by Bruce Hale
Mr. Ratnose looked grim. Some of his whiskers were missing, and one eye twitched like a flickering stoplight. Still, he led our rehearsal.
I kept checking for ghostly signs. We got through the first song (“There Is Nothin’ Like a Dane”) in one piece. Then most of the cast worked on dances while I practiced Omlet’s duel with LaSlurpie (played by Bjorn Freeh).
No spooks interfered.
The sword fight went well, I thought, but somehow my stick sword got stuck—up Bjorn’s nose.
While removing it, I leaned in. “You know, I’m still looking for your twin,” I said. “But I haven’t had any luck.”
“Don’t—ow!—worry,” said the anole lizard.
“But the phantom may have taken him. Aren’t your parents frantic?”
Bjorn wiped his nose. “Nah, they hardly miss him.”
Strange. My parents would’ve called out the army and navy by now.
We started sword fighting again—this time more carefully. Something occurred to me. “Hey, Bjorn,” I said, clonking my stick against his.
“Yeah?” he said.
“I was wondering: How do your folks tell you and your brother apart?”
His stick thwacked mine. “Easy. I wear blue, he wears black.”
I glanced down at his blue T-shirt and his stick slipped past my guard—“Oof!”—right into my gut.
Bjorn offered a fake-y smile. “Oops,” he said. “Now we’re even.”
I rubbed my belly. There was more going on with this lizard than met the eye. But I didn’t get the chance to find out what.
Most of the kids were still practicing their dance steps. Bjorn left, and Waldo, Boo Dinkum, and three kids playing grave diggers came onstage.
Boo was frostier than a snowman’s undies. From the sidelines, his father glared at me like I’d stolen the last cockroach cupcake. As the musical hummingbird Zoomin’ Mayta tickled the ivories, we sang the graveyard song.
“Alas, poor Yorick,
You’re really, really dead.
There’s nothing left behind you
Except an empty head.”
Ms. Mayta had stopped us to correct a few sour notes when we all heard it: a high, eerie voice, singing the second verse.
“Alaaas, pooor Yorick, you bony, bony duuude . . .”
I scanned the room. The group onstage was struck dumb, and the dancers were otherwise occupied. Where was the singer hiding?
Something fluttered high above. I glanced up. Was it a trick of the light, or did a gleaming shape flit past? I blinked, and it had vanished.
So much for the exorcism.
“Why is everyone lollygagging about?” boomed Mr. Ratnose. “Back to work, chop-chop. Let’s see the grave-digger dance.”
Halfheartedly, we clomped around the stage. I kept checking the ceiling for the shining figure’s return.
Maybe that’s why I missed the booby trap right in front of me.
Suddenly, my foot met no resistance. The stage gave way.
The board I’d stepped on seesawed up and whopped Boo Dinkum in the chops.
Klonk!
The chunky chipmunk tumbled back into the grave diggers, bowling them over like an all-star linebacker on a touchdown drive.
“Haw-ha—” My cackle was cut short when the same board completed its arc and bopped me on the head—thonk! I dropped beneath the stage like an overripe mango.
“Umph!” The belly flop took my breath away. Slowly, I sat up in the dark and felt my head. A throbbing knot was forming.
When Mr. Ratnose pried up the trick board, light streamed in. “Well?” he asked. “What have you learned in your investigation?”
“Teacher,” I said, “something is definitely rotten in the state of Denver. And you can quote me on that.”
14
Haunt for Red October
All weekend long, I racked my brains. This case was more tangled than a pair of pythons on a hot date. And the clues kept leading back to the ghost.
But how to catch a ghost? For three nights straight, Natalie and I stayed up late watching scary videos to see how the real ghostbusters did it. All we got were bloodshot eyes and popcorn-bloated bellies (not that there’s anything wrong with that).
Monday and Tuesday flitted by like . . . well, ghosts. Still no plan. Opening night loomed like a truck in the rearview mirror.
The KOWS protesters got tougher with each rehearsal. We investigated them, along with our other suspects. Nothing solid. In my heart, I knew the phantom was our culprit.
Still, on Wednesday at lunch, Natalie and I revisited the soccer team. This time, my old playmate Buddy the badger was with them. Interesting.
He shot us a glare, but since we didn’t seem to be detecting, he let it ride. Frankie the chuckwalla, on the other hand, twice sent the soccer ball whizzing at our skulls. We ducked.
“Do you think someone on the team is giving Buddy his orders?” asked Natalie.
I surveyed the chaos of their game. “From the looks of it, nobody’s giving orders out there. Maybe the coach? . . .”
But the soccer coach was nowhere to be seen. When I asked Angie the weasel where her coach was, she sneered. “Not here.”
“Well, duh,” I said. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
She scratched an ear. “If a vulture is threatened, it can ralph up the entire contents of its stomach. How’s that?”
I blinked. “Fascinating.”
We decided to investigate the team another time.
From nowhere, Shirley Chameleon appeared at my side. “I just can’t wait for tomorrow,” she said, long tail curling.
“What’s tomorrow?” I asked. “Your personality transplant?”
She giggled. “Opening night, silly. Mr. Ratnose said that’s when we can start kissing for real.” Shirley turned more shades of red than a sunset through smog.
I would’ve enjoyed the show if not for a feeling like gypsy moths were dive-bombing my stomach.
“Ugh . . . that’s, uh, really . . . something,” I choked out.
Natalie rescued me. “Come on, Chet. There’s some important evidence you have to see.” She took my elbow and towed me down the field.
“What evidence?” I asked.
“Evidently, you were about to undergo a cootie attack,” she said.
“Thanks, partner. I owe you one.”
She grinned. “You owe me a lot more than that. Think you can make it through the school day in one piece?”
I nodded. “Sure. If it’s a piece of cake.”
Somehow, the day passed. What can you say about classes? I came, I pretended to learn something, I left.
After school, Natalie and I met by the auditorium and watched the scene.
Like a bullfrog’s throat on a hot summer night, KOWS’s numbers had swelled. I spotted Frankie, Angie, Buddy, and a bunch of their fellow soccer players. Even some debate-club nerds had joined in—hey, any excuse for a good spat.
My fellow actors pushed and shoved to break through their line. I was surprised by how physical some protesters were getting. “The play’s the THING! We will be cancelING!” they chanted.
Physical, but not very poetic.
Tensions were coming to a head like a zit pushing up from under the skin.
“Either this musical is going down in flames,” I said, “or it’ll be the biggest hit since the cafeteria started All-You-Can-Eat Pizza Day.”
Natalie glanced over. “And either way, you’re stuck with it.”
“Thanks for reminding me, birdie.”
She shrugged. “Shoot, that’s what friends are for.”
“Is that what they’re for?” I said. “I always wondered.”
15
Stress Rehearsal
Thursday tumbled in like a Gila monster in a dryer—hot, dizzy, and mean. Opening night, and still no Scott Freeh. I felt like the world’s dumbest detective.
And soon I’d look like it, too—in my cheesy Omlet costume.
Our last
rehearsal was a subdued affair. The cast listened to our director’s spiel with all the pep and pizzazz of prisoners before a firing squad.
Mr. Ratnose showed the strain. Clumps of hair were missing from his head, his whiskers looked like he’d gotten a home perm from a blind mongoose, and now both eyes were twitching. But he was more stubborn than ever.
As we met by the stage, Waldo raised his paw. “Mr. Ratnose?” he said. “This play isn’t fun anymore. Can I drop out?” Several students seconded the motion.
My teacher’s gaze grew hot enough to melt diamonds. He turned it on the cast like the villain in the last scene of a bad sci-fi movie.
“Drop out?” he barked. “Nobody drops out. We open tonight, and this is dress rehearsal.”
Bosco Rebbizi grimaced. “Does that mean I hafta wear a dress?” he said.
I would swear that steam came out of Mr. Ratnose’s ears. But maybe I’d been chasing ghosts too long.
“Dress rehearsal,” growled our teacher, “is when we add costumes and sets.”
“Oh,” said Bosco.
“Any other brilliant questions?”
After that, things settled down. We tried on our lame-o costumes, tights and all. Boo Dinkum was one of the few happy campers. The chipmunk preened and posed, asking everyone, “Doesn’t this costume make me look slimmer?”
All I could think was, How do I avoid Shirley’s smooch?
Just before the run-through began, the stagehands moved the sets into place. The opening music played. But just as we started to sing . . .
“Stop! Wait! Hold it right there!” cried Mr. Ratnose.
We held it. What was wrong?
With trembling finger, Mr. Ratnose indicated the set behind us. “Who is responsible for this travesty?”
I could’ve pointed out that a lot of folks were asking the same thing about his play. But I didn’t.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“That . . . thing!” he thundered.
We turned to see, and then the snickers started. On a portable wooden wall was painted a country scene: rolling green hills dotted with happy cows.
Nice enough, I guess. But what did it have to do with Omlet’s castle?
“Ms. Petite!” hollered Mr. Ratnose.
The stylish ground squirrel sauntered out from backstage. “You called?”
“What is on that set?” said the fuming rat.
“Exactly what you asked my students to paint,” she answered calmly, adjusting her scarf. “Omlet’s cattle.”
“I said castle, not cattle.”
Bona Petite shrugged. “My mistake. Your writing is hard to make out.”
“I told you face-to-face,” said Mr. Ratnose.
“Even so,” she said.
My teacher grabbed his ears. For a second, I thought he might rip them off. “Just . . . repaint it,” he said, his voice shaking.
Ms. Petite glanced at her watch. “But the paint won’t dry before we open.”
Mr. Ratnose turned the most interesting shade of violet. I’d thought that only chameleons could manage that color. He sucked in some deep breaths.
“Very well,” he snarled. “It stays. Everyone, take it from the top.”
And so we lurched through our last rehearsal. Boo Dinkum’s dad watched with the parent volunteers, a nasty grin on his ugly mug. I couldn’t tell whether he was plotting mischief or enjoying the sheer awfulness of our play.
The performance passed in a blur of kick-turn-fight-sing. And then came my romantic duet with Shirley.
I sang: “Get thee to a nunnery. You’ll find it much more funnery.”
She crooned: “Omlet, you’re my smoochie-pie. I’m yours until the day I die.”
And suddenly, it was time. I cringed.
“Oh, Omlet, you’re my sweet patootie.”
Shirley grabbed my face and swung her puckered lips straight at mine!
No time to react. Her lips sped closer.
I closed my eyes.
Then—ka-ronnnch! The ceiling fell in.
My head and shoulders ached. My face was smooshed. If this was romance, it was for the birds.
A merciless weight pressed me into the floor, cutting off my air supply. I grew as dizzy as a second grader after a sackful of Halloween candy.
“Hwolp!” I tried to call. “Swumbuddy, hwolp!”
Muffled voices reached my ears. As if through a fog, I heard someone say, “One, two, three, heave!” And the world returned.
Someone flipped me over onto my back.
“Chet, are you all right?” Natalie’s worried face popped into view. I raised my head. A bunch of kids were helping Mr. Ratnose push the set back into place. So that’s what had fallen on me. I cleared my throat.
“Yes?” said Natalie.
“What time is it?” I croaked.
She glanced at the wall clock. “A little after eleven.”
I nodded, and my head swam. Just four more hours till opening night. Plenty of time to solve a case and catch a bad guy before the curtain went up.
If I lived that long.
16
Hurtin’ for Curtain
My bump on the noggin worked like a magic “get out of jail” card. The rest of the day, I just kicked back, free from class work and full of snacks.
If I’d known it would let me off the hook so well, I would’ve pulled this scam ages ago. Pain or no pain, I was smiling.
During quiet reading time, Mr. Ratnose visited my comfy pallet at the back of the classroom.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“A little,” I said, milking it.
“That’s good.” Mr. Ratnose poured a glass of soda pop. “Don’t worry about finding whoever’s harassing my play—just rest. We want you in tip-top shape for the performance.”
My jaw dropped. “But I thought I wouldn’t have to—”
He patted my shoulder and handed me the glass. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “You’re the star. We couldn’t do it without you.”
“But—”
“Drink up.” Mr. Ratnose offered a kindly grin, but his eyes were edged with iron. Then I knew: Not even death could get me out of doing this play.
Zero hour approached. The last bell rang, and the whole school headed for the auditorium. The KOWS protesters, sensing defeat, waved their signs halfheartedly. And when they thought no one was looking, they joined the crowd.
Parents and kids poured into the building like velvet-ant pancake batter onto a griddle. In a better world, I would’ve been home, eating those pancakes.
Instead, I slipped through the side door with the other actors and joined the backstage pandemonium.
Costume pieces fluttered through the air as parent volunteers tried to dress the kids. A porcupine from Natalie’s class punctured his vest. Shirley and Bitty Chu squabbled over who got the pink dress. Tempers ran high.
The crew had packed the backstage with fake swords, old-fashioned furniture, pillows, and all sorts of rubbish. I barked my shin on a gas canister.
“Yowie!”
“Careful!” said Bona Petite. She steadied the metal cylinder. “Are you hurt?”
“Me? Naw, I’m a lizard of steel,” I said. “Hey, why the gas?”
“Our big finale,” the elegant ground squirrel said. “Party balloons.” She summoned a huge masked figure who looked vaguely familiar. “Move these canisters, will you?”
“Sure thing, Coach,” said the creature in a high, thick voice. He lifted the cylinders and trundled off.
How classy. Leave it to Bona Petite to come up with a wonderful finish to what I suspected would be a less-than-wonderful play.
Figuring that a moving target is safest, I headed for the wings. If the parent volunteers didn’t notice me, they couldn’t make me wear tights.
But a hard paw seized my tail and dragged me back. It belonged to Boo Dinkum’s dad.
“Here.” The burly chipmunk thrust my costume into my hands. “Put this on. Or do you want me to do it for you?
”
I squinted at him. If Mr. Dinkum had his way, I might be wearing the tights around my neck. “I’ve got it, thanks,” I said.
He glared. “My boy can act rings around you.”
“Ah, but can he dance ‘La Cucaracha’ while juggling kumquats and snorting milk out his nose?” I asked.
For a moment, the chipmunk’s eyes narrowed, and something cold and mean peeked through. Then it was gone.
Mr. Dinkum mustered a fake smile. “Break a leg, Gecko. You and Boo are fellow thespians, after all.”
I lifted my chin. “I can’t speak for Boo, but I’ve never thesped in my life.”
The chipmunk made a disgusted sound, then split. Natalie spoke from beside me: “A thespian is an actor.”
I coughed. “I knew that.”
She adjusted her queenly gown and nodded after Boo’s father. “Think we should keep an eye on Mr. Sunshine?” she asked.
I studied the tangle of kids and parents backstage. “Definitely. I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“Me, too,” said Natalie. “This gown is too tight.”
“Joke if you like, but keep your eyes peeled. We may have to act fast.”
Mr. Ratnose clapped his hands and shushed the cast. We gathered in a rough circle, everyone clad in tights and funny feathered hats and velvet gowns. We looked like a history book that had warped in the rain.
“Actors, parents, stage crew,” said Mr. Ratnose, “lend me your ears. We come to praise Shakespeare, not to bury him.”
I looked at Natalie. She lifted an eyebrow. Sometimes Mr. Ratnose was more ham than rat.
“Many have said this musical couldn’t be done,” he said. “And many have tried to stop us.” He glared around the circle. “But here we are at last. Have a great show, and break a leg, everyone!”
I muttered to Natalie, “Why this obsession with leg breaking? Is this a Mafia production?”
My nervous castmates took their opening positions. Beyond the blue curtain, the crowd gabbled like a gang of penguins at a sushi bar.