When I was done, I had created a miniature prehistoric landscape inside my locker.
“All right, pal,” I said to Hamstersaurus Rex, taking him out of my pocket and gently placing him into the locker. “This is where you’ll be staying the night. I figured that since you’re half dinosaur now, maybe this would make you feel at home.”
Hamstersaurus Rex looked around. He looked at me. His lips pulled back in a weird little smile. I smiled back. He cuddled up next to a plastic parasaurolophus and gurgled.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said. “See you tomorrow, my friend.” I stooped down and kissed him on top of the head (I may seem like a tough guy, but I’m actually pretty in touch with my emotions). I shut my locker door.
“Who were you just talking to?” said Beefer, stepping out from behind a water fountain a little ways down the hall.
“Nobody,” I said, my heart racing. “Just, uh, my geometry book.”
“You kiss your geometry book good night?”
“Yeah. I—I love geometry.” I shrugged. “I may seem like a tough guy, but I’m actually pretty in touch with—”
“Shut it. Martha Junior’s in there, isn’t he?” said Beefer. “I got Fs on every homework assignment this week, and I’m pretty sure it’s because of the brain injury he gave me.”
“You’re probably fine,” I said. “Quick, how many pasta salads am I holding up?”
“What are you even talking about?” he said, shoving me aside.
“Come on, Beefer, you don’t need to do that. Let’s go to the vending machine. I’ll buy you some Funchos Flavor—”
Beefer threw open my locker with a clang. Inside was my Cretaceous hamster habitat. But there was no sign of Hamstersaurus Rex.
Beefer looked around, confused and angry (his only emotions?). “You made a dinosaur playland in your locker?” he said with disgust.
“Yep,” I said. “I’m probably a dumb baby.”
“Ha! Only a dumb baby would do something like . . . ,” said Beefer trailing off, annoyed that I’d beaten him to it. “Sam, if you’re lying to me about the hamster, things aren’t going to go so well for you . . .”
We stared at each other for a moment. I gulped.
“What I mean is: I’m going to beat you up,” explained Beefer.
“Yeah, no, I definitely got that,” I said.
“Good,” said Beefer, poking me hard in the chest. Then he pointed to his waist, mouthed the words “clear belt,” and turned to walk away.
“Seriously, Beefer,” I said, “I have no idea where Hamstersaurus Rex is.”
And I didn’t.
CHAPTER 10
I WORRIED ABOUT the little guy all night. But the next morning, Hamstersaurus Rex was back in my locker like nothing had happened. I guessed he just liked to come and go as he pleased. Who was I to stop him?
Now he was snoring quietly, snuggled up next to a purple allosaurus. (Honestly, it was allo-dorable.) I transferred him to my shirt pocket and carried him with me throughout the school day.
My plan was working. Each morning, I secretly stuffed five times the normal amount of food into my lunch box. At lunch, Hamstersaurus Rex gobbled it all down. I kept him fed, and he was a happy little mutant. When school let out, I returned him to his dino habitat for the night. He liked to wrestle the pteranodons and bite the tails off the ankylosaurs.
The next day I would do it all over again.
In history, we learned more about Pilgrims. (Apparently they wore funny hats?) Geometry was triangle city. In science, we read about the discovery of penicillin. Long story short: some guy called Alexander Fleming ate a piece of mold and he wasn’t sick anymore? Gross. Anyway, I failed a quiz about it, so don’t ask me. Science Night was also mentioned a few times, and I made a note to myself to figure out what it was. Then I made another note to remember that note. In gym we did strange, old-fashioned exercises that nobody seemed to understand. Occasionally, I saw Martha Cherie stalking the halls with purpose, scribbling notes in her Hamstersaurus notebook. Sometimes I saw Beefer looking for Hamstersaurus Rex, too. Despite his claims, he wasn’t much of a “Sunblock Holmes,” though. He kept checking every toilet in the school, like he thought hamsters could breathe underwater.
I spent most of my time drawing of pictures of Hamstersaurus Rex in different (totally awesome) scenarios. I drew him as a space pirate, as an old-timey pharmacist, and as a practitioner of savate, the art of French kickboxing. Once, Dylan caught me sketching a picture of the little guy riding a rocket sled through the desert.
“So why does he have fangs and a tail?” asked Dylan, stroking her chin.
“Huh? What? I don’t know,” I said. “Why did Rembrandt paint pictures of dolphins playing poker?”
“Um, I don’t think he did.”
“Artistic license,” I said, crumpling up the picture. The more suspicious Dylan got, the guiltier I felt.
Other than that, it was smooth sailing for Sam Gibbs and Hamstersaurus Rex for more than a whole week. Then came the olive tapenade.
“Mom,” I said, looking in our fridge before school. “What is olive tapenade?”
“It’s a spread for sandwiches,” she yelled from her office upstairs. She was on her laptop paying bills.
“Like peanut butter?” I yelled back. We were all out of peanut butter.
“For sandwiches,” she yelled again, distracted.
I shrugged and began slathering it on slices of bread for my lunch. I made five olive tapenade and jelly sandwiches (with extra olive tapenade). One for me and four for Hamstersaurus Rex.
When I got to school, I found a crowd of kids around my locker. Not a good sign.
“Hey, everybody,” I said. “Have I suddenly become popular?”
“Sam, you drew a picture of me where my ears were the size and approximate shape of oven mitts,” said Julie Bailey, frowning.
“Right,” I said. So I hadn’t suddenly become popular.
“Julie and I were just talking about the rash of locker break-ins,” said Omar Powell, whose locker was right next to mine. “Mine got hit for the second time this week. Somebody stole a whole twenty-seven pack of Mint-Caramel Choconobs.” He squinted at me, perhaps recalling the jumping-desk incident.
“I had some Funchos Classic Italian Cheddar-and-Mayo Flavor-Wedges in my locker,” said Julie. “Now they’re all gone.” She held up a bag that had been shredded in a very familiar way.
I opened my own locker an inch and quickly slammed it shut. “Oh, man,” I said. “Me too. I had some food in my locker that also got eaten! Hmm. You know who loves junk food and committing felonies?” I glanced down the hallway toward Beefer Vanderkoff. He was reading Pustule magazine’s annual double-sized “Werewolf Issue.” Julie and Omar looked at one another. Beefer stealing Flavor-Wedges? It made sense. . . .
“I have another theory,” said Martha Cherie, startling us all. How did she just appear out of nowhere like that?
Martha used a pair of tweezers to take Julie Bailey’s Funchos bag. Then she produced the frayed solar system string that I’d seen before. She examined them both very closely, with a large magnifying glass.
“Just as I suspected. The same creature gnawed both. The tooth prints are a match,” said Martha. “Hamstersaurus Rex is still in the school. Probably somewhere in this general vicinity.” She began to unroll a spool of yellow police tape.
“Wait, can I see that for a second?” I said, taking the bag and the magnifying glass from her. I pretended to inspect it myself. “You know, Martha, I could be wrong, but don’t the teeth that made these bite marks seem a little sharper than the ones that gnawed through the string? Whatever ripped into this Funchos bag had little dinosaur fangs. Er, so to speak.”
“Hmm,” said Martha, inspecting the bag again. “Yeah, I see what you’re saying. They’re similar but not identical. I had no idea you were interested in rodent dental forensics, Sam.”
“It’s always been a hobby,” I said.
“You
two deserve each other,” said Omar, shaking his head.
“They do not,” said Beefer Vanderkoff, who’d shoved his way forward. Omar and Julie looked at each other and left.
“Very plump greetings,” I said. “I am Sam’s identical cousin, Jarmo. From Fin—”
“Shut it,” he said, shoving me out of the way. “Hey, Martha, did you know that Sam has a little baby dinosaur playland in his locker? What a dumb stupid idiot, right?”
“‘Dumb stupid idiot’ is redundant,” said Martha, now scribbling furiously in her hamster notebook. “You can just say ‘idiot.’”
“Ha-ha. Yeah. Re-dumb-dent. Nice one, Martha,” said Beefer.
And then he just stood there—for ten awkward seconds—staring at his feet and silently mouthing words like he was rehearsing something. Beefer Vanderkoff seemed to be displaying an emotion that was neither confusion nor anger. Was the most menacing bully at Horace Hotwater Middle School nervous?
When Beefer finally spoke again, his voice was an octave higher. “Yeah, so, anyway, there’s this new movie coming out this week, and it’s called Wolfsplosion IV. And it’s all about these werewolves that keep exploding, but nobody can figure out why. In Wolfsplosion I and II it was because of a ghost. In Wolfsplosion III it was aliens. Who knows why it’s happening this time. But IV is supposed to be the best in the series. Pustule called it the ‘Citizen Kane of exploding werewolf movies.’”
“Hmm,” said Martha. She didn’t look up from her notebook.
“Yeah, so, anyway maybe we could . . . go see it?” said Beefer. “Together.”
“Sorry, but I’m only interested in watching movies that have been deemed appropriate for my age range by the Motion Picture Association of America,” said Martha. “That means a G-rating or lower.”
“Oh,” said Beefer. “Well, we don’t have to go to a movie. Do you want to come over to my house and watch my pet boa constrictor eat a live rat?”
“No, thanks,” said Martha, still taking notes.
“Okay,” said Beefer, looking down at the ground. “Then bye, I guess.”
Martha ignored him as he slunk off. The whole thing was so painful I almost pitied the guy. Almost.
“Nice work on this, Sam,” said Martha, holding up the Flavor-Wedges bag. “Maybe one day you could make Junior Deputy Hamster Monitor.”
“Fingers crossed,” I said.
“For the record,” said Martha, “I still think Hamstersaurus Rex is around here somewhere. But now it looks like there’s some sort of new lizard-y creature on the loose, too.”
If only she knew they were one and the same. “I guess it’s a lizard that’s addicted to junk food,” I said. “This school keeps getting weirder and weirder.”
“Funchos Flavor-Wedges. Mint-Caramel Choconobs,” said Martha, making notes. “What was eaten out of your locker?”
“My locker? Nothi— Oh, right. Just some Cheez Wallets.”
“Very interesting,” said Martha. “All those products are made by SmilesCorp.”
“Huh. Just like Coach Weekes’s health supplements,” I said without thinking. “I mean, probably just a coincidence.”
“Probably,” said Martha, chewing the end of her pencil. “We can compare notes on the case when we go to the ADM.”
“The ADM?”
“The Antique Doll Museum, silly!” said Martha with an eerie giggle.
“Sure. Right. The Antique Doll Museum,” I said, my heart sinking. “A place that I promised to go.”
The bell rang, and Martha dashed off toward homeroom without another word. Once I was alone, I opened my locker again. Hammie Rex stared back at me with wide eyes. He looked worried.
“That was a close one, pal,” I said as I transferred him to my pocket. “Look, you can’t keep stealing food from other people’s lockers. Low profile, remember?”
He growled.
“I promise I’ll keep you fed, little buddy,” I said. “Don’t you worry.”
Reality wasn’t so simple, though. At lunch, I snuck off—Dylan had come to expect it—and hid behind my favorite stack of chairs. I pulled out one of the sandwiches and shoved it into my pocket for Hammie Rex to eat. He took one bite and his eyes crossed.
“What’s wrong?”
Hamstersaurus Rex spat the sandwich out. It flew ten feet and stuck to a mural of anthropomorphic letters eating vegetables. The little guy shuddered.
“That’s rude!” I whispered. “I slaved over a room-temperature kitchen counter for three minutes on that sandwich. What are you, some kind of picky eater now?”
He was trying to wipe the taste off his tongue, but his stumpy little paws were too short to reach. He gave up and used his back feet.
“Mmm, it’s good. See?” I took a bite of one of the sandwiches and gagged. It turns out, olive tapenade isn’t that much like peanut butter after all. I spit my own sandwich out and wiped my own tongue with my hands. Hamstersaurus Rex stared pitifully. His stomach gave a warning rumble.
So I went through the cafeteria line. “Hi,” I said.
“You again,” said Judy.
“Yep. Can I have four helpings of shepherd’s pie, please?”
“Four helpings?”
“Actually, make that five.” I’d forgotten that I needed to eat, too.
She crossed her arms and scowled at me. “This is some kind of joke, isn’t it?” she said. “I’ve worked here for twenty-seven years and nobody has ever asked for seconds of shepherd’s pie. It comes out of a fifty-gallon drum we keep in the parking lot, you know.”
“I’m a shepherd’s pie fanatic!” I said. “Every time the cafeteria serves shepherd’s pie, it feels like a national holiday to me.”
“Then why haven’t you ever eaten it before?”
“Because . . . absence makes the heart grow fonder?” I said.
“I will serve you one helping of shepherd’s pie,” said Judy. “And that’s all.” And she took a ladle, dipped it into the beefy reddish slop, and dumped it onto my tray.
I dashed off. Alone, once again, I spooned half of the shepherd’s pie into my pocket. “Sorry, pal,” I said to Hamstersaurus Rex. “Not ideal, but we’re going to have to split this.”
He gobbled it down and then whined for more. He blinked his little eyes. His lip quivered. He looked like he was going to cry. Can hamsters cry? Can dinosaurs cry?
“Okay, fine,” I said. And I spooned him the other half. Still, it wasn’t enough. He squeaked with hunger. I’d never heard him squeak before.
“You want another OT and J?” I asked. “That stands for ‘olive tapenade and jelly.’” He hissed at me and stuck his tongue out.
So, it was back through the cafeteria line for me. Lunch was almost over, so it was just Judy now.
“Don’t even think about asking for more shepherd’s pie,” she said, pointing to the chafing dish in front of her. It was practically empty.
“I’d like a roll,” I said. “Just a plain old roll.” I tried to smile.
Judy gritted her teeth and picked one up with her tongs.
“You know, actually,” I said, trying to sound casual, “could you make that fifteen rolls?”
“No!” said Judy, putting the roll back. “I hate it when you kids waste food!”
I tried to persuade her that I didn’t intend to waste anything. Meanwhile, I somehow failed to notice that Hamstersaurus Rex was no longer in my shirt pocket.
“. . . To sum up,” said Judy, pointing her tongs at me menacingly, “I don’t know what you’re up to, young man, but I don’t find it funny at all!”
At that moment, I saw Hamstersaurus Rex right behind her. He was sitting next to a brand-new chafing dish full of shepherd’s pie, fresh from the oven (or wherever they heat the stuff up to body temperature). He was licking his little dino chops.
“Oh no!” I said without thinking.
“What?” said Judy.
If she turned around she would see Hamstersaurus Rex two feet behind her. It was distraction time.
“Hey!” I said. “Look at this!” I began to do an impromptu tap dance across the cafeteria floor.
Judy stared at me with wide eyes, utterly baffled. Behind her, Hammie Rex dove headfirst into the chafing dish full of shepherd’s pie.
“Whaddya think?” I said as I frantically danced, trying to hold her attention. “No formal training. Pretty good, right?”
“I have no idea what you’re doing,” said Judy. “But if you keep doing it I’m going to call the school psychologist.”
“Oh, it’s just a little soft-shoe!” I wildly spun and tapped my feet and flailed my hands around. I have no idea how to tap-dance, but I gave it my all.
“Look, I’m going to be perfectly honest, son,” said Judy, cocking her head. “The dance isn’t great.”
Hamstersaurus Rex had devoured half a chafing dish of shepherd’s pie now. He was still going.
“Oh yeah?” I said. “But what about this?” I started jumping wildly, trying (and failing) to touch my toes. If anything this new move seemed to disturb Judy even more.
“That’s worse,” she said. “Your hand work is sloppy. Your rhythm is weak. Honestly, you’re all over the place. And if you want to tap dance, you need tap shoes.”
Hamstersaurus Rex sat in an empty chafing dish now. He burped. His furry belly was the size of a tennis ball. He sluggishly climbed out and dropped to the floor.
“Oh well,” I said to Judy. “Maybe my dream of becoming a dancer is unrealistic, after all. Good-bye!” I turned on my heel and left, passing a few baffled classmates.
“Wait. Don’t give up that easily, kid,” Judy called after me. “Believe in yourself!”
I rounded a corner, and Hammie Rex stood on the ground before me. He held up his stumpy little arms like he wanted to be carried. I grabbed him and stuffed him back in my pocket. He was so full of shepherd’s pie, he barely fit.
“Not cool,” I said.
He stared up at me and blinked.
“Okay, it was actually kind of awesome,” I admitted. “But don’t do it again, okay.”
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