Mutant Mantis Lunch Ladies

by Bruce Hale

  Benny and I stopped on the blacktop, looking back at the kitchen.

  “You heard the lady,” he said. “Nothing else we can do to help your sister. Right, Carlos?”

  I wasn’t quite ready to give up. But that wasn’t what distracted me. My attention had been caught by some kind of skylight or vent on the roof, just above the kitchen.

  “Carlos?”

  My eyes traced the roofline over to a huge spreading fig tree whose branches overhung it. “There’s one more thing we can try,” I said.

  Benny followed my gaze. “Really? You want to climb up there in broad daylight? I thought I was the reckless one.”

  “Fine,” I said, heading for the tree. “You don’t want to come, then keep watch.”

  I didn’t know what had gotten into me. Usually I’m the voice of reason, the guy who overthinks things. Maybe little Justin reminded me of Veronica, who I sometimes picked on but would defend to the death. Maybe I was just feeling stubborn.

  Trailing after me, Benny said, “I didn’t say I wasn’t coming. We’ll just have to be sneaky, that’s all.”

  We loitered by the tree, which luckily was behind the building, partly shielded from sight. When Benny and I were sure no grown-ups were watching, we scaled the trunk. Just as we reached the lowest branch, I noticed a teacher on yard duty looking our way.

  “Freeze!” I whispered.

  Benny and I clung to the thick branch, barely breathing. Were there enough leaves to cover us?

  The teacher took a step toward us. But then two kids got into a fight over a basketball, and he hurried off to break it up. We resumed our scramble upward.

  In no time we scaled the rest of the gnarled branches and stepped onto the roof. It smelled of tar and rotting fruit from the tree. Several Frisbees, a baseball cap, and a bunch of mismatched sneakers decorated its rough, tarpapered surface.

  Benny picked up the purple flying disk. “I forgot all about this one,” he said.

  “I told you you couldn’t throw it all the way over,” I said. “But would you listen?”

  Benny grinned. “Never.” He chucked his Frisbee off the side.

  “Are you nuts?” I asked, grabbing him and pulling him down. “Do you want to get caught?”

  His grin turned apologetic. “Don’t worry. People never look up.”

  I peered over the edge. A couple of kids had noticed the Frisbee land. One of them glanced at our rooftop, and I ducked back out of sight.

  “Don’t stand,” I said, “and don’t toss anything else off. Okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Benny.

  Together we crept across the stubbly surface of the roof, toward the hatchlike opening above the kitchen. When we were right up beside it, we lay flat on the warm tar paper, making doubly sure we weren’t spotted.

  Thump, bump, clitter, clatter, whoosh.

  The sound of water running and trays banging rose through the skylight. We listened a while. Unfortunately, the lunch ladies didn’t say anything like “Good thing we got that second grader out of sight” or “I wonder if little Justin would taste better with potatoes or carrots?”

  All we heard besides the cleaning-up sounds were some clicks and whirs—probably the dishwasher doing its thing.

  Benny’s not the most patient guy in the world. Or even the second most patient. Before I knew what was happening, he’d crawled up to the very edge and was trying to peek under the Plexiglas bubble that covered the hatch.

  I tugged on his T-shirt. “Get back!” I whispered.

  He made a little “unh” sound of surprise.

  Instantly, the clatter below us stopped. I grimaced. Had they heard us? Or even worse, spotted Benny?

  Something hissed below, like the world’s biggest alley cat. A softer tuk-tuk-tuk answered it, like two machines having a conversation. Then, nothing.

  We froze, as still as moonlight shining on a monument.

  After a long pause, the clicks and whirs started up again, slower and quieter than before. I let out my breath. When Benny twisted to look at me, I made a “let’s go” gesture.

  Together, we crept back across the roof, rising to a half crouch when we were far enough away from the vent.

  “Did they see you?” I hissed as we clambered into the branches.

  “I don’t think so,” said Benny, “but I—”

  “Hey, you kids!” a man’s voice boomed from below. “Come down from there, right now!”

  MY SHOULDERS tensed and my jaw clenched tighter than an Olympian’s spandex. Busted! I glanced over at Benny.

  “Hold still,” he whispered from the next branch over. “Maybe he can’t see us.”

  “I can totally see you,” said the voice from below. “No use trying to hide.”

  Shoot.

  Maybe I should’ve been more like myself and less like Benny. Maybe I shouldn’t have led us up onto the roof after all.

  Too late now. With sinking hearts, we made our way down the branches to the trunk, dropping onto the ground in front of a familiar figure.

  “Dudes,” he said.

  It was Mr. Decker, Monterrosa Elementary’s new head custodian. Known among the students by his nickname of Malibu (or Boo, for short), Mr. Decker looked like a cross between an aging surfer and an unmade bed that had been left outside too long. His golden haystack hair was scattered with gray, and his tan face had more wrinkles than a shar-pei pup.

  “Hi, Mr. Decker,” Benny and I mumbled, studying the ground.

  “What were you dudes doing up there?” said the custodian. “You know the roof is off-limits.”

  “We, uh…” I noticed he was holding Benny’s disk. “We were getting Benny’s Frisbee back.”

  “Yeah,” said Benny, picking up my cue. “I bet Carlos I could throw it all the way over the building, and I, uh, lost.”

  Mr. Decker wagged his head. “I can respect a man’s attachment to his Friz. But that roof is dangerous. If you went splat, your moms and dads would sue the school district, and the Boo would be out of a job.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about, but an apology seemed in order. “Sorry, Mr. Decker.”

  “I mean, the Beatles say all you need is lunch, but a paycheck sure comes in handy.”

  “We’re really really sorry,” said Benny, laying on the blue-eyed charm. “Promise we won’t do it again.”

  The custodian scratched one leathery cheek with the Frisbee. “Afraid I’m gonna have to report you.”

  “No!” cried Benny, genuinely alarmed. If he got into any more trouble, his police-detective father might lock him up and throw away the key. And I’d probably be in there with him.

  “Please don’t,” I added. “We’ve learned our lesson, I promise. Please don’t tell Mrs. Johnson.”

  For a long moment, the custodian eyed us both. He glanced off at the playground, thinking. “Here’s the thing,” he said at last. “I get pie with a little help from my friends.”

  “Huh?” I said. Sometimes grown-ups made no sense at all.

  “It’s a song quote.” He gestured toward the grass. “It means I’ve got a lot of trash to pick up before lunch period is over. If someone volunteered to help, I might be able to overlook a little rule violation.”

  Relief pinkened Benny’s cheeks. “That’s great!” he said. “Thanks, Mr. Decker.”

  “Please,” said the rangy custodian, “call me Mr. Boo. Mr. Decker’s my grandfather.”

  “Not your father?” asked Benny.

  “Nah,” said the custodian. “Him we call Lulu.”

  I blinked.

  “Okay, Mr. Boo,” I said. “We’re volunteering.”

  Leading Benny and me back to his cart, the custodian returned Benny’s Frisbee and handed each of us a trash bag. We set to work on an area near the chain-link fence that kids had somehow mistaken for a garbage can. After a few minutes of stuffing the bag with candy wrappers, empty milk cartons, and other junk, a thought struck me.

  “Hey,” I said to Benny, “I�
��ve got an idea.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “Ha ha.” I jerked my head at the custodian. “He spends a lot of time in the lunchroom. Maybe he could tell us if the cafeteria ladies are up to anything weird.”

  “Genius!” he said. “Oh, Mr. Boo?”

  The custodian stabbed a soda can with his trash spear, spun the pole, and flipped the can into his bag of recyclables. A true artist. “What’s up?” he said.

  “Carlos and I were wondering,” said Benny, “have you noticed anything…different about the lunch ladies lately?”

  “Different?” The grizzled surfer cocked his head. “Like how?”

  “Oh, you know,” I said, “acting differently, talking differently?” Kidnapping little kids for evil purposes?

  “Not really,” he said. “Lately they’re not as quick to hook a janitor up with a doughnut, but maybe that’s part of their whole nutrition thing.”

  “Yeah, what’s the deal with that?” asked Benny.

  Mr. Boo lifted a shoulder. “Search me. It just started today—you’d have to ask Mrs. Johnson. Heee-yah!” He whirled like a kung fu master, expertly spearing a carton, three pieces of notepaper, and an apple core. Into his trash bag they went.

  Benny and I returned to our own trash collecting (with a lot less style). But just as we were getting into the rhythm of it, I heard a familiar voice.

  “Hey, check this out. It’s Dumb and Dumber on trash patrol!”

  It was Tyler Spork and his sidekick, Big Pete—the last people I wanted to see right now—or ever.

  Pete laughed, a hork-hork-hork sound like a seal choking on a fish bone. “Benny and Carlos are in trouble,” he crowed. “What’d you do to get community service?”

  I cringed.

  Benny said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but we volunteered to help.”

  “Sure you did,” said Tyler. “’Cause you just love trash.”

  “Not really,” said Benny. “We’ve eaten your mom’s cooking before.”

  Tyler snarled, clenching a fist. But when Mr. Boo straightened and gave him a hard stare, he turned and nudged Big Pete. “Come on. Let’s go someplace that’s not so stinky.”

  “Hey, dudes,” Mr. Boo said to us once the jerks were out of earshot, “no vermin!”

  “What?” At first I thought he was referring to the absence of Tyler and Pete.

  “I just remembered something odd about the kitchen and cafeteria,” he went on.

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “What’s that?”

  “It’s bug-free,” said Mr. Boo.

  Was he referring to the giant insect AJ saw? “You mean…”

  “Let me explain.” The custodian leaned his spear against the fence and gathered his long hair back into a rubber band. “I’ve always had to set traps for mice and roaches, right? Wherever there’s food, those little buggers line up for a taste.”

  “Um, yeah.” Benny and I exchanged a disgusted look, imagining our lunch being sampled by pests.

  “But yesterday, all the traps were empty. No bugs, no rodents.”

  “No fooling?” said Benny.

  “Almost like they got scared off or something,” the custodian mused, looking unnerved. Then he shook himself like a shaggy dog at the beach and went back to his usual mellow manner. “Anyways, that’s all I can think of. Why do you wanna know?”

  “Oh,” said Benny, “we’re, uh…”

  “We’re big fans of food service,” I said. “And we just wanted to make sure that our favorite lunch ladies were feeling okay.”

  “Yeah,” said Benny. “What he said.”

  Mr. Boo gave us a funny look, then nodded and went back to collecting trash. But all that ran through my mind until the bell released us was this: Cockroaches are tough enough to survive nuclear war, right? So what in the world would be scary enough to frighten them off?

  MR. CHU ALWAYS says to leave out the boring stuff when telling a story. Mostly I try. I mean, who wants to read about who pulled whose hair or what homework we got, or who picked his nose and got caught (Tyler Spork, for the record)?

  But a couple of small things happened in class that afternoon that made my spider-sense tingle.

  First, not long before second recess, Mrs. Johnson’s voice came over the PA system. “Attention, students: We’re looking for Justin Delgado. If anyone has seen him since lunchtime, please tell your teacher.”

  “Anyone?” said Mr. Chu. We all shook our heads. Benny gave me a troubled look.

  Second, not long after that, some of the girls started acting a little…different. Mr. Chu had split us up into groups to discuss ecosystems. My group had Tina, Amrita, Zizi, and AJ in it. Poor AJ seemed jumpier than a tree frog in a bouncy castle.

  “Find anything yet?” he muttered as we pulled our desks together.

  “Nothing solid,” I said.

  He gritted his teeth. “Hurry. This is really starting to freak me out.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’re on the case.”

  Overhearing us, Amrita laughed. “You are a case,” she said.

  My mouth gaped like a train tunnel, I was so stunned. Amrita is that girl in your class who always looks perfect, never sasses the teacher, and acts more like a grown-up than the grown-ups. But here she was, back-talking like Benny.

  “Well, he is a boy,” said Tina, nastily. “And boys are pretty pathetic—especially Carlos.” The girls cackled together.

  Stung, I rocked back in my seat. You expect a little ribbing from your friends, but that crossed the line into downright mean. Before I could respond, Tina started our discussion by mentioning how much healthier our ecosystems would be if women were running the country. Zizi and Amrita agreed, and we were off and running.

  But the whole time, Tina’s comment stayed with me, like a splinter under the skin.

  When school let out, Benny and I trotted over to Amazing Fred’s Comix and More, known to most of Monterrosa as the comics store. Not only was it one of our favorite after-school hangouts, but we had some questions for its owner, Mrs. Tamasese. And not just “In which issue does Spider-Man first meet Doc Ock?” Besides being a comics lover and former pro wrestler, Mrs. T was something of an expert on the strange and supernatural.

  When we stepped into the cool interior of the long, low shop, a few bars of the Indiana Jones theme song played. No matter what mood I was in, it always made me feel more like a hero. Decorated with colorful murals of monsters and superheroes, the store was stuffed to the gills with comics, graphic novels, games, magician supplies, and even some books on the paranormal.

  A handful of middle school kids were rooting through the graphic novels. Mrs. Tamasese sat by herself at the glass counter, a comics queen, ruler of all she surveyed.

  “Howzit, boys!” she called.

  “Hey, Mrs. T,” we answered, joining her. Under the glass in front of her lay the expensive stuff—original Pokémon cards, rare baseball cards, and issues of comics like The Ultimate Spider-Man No. 1 and Cerebus the Aardvark No. 1—which she swore were worth big bucks.

  “Looking for the newest Hulk?” she asked Benny. “I hear that bugger got himself in some real trouble this time.” The former “Samoan Slammer” always tended to talk about comic-book characters like they were old wrestling buddies of hers.

  “Uh, no,” he said, glancing around to see if anyone was near enough to overhear. “We actually need to talk about the other stuff.”

  Mrs. Tamasese’s eyebrows rose. “Ahh,” she said, leaning forward in her souped-up purple wheelchair. “The freaky-kine stuff. Lay it on me.”

  I told her what we had so far—the lunch ladies acting strangely, their cooking what looked like grasshoppers, AJ’s glimpse of a giant insect, the disappearing pests, and the vanished second grader. It wasn’t much, but it was kind of creepy.

  “Oh, Carlos, I forgot to tell you,” Benny added. “You know when I looked through the vent, up on the roof?”

  “Yeah?”

&nb
sp; “I caught a peek of the lunch ladies talking, but it was so weird.”

  “What was?” I asked.

  “It almost seemed like, instead of talking, they were communicating in clickety-clack.”

  My stomach plummeted like a turtle taking flying lessons. “Uh, that’s not good.”

  “What’s clickety-clack?” asked Mrs. Tamasese.

  We explained how we’d heard clicks, clacks, hisses, and whirs when we were eavesdropping from the roof. The store owner leaned back in her chair, fiddling with her puka-shell necklace.

  “People that look like giant bugs,” she mused. “People that communicate in click-clack. Hmm…”

  “What does it mean?” I asked, fidgeting.

  “It means…‘hmm,’” she said.

  Benny rolled his eyes.

  Mrs. Tamasese paused to ring up a middle-grade girl buying a graphic novel of Usagi Yojimbo, some kind of samurai rabbit. Benny and I shifted from foot to foot until they were done. Then the store owner wheeled her way through the gap in the counter and crooked a finger.

  “This way, guys.”

  She rolled along at a good clip, her broad shoulders bunching and flexing under her shirt. Mrs. T may have been retired from wrestling, but she still looked like a superhero from the waist up. She stopped in the paranormal section.

  “Carlos, grab that blue book on the highest shelf,” said Mrs. Tamasese.

  I stretched and pulled down the book she wanted. “Aliens Among Us?” I said. What the heck?

  Flipping through the pages, she stopped at one spread.

  “Ah,” said the store owner. “Here we go….”

  Benny and I came close, peering over her shoulders. Her finger had landed on an illustration showing a slender creature with a big, triangular head, huge eyes, and stubby antennae.

  “So you’re saying…” I began. An awful feeling crept over me, like spiders under the skin.

  “There’s more than one thing that resembles a giant bug.”

  I looked at Benny. Benny looked at me.

  “But…aliens?” His chuckle sounded forced. “You don’t really believe in aliens, do you?”

  Mrs. Tamasese’s laugh was as full and rich as a river of chocolate syrup. “Believe? Let’s just say I’m not someone who stays up all night watching for UFOs and painting WELCOME, EXTRATERRESTRIALS! on my roof. But I do believe in the possibility of aliens.”