by Bruce Hale
I took a deep breath and could still smell the singed velvet. My heart thudded a ragged beat.
“The ghost isn’t gonna like this,” whispered Waldo.
“I’m scared,” Bitty Chu whined.
Here goes nothing, I thought.
Zoomin’ Mayta pounded out the opening chords. The curtains parted.
And the play began.
17
Stage Flight
Amazingly, we made it through the first couple of scenes. True, our singing sounded like a crow gargling with barbed wire, and our dancing looked like a water buffalo giving birth in a hurricane. But we got through it.
The audience clapped and grinned like they’d never seen anything more spectacular. Poor fools.
No sets fell, no goo dripped. Still, my nerves were strung tighter than a Chinese mandolin.
After my big scene with the guards, I was gathering my wits offstage.
Natalie approached. “See anything spooky?” she whispered.
“Besides this play?” I said.
We scanned the dimly lit backstage. Everything looked normal. (If you call it normal to see a ferret in tights and a cape.)
Onstage, Waldo the furball was singing to his character’s son, LaSlurpie (played by Bjorn). If overacting was a crime, Bjorn would’ve been in the hoosegow for life.
“Neither a burrower nor a lender be,” sang Waldo.
And then I caught the echo. A faint, eerie voice crooned, “Neeeither a burrower nor a lender beee.”
Natalie heard it, too. We scanned the wings. And then a glimmer far above caught our eyes. The ghost!
I tapped Natalie’s shoulder and pointed toward the ladder; we would creep up behind the phantom and surprise it. She nodded.
Quietly as an eighth grader returning from a midnight ramble, I eased up the ladder. Natalie flapped her way to the high catwalk.
Softly we crept. But we needn’t have worried. Hunched over on the far end of the walk, the phantom was singing to itself, lost in its own world.
We were almost upon it now. The spook shone with a green and white phosphorescence. It looked like some shaggy beast made of light.
Just a step away, it struck me: What could we do against a ghost?
Too late.
The phantom turned. It saw us and uttered a low moan.
I think I may have moaned, too. What a sight!
The thing rose to its full height, looming above us. Huge eyes glared, a misshapen mouth snarled. It reached out a shining arm, and Natalie and I stepped back.
“What do you waaant?” it keened.
Natalie nudged me. I nudged her back.
“Welll?” said the phantom.
“Uh, we want you to return Scott Freeh,” I said. “Um, please?”
“Whaaat?” said the ghost. It reared up.
We backed away a few more steps.
“And pretty please, stop, er, disrupting the play?” asked Natalie.
The glowing shape swayed toward us. I tensed, ready for a quick getaway.
“How daaare you accuuuse me!” it rumbled.
I hissed to Natalie, “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.”
“Now you tell me,” she whispered back.
Then the ghost surprised me. “I looove plaaays,” it said softly. “I would neeever interfere. And whooo is this Scott of whooom you speak?”
“The lizard you kidnapped,” I said, clenching my fists. “Don’t try your mumbo jumbo with me.”
“Shhh,” the ghost said. It pointed to the stage below. “They’re aaacting.”
I glanced down. I guess you could call it acting. Waldo’s scene was ending; Rosenblatz and Gildyfern’s soft-shoe dance came next. I would have to join them soon.
“What about Shirley’s disappearance and the threatening notes?” I asked.
“Yeah, and the booby-trapped stage and falling set?” said Natalie.
“That wasn’t meee,” said the phantom. “I ooonly watch and sing.”
“Oh yeah?” I said, feeling bolder. “What about the time it rained slime?”
The ghost looked up. “Sooorry,” it said. “I got exciiited.”
I eased closer. The smell of moldy bath mats and bottled moonshine met me. “Then who’s sabotaging this play?” I asked. “Who’s the culprit?”
The creature sighed. “I ooonly saw it from behiiind,” it said.
“What did it look like?” asked Natalie.
“Brooown fur.”
“Tail?” I asked.
“Yeeessss,” said the ghost.
I shook my head. “No, ectoplasm-for-brains. I mean long or short? Striped or plain?”
“Looong. And it haaad a skinny lizaaard to help.” The ghost swung its head toward the stage. “Say, wasn’t that your cuuue?”
Below, I heard Rosenblatz say, “Golly, where is that Omlet? Om-let!”
I grabbed the curtain and prepared to slide down. The phantom put a paw cold as katydid Popsicles on my arm.
“They will striiike agaaain,” said the spook. “I heard them taaalking.”
“What did they say?” I asked.
“‘Ooopening night, we’ll haaave the last laaaugh.’”
Gildyfern’s voice reached me. “You say you’re looking for OMLET? I WONDER WHERE HE IS.”
“Go!” Natalie hissed.
She would have to finish up with the ghost. Time for my big entrance.
As I slid down the curtains, she asked the spirit, “Who were you, anyway?”
Its faint response came: “Emerson Hiiicky. I founded this schoool.”
Great. We’d had a haunted cafeteria all along? That explained some of the school lunches.
Then I hit the stage. “What ho, dude-ios?” I said. And we were back into the play.
I listened to Rosenblatz’s response and glanced to the right. Just at the edge of the audience stood the chipmunk Mr. Dinkum.
He was brown-furred. And long-tailed.
And his grin was positively evil.
18
Room and Sword
All the time I was singing “Alas, Poor Yorick” with the grave diggers, my mind raced. How did Mr. Dinkum and his lizard helper plan to get the “last laugh” on us? And how could I warn Mr. Ratnose while I was stuck onstage?
My teacher stood in the wings, tapping a foot and singing along. I caught his eye and jerked my head toward Mr. Dinkum.
Mr. Ratnose nodded and smiled.
I shook my head and gazed meaningfully at the evil chipmunk.
“Eyes front,” Mr. Ratnose mouthed.
I rolled my eyes. At the end of the song, I checked the spot where Mr. Dinkum had stood. He was gone.
Boo was in the next scene. As we recited our lines, I kept watching the backstage wings for a rogue chipmunk. Mr. Dinkum wouldn’t sabotage the play while his own son was onstage. Would he?
“What’s your sneaky father up to?” I whispered to Boo.
“Fair Omlet,” he said loudly, “methinks you have flipped your wig.” Boo glared. Duh. I shouldn’t have expected a straight answer from this chipmunk.
The play rolled on. My sword fight with Bjorn Freeh was next.
We thwacked our fake swords against each other, and I noticed the anole lizard struck even harder than before. What was his problem? While we fought, I sweated over how to let someone know about Mr. Dinkum.
Natalie appeared in the wings, just offstage. Perfect. I retreated toward her, and Bjorn followed, clacking away with his sword.
“Natalie!” I hissed. “It’s Mr. Dinkum! Brown fur, long tail.”
She nodded. “I’m on it.”
Bjorn’s sword crunched down on my knuckles.
“Ow!” I said. “I mean . . . uh, forsooth!”
The lizard’s eyes glittered. I frowned. Something was off here.
“Are you mixed up in Mr. Dinkum’s plot?” I whispered, slashing at Bjorn until he stepped back.
Clink! Clank!
“That loser?” he hissed. “Why would I plot
with him when Coach has a much better plan?” Bjorn drove me back with mighty thrusts.
Clink! Clank! Clonk!
Odd. Bjorn had grown stronger. He hadn’t been that skilled a sword fighter in rehearsals. . . .
I blocked his thrust. “Take that, LaSlurpie!” I cried. Then, whispering: “Coach has a better plan? But you’re not on a team.”
Bjorn grinned. He swung his long tail in an arc, sweeping my feet out from under me. “Thou ist scrambled, young Omlet,” he cried.
“Oof!” I fell, hard.
Maybe the impact jarred my brain. Or maybe it was the sight of a masked lizard in a blue T-shirt standing on the sidelines with a gas canister. A lizard that looked just like Bjorn.
The sword slashed straight at my head. I blocked it, then hooked my tail around my attacker’s ankle.
“You’re not Bjorn,” I whispered, yanking hard. “You’re Scott Freeh!”
Whump! The faker hit the floor. “That’s right,” said Scott, “for all the good it’ll do you . . .”
He had a point. I was stuck onstage until the end of the play. By then, the soccer coach would’ve pulled his prank.
Hiram the toad entered as King Gaudiest. “Now, now, youngsters,” he croaked. “Put up thy swords and be friends.”
Natalie, in queenly robes, joined him. “Boys will be boys, tra-la.”
While the king and queen pulled us to our feet and made us shake hands, my poor overworked brain puzzled.
“Natalie,” I muttered, “it’s not Mr. Dinkum; it’s the soccer coach.”
“But . . .” She glanced at the wings, where Mr. Ratnose and Boo’s dad argued in whispers. “Then who’s the soccer coach?” she mumbled.
That, as the real Hamlet once said, was the question. Half my brain wrestled with it while half tried to remember my goofy lines.
Then Shirley Chameleon flounced onstage for our romantic duet.
My breath stopped. My lines fled like second graders in a game of tag.
“Prithee, my lord,” said Shirley. “What’s on thy mind?”
“Uh . . .” My mind was blank as a blackboard in summertime. “That is . . .”
“Thoughts of love,” hissed Shirley. “That’s your line.”
“Thoughts of love,” I said, “and, um . . .”
My eyes searched the audience like I’d find the words written there. In the tense silence, some folks coughed. Others winced in sympathy.
I noticed the real Bjorn and the masked bruiser I’d seen earlier—both standing in the aisles with gas canisters.
That bruiser looked so familiar. Then he scratched his belly with claws like swords, and I knew him: Buddy the badger, big as life.
“Let us sing, good Omlet,” said Shirley. She gestured frantically at Ms. Mayta, who plonked out the chords on the piano.
As we sang, my mind replayed an earlier scene. But not from the musical. It was Buddy, carrying a canister, saying, “Sure thing, Coach.”
Shirley scooted closer, ready for our big kiss.
My wits raced like a centipede on a hot plate. The pieces were coming together.
Buddy was a soccer player. So was Scott.
And their coach? She was a brown-furred, long-tailed squirrel named . . .
Bona Petite!
19
A Laugh-Baked Idea
For the next few minutes, everything seemed to happen at once, as if on a bank of TVs tuned to different nightmares. Shirley sang her last line and puckered up.
Without thinking, I grabbed the nearest actor, Boo Dinkum.
“Huh?” he said.
“You wanted this role,” I said.
I shoved Boo into my place. In the mother of all kisses, Shirley Chameleon’s cootie-filled lips smooched his.
Her eyes blinked open. “What?!” she squawked.
“Uh, sweet Azalea,” I said, “you don’t love me; you love my pal, um . . . Oratio, here. Be happy and have lots of babies!”
And with that, I dashed to the edge of the stage. But I was too late.
Buddy and Bjorn unscrewed the tops of their gas canisters and rolled the cylinders down the aisles. Dang! Clouds of gas spread through the audience.
“Mr. Ratnose!” I shouted.
Someone tittered.
Mr. Ratnose glared at me from the wings. I strode over and grabbed his arm. Natalie took his other arm, and we towed my teacher onstage, heels dragging.
Giggles rose from the crowd.
“Uh, prithee, good Earl of Ratnose,” said Natalie. “We have uncovered a plot against the kingdom.”
“Er, what?” said Mr. Ratnose, torn between anger and concern.
I saw where Natalie was going with this.
“Yeah,” I said, eyeballing the room. “And the chief plot-a-teer is none other than . . . Baroness Bona Petite.” I pointed at the ground squirrel. “She’s trying to poison the whole kingdom!”
The audience busted a gut. Some were laughing so hard that tears ran.
I looked at Natalie. These folks were in mortal danger. What was so funny?
She raised her eyebrows and shook her head.
Bona Petite slipped a gas mask over her mocking smirk.
Then the canisters hit the foot of the stage, and we found out why she smiled. Ms. Petite had dosed the auditorium with laughing gas!
“Somebody—ha, ha—hold her,” called Mr. Ratnose.
A chuckling Cool Beans and two giddy teachers blocked the doors.
The crowd roared. Parents pounded on the seats. Even Principal Zero smiled.
Bona Petite raced around the big room. No way out.
“Ms. Pet—hee, hee—ite tried to—ha—disrupt this play,” I said, giggling. I leaned on Natalie for support. “She even—ho, ho, ho—kidnapped, threatened, and—ha, ha, haw—hurt students.”
“And—hee, hee—he’s not just joking!” Natalie cackled.
Principal Zero, the massive tomcat, rose unsteadily to his feet. “This is a—ha, ha, ha—a very serious—hee—charge,” he chuckled. “The teachers’ union will wa—ha, ha—want to know about this.”
Ms. Petite jumped onstage. “This is no crime!” she shouted through her gas mask. “The crime took place when you chose this moron’s lousy play”—she pointed at Mr. Ratnose—“over mine!”
“I—ho, ho—resent that,” said the lean rat. He bent, hands on knees.
“Anyway, you’ll never catch me,” said Bona Petite. She dashed for the backstage exit. “I’m bound for Broadway!”
Through tears, I watched her run. She was right. Crippled with laughter, the cast was powerless to prevent her escape.
“Sto—ha, ha—op her!” I yelled.
The ground squirrel was just inches away from freedom.
Then, in a dizzying whoosh, a glowing shape swooped from the wings and scooped her up. The ghost!
It lifted Ms. Petite into the air and held her suspended above the stage.
“Youuu impersonaaated a phantom,” the spook boomed. “I’ll scaaare some sense into yooou!”
Like a psycho roller coaster, it dipped, swerved, and spun through the air. The unfortunate ground squirrel shrieked.
“Look!” said Natalie. “It’s the—hee—ghost of Omlet’s fa—ha, ha—ther. My dead husband.”
Guffaws rocked the auditorium.
The ghost dropped a dizzy Bona Petite into the arms of our principal. Cackling, Mr. Zero and Cool Beans led Ms. Petite away. She wasn’t smiling.
The audience leaped to their feet—those members who could stand, anyway. They cheered and chuckled and clapped. The cast took bow after bow.
Or maybe we were just doubled over with laughter.
20
Footloose and Phantom-Free
It took a while for the effects of the laughing gas to wear off. When it did, we sat on the stage, weak and loopy as a bundle of wet spaghetti.
Parents kept coming by. They complimented Mr. Ratnose until his ears turned pink. A sleek mink said, “Marvelous. I’ve never laughed so hard. What an e
xhilarating ending!”
“Superb!” raved a stout hedgehog. “And the special effects were stunning. I mean, that ghost!”
At that, Mr. Ratnose sent a suspicious look at Natalie and me. I gave him my best who, me? expression in return.
“I don’t think we’ll be seeing any more of that ghost,” muttered Natalie.
“Why not?” I said.
She smoothed a wing feather. “Remember what Cool Beans said? That ghosts haunt because of unfinished business?”
“Yeah, so?”
“The ghost of Emerson Hicky told me he’d always wanted to be in a school play but died before he got the chance.”
“Well, whaddaya know?” I clapped her on the back. “You’re a ghostbuster.”
“Just as I ex-spectered.” She cackled.
I groaned.
Before they left for Principal Zero’s office, Mr. Ratnose wormed the truth out of the Freeh twins and Buddy the badger. It seems Ms. Petite had charmed them all, as only a glamour-puss can do.
At her command, they had faked Scott’s disappearance, rigged various booby traps, written phantom notes—even organized the KOWS protests. And with the aid of Ms. Petite’s stage magic and smoke bombs, they’d rigged Shirley’s dramatic reappearance.
“But why?” asked Mr. Ratnose.
Buddy looked down. “Dude, she’s so pretty,” he said. “Who could say no?”
Natalie and I stood by the door and watched them go to meet their well-deserved punishment. The spanking machine would need a tune-up after this.
Shirley Chameleon came simpering up. “Chet?” she said.
I coughed. “Sorry about wrecking our scene, sister. But with a private eye, the case comes first.”
She batted her big green peepers. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “You saved the day, and you caught the culprit. I’d say you deserve a reward.”
I turned to Natalie. “A horsefly burrito would hit the spot about now.”
Shirley said, “I was thinking maybe . . .”
I turned back, and she smooched my cheek with a loud, cootie-licious smack!
Yuck!
“Chet Gecko, you’re the best,” said Shirley. And she sauntered away.