by Bruce Hale
She seemed nothing like the rude rodent who had stirred up all that trouble in class.
“Something bothering you?” said Natalie.
“Me?” said Bitty. “I sassed my favorite teacher and got kicked off the math team. What could possibly be bothering me?”
I cleared my throat. “Easy there. Sarcasm is my department. Just tell us why you flipped out.”
“It might make you feel better,” said Natalie.
The gopher’s gaze went from one of us to the other. She looked bluer than tarantula tootsies in the Arctic Ocean.
“It might,” said Bitty, tearing up. “If I knew why. But I . . . sniff . . . don’t . . . sniff . . . know why-hy-hy!” She sobbed into her paws.
I hate it when dames turn on the waterworks. (Dames, in case you don’t know, is what we private eyes call girls.)
“Something must have set you off,” I said.
“Nothing,” Bitty whimpered.
“Problems at home?” asked Natalie.
Bitty shook her head.
“Problems with Mr. Ratnose?” I asked.
“No,” she sobbed.
I twirled my finger beside my head. “Lost your marbles?”
“No!”
Natalie rested a wing tip on the gopher’s shoulder. “Is it . . . boy trouble?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend to have trouble with.” Bitty sniffed.
Natalie nodded. “Maybe that’s your trouble.”
I held up my hands. “Hang on. Are you telling me you have no idea why you mouthed off to Mr. Ratnose?”
The gopher peered up at me through her paws. “That’s exactly what I’ve been telling you.”
“Oh.” I looked at Natalie. She looked at me. We were fresh out of ideas.
“It was like I was in this haze,” said Bitty. “Words came out of my mouth, but I couldn’t stop them—almost like I was under a spell.”
“A spell?” I repeated. “Like a witch spell?”
“How do I know which spell?” said Bitty.
I shook my head. “No, not which, witch.”
The gopher clenched her fists. “I just told you I don’t know which.”
“I think he meant—” said Natalie.
Bitty stood. “Enough!” she snapped, and stomped off.
“You sure do have a way with girls,” said Natalie.
I stuck a hand in my pocket. “Hey, at least she stopped crying.”
“So what now, Mr. PI? We search for ladies on brooms with pointy hats?”
Pulling out the rest of my Skeeter Pieces, I said, “Not exactly. I think I know where to get the lowdown on witches. And all it takes is a little chocolate.”
Hustling to beat the clock, we hotfooted it for Stu Pigeon’s perch. With a little luck and pluck, we might learn something before recess ended.
Stu Pigeon was the school yard snitch. He liked to hang out on a twisted krangleberry bush at the playground’s edge, the better to watch the action.
His gray-feathered head bobbed and weaved like a punch-drunk fighter. His stubby beak was built for sniffing out scandal. And his shifty eyes could count your lunch money to the penny from a half mile away on a foggy morning.
Rumor and gossip were Stu’s bread and butter. When he saw us coming, he flinched.
“I didn’t do it,” he said.
“Do what?” I asked.
“Whatever it was you think I did,” said Stu. He opened his wings to take off.
I held up a hand. “Whoa there, Nervous Nick. We’re here on business.”
Stu eyed us warily. “Trouble is your business. I don’t like trouble.”
“I thought trouble kept you in business,” said Natalie.
The pigeon looked from me to her. Then he settled back down. “You got me there. So what’s up? Buying or selling information?”
“Buying.” I shook the partial bag of Skeeter Pieces.
“Eh,” said Stu. “You ain’t buying much.”
I held the bag up where he could see it. “We’re investigating a certain teacher’s pet who jumped the rails.”
Stu squinted. “Skipped school?”
“Sassed a teacher,” said Natalie. “She said she couldn’t help herself, like she was under a spell.”
I leaned closer. “Heard of any spell-casting types around school? You know, witches, warlocks, funky zombie masters?”
Stu’s head bobbed. He checked left, then right. “Wouldn’t have to be a spell,” he said. “You could do the same thing with chemicals.”
“What chemicals?” asked Natalie.
He shrugged. “Beats me. What do I look like, Elmo Einstein?”
“Did you hear someone discussing—?” said Natalie.
I cut her off. “Never mind the chemicals. Tell us about the spell-casters.”
For a second, Natalie looked hurt. “The chemicals are a good lead.”
“Maybe, but I have a hunch about the voodoo,” I said. “Come on, Stu.”
With a last glance over his shoulder, Stu spilled the beans. “I got something.”
“Yeah?” I said.
He stared pointedly at my candy.
“Oh, yeah.” I tossed him the bag, and Stu scarfed it up.
“Mmm, sweet Skeeters,” he said. “All right, look, there’s this bunch of kids that meets at lunch, over by the yew.”
“The me?” I said.
Natalie rolled her eyes. “It’s a kind of tree, Chet. But I guess that’s a new one on yew.”
I groaned. “Oak-kay,” I said. “Enough funny stuff. So these kids meet at lunch by some goofy tree. And . . . ?”
Stu made with the bobbing and weaving again. Satisfied that nobody could overhear, he said, “Rumor has it that these girls are witches.”
I smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What are their names?”
The pigeon poked at the empty candy wrapper. “Names?” he scoffed. “You want names, bring more candy.”
“Never mind,” I said. “We’ll use our private-eye skills to get the names.”
Just then the class bell rang: B-r-r-r-ring!
Stu jumped. “And what do your PI skills tell you about that?”
“That if we don’t get our tails back to class now, we’ll be in trouble.”
Stu shook his head mockingly. “And they said you couldn’t be taught.”
4
Witch and Famous
There was no point in searching for witches until the next lunchtime, so I hunkered down for the rest of Mr. Ratnose’s lessons. Ah, the simple joys of schoolwork. It was no more excruciating than being dipped in stinkbug oil and roasted over hot coals.
It just felt that way.
The classroom rebellion seemed to have died down. Nobody sassed the teacher all afternoon. Not even me.
The school day ended, as school days must. Evening came, bringing homework, dinner, and bratty little sisters—not in any particular order.
The next morning I was champing at the bit. I couldn’t wait for lunchtime. (Of course, most days are like that.)
My mom had packed me a sack lunch again. Still, I cruised through the cafeteria at lunchtime to eyeball Dr. Lightov’s Munchmeister 2000.
It squatted behind the counter, as massive as the front four on a refrigerator football team. Colored lights played over its dark surface like rainbows in a root beer. Kids punched one of three buttons: Burrito Maximus, County Fair Dogs, or Spicy Pizza.
A little vole chose the pizza option. The machine clicked and whirred. A bowl dropped into place, and a stream of grayish gloop poured from a spout. Half sprayed on the vole, half ended up in her bowl.
She cocked her head. “That’s pizza?”
My thoughts exactly.
“Hi, Chet,” came a totally average voice.
I glanced around, looking for its source. Finally I spotted him right by the machine. “Oh, Pete,” I said. “I didn’t notice you.”
Pete Moss pouted. “The story of my life.”
Dr. Tanya Lightov stepped from behind her cont
raption. “Ve have created ze perfect puree—nutritionally balanced and delicious. Enjoy!” She wiped the gloop from the vole with a dirty rag and handed her the bowl.
“But—” said the little rodent.
“I said, Enjoy!”
The vole took her food and shuffled off.
“Zhese children,” muttered the inventor. “Sometimes I could just—” She noticed me watching her. “Vell? If you don’t vant my lunch, move along!”
I moved.
Natalie was already waiting at our informal office, the scrofulous tree by the edge of the playground. She broke out her wormy apple crisp (with extra worms), while I tucked into leftover mothloaf in aphid sauce.
For a few minutes, there was nothing but munching. At last, I stood, crumpled my brown bag, and chucked it into a nearby trash can.
“Ready to grill some witches?” I asked.
Natalie slurped one last worm. “Chet, you don’t really believe in witches, do you?”
“Not really.” I stepped out onto the grass. “But I didn’t believe in zombie masters or ghosts, either.”
“And we’ve already faced both of those.”
I nodded. “Exactly. This is one screwy school, partner.”
As we ankled on over to the yew tree, I scanned the playground. Aside from the normal ball games, two girls were chasing a boy, three second graders were stuffing a sixth-grade badger into a trash can, and several fluffy bunnies had treed a lynx.
I shook my head in amusement. The usual lunchtime hijinks.
“Looks like everyone’s stirred up,” said Natalie.
“Naw, just a little spring fever.”
“In January?”
I shrugged. “Kids will be kids.”
Natalie frowned. “I swear, Chet, it really stinks when you just ignore my opinions like tha—”
Suddenly a voice cried, “Look out!”
I whipped around to see a huge, tractorlike rig bearing down on us. Natalie and I hopped aside. It rumbled past.
Maureen DeBree, the school’s mongoose custodian, rode atop the beast. She waved an apology. “Still learning how for steer,” she called, mowing down two small bushes.
Ms. DeBree veered back onto the grass. The tractor-thingie seemed to be a combination lawn mower, leaf sweeper, and hedge trimmer.
Blades and rakes sprouted from its sides like the legs of a robot tarantula. A vacuum on the back sucked leaves and grass trimmings into its maw. Curly silver letters on its side spelled out THE YARD CZAR.
“A new laborsaving invention?” I shouted.
“Yeah,” cried the mongoose. “Like they say, a stick in time saves nine!”
And in a belch of blue smoke, she trundled off.
“Dr. Lightov’s been busy,” said Natalie.
“Busier than a one-armed trombone player in a marching band,” I said.
Natalie smoothed her feathers. We pressed onward.
Just ahead, seven girls sat in a circle of white stones beneath an evergreen tree. As we approached, they were chanting with eyes closed. Sweet smoke drifted from a smoldering stick in the middle.
“Maybe I should handle this,” Natalie muttered.
“Nonsense,” I said. “Dames can’t resist my charm.”
We stopped at the edge of the circle. Now I could make out their chant:
“Sisters seven, strong are we;
By the power of stone and tree;
Far from city steel and noise;
Far from rude and smelly boys—”
I cleared my throat. “Nice tune. Now how about the dance-mix version?”
Seven sets of eyes blinked open. The girls looked as friendly and welcoming as a school of piranhas sizing up a fat, juicy transfer student.
“And who might you be?” asked a tall alligator lizard in a purple, flowered T-shirt.
“I might be a yellow-bellied sapsucker,” I said. “But they call me Chet Gecko. This is my partner, Natalie.”
A green-spotted toad blinked at me. “You don’t belong here.”
“True,” I said. “But unless Principal Zero gives me time off for good behavior, here I’ll be through sixth grade.”
Purple Tee narrowed her eyes. “Run along, little gecko.”
“No can do, Stretch,” I said. “We’re on a case.”
Natalie pushed forward. “A girl in Chet’s class went a little crazy yesterday; she couldn’t help herself. We were wondering—”
“Did you put a spell on her?” I said.
A tabby kitten blinked her big blue eyes. “A spell?”
“Yeah, you know—a jinx, a curse, a whammy?”
“Us?” said the kitty.
“Don’t play innocent, pussycat,” I said. “You’re witches, right? And witches cast spells.”
Purple Tee stood. “We’re Wicca.”
“I don’t care how wicked you are,” I said. “If you hexed my classmate, I’m bringing you down.”
“That’s Wic-ca,” said Spotty, joining Purple Tee. “We’re peaceful, nature-worshipping—”
“Witches,” I said. “Fess up—did you put the evil eye on Bitty Chu?”
“Evil eye?!” Spotty spluttered.
Three more of the crew stood up. For a bunch of peace-loving nature girls, they looked as full of trouble as a werewolf’s smile.
Natalie put her wing tip on my arm. “Perhaps we could talk another time.”
I sized up the situation. Nobody was rushing to confess. Heck, nobody even wanted to talk with us. I tipped my hat. “Ladies.”
As Natalie and I rambled off, seven pairs of eyes drilled a hole in my back.
“Let you handle everything?” said Natalie.
“What?” I said. “I charmed them.”
“Into hating us.”
I turned my palms up. “What can I say? I’ve got the magic touch.”
5
Year of the Brat
The last dribbles of lunch period were leaking out, like the sauce from a Sloppy Junebug sandwich. Natalie and I paused on the grassy slope of the playground to regroup.
“Maybe we’re looking at this all wrong,” she said.
“All right, I’ll try squinting.”
Natalie smirked. “That reminds me—when your nose runs and your feet smell, what are you?”
I could feel the joke coming, but I couldn’t stop it.
“Upside down!” she cackled.
I sighed. “Okay, okay, back to your brainstorm.”
Natalie preened her wing feathers. “Didn’t you once tell me not to guess whodunit before all the facts are in?”
“Yeah . . .”
“So let’s check the facts, Jack.” We wandered toward the basketball courts.
“Okay . . .,” I said. “Fact: Bitty Chu did a really fine impression of a punk yesterday, along with Olive Drabb and Jackdaw, who really is a punk.”
“Fact: Bitty flipped out right after lunch period, but by late recess she was back to normal,” Natalie said.
I grinned. “Or what passes for normal with a teacher’s pet.”
Natalie stooped and picked up a basketball. “So don’t you see?”
“What?”
“Maybe what happened to Bitty happened to Olive, too.” She passed me the ball. “And maybe their freaky behavior had something to do with what took place at lunch.”
I dribbled and took a shot. “What took place at lunch?”
Pang! The ball banged off the rim. Natalie chased it.
“Search me,” she said. “What goes on at lunchtime?”
“Um, eating,” I said.
“Playing,” said Natalie, dribbling the ball.
“Hexing. And, uh . . .” I halfheartedly tried to block her.
Natalie flapped one wing for altitude and shot with the other.
Swishh! Basket.
“So maybe they ate some bad doodlebug casserole,” she said.
I retrieved the ball and dribbled some more. “You’re saying Bitty went loco from some funky food, not from a witch’
s spell?”
She raised her eyebrows. “It’s worth checking out.”
“That could be,” I said as the class bell rang. “But I know one thing for sure.”
“What’s that?” asked Natalie.
“We’ll have to check it out at recess. Mr. Ratnose gets prickly when I investigate during class time.”
I expected the next two lessons to be about as lively as an all-day tour of the Used Gum Museum. But, as sometimes happens, I was wrong.
Mr. Ratnose could barely say two sentences without being interrupted. Bitty was in fine bratty form again. And she was joined by about half of the class, including my client, Igor Beaver.
So many smart-aleck remarks flew through the air that I started taking notes. Ten kids were sent to the principal’s office. Four more had to write I will not sass the teacher on the blackboard. And the rest of us were forced to do silent reading while Mr. Ratnose silently tore out his whiskers.
It was a strange day, no doubt.
I thought about what Natalie had said. Maybe she was right. Maybe the food, the witches, or something had put the whammy on all those kids at lunchtime, not just Bitty.
But how to learn what these troublemakers had in common? Hmm. If I could just find a bunch of them gathered together . . .
A smile stretched my lips. I raised my hand.
“Oh, Mr. Ratnose?”
He looked up from his papers. One eye was twitching. “Yes, Chester Gecko?”
I hate when they call me by my full name.
“Can I go to the principal’s office?” I asked.
The slim rat frowned. “It’s may I,” he said, “and no, you may not.”
“Please?” I said.
“No.”
“Pleeease?”
“No. Get back to your reading.”
I waited a couple of seconds for his nerves to stretch to the breaking point. “Pretty please, with sugared sweat bees on top?”
Mr. Ratnose erupted from his seat. “No! NO! A thousand times no!” Chest heaving, he scribbled on his pink pad, tore off a sheet and thrust it at me. “Go straight to the principal’s office, and stay there until you learn some manners!”
I smirked as I collected the slip. Who says being polite never gets you anywhere?