. Well, plus Rex tugs me into the hallway with his paw.

  When the door closes, I turn to him. “You legend! You velveteen dream bunny! Why didn’t you tell me you’re a tiny genius? Thank you!”

  “I am happy to oblige,” he says.

  “I’m also happy with that word you just said!”

  “Oblige?”

  “That’s the one. I’m happy with a blige, I’m happy with two bliges. The only thing I’m not happy with is…”

  I spring around the corner to yell at Maya and Chowder, the worst lookouts in the world, but they’re not there.

  “Oh,” I say. “Those dorkfish.”

  “I believe they were distracted by Maya’s game,” Rex says. “In their defense, defeating the goblin horde in the Forgotten Mountains is quite difficult.”

  “Which mountains?” I ask, in my clever way.

  “Very witty,” Rex says.

  “I know! Thank you! Because they’re Forgotten Mountains, so—” I squint at him. “Wait a second. You play Realm Ruler?”

  “No longer. I ruled all the realms after two weeks. Have you reconsidered my proposal?”

  “Yes and no,” I say. “Depending on what that means.”

  “Will you let me help you prepare a presentation?” he asks. “For science class. To earn the A. Instead of taking the test.”

  “Oh! Nah, not after I’ve come so far.”

  When Rex raises himself to his full height, the tips of his bunny ears almost reach my chin. “Come how far? What progress have you made?”

  “Five-four-three-two,” I announce.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You probably think there’s a ‘one’ at the end! But they cannot fool me.”

  “What significance does that sequence hold?” he asks, still tugging me down the hallway. “Er. What does it mean?”

  “It’s the combination to the Golden Keys,” I say, and tell him everything. “So now I just need to find where they moved that cabinet.”

  Rex frowns. “I am not convinced that the Golden Keys will aid your—”

  “Shhh!” I tell him. “Don’t jinx me.”

  “No jinx intended. I am merely concerned that—”

  “Shut your whiskers!”

  “I feel I must say—”

  “Hushbunny!”

  He sighs. “Very well. You are certain I cannot change your mind?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “In that case, the cabinet you are seeking is locked in a supply closet on the third floor.”

  See? An absolute unicorn.

  14

  Here’s my new plan:

  1) Cut English class.

  2) Sneak to the third floor.

  3) Pick the supply closet lock. (The internet has a tutorial for everything.)

  4) Slip inside, 5-4-3-2 the cabinet, grab the Golden Keys, and STAY AT MY OWN SCHOOL.

  Another flawless plan! Except the first step is Cut English, and somehow, when Rex stops talking, I’m already standing outside my classroom.

  And Mr. Kapowski is looming near the door.

  No problem. He hasn’t seen me yet, so I blend into a nearby mural like an elf wearing a Cloak of Invisibility.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Kapowski is like a gnome wearing a Bow Tie of Spotting Students, and drags me to my desk.

  “What is going on with you?” Chowder whispers.

  “You mean other than getting shipped to Steggles Manufacturing and spending half my life at my grandmother’s house?”

  “Oh! I forgot about that.”

  “How could you forget?”

  “I’ve been thinking about Maya’s eyebrows. Also, what’s so bad about your grandmother?”

  “Used handkerchiefs, yellow toenails—” I sputter, before blurting, “She’ll make me eat calf’s-foot jelly!”

  “What even is that?” he asks.

  I take a breath. “You know how fish fingers aren’t actually fingers, and string cheese isn’t actually string?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, calf’s-foot jelly is actually jelly made from calves’ feet.”

  He shudders. “Like grape jelly? But from hooves?”

  “Like garlic jelly,” I tell him. “But from hooves.”

  We fall silent, pondering the horror. At least I think that’s what we’re pondering. Except then Chowder says, “I wonder if Maya will let me walk home with her.”

  “She rides the bus,” I remind him.

  He sighs dippily. “She’s the best at riding the bus.”

  “You’re a dorkfish,” I say.

  “You’re a corncob,” he says.

  “You’re both disruptions,” Mr. Kapowski says, and scolds us for whispering.

  I feel bad, because Mr. Kapowski always tries to make class fun. And I feel even worse, because I ruined everything for him once.

  He’d been talking about an ancient Greek dude who wrote books that were mostly people talking. Mr. Kapow said that was a good way to teach, through conversations.

  Which was true! The only problem was, I’d been having a conversation of my own at the time, and totally ignoring his lesson.

  That’s probably why he’d called on me. “Alley? Please tell the class your favorite thing about Play-Doh.”

  I wasn’t sure why he’d asked such an easy question. Still, I immediately said, “The smell! Plus, I like rolling Play-Doh into worms and—”

  The entire class started laughing. Not just laughing, howling.

  Because it turned out that the old Greek dude was named “Plato.”

  That’s what Mr. Kapow had said, not “Play-Doh.” So I’d just announced that I loved how the ancient guy smelled and wanted to roll him into worms.

  The other kids treated me like a hero, but I felt bad. Mr. Kapow had just wanted to share a cool idea and I’d messed it up. He hadn’t even sent me to the principal’s office. He’d just looked sad.

  Ever since then, I’ve tried to do better. Mr. Kapow loves class participation, so today, w
hen he starts a discussion, I join in to make him feel better.

  The topic is Why Kids Don’t Read More.

  Mr. Kapow: What do you like in a book?

  Me: Rocket launchers! Barfing! Mutant frogs!

  Mr. Kapow: Perhaps stories about your challenges and triumphs? Your personal struggles?

  Me: I’d personally struggle to hold one of those video-game guns the size of a porta-potty.

  Mr. Kapow: Anyone else?

  Me: The truck that sucks sewage out of porta-potties is called a “honey wagon.”

  Mr. Kapow: In summary, there’s no telling why kids don’t read more.

  Here’s my new new plan. I’ll miss the bus after school. Then, while I wait for Dad, I’ll raid the third-floor storage closet. Grab the Golden Keys.

  Today is Friday, so I’ll have all weekend to memorize the keys. Then on Monday, I’ll ace the test.

  The first step goes perfectly: I miss the bus.

  “I need to study for a test,” I tell the yard monitor. “Can I go to the library?”

  The yard monitor laughs. “You! Study! A test!”

  “I can verify Alley’s assertion,” Rex says, rabbiting beside me.

  The yard monitor blinks. “Huh?”

  “As Alley’s HOST,” Rex says, “I am in a position to corroborate his intention to apply himself to preparing for his upcoming science test.”

  The yard monitor is rocked by those syllables, but stays on his feet like a champ. “Oh, um. Sure. Go ahead.”

  After we slink inside, I grin at Rex. “We’re not actually going to the library.”

  “I am aware that your intentions are focused elsewhere.”

  “We’re going to the third floor!”

  “Yes, I suspected you might—”

  “Didn’t see that coming, did you?” I pat him on the back. “Stick with me, squirt, you’ll learn a few things.”

  “I shall stick with you,” he says, “to prepare you for the presentation.”

  “I don’t need to study! I just need the Golden Keys.”

  “Repeat after me,” he says, and starts spouting facts about the water cycle.