by Bruce Hale
No dice. He was as well hidden as a principal’s sense of humor.
The school day rolled by in the usual way. (Slow and excruciating, like a nostrilectomy performed with a plastic butter knife.)
Just before the last bell, Cassandra the Stool Pigeon raised her wing. “Mr. Ratnose,” she asked, “do we have to keep on rehearsing the play?”
Our teacher’s ears went pink. “Of course,” he said. “The show must go on.”
My classmates exchanged worried looks. The ship was sinking, but this rat wasn’t about to desert it.
It was a somber group that met in the auditorium a few minutes later. Muttering kids checked backstage for ghostly signs. Waldo the furball jumped at every little sound. Girls tried to comfort a troubled Bjorn Freeh.
Mr. Ratnose finally corralled the group’s attention. “People, we won’t let these little scare tactics derail our play. Will we?”
A couple of kids nodded. Hiram the toad said, “Uh, maybe?”
That wasn’t the response my teacher wanted. “Come, come,” he said, forcing a chuckle. “There’s no ghost. Someone is trying to stifle artistic expression.”
Waldo raised his hand. “Maybe we should let them,” he said.
“Tut-tut. Are you an actor or a mouse?” asked Mr. Ratnose.
Actually, I’d been wondering that myself. No one knew exactly what kind of animal Waldo was.
The furball shrugged. “Is there a third choice?”
Mr. Ratnose harrumphed. He abandoned the pep talk, sorted us into lines, and began rehearsing the big dance number, “D Is for Denver.”
Although spooked (literally), the cast followed orders. We clomped around the stage to Zoomin’ Mayta’s piano accompaniment. “Sing out,” she cried.
We sang:
“D is for Denver, a happy, happy place.
E is for eggplant, you stick it in your face.
N is for nimrods, you’ll never find them here.
V is for . . .”
I’ll spare you the rest. After fifteen minutes of this nonsense, my castmates finally started to loosen up. Even Shirley Chameleon lost her haunted look.
I actually thought we might make it through a rehearsal without trouble.
Silly me.
We were just finishing the high kicks, before spelling out a huge D, when disaster reared its ugly head. Again.
It began slowly, with a serious stench. My nostrils flared at the scent of funky swamp ooze mixed with something pungent I couldn’t quite place.
“Chet?” asked Natalie with a meaningful stare.
“What?” I said. “Why do you think every weird smell comes from me?”
“I dunno,” she said. “Because it usually does?”
But before my wit could retaliate, we learned the true source of the stink.
With a long, drawn-out Ssschooop! green goop rained down from above.
Plips and plops and ropey strands fell on dancers and stage alike. It was slimy and thick, a snot storm. The floor grew slicker than a politician up for reelection.
Hiram the toad slipped on a slime patch and thudded into two dancing mice. Ba-whonk! They all collapsed in a heap.
Shirley Chameleon skidded onto her back and took down Waldo, Bitty Chu, and Bo Newt—blim! blam! blom!—like a green bowling ball with a long tail.
I hopped aside . . . right into the gunk. Scrambling, I tried to keep my balance. No use.
Oomph! I plowed straight into Mr. Ratnose’s furry belly.
His eyes widened. His arms windmilled.
“Eeeeaaauugh!” We hit the stage like a warthog hits an all-you-can-eat buffet. Hard.
As I lay faceup, stunned, I caught a flash of movement behind the bright lights and last drips of slime. It vanished.
From the other direction, something white entered my sight. A paper airplane, twisting and turning in air currents. It landed softly on my belly.
I grabbed the paper and unfolded it. The scribbled note read:
See? I told you so.
—The Phantom
I stuffed the note into my pocket. The last thing this bunch needed was another ghostly message. I raised my head and looked around.
Green goo coated the actors and the stage. The few kids who hadn’t tumbled stood on the sidelines, balancing on nervous legs.
Natalie was among them. She shook a drop of goop from a wing feather.
I waved at her. “Can you fly up and see where that mess came from?”
She eyed the ceiling. The slime had mostly stopped dripping. “Oookay,” she said. “If you really want me to.”
“I really do.”
Natalie flapped her way up to the level of the stage lights. She hovered (not easy for a mockingbird) while she checked things out.
“Well?” I asked, getting to my feet.
My partner glided down and landed outside the spatter zone. “Nada,” she said. “Nobody there, and no sign of the slime source.”
My eyes widened. “You know what this means?”
She nodded. “Maybe there really is a ghost,” she said.
“That, or one more possibility.”
“What’s that?”
I wiped slime from my cheek. “Somebody’s invisible flying elephant really needs a handkerchief.”
11
Badger Late Than Never
One good thing came from the slime attack: Rehearsal was canceled for the day. We all slooshed out of the auditorium while Maureen DeBree and her janitors tackled the lake of goo.
I retrieved my skateboard and rolled home, Natalie gliding beside me. Together, we hashed over the case.
“That’s one yucky ghost,” she said.
“Or a yucky ghost impersonator,” I said.
“Maybe it kidnapped Scott Freeh.”
“Why would it?” I shook some green goop off my sleeve and flung it onto a neighbor’s rosebush as we passed. “Say a ghost is haunting the auditorium; what’s it got against Scott?”
Natalie smirked. “Maybe they were talking and he spook out of turn.”
“Well, that just ghost to show you . . . ,” I said, stopping in my driveway.
“That the phantom is too ghoul for school.”
I groaned and grabbed my skateboard. “But while we’re talking suspects, let’s not forget the soccer players and Boo’s dad.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Natalie.
For the life of me, I couldn’t think of another ghostly pun. That told me one thing for sure: It was time for a snack.
Next morning, the sun cast a rosier light on things. Or maybe the slime in my eyes had made them bloodshot. Anyway, it was Friday.
Morning rehearsal actually went smoothly for a change. I kept expecting a plague of locusts to eat the auditorium, or the walls to start bleeding spaghetti sauce, but our run-through was a slam dunk. Shirley didn’t even try to kiss me.
The only disruption came from Bona Petite’s stage crew outside. Their hammering and sawing got so enthusiastic, Mr. Ratnose had to ask them to keep it down.
Wielding a mighty hammer, Ms. Petite tossed her head and closed the doors.
Just before recess, Mr. Ratnose made an announcement. “I just want to commend you all on the progress you’re making,” he said. “In spite of the . . . er, interruptions, we’re well ahead of schedule.”
My fellow actors grinned and swelled like a pack of dragonfly popovers. We were pretty awesome, at that.
“And that’s why,” said the lean rat, “I’ve decided to move up our performance date. We open next Thursday!”
I gaped. “Thursday? I haven’t even memorized my lines.”
My teacher gave me his beady-eyed stare. “But you will,” he said. “All of you will learn them over the weekend, or else.”
My stomach sank like a granite doughnut in a glass of milk. I hadn’t bothered learning any dialogue, as I’d expected to find Scott in plenty of time. But what if he stayed lost?
The answer came: In less than a week, I’d be wearing dorky t
ights and kissing Shirley Chameleon.
Sweet fancy spudsuckers! Time to kick the detecting into high gear.
The recess bell rang. Kids blasted out of the auditorium like spray from a can of cricket soda. I would’ve joined them, but something stopped me. My teacher.
“Just a minute,” said Mr. Ratnose. His pointy kisser was unreadable.
“I’m working on my lines,” I said. “Honest.”
The rat folded his arms. “That’s not why I wanted to talk, and you know it.”
Rattled, I racked my brain for recent misdeeds. “Okay . . . let me say in my defense, that wasn’t my whoopee cushion—no matter what Sandy says.”
“Whoopee cushion?” He blinked. “I meant detective work.”
“Of course! Just joking. What’s the case?”
“Hmm.” Mr. Ratnose stroked his whiskers. “As you’ve no doubt noticed, someone—or something—is trying to sabotage my play,” he said. “And I won’t have it. I want you to find out who’s behind it all.”
“I don’t come cheap.”
“Name your price,” he said.
“Take me out of this play.”
He scowled. “Not for all the cheese in Tillamook.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “I get a hundred bucks a day, plus expenses.”
Mr. Ratnose’s scowl deepened. “I happen to know you get fifty cents a day.”
Drat. He was pretty sharp, for a teacher.
I lobbed the ball back into his court. “Then what’s your offer?”
“You get an A in English, no matter how badly you mess up my play.”
I scratched my chin. An A would go a long way with my parents. It might even get my TV privileges restored. “Fair enough,” I said. “I’m on it.”
We nodded at each other, and I scooted out of the building. Not bad, not bad at all—getting an A for working a case I was already on.
Happy shouts rang from the playground. My schoolmates were making the most of their brief freedom. I scanned the halls for Natalie, but she’d already flown the coop.
Figuring to find her at the swings, I started that way. But I’d only reached the corner of the building when something blotted out the sun.
“Dude, you don’t listen so good,” said a thick-as-peanut-butter voice.
I glanced up. The brawny badger was back.
“Look, buddy—” I said.
“How’d ya know my name?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“I’m Buddy Tookas,” the big guy said.
“Yeah, and I’m Little Rabbit Foo-Foo,” I said. “Now buzz off, stretch; I got places to go.”
I moved to step around the big lunk. A heavy paw grabbed my shoulder.
“Unh-uh,” said Buddy. “I told ya don’t look for the dude, but yer still lookin’ for him.”
I lost all feeling in my arm. “How do you know that?”
“I know. And that means ya ain’t takin’ me serious.” The badger’s paw squeezed harder. “That’s a bummer.”
I gritted my teeth. “Can’t you just write me a ticket, cancel my shore leave, and give me two demerits?”
The badger frowned. Too many choices. He went back to his favorite. “No,” he said. “Think I’ll hurt ya now.”
The bruiser plucked me up as easily as picking belly-button lint. As he clomped down the hall, Buddy bounced me off his knees like a soccer ball.
“Can’t we—oof—talk about—ow— this?” I asked.
“No way,” he said. “First, yer all ‘ha ha ha.’ But now I’m all ‘ha ha ha.’”
And with that, he drop-kicked me—foom!—right into an overripe Dumpster.
The stench made my eyes water. The bruises made my body ache.
Buddy stuck his ugly snout over the bin. “Three things, dude,” he said, holding up two fingers. “Drop the case, and this is yer last warning.” And in a math-challenged moment, he was gone.
I lay there groaning, surrounded by curdled carrion-beetle chowder, sour cottage cheese, and things too foul to mention. After a while, I heard a flutter.
Natalie landed on the edge of the Dumpster.
“Stop me if I’ve mentioned this before,” she said, “but you stink.”
“Stop,” I said. “And help me out.”
She eyed me. “You want my help? Here’s what I recommend: Learn to dress better, do your homework, and, oh yeah, take a shower every now and then.”
“Gee, Natalie. I don’t deserve a partner like you.”
Natalie blushed. “Really?”
I sighed. “Really.”
12
Bye-Bye, Banshee
They say that clothes make the man. If that’s true, then what did my Dumpster-dipped outfit make me? Rodney Rancid?
Whatever the effect, at least it discouraged Shirley Chameleon from inviting me to rehearse our scenes privately. You take the small victories where you can.
Come lunchtime, I dashed through the sprinklers to wash off my eau de garbage odor. After a brief rest and a heaping plateful of jumping-spider goulash from the cafeteria, I was ready for anything. (Well, maybe not a ten-page spelling test, but almost anything.)
Natalie and I checked carefully for my buddy, Buddy, before we got to work. It pays to be prudent when dealing with large, angry animals.
First stop: the library. We sized up our suspects as we strolled the halls.
“Wouldn’t it be handy,” I said, “if there really is a phantom who kidnapped Scott and is sabotaging the play?”
“That’d make our job easier,” said Natalie.
“But if it’s not a real ghost, then who’s playing the phantom? . . . Boo’s dad? Maybe he kidnapped Scott so Boo could play Omlet.”
“If that’s true,” said Natalie, “why hasn’t he kidnapped you?”
“Hmm. Good point.” We walked on.
“Maybe it’s the soccer players,” she said. “They abducted Scott because he quit the team. And they’re sabotaging the play out of spite.”
I eyed a passing mosquito. When it zigged, I zagged. Fa-zip! My tongue reeled it in. For this gecko, any time is snack time.
“Chet, what do you think?” asked Natalie.
I chewed. “I think it’d taste better with ketchup.”
“About my theory, bug-brain.”
“If the soccer players took Scott, how come they were still so ticked off when we met them?”
Natalie frowned. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
“But I did see some soccer players in that group of morons from KOWS,” I said. “Maybe KOWS snatched him.”
“He is full of bull,” said Natalie. “But, naw, they don’t seem like the type.”
I scratched my head. “Then what about whoever sicced that overgrown badger on us? What did he say, ‘the fuzzy one’?”
She lifted a shoulder. “This school is full of fuzzy ones.”
We stopped outside the library door.
“Okeydoke . . . where does that lead us?” I asked.
“Back to the ghost,” we said together. So we went inside and put a proposition to our local ghostmeister, Cool Beans.
“I dunno,” the possum said. “Exorcisms ain’t really my bag. Sure you don’t need a reference search or a wailing kazoo solo?”
“We’re sure,” I said.
After I promised him a plate of my mom’s apricot-glazed maggot bars, Cool Beans finally saw the light. He packed a few items, turned the library over to his assistant, and set off for the auditorium.
By the time we arrived, the lunch crowd had dribbled out. The room was dim. The odors of lemony detergent and grilled termites mingled in the air.
Cool Beans took his time setting up. (At least, I think he did. Opossums move so slowly, he could’ve been breaking a possum land-speed record, for all I knew.) Finally, he finished.
A circle of candles ringed the stage. Inside it lay three silk scarves, a cup of water, a small bundle of weeds, a portable cassette player, and half a nematode-on-rye sandwich.
“
What’s the sandwich for?” I asked.
“Me,” said the huge possum. “I haven’t finished lunch yet.” He took a massive bite.
“Can we get on with it?” I said.
“Never hurry an exorcist,” said Cool Beans. “You get sloppy exorcisms.”
He put down the sandwich, picked up the weedy bundle, and hit PLAY on the boom box. Crazy bongo riffs ricocheted off the walls.
“What’s that?” asked Natalie.
“Mood music,” said the possum. “Now zip your flap and let me work.”
Natalie and I gave him room.
Cool Beans lit the weeds with a pocket lighter. “Spooks don’t dig sage,” he confided. Waving the sage above his head, the librarian paced the stage.
“Oh, Great Cosmic Muffin, dig my sound,” he crooned. “We come to cast out a subterranean spirit with a heavy hang-up, a way-gone ghost what’s been wiggin’ out.”
I looked around. No ghosts showed their faces.
Cool Beans took a sip of the water and another bite of the sandwich.
“Well?” I said.
“Don’t rush me, Rufus.” The possum swung the sage in a circle. “By the powers of bebop and the rhymes of hip-hop, we release this uptight specter to the Land of Nod.”
The temperature dropped. I hugged my arms. Natalie fluffed her feathers and surveyed the room.
Cool Beans shuffled in a herky-jerky dance step. “And now, I gum to the hi-fi’s hum, a groovy tune to make this ghoulie melt. Shabbidy-wee-wop, skibbidy-do-bop, yeahhh!”
Eyes closed, he raised the burning bundle high and scatted some more nonsense syllables. The bongos rose to a crescendo.
The air seemed to shimmer. I felt a sudden rush of heat.
I glanced at Natalie. “Think it’s working?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But he did set the curtains on fire.”
13
Lets Call the Whole Sing Off
Maureen DeBree was not amused. The mongoose custodian put out the flames and sent us packing. When Natalie and I returned for after-school rehearsal, the thick odor of scorched velvet filled the room.