by Bruce Hale
Benny and I traded a glance. If the museum director thought shapeshifters were awesome, we couldn’t very well start out by asking him how to break the curse.
“How do people get the ability to change?” I asked.
“It’s quite fascinating, really,” said Mr. Sharkawy, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. “Some use potions or magic charms, some wear the actual skin of the animal…”
“Ugh,” said Benny. I shot him a look, and he lost his disgusted expression in a hurry.
“And some tribal shamans invite animal possession through rituals,” the museum director continued.
“What about…biting?” I asked.
Nodding, Mr. Sharkawy said, “Certainly, if one is bitten by a shapeshifter—the blessed bite—one can gain the gift of transformation.”
Blessed bite? Benny mouthed at me.
“That is fascinating,” I said, laying it on thick. “And what if someone wanted to cure himself?”
“Cure himself?” The man’s thick eyebrows drew together like two gypsy moths colliding, and he leaned forward aggressively. “Why on earth would anyone reject the dark gift?”
“Yeah,” said Benny, jumping on board. “Why would they?”
I sent him a quick glare. “Well, maybe they got it by accident and didn’t really want it.”
In a flash, Mr. Sharkawy stood, looming over us. “Only a fool would turn down that kind of power.”
Whoa. Benny and I took a step back. Clearly this guy took his shapeshifting seriously. “Well, sure,” said Benny. “He’d have to be nuts. A total wacko. But just out of curiosity—for our report—how would he break the curse?”
“Curse?” Thunder boomed in the man’s voice, and he stalked around the desk. “Curse? That’s precisely the kind of wrongheaded thinking I’ve been fighting against.”
We edged backward. “Of course it is,” I said. “And we’d never ever use a word like that in our report, would we, Benny?”
“Never ever.” Benny shook his head. “But if some misguided person was looking for a so-called cure…”
Mr. Sharkawy was on top of us in three long strides. He clapped his hands onto our shoulders and spun us around. “Come with me,” he ordered.
“I, uh,” I stammered as he propelled us toward a side door. Adrenaline pumped through me as my imagination kicked into hyperdrive. Where was he taking us? Some kind of museum jail for rude boys? A pit full of hungry alligators? Or would we become a sacrifice for some twisted beast he had chained up behind the door?
“Open it,” snapped the museum director. Gingerly, Benny turned the doorknob.
The man thrust us ahead of him down a narrow corridor, which soon opened into a display room. Now we stood in the museum proper, surrounded by creepy-cool African masks, sculptures, and carvings—all lit dramatically like props in some big-budget horror movie. A snarling lion head carved in wood made my skin crawl.
“Look!” demanded Mr. Sharkawy. “Look at the care and the artistry these long-ago people poured into their craft.”
“Nice,” I said.
“They spent all this effort to cause a supernatural transformation into a higher state, and all you want to know is how to reverse it?” The museum director practically snarled. His nose sliced the air like a hawk’s beak.
“Um, yeah?” said Benny. “Just for our report.”
“Others believed like you,” Mr. Sharkawy said. “Fools. Those who feared the raw power of our animal selves.”
“Can’t imagine why,” I said, thinking of our teacher’s increasingly out-of-control behavior, his cruelty. And this museum guy wasn’t looking too stable himself. Could he be somehow mixed up with the were-hyenas?
“Behold the craftsmanship on this Edo mask,” the man continued. “Exquisite detail, yes? And this stork-headed Yoruba staff—quite remarkable.”
My eyes slid past the objects to some necklaces hanging on the wall in an unfinished part of the exhibit. “What about those?” I asked.
Making a dismissive wave, Mr. Sharkawy scoffed, “Those fools I mentioned, they wore amulets like these to bring the change back under control. Ridiculous! Wasteful!”
Amulets?
While Benny murmured an agreement to Mr. Looney Tunes, I took a closer peek at the necklaces. Several featured a pendant shaped like the head of an animal. I spotted a leopard, a lion, a crocodile, and something doglike—a hyena?
My eyes sought Benny’s. Could this be what we were after? He saw where I’d been looking and drifted nearer.
“Hey,” Benny said, “is that—?” His hand reached out toward the amulet with the doglike head.
“Don’t touch!” Mr. Sharkawy boomed, swatting Benny’s hand away. “Those are priceless. What on earth were you thinking?”
“I just—” Benny began.
Fingers like talons clamped down on Benny’s shoulder and mine. “I made a mistake,” said Mr. Sharkawy in a tight voice. “I thought that you…children might appreciate something this special, but clearly I was wrong.”
He steered us through the exhibit toward a nearby elevator, moving so fast that I stumbled over my own feet.
“We do appreciate it,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”
“More than you know,” Benny added.
Unyielding, Mr. Sharkawy dragged us to the elevator door and mashed the button with his thumb like he was squashing a bug. “You will leave now,” he said. “You’re not ready for sacred mysteries.”
When the door slid open, he shoved us inside and stabbed the first-floor button. We rode down together in silence. As Mr. Sharkawy hauled us across the lobby, Ms. Icaza called cheerily from behind her desk, “Good-bye, boys! Come again anytime.”
Holding open the heavy glass door so we had to squeeze past him, the museum director muttered, “Don’t you dare.” Beneath his overpowering citrus-y aftershave, I caught a sharp, musky scent. Mr. Sharkawy smelled nearly as funky as the big dude we’d bumped into by the comics store.
Were grown-ups experiencing a serious deodorant shortage, or was there another, darker explanation?
The door shut, then locked behind us with a hard click. Benny and I stood on the steps, blinking in the late afternoon sunshine.
“Can you believe that wacko?” said Benny.
“Him and his ‘dark gift,’” I said. “I’d hate to see what’s under his Christmas tree.”
Benny leaned closer. “Was that necklace what I think it was?”
“A big break for us,” I said. Glancing over my shoulder, I caught Mr. Sharkawy’s suspicious glare burning a hole through the glass door. “Uh, maybe we should go somewhere and talk.”
Benny lifted his pointer finger. “To the tree house, Robin!” he said.
“Wait, how come I never get to be Batman?”
He shrugged. “Because I’ve always been battier than you?”
“Can’t argue with that,” I said. “Let’s go.”
EVERY DYNAMIC DUO needs a clubhouse. Benny and I were no exception. The vacant lot between his house and mine grew in a wild tangle, choked with tall grass, shaggy bushes, and three gnarled oak trees. In the biggest of those trees, someone long gone had built a sturdy platform with a railing and no roof.
Ever since we’d been old enough to scale the twisted trunk, Benny and I had used that tree fort in countless games of spies, and army, and Lord of the Rings.
Now we retreated there to make plans and drink sodas. (Sodas from my house, not Benny’s. His mom only lets them have juice or healthy drinks that taste like Odor-Eaters and brewed bark.)
“Abuelita gave me a half hour,” I said as we got settled. “Then I have to do homework before dinner.”
“So let’s make it snappy,” said Benny. He took a long slurp from his can and let out an impressive burp.
I made a “not bad” face, chugged my drink, and ripped out a belch of my own, just as loud.
He nodded. “This meeting is officially called to order. First, let me ask the obvious: How we
ird is it that we’ve got a were-hyena problem in Monterrosa?”
“Deeply weird,” I said.
“I mean, how would something like that even get here?” he asked.
I shrugged. “On vacation? As a stowaway? Ooh, maybe that Sharkawy guy smuggled it in his luggage.”
Benny hunched forward. “Or maybe he’s the were-hyena.”
“Maybe he is. He sure smells like a hyena cage—did you get a whiff of his armpits?”
He fanned the air in front of his face. “Seriously stenchy.”
“But whoever the creature is,” I said, “what are the odds that it would bite Mr. Chu?”
It was Benny’s turn to shrug. “Beats me. I’m not doing so hot in math.”
I blew out a long sigh. “I’m worried about him. Mrs. T said he won’t be a full-on hyena until tomorrow night—”
“Yikes,” Benny interrupted with a shudder.
“But what if he accidentally hurts someone—or himself—before then?”
We stared at each other, struck by how little time we had to save our teacher, and how woefully unprepared we were for the job. Did all wannabe heroes feel like this?
Benny shook his head to clear it. “Look, the way I see it, we’ve got two ways to attack the problem.”
Leaning back against the tree trunk, I said, “Lay ’em on me.”
“Either we start by going after the amulet, or by finding the were-hyena that bit Mr. Chu.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “But then we’ve got to get both of them, or the cure won’t work, and—”
“Bye-bye, Mr. Chu,” he finished.
We fell silent for a moment, thinking about the possibility of losing our favorite teacher. At least I was thinking that—Benny may have been thinking about chugging another soda and burping “The Star-Spangled Banner,” for all I knew.
“Just a few minor challenges that I can see,” I said.
It was Benny’s turn to lean back. “Lay ’em on me.”
“First, the amulet—if that’s even the one we need—is kept in a locked building protected by alarms.”
“Yup,” said Benny.
“Second, I’m not a spy with mad lockpicking skills, and last I checked, neither were you.”
“True,” said Benny.
“And third,” I continued, “we have absolutely no clue who the were-hyena is when it’s not a were-hyena.”
He shook his head, frowning. “Those are problems, all right. We need a good solution.” Suddenly Benny’s eyes widened. “Oh!”
“A solution?” I said hopefully.
“A splinter.” He twisted onto one hip and plucked at his jeans.
I rolled my eyes.
“But no worries,” said Benny. A grin teased his lips, and he sat up straighter. “I’m about to be brilliant.”
I snorted. “And everyone said that day would never come.”
Leaning toward me, Benny said, “Maybe it’s hard to figure out who the were-hyena is during the day…”
“Try almost impossible,” I said. “It could be anyone.”
“But at night…” His eyebrows lifted and his hands spread as he waited for me to complete his thought.
“At night, it’s a savage, crazed were-hyena. Duh. So?”
“So that’s the time to catch it.” He crossed his arms.
Gaping at Benny like he’d sprouted giant bug antennae, I sat speechless. At last, I stuttered, “C-Catch it?”
“Yeah.” Benny scooted closer, taken by his idea. “Can’t be more than one or two were-hyenas in Monterrosa, see? So it’s quicker to find Mr. Chu’s maker at night than spend all day trying the amulet on everybody in town.”
“You’re serious,” I said.
“Of course.” He rubbed his hands together. “Mr. Chu said he got bitten out by the graveyard, right?”
“Right.”
Benny stood, acting out his plan. “So we find that trap my dad got back when that black bear was running loose, we set it up by the graveyard, and we catch the were-hyena. Bam! Problem solved.”
Climbing to my feet, I said, “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“That’s why it’ll work.”
I clapped both hands onto my head to keep my brain from exploding. “But…” I spluttered. “You…we…”
Holding up his palm like a traffic cop, Benny said, “I know, you’re wondering what we’ll use for bait. Any raw meat should do the trick—hamburger, chicken, whatever. Hyenas aren’t picky.”
From across the field, my grandma called, “Caaarrlos! Come hooome!” She stood at our back gate, waving.
I waved back. “Coming!” To Benny, I said, “Forget bait. Do you know how dangerous that monster is? What’s to stop it from skipping the hamburger and going straight for the Benny-and-Carlos special?”
“No worries. We set the trap near a tree, so we’ll have a quick getaway. Everyone knows hyenas can’t climb trees.”
“But—”
Benny shrugged. “It’s the simplest way.”
“Yeah, but simple doesn’t mean easy,” I said.
He scoffed. “We catch it tonight; we steal the amulet tomorrow. Slip it over the person’s head before the moon comes up, and—bam!—we get our teacher back.”
I frowned. “You know, saying ‘bam’ doesn’t make this plan any safer.”
“I know,” said Benny, “but I like saying ‘bam.’” His eyebrows raised. “Got any better ideas?”
“Caaarrlos!” my grandma called again. “¡Ven aca!”
Through gritted teeth, I told him, “Not yet.”
As we climbed down from the tree house, Benny said, “Great. Gear up and I’ll meet you back here tonight at ten thirty.”
“Great,” I echoed. But what I really meant was ¡ay, huey!
I had so much on my mind at dinner, I almost missed the clues that my dad had something on his mind. He sighed. He toyed with his food. But I didn’t take much note of it. While chewing my grandma’s spicy meat loaf, I kept chewing over other ways for Benny and me to cure our teacher—always coming up short.
Not even Zeppo’s shaggy head on my lap could break my distracted mood. (Of course, he was just there for any scraps that fell.)
Finally, as we were tucking into our vanilla ice cream, my dad cleared his throat. “Carlos, I heard from your mom today.”
“Huh?” I’d been weighing the pros and cons of finding the were-hyena by dragging roadkill through downtown and seeing if anyone tried to eat it.
“Your mother. She called.” His face was frowny, not smiley like it should’ve been if the news was good.
I slurped a spoonful of my ice cream. “Veronica didn’t get the part?”
Abuelita and he exchanged a significant look.
“Well…” she said.
“What?” I said.
My dad set down his spoon. “No, chámaco, she did. Your sister scored a supporting role on a Disney Channel show.”
“Wow, that’s terrific!” I was genuinely happy for my little sister, even if she was a total brat. She’d wanted to act ever since she was four and first understood that Jessie Prescott wasn’t a real person.
Of course, that didn’t mean that I didn’t feel a stab of jealousy at all the attention Veronica was getting.
Dad looked down, running his finger over a seam in the tablecloth. “It is terrific, son. She’s turning cartwheels. Literally. But here’s the thing.”
Uh-oh. There was some kind of catch. It felt like the ice cream had frozen my innards. “We’re not moving to L.A., are we?”
My dad tilted his head. “Not exactly.”
“We can’t leave Monterrosa, Dad. Not now.” What would happen to Mr. Chu if we did? Would he and his maker bite everyone and populate the town with monsters?
“Don’t worry, mijo.” My grandma reached across the table and patted my hand. “You look so serious.”
Dad sighed some more. “We’re not moving to L.A. Your mom and sister are.”
“Oh.
”
And here I’d thought nothing could distract me from the threat of my teacher becoming a were-hyena.
ONE ADVANTAGE of having a lot to worry about is you don’t have to worry about falling asleep before a late-night adventure. Instead of dozing off, I sneaked a few things into an old Donald Duck fanny pack—a flashlight, a whistle, some bug spray, two strips of beef jerky, a fist-sized hunk of hamburger, and a Snickers bar. It didn’t exactly look cool, but it would do the job.
Then I waited for the house to get quiet.
By ten forty-five, all I could hear was faint snoring from my dad down the hall. Abuelita had gone home to her condo, so the coast was clear. Moving as quietly as a ninja tiptoeing on velvet, I boosted up my bedroom window and slipped into the night.
A swollen moon leered from behind the clouds. One more night, and it’d be full. As I passed near the back door, a faint whining came from behind it. Zeppo.
“Shh!” I hissed.
He whimpered louder. Glancing at my dad’s window, I saw it was still dark. But it wouldn’t stay that way if Zeppo kept this up.
Pulling out my key, I unlocked the back door and tossed in one of the beef jerky strips. I heard the sound of scrabbling paws, then chewing.
Before Zeppo could get amped up again, I relocked the door and hurried across the yard. The air was as cool and crisp as celery straight from the fridge. A faint smell of woodsmoke and eucalyptus leaves teased my nose.
I opened the gate as slowly as possible, clenching my teeth and freezing in my tracks whenever it creaked. The house stayed dark, so I slipped through and closed the gate. Shielding the flashlight beam with my fingers, I followed its faint path through the bushes to the tree house.
“You’re late,” Benny hissed from the shadows.
“I know,” I whispered. “I’ll tell you why later.”
He hefted a knapsack of hyena-trapping supplies onto his back and gave me a thumbs-up.
Creeping along single file, we followed a path that wound through the tall weeds, among the trees, and out onto a side street. Everything was hushed, dead still. No cars approached.