Fuzzy Takes Charge

by Bruce Hale

  “I don’t know,” said Fuzzy. “But he called me a disease-carrying distraction.”

  Igor smirked. “You do smell a little like rotten fruit.”

  Cinnabun shot the iguana an admonishing look.

  “That’s my shampoo,” said Fuzzy.

  Mistletoe paced. “This is dangersome. Very, very bad. If they dump you, they could get rid of any of us. I could be next!”

  For the first time, Luther the rosy boa spoke up. “Hang loose, little mousie,” he said. “When trouble comes, you gotta chill.”

  “Easy for you to say,” said Fuzzy. “You’re cold-blooded.”

  The snake slithered off his pillow. “All the same,” he said, “we’re not gonna fix this pickle if we lose our heads. Right?”

  Fuzzy took a deep breath and blew it out. “You’re right.”

  “Okay then, Fuzzmeister,” said Luther. “Want to defeat your enemy?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Then you’ve gotta know your enemy. Fill us in on this subpar sub, Mr. Whoziewhatsit.”

  “Brittle, like the peanut.” Fuzzy detailed all he’d observed about the man. When he finished, he looked around at his friends’ faces. “So, what do you think?”

  “Hmm …” said Marta, gnawing on a fruit chew.

  “What does that mean?” said Fuzzy.

  “It means … hmm,” she said. “I’ve seen some bad subs in my time, but never one like this.”

  Reflectively scratching herself with a hind paw, Cinnabun asked, “You say he doesn’t eat or drink, that he acts inhuman?”

  “Yeah,” said Fuzzy. “I’d swear he has no emotions except constant irritation.”

  There was much frowning and staring into the distance as everyone processed that idea. Then Mistletoe’s face cleared. She sat bolt upright.

  “I’ve got it,” she said.

  “Got what?” asked Igor. “The creeping crud?”

  The mouse shook her head. “I know why he doesn’t need food, why he shows no human feelings.”

  “End the suspense,” said Cinnabun. “Tell us.”

  “Because he’s not a human!” said the mouse triumphantly.

  “Not a …” Fuzzy echoed.

  “That’s right,” said Mistletoe. “Your substitute is a robot.”

  To say that the mouse’s statement caused a stir would be like calling the Sahara a wee bit sandy. The clubhouse buzzed with the pets’ reactions. Everyone had his or her own ideas on the subject, and for a minute, the space echoed with raised voices.

  “A robot? No way!”

  “Makes sense. I heard Principal Flake say she wanted to save money.”

  “Those machines freak me out!”

  “Their only goal is world domination!”

  Toonk, toonk, toonk! “Stop that carrying on!” The thump of the gavel finally brought some quiet to the room. Everyone turned to Cinnabun, who crouched on the presidential podium (actually The Complete Works of William Shakespeare) with a mallet in her paws.

  “If y’all would just simmer down for a moment, we might get some actual thinking done here,” she said. “Let’s go one at a time. Sassafras?”

  The parakeet bobbed with excitement. “First off, can I just say that robots are cool!”

  “Not this robot,” said Fuzzy. “He’s a menace.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Sassafras.

  “Hey, it happens, baby,” said Luther, looping his coils around a cat sculpture that had been rescued from the trash. “Just like with meals, there’s good robots and bad robots.”

  Igor scoffed. “No such thing as a bad meal.”

  “Yeah!” echoed half of the pets in the room.

  Holding up her paws, Cinnabun said, “Be that as it may, the subject was subs. Let’s put this to a vote. All in favor of helping Fuzzy drive off his evil robot substitute?”

  “And save the students in my class,” Fuzzy added.

  One by one, every pet raised a paw, wing, front foot, or tail. Fuzzy’s heart swelled with gratitude. His friends had his back.

  “Marvelous,” said the bunny. “We’re all in agreement. Cast out the robot, protect the kids.”

  “Splendid,” said Marta.

  “Groovy,” said Luther.

  They all stared at one another for a moment.

  Cinnabun spoke. “So … any idea how?”

  The pets looked at one another some more. The silence was deafening.

  “Push the robot’s ‘off’ switch?” said Mistletoe at last.

  Fuzzy cocked his head. “That might work. But what if we can’t find the switch?”

  “Um, take out its batteries?” said Marta.

  “A robot would never let you do that,” said Igor. “They’re … whatchamacallit, self-protective.”

  The boa grinned. “So we creep up on him.”

  “Machines never rest,” said Igor. “Hard to surprise something that doesn’t sleep.”

  Luther rubbed his head on the cat sculpture. “Okay then, let’s see … what if we annoy him so much, he leaves on his own?”

  “I like that,” said the iguana.

  “You would,” said Sassafras. “You’re deeply annoying.”

  Igor stuck out his tongue at her, proving the parakeet’s point.

  Cinnabun gazed up at a corner of the clubhouse. “So what do robots hate?”

  “The living?” said Fuzzy.

  “No,” said the bunny. “I mean, what’s their weakness?”

  “Beats me,” said Sassafras, “but I can tell you a robot’s favorite type of music.”

  Fuzzy frowned. “What’s that?”

  “Heavy metal!” the parakeet squawked.

  He folded his arms. “I’m serious, Sassafras.”

  “Me too,” she said. “Hey, you know why the robot had to go back to robot school?”

  “No, why?” said Mistletoe, wide-eyed.

  “Because its skills were getting a little rusty!” Sassafras cackled until she started coughing.

  Luther groaned.

  Fuzzy’s irritation vanished as a thought popped into his head. “Rusty?” he said. “Hey, machines don’t work so well if you get them wet, do they?”

  Cinnabun smiled her dimpled smile. “No, they do not. In fact, they short-circuit or they rust. Why, what did you have in mind, Brother Fuzzy?”

  “If only we could get him wet, that might stop our mean robot in his tracks,” said Fuzzy.

  “But how?” asked Marta.

  “Push him into a swimming pool!” said Mistletoe.

  “Blast him with squirt guns,” said Igor.

  Marta arched her brow. “And you don’t think that might call a wee bit too much attention to us, dear?”

  The iguana scowled.

  “Sister Marta is right.” Cinnabun daintily nibbled on a PowerBar. “Anything too obvious, and the humans might learn more about us than we want them to know. The jig, as they say, would be up.”

  “So we need to be sneaky,” said Fuzzy.

  Luther grinned. “I can do sneaky. We just keep ourselves incognito, that’s all.”

  “In where?” asked Mistletoe.

  “Hush-hush,” said the snake. “You know, secret-like.”

  Fuzzy felt the tickle of an idea forming. He held up a paw. “What if,” he said, “we could get him wet without showing ourselves at all?”

  Luther nodded. “I hear what you say, baby. And I dig it.”

  “You mean, like, hide somewhere and splash him when he comes by?” asked Igor with a lazy smirk. “You’re craftier than I thought, little pig.”

  “Rodent,” said Fuzzy.

  Cinnabun licked a paw and groomed her cheek with it. “But we can’t simply lurk behind a door. It would have to be someplace where the robot couldn’t spot us, in case we miss.”

  One corner of Fuzzy’s mouth quirked up. “Just leave that part to me,” he said.

  * * *

  It took quite a while to put everything in place, but by bedtime that evening, Fuzzy was satisfied
that all was ready. Tomorrow would tell whether their plan would work.

  The next morning, the evil robot substitute was just as stiff, just as mean as the day before. Meaner, maybe. Because when it came time for the students to attend their enrichment class, Mr. Brittle stopped them as they began rising from their seats.

  “Where do you think you are going?” he asked.

  “This is our specials period,” said Zoey-with-the-braces. “We’ve got music class with Mrs. Tucker.”

  The substitute scowled. “Not anymore. Sit back down.”

  “But—” Malik began.

  “Music,” sneered the sub, “is a thorough and complete waste of time.”

  Now Fuzzy knew the man was a robot. No human he’d ever met could resist the charms of music. Heck, even Fuzzy liked listening to the jazz that Miss Wills played on weekends at home, and he was a guinea pig.

  “But Mrs. Tucker is expecting us,” said Natalia, pushing her oversized glasses up the bridge of her nose. “And we love the class.”

  “You may as well learn to speak Ancient Greek,” said Mr. Brittle, “for all the good it will do you. Music is worthless. Nobody ever got rich making music.”

  “What about the Beatles and the Rolling Stones?” asked Diego, who loved classic rock.

  “The Beatles?” said the substitute. “Could you be any more ignorant and still know how to breathe? Hmm?”

  Diego folded in on himself. Fuzzy’s heart went out to him.

  “Those are the exceptions that prove the rule.” The robot teacher paced stiffly in front of the room. “For every Beatle or Beyoncé or Justin Bieber, there are tens of thousands—hundreds of thousands—of starving musicians. Why would anyone in his right mind want to play music?”

  “Because it’s fun?” squeaked Nervous Lily.

  “Fun?” snapped Mr. Brittle. “School is not supposed to be fun. Forget music. Instead, we will do something productive.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Connor warily.

  The robot sub raked his gaze over the classroom. “I am about to teach you something you will use for the rest of your lives.”

  “Comparison shopping?” said Maya.

  “Accounting,” said Mr. Brittle.

  The students traded puzzled looks. “What’s accounting?” asked Connor. “Is that like a-one, and a-two, and a-three?”

  Shaking his head in disgust, the sub said, “You are without a doubt the dimmest bunch of brats I have ever taught. Accounting is the recording and summarizing of financial transactions.”

  Fuzzy could see shoulders sag and heads droop across the room. All except pigtailed Sofia, who said, “Does it involve numbers?”

  “Nothing but,” said Mr. Brittle.

  Her smile widened. “I love math.”

  “As well you should,” said the sub. “Let us begin.”

  Though it felt like it lasted longer than the Paleozoic Era, their accounting lesson stretched all the way until recess. Fuzzy, who was not a Numbers Rodent, found himself yawning and fighting sleep. When the kids escaped to the playground, Mr. Brittle stayed at his desk, as Fuzzy had expected.

  Then came the tricky part.

  If Fuzzy left his cage to help with the dousing, the sub would know that he could escape. Not good. So instead, he had to be the lookout while several of his fellow pets sneaked out of their rooms and splashed the substitute.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his friends. But Fuzzy didn’t like to watch—he liked to do.

  Round and round he paced, staring up at the ceiling. Where were they? Recess lasted only twenty minutes, and already ten minutes had passed.

  The splash squad was late.

  Fuzzy tugged his whiskers in a spasm of worry. If they didn’t arrive soon, the other pets wouldn’t be able to creep back into their cages before everyone returned to class. He ground his teeth. The waiting was killing him. No offense to Sassafras, but being a mere observer was for the birds.

  Then, his ears twitched. A stealthy scraping came from above as the ceiling tile over the desk slid out of place.

  Mr. Brittle frowned, stopped scribbling, and began to look around.

  Wiggling whiskers! If he spotted the pets in the ceiling, it was all over.

  “Hey!” Fuzzy shouted. “Mr. Robot! Over here!”

  The sub swiveled his head toward the cage. Even though he couldn’t understand Fuzzy’s language, it was plain to see that the noise bothered him.

  “Shut your piehole, piggy,” growled Mr. Brittle.

  Beneath his words, Fuzzy detected a clatter as the pets wrestled the pail into place. The robot sub must have heard it too, as he again began to crane his neck and search for the source of the noise.

  Desperate, Fuzzy jumped up and down, squeaking, “I’m a rodent, you bucket of bolts! Can’t you even keep your animals straight?”

  Mr. Brittle’s scowl deepened as his gaze returned to the cage. “You are getting on my last nerve, you furry meatloaf.” He stood, clenching his fists.

  Uh-oh. Fuzzy gripped his cage bars. If the sub took even one step away from the desk, the pets above him would miss.

  What was a guinea pig to do?

  Instantly, Fuzzy stopped yelling, dropped to all fours, and pasted the saddest, sorriest expression he could manage onto his face. At the sight of this, Mr. Brittle hesitated for a second.

  That was all it took.

  SSSPLOOOSH! A bucketful of water cascaded down onto the robot sub, drenching him wetter than an otter’s pocket.

  Mr. Brittle’s eyes flew wide with shock; his shoulders hunched. “Wh-what the—?” he spluttered.

  By the time he’d wiped the water from his eyes and checked out the ceiling, the tile was back in place. Score one for the splash squad!

  Fuzzy tumbled over onto his back, laughing. With those wet clothes plastered to his skinny frame, the sub looked just like a scarecrow after a storm.

  “Hey!” Mr. Brittle yelled at the ceiling. “Who is up there? I will have your hide for this!”

  But no one answered. The pets had scurried away.

  Cursing a blue streak, the robot sub shook water off his arms and torso. He mopped his wet desktop with his equally wet jacket. But that must not have satisfied him. With a glance at the clock, he bolted out the door, squelch-squish-squelch-squish. Fuzzy was completely forgotten.

  Chuckling to himself, Fuzzy replayed the splash in his mind. That was one wet robot! How long did it take a machine to rust? he wondered. Since they hadn’t covered that in fifth-grade science, he could only guess.

  As the students trickled back in from recess, Fuzzy entertained himself by imagining how the robot would wind down. Would it be all at once in midsentence—“Now, children, it’s timmme forrrr blurrrgh …”—or slowly, minute by minute?

  The bell rang. Since their teacher hadn’t returned, kids roamed freely about, chatting with friends.

  Then the door swung open. Mr. Brittle stalked into the room, glowering like a robot gunslinger. His shoes squelched when he walked, and his pants clung damply to his legs, but up top he wore a dry, yellow Leo Gumpus Elementary T-shirt with its goofy-looking lion mascot.

  Not for nothing, but Fuzzy had always wondered why a school so far from Africa would choose a lion as its symbol. Why not something more appropriate, like a possum, a squirrel, or, best of all, a guinea pig?

  Humans were a mystery.

  Squish-squish-squish. The sub marched to the front of the room as students scrambled for their assigned seats. Vibrating with indignation like an angry tuning fork, he stopped beside the desk.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Brittle?” asked Sofia.

  “If I find that any of you little monsters are responsible for what happened,” the sub snarled, “you will howl for your mothers.”

  “Responsible for what?” asked Malik.

  “Somebody splashed me.” Mr. Brittle’s tone simmered with danger. “And I will not rest until I find out who.”

  Mystified, the students looked at one another. Fuzz
y caught Spiky Diego stifling a smile. Mr. Brittle noticed it too.

  “You with the hair,” he said. “Did you do this?”

  “No, sir,” said the boy.

  The robot sub’s eyes narrowed. “I do not believe you. This is just the kind of prank that you would pull.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Diego muttered, hanging his head. Fuzzy felt a pang at seeing the boy falsely accused, but he could hardly confess to planning the drenching himself. After all, the sub didn’t speak guinea pig.

  “You think you are so smart, hmm?” said Mr. Brittle.

  Diego’s “No” was almost inaudible.

  “Come stand before the class and give us a full report on the accrual method of accounting.”

  The corners of Diego’s mouth pulled downward. “But I don’t know the cruel method.”

  The sub sneered. “Then go stand in the corner. Class, open your science textbooks to page sixty-five.”

  Diego shuffled to the back of the room and stood there, shoulders slumped. Even his spiky hair looked sad.

  “Turn around,” said Mr. Brittle. “I do not want to look at that face.”

  As Diego twisted away from the class with a little sigh, the sub began the lesson.

  Fuzzy hissed. Nobody got away with treating one of his students like that. It was going to be so sweet to witness the evil robot’s downfall. He watched keenly for signs of rust or a short circuit. Nothing. Mr. Brittle carried on in his machinelike way, not missing a beat.

  A few minutes later, Mr. Darius entered carrying a ladder and bucket. The sub ordered him to mop up the rest of the water and then check the crawl space for traces of the prankster. Mr. Brittle supervised the work with pursed lips. After taking care of the puddles, the custodian shone his flashlight around the drop ceiling, sneezed once, and descended the ladder.

  “Well?” demanded Mr. Brittle. “What did you find?”

  “Just some scrape marks in the dust,” said Mr. Darius. “No way could a kid have gotten up there.”

  “And why not?”

  Indicating the ceiling, the janitor said, “The tiles are too flimsy. A person—even a little kid—would fall right through.”

  The robot sub harrumphed. “Clearly somebody was up there, because somebody dumped that water on me. Is everyone at this school utterly incompetent?”