by Bruce Hale
In a tone as chilly as winter wind Mr. Darius replied, “Some of us do our jobs just fine. Go on, crawl up there yourself, and see how quickly you fall through.”
Mr. Brittle just snarled in response, making a shooing gesture with the backs of his hands. With great dignity, the custodian collected his ladder and bucket, nodded to the students, and left the room.
Fuzzy gnawed on a corner of his block, a habit that helped him think. This must be a fancy robot indeed, if the water didn’t have any effect on it. He’d have to try another tack. Maybe he could find that “off” switch after all? Fuzzy decided to try.
As lessons resumed, he waited for his chance. Near the end of lunchtime, it came.
A handful of kids had returned to class early and were quietly entertaining themselves under Mr. Brittle’s watchful eye. Natalia, in the front row, had brought Fuzzy out of his cage for a cuddle. When Zoey-with-the-braces began chatting with her, Natalia’s attention wandered.
Gingerly, Fuzzy stepped out of her arms onto her desktop. Natalia didn’t notice.
“No way,” she told Zoey. “So what did your parents say then?”
“Well,” said Zoey, “you wouldn’t believe …”
Fuzzy eyeballed the gap between Natalia’s desk and the teacher’s. If he got up enough steam, he thought he could leap it.
Probably.
Maybe.
He checked on the girls: still chatting. He checked on the teacher: paging through a textbook.
A better chance might never come. Fuzzy did a couple of deep knee bends, took a couple of deep breaths. He glanced over the edge. Yikes! Natalia’s desktop seemed pretty high up. What if he didn’t jump far enough?
Fuzzy’s stomach quaked like he’d swallowed a bellyful of bees. His whiskers quivered. Don’t think about it, he told himself. Just do it. Clenching his teeth, Fuzzy crouched. Then, in an explosive burst, he dashed across Natalia’s desktop and leaped into space.
Time slowed. Fuzzy noticed the wood grain of the desk ahead of him, the perfectly aligned papers on top of it. He also noted again how really far down the floor was.
Holy haystacks!
As his jump began to lose momentum, Fuzzy stretched his front paws out as far as they would go. But would it be far enough?
His body sank lower, lower. With a last desperate twitch, Fuzzy reached for the edge of the teacher’s desk and just caught it with his front claws.
Whoomp! His body slammed into the side of the desk like a sack of bowling balls, knocking the wind clear out of him. But his grip held.
Fuzzy was vaguely aware of the girls squealing. Ignoring them, he scrabbled with his hind legs, dug into the wood with his claws, and dragged himself onto the desk. Whew!
Mr. Brittle had half risen from his chair. His hands still rested on the desktop. Before the man could move away, Fuzzy sprinted across the papers. Onto the sub’s clammy hand and up his arm he scuttled.
“Eeek!” shrieked Mr. Brittle, displaying an impressively high range for a male robot. His other hand rose to sweep Fuzzy away.
Dodging around the outside of the upper arm, Fuzzy just managed to duck the brush-off. In another second, he’d reached the shoulder. Mr. Brittle jolted fully upright, wiggling and waggling like a deranged break-dancer to dislodge his attacker.
“Get it off, get it off!” he yelped.
Kids hurried forward to help the sub.
Now, where’s that power button? Fuzzy wondered. He scurried across the robot’s writhing shoulder, which pitched like a houseboat in a hurricane, and finally reached the collar. He tugged on the teacher’s ear. Nothing. With frantic paws, Fuzzy groped up and down the neck, searching for that button.
Still nothing. Just a smooth stretch of warm flesh that turned stubbly up by the hairline. Mr. Brittle giggled and twitched. “Aah! Get it off! It tickles!”
Before Fuzzy could dive down under the shirt and investigate further, a hand closed around him. In a flash, he was lifted away.
“Nooo!” cried Fuzzy. “Put me down—I wasn’t done yet!”
He struggled, but it was useless. Someone—Natalia, he saw—had him in a secure, two-handed grip.
“Easy now,” she cooed. “It’s going to be all right. Nothing to be scared of.”
“I’m gonna fry that pig!” cried Mr. Brittle.
Well, almost nothing, thought Fuzzy.
Shielding him with her body, Natalia edged around the substitute and over to the cage. “You don’t understand!” Fuzzy cried. “He’s a dangerous robot!” But the girl just stroked his fur and set him down gently on the pine shavings.
“Too much excitement, Mr. Fuzzy,” she cooed. “Get some rest now.”
Rearing onto his hind legs, Fuzzy gripped the bars. His heart hammered faster than an octopus carpenter on a deadline. How could he have missed the robot sub’s “off” switch? Was it hidden somewhere? And what kind of robot had warm skin, anyway?
As Fuzzy agonized, Mr. Brittle collected two stray cafeteria trays from the worktable. With a grim expression, he stalked up to the cage.
Natalia raised a protective hand. “Don’t hurt him!”
“No worries,” said Mr. Brittle. “Much as I might like to, I do not intend to squish your little ‘friend.’ ”
“Good.” Natalia relaxed a little.
“But enough is enough. No more snuggles. From now on, he stays in piggy jail.” And with a whock-whock, the sub slapped the trays down side by side, covering the cage’s open top. Then he weighted them down with textbooks.
“No!” cried Fuzzy. Taking away his cuddles was cruel and unusual punishment for a guinea pig. Worse than that, it just wasn’t right.
Bending down until they were nose to nose, Mr. Brittle blasted Fuzzy with a dose of stale garlic breath. “No more playtime, furball. You stay put.”
The man-robot-whatever squelched his way back to his desk and called the class to order. As Mr. Brittle began analyzing the life out of what used to be a fun book, Fuzzy fumed. It wasn’t fair! The sub couldn’t just lock him up like that, could he?
Miss Wills would never treat him so harshly. But then, Miss Wills was gone. And who knew when she might be coming back?
Fuzzy and his students might be stuck with the Worst Sub in the History of the Universe for a long, long time.
Through the rest of that endless afternoon, Fuzzy moped and grumped, barely stirring in his cage. He was fast running out of ideas to stop this unstoppable teacher.
So when Principal Flake showed up right after class ended, his heart gave a little leap. The principal, as every class pet knows, is the most powerful person at school. If Fuzzy could only communicate the sub’s awfulness to her, Mrs. Flake would boot him out the door in a hot minute.
“Oh, Mrs. Flake!” Fuzzy chirped, waving his paws. “Over here!”
She didn’t notice. She only had eyes for Mr. Brittle.
As solidly built as a small truck, Mrs. Kimberly Flake had electric-blue eyes and hair that reminded Fuzzy of petrified hay—a mix of yellow, tan, and gray that not even a gale-force wind could stir. She trundled right up to the desk.
“Mr. Brittle,” she said. “Might I have a word?”
The substitute glanced up from his papers with an expression as deadpan as a frozen dingo. “Yes?”
“I have heard reports of students being mistreated in your classroom,” said the principal. “Disturbing reports.”
“That’s right!” chirped Fuzzy.
“You know how kids exaggerate,” said the teacher, jotting a note.
Fuzzy bristled. “They’re not exaggerating at all!”
Folding her arms, the principal said, “Children in tears, children being bullied, children complaining that you canceled their music class. These are serious charges, Mr. Brittle.”
“Give it to him!” Fuzzy cried.
The substitute stifled a yawn. “Is that all?”
His reaction made the principal scowl. “That’s more than enough to get a teacher dismissed. What do you ha
ve to say for yourself?”
The man sneered up at her. “Two words: teacher shortage.”
Principal Flake blinked.
“Nobody wants this crummy job.” Mr. Brittle began packing up his papers and books. “You would be hard-pressed to find another substitute, especially on short notice.”
“I don’t—” the principal began.
“And besides, my contract protects me. As long as I do not strike the students, you will have a hard time dismissing me.”
Mrs. Flake gaped like a baby bird that’s missed its mealtime. “That’s not—”
“Furthermore, you might have to hire me full time after you dismiss Miss Wills.” The substitute calmly stowed his papers in his messenger satchel.
The principal’s scowl deepened. “And why on earth would I dismiss one of my best teachers?”
“Neglect of duty.” Mr. Brittle sniffed. “It is in the handbook, paragraph 214-b. I would say skipping class qualifies.”
“That’s ridiculous. She’s on jury duty!”
“I am sure the superintendent will appreciate my point of view. He is my second cousin, after all.”
“But—”
The sub stood. “And now, if you will excuse me, I am late for an appointment.” Collecting his bag and jacket, Mr. Brittle marched stiffly to the door, where he turned and offered a wintry smile. “Nice chatting with you.”
“Nooo!” cried Fuzzy.
After casting a curious glance at the trays atop Fuzzy’s cage, the principal sighed and followed the substitute out of the room.
Fuzzy bit his lip. Could the sub really get Miss Wills fired? And if he did, what would that mean for a certain classroom pet? Would Fuzzy be out in the cold?
His head whirled at the thought. He could expect no help from on high—even the principal was powerless against this monster. Fuzzy and the other pets would need to get really creative if they wanted to save the students of 5-B.
But first, thought Fuzzy, staring up at the trays that held him trapped in his home, I’ve got to get out of here.
* * *
Fortunately, Mr. Darius didn’t hold the same views on rodent imprisonment as the substitute did. When he came to clean up the room that afternoon, the custodian removed the trays and books from atop Fuzzy’s domain.
“That’s no way to treat a pet,” he said. “And besides, these belong back in the cafeteria.”
Fuzzy heaved a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Mr. Darius!” he squeaked.
The janitor petted him and shared a carrot chunk. “Your sub is a piece of work, little buddy,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry, but I think you guys will have to grin and bear it.”
Fuzzy chuffed in disgust.
Mr. Darius chuckled. “I hear you, amigo. Wish there was something I could do to help.”
He went about his business, tidying up and emptying the trash. When at last the custodian shut the door with a parting “Hang in there!” Fuzzy was raring to visit the clubhouse.
In a matter of minutes he’d escaped his cage and entered the crawl space above the ceiling. Fuzzy trotted along toward the club meeting, bristling with purpose and indignation like a ticked-off porcupine. They simply had to find another way to oust that awful sub.
They had to.
When at last he hurried down the ramp, the clubhouse rang with laughter and chatter. Everyone but Marta was present. Sassafras perched on the cat statue, reenacting their prank.
“And then, we let ’er rip!” the parakeet crowed. “Bam! Splash! Bull’s-eye!”
“Hey, Fuzzarino!” Luther greeted him. “Was it sweet watching that robot run down? Wish I could’ve been there, baby.”
Fuzzy frowned. “Bad news.”
“Someone canceled your subscription to Hay and Horsegrass Magazine?” Igor teased.
“Nope. It didn’t work.”
“Say wha-a-at?” drawled Luther.
The other pets crowded around. “I’m as lost as last year’s Easter egg,” said Cinnabun. “How could it not work? We drenched that robot but good!”
“Worse news,” said Fuzzy. “He’s not a robot.”
“But—the way he acted?” said Mistletoe.
Fuzzy shook his head. “He didn’t rust or short-circuit. I climbed all over him looking for a power button. Nothing.”
“So he’s … really not a robot?” said Sassafras.
“His skin was warm; he’s human,” said Fuzzy.
Deflated, the bird turned away. “Dang. It would’ve been so cool …”
“Well, that just frosts my pumpkin,” said the bunny.
The enthusiasm leaked from the room like the air from an inflatable kiddie pool, leaving soggy disappointment in its wake. A couple of the pets shuffled over to their pillows and flopped down.
“This isn’t over,” said Fuzzy.
“What do you mean?” Mistletoe pouted. “We failed.”
With a wave of his arms, Fuzzy said, “Don’t you get it? He may not be a robot, but he’s still a terrible human.”
“Amen to that.” Cinnabun slumped against the presidential podium.
“Mr. Brittle wants to get rid of Miss Wills,” said Fuzzy. “And if he does, I might be next.”
Mistletoe gasped. “No! He can’t!”
“We don’t know what he can do,” said Fuzzy. “That’s why we’ve got to force him to leave, before it’s too late.”
The bunny toyed with one of her floppy ears. “So what do you propose?”
“I, uh …” Fuzzy threw up his paws. “I’m not sure. I need everyone’s help on this. What makes humans move?”
Mistletoe perked up. “Ooh, I know! Music!”
“He hates music,” said Fuzzy.
The mouse sagged. “Oh.”
“Money,” said Igor. “Humans are crazy fond of money.”
Sassafras cocked her head. “So we pay him to make him leave?”
“Sure, why not?” The iguana shrugged.
“Just one small problem I can see,” said Fuzzy.
“What’s that?” said Igor.
“We have no money.”
Igor gave a slow blink. “Way to rain on my parade.”
Fuzzy appealed to the rest of the pets. “Come on. There’s got to be another way to get rid of this guy.”
“Charm?” said Cinnabun. Dimples bloomed in her cheeks as she smiled.
Fuzzy frowned. “I can’t charm the guy—he hates me.”
“I wasn’t talking about you,” said the bunny.
Stroking his chin, Fuzzy asked, “Okay, so you charm him. How would that work, exactly?”
“First, I sashay on in there.” Cinnabun demonstrated her words.
“Ooh,” said Mistletoe. “That’s the cutest sashay I’ve ever seen!”
“And then, when his defenses are down, I give him a Force Five Adorability Attack.” The bunny wound her paws together, lifted her shoulders, and batted her big brown eyes.
“Awww,” said every pet in the room except Fuzzy.
Much as it might annoy him, Fuzzy couldn’t deny her appeal. “Your cuteness is … uh, impressive,” he said. “But how will you charm him into leaving if you can’t speak human?”
“He’s right,” said the mouse. “One look at you, and the sub would want to stay forever.”
Cinnabun dropped her pose like a bad habit. “Well, swat my hind with a melon rind. I hadn’t thought of that.”
For a long stretch, nobody said anything. They just stared into space, thoroughly stumped. Then Luther grinned a snaky grin.
“It’s time to break out our number-one secret weapon,” he said.
“What’s that?” asked Igor. “Piggy poop?”
The boa shook his head. “Fear.”
“Fear?” echoed Fuzzy. “How do you mean?”
Gracefully slithering into the center of the room, Luther said, “Look, what are humans most afraid of?”
“Death?” said Igor.
“Oral reports?” said Sassafras.
“Missing out
on the last cookie in the box?” said Mistletoe.
Luther’s smile widened. “Sssnakesss, baby,” he hissed.
The other pets stared at him, struck by the idea. Then, heads began to nod.
“I like it,” said Fuzzy. “It could work.”
“Tonight, me and Fuzzanova go back to his room,” said the boa. “Then, I hide someplace guaranteed to give maximum shock. When that nasty dude sees me, bimmity-bam-boom! It’s good-bye, sub; hello, peace of mind.”
* * *
The thing with plans, Fuzzy thought the next morning while waiting for the teacher to arrive, is that you never know how well they’ll work. He paced the length of his cage and checked the clock. Not long now.
“You okay in there?” he called out.
“As cool as polar bear buns,” came Luther’s muffled voice from the desk. “We’re good to go.”
At long last, something clattered in the lock, and the door swung open. Mr. Brittle marched into the room, trailing his own personal cloud of gloom. Fuzzy tracked his every move.
When he noticed the attention, the sub said, “Stop staring, you furry potato.” Then he did a double take. “Where is your roof? That worthless janitor is in so much trouble.”
As Mr. Brittle crossed to the desk, Fuzzy reared up on his hind legs to watch. The man removed his jacket, unpacked his messenger bag, and sat down.
Any second now, Fuzzy thought. He felt tingly all over. This is going to be epic!
But the sub didn’t open the desk drawer. Instead, he studied the books and papers spread before him, tapping the eraser end of a pencil against his square little teeth.
Come on, come on, thought Fuzzy.
Students shuffled in and lessons began, but still the sub didn’t even touch the drawer. The morning dragged on. But if it was torture for Fuzzy, it was even worse for the students.
First, Mr. Brittle canceled their creative writing project. “A frivolous waste of time.” Then he insulted Heavy-Handed Jake. “Honestly, are you trying to be the dumbest kid at school?” The sub even refused to continue Miss Wills’s read-aloud tradition. “Why should I do your work for you? You will never be better readers if you do not actually read.”