by Bruce Hale
Fuzzy tried to be upbeat. But he just didn’t see how any of this qualified as special—at least not in a good way. He couldn’t picture Mr. Brittle saying, “I’m going back into show business now!” after watching one of the pets perform.
But how could he mention this, when his fellow pets were trying so hard to help out? It seemed almost criminal to crush their enthusiasm.
Fuzzy joined the others in applauding Mistletoe’s tap dance, while privately wondering whether they’d overlooked some other way to motivate Mr. Brittle. When all the pets who wanted to audition had finished and everyone had sat down, the club took a vote.
None of the wannabe performers got more than two nods. Most received only one vote: their own.
After tallying things up, Cinnabun winced. “We’ve got a two-way tie, y’all. No matter how many times we vote, it keeps ending up the same.”
Mistletoe wrinkled her nose. “So what does that mean?”
“It means there’s no clear winner,” said the bunny.
“And what does that mean?” asked Mistletoe.
With a shrug, Cinnabun said, “We’re deadlocked.”
The pets avoided one another’s eyes. “So nobody gets to sing and dance for the guy?” asked the mouse.
“Nobody,” said Luther.
A smile tugged at Fuzzy’s lips as an idea struck him. “Or maybe everybody,” he said.
Luther frowned. “Sssay what?”
“If none of us is good enough on our own,” Fuzzy said, “maybe it’ll take all of us together to make a big impression.”
Mistletoe’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Abso-tutely!” she cried. “He’d never be able to forget that.”
Fuzzy agreed wholeheartedly. Whether the club’s performance was good-memorable or bad-memorable, it would definitely capture Mr. Brittle’s attention. Although whether that would be enough to thrust him out of teaching and back into show business, Fuzzy couldn’t say.
“You realize that if all of us dance,” said Luther, “we’re exposing what we can do, big-time.”
Fuzzy nibbled on his whiskers. “It’s a gamble, all right. Is everyone up for it?”
“Yes!” the other pets responded.
“All righty then,” said Luther. “Let’s get to it.”
Still, before they could put their talents to the test, a small host of problems had to be solved. Starting with …
“If we’re going to dance, who will teach us the steps?” asked Marta. “I’m not really a hot-footed hoofer.”
“None of us are,” said Fuzzy.
“Speak for yourself, Brother Fuzzy.” Cinnabun sniffed. “Personally, I’ve spent hours watching Celebrity Dance-Off at Miss Nakamura’s house. I know all the moves and then some.”
“Then I nominate Cinnabun to be our corey-ogg—our, um, chore-hog. Umm …” Mistletoe fumbled for the word.
“Teacher of dance steps?” suggested Fuzzy.
“Pre-zactly!” said Mistletoe.
“And I’ll help!” Sassafras crowed. “I’ve got Broadway in my bones!”
“And feathers in your brain,” muttered Igor.
The parakeet scowled. “At least that’s better than rocks.”
Before the two pets could resume their usual squabbling, Cinnabun stepped in. “Thanks, y’all. I’d be tickled pink to serve as our choreographer. Let’s start by having all the boys stand over here and all the girls over there.” She wrangled the pets into two lines.
Igor slouched apart from the rest with arms crossed.
“Why don’t you join us, Brother Igor?” asked Cinnabun.
“As I mentioned earlier,” said the iguana, “I don’t dance.”
Sassafras flapped a wing. “Nonsense. Everyone can dance. It’s just walking set to music.”
Igor scowled. “I didn’t say I can’t dance; I said I don’t.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Mistletoe.
“Attitude,” said Luther.
Igor lifted his chin. “We iguanas have an image to maintain. Dancing around like a fool doesn’t fit into that image.”
“But standing around like a fool does?” teased Sassafras.
Before he could retort, Cinnabun put a paw on his shoulder. “Please dance with us,” she pleaded. “It won’t be the same without you.”
“Pretty pretty please?” added Mistletoe.
The iguana shook his head. “My mind is made up.”
A sly expression crept across Luther’s face. It looked very natural there. “Aw, don’t pressure him,” said the snake. “He’s just afraid.”
“Who’s afraid?” Igor bristled.
The boa shrugged, making his coils ripple. “No shame, baby. It’s perfectly natural to feel fear.”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” said Igor.
Luther continued as if he hadn’t heard. “When you’re not as talented as others, of course you’d be afraid to perform. No one likes to look bad.”
The iguana’s back spines got spikier. “Who said that? Who said I’m not as talented?”
Keeping his attention focused on Cinnabun and Mistletoe, Luther went on, “So really, the polite thing would be to stop pressuring Igor. He’s dealing with enough already.”
Elbowing his way between them, the iguana lifted his front feet. “Hold it right there. For the sake of our club’s reputation, I can see I’ll have to join in and show you all how it’s done.”
Smothering a smile, Cinnabun said, “Oh, well, if you’re sure it won’t be too much trouble …”
“No sacrifice too great for the club,” Igor said gruffly.
Fuzzy felt a rush of optimism. He didn’t know if one pet made a difference in this crazy scheme, but he was glad that the whole club stood together. Maybe there was strength in numbers.
“Can we perform this dance for Mr. Brittle today, after school?” he asked.
“Why today?” said Sassafras.
“He always stays late,” said Fuzzy, “and that would be the perfect opportunity.”
Cinnabun clapped her paws together. “Let’s shake a leg, y’all!” she cried. “We’ve got a lot of steps to learn if we’re going to help those kids. The sooner we learn, the sooner we can blow Mr. Brittle’s mind.” She began teaching their first moves.
And the sooner we blow his mind, the less damage he’ll inflict on my students, thought Fuzzy, stumbling his way through a box step.
Their plan would work.
It had to—they were taking a risk that might expose them for good. And they all knew they wouldn’t get a second chance.
Over and over, the pets drilled their choreography until their legs were rubbery and their feet (or in Luther’s case, his belly) were sore. At last, exhausted, they dragged themselves back to their own cages to rest. The pets weren’t ready, but that didn’t really matter.
Ready or not, their show must go on—Fuzzy knew the students couldn’t stand another week of Mr. Brittle’s bullying.
With Miss Wills’s speedy return still seeming as likely as a unicorn ride through Central Park, the students of 5-B were losing all hope. Gone were the lively debates on American history, the before-school babble of excitement about learning, the fun-loving attitudes. The kids took Mr. Brittle’s insults stoically and silently.
Nervous Lily spent the afternoon with her head down on her desk, responding only when the sub asked her a direct question. Loud Brandon stopped talking entirely. Spiky Diego, Fuzzy noticed, hadn’t even come to school.
Another week of this treatment, and there would be no class for Miss Wills to return to—or at least, not one that she would recognize. Assuming Mr. Brittle didn’t manage to replace her first.
Fuzzy shivered. That future was just too awful to contemplate.
The time was now. By hook or by crook, the pets were going to get rid of the Meanest Sub in the Universe before the sun set, even if Fuzzy had to give him a case of rabies to make that happen. (Not that he knew how to catch rabies, but it was the thought that counted.)
He suffered through that afternoon with gritted teeth. No read-aloud, no creative writing, no artistic expression of any kind for the kids—just deadly dull lectures and boring exercises. What was the point of school, Fuzzy wondered, if it didn’t awaken your imagination?
But apparently certain humans didn’t share a guinea pig’s opinions on education.
The hours limped on. You might think that, with the kids offering no opposition, Mr. Brittle would ease up on the bullying. If so, you don’t know bullies. The sub’s mean remarks and petty punishments went on and on. It was like the lack of resistance encouraged him to push his cruelties even further, out to the very limits.
Fuzzy longed for Miss Wills’s comforting snuggles and was yearning to spend the weekend with her, far away from Mr. Brittle. But then he thought, What if that meanie won’t even let me go home with her? His emotions were a stew of anxiety and worry, spiced with outrage.
By the last minutes of class, Fuzzy was champing at the bit. Would the school day never end? Finally, he watched the students trudge out the door, and the substitute tackled his after-school paperwork. Up and down his cage Fuzzy paced, waiting for Sassafras to make her move.
For their plan to succeed, they’d need split-second timing. But since the pets weren’t much on timing, Fuzzy knew that in the end, it would all come down to dumb luck.
He only hoped their luck was dumb enough.
Just when Fuzzy was about to jump out of his skin, he heard the crackle of the intercom—or, to be more accurate, Sassafras imitating the intercom.
“Paging Mr. Brittle,” said the bird, mimicking the principal’s voice. “Principal Flake calling.”
“Uh, yes,” said the sub, frowning curiously. “I am here.”
Fuzzy noticed him checking around for the intercom switch. Hopefully, the man wouldn’t figure out that the real loudspeaker wasn’t a two-way system, and that Sassafras was hiding in the crawl space just above it.
“That’s excellent, just excellent,” said Sassafras-as-Flake. “Mr. Brittle, I need you to attend a meeting now.”
The sub rolled his eyes. “Can it wait until Monday? I am busy.”
“No!” squawked the bird. Mr. Brittle shot the loudspeaker a sharp look. “I mean, um, no, this can’t wait. It’s a very, very important meeting, full of vital … importance.”
“Can one of the other teachers … ?”
“Nope, this is a super-duper special private meeting,” said Sassafras. “Just you and me. Top secret.”
Fuzzy bit his lip. The parakeet was getting carried away; would Mr. Brittle suspect something?
“Just me, huh?” said the substitute. “Where … ?”
“The music room,” said Sassafras. “Ten minutes.”
“The music room?!” Mr. Brittle protested.
But with one last crackle, the bird fell silent.
“Huh,” the sub muttered. “Wonder what that old bat wants?”
That old bat is actually an old bird, Fuzzy reflected. He felt glad the man didn’t know how close to the mark he’d come. As quietly as possible, Fuzzy began rearranging his blocks and ball, preparing to make his escape.
Mr. Brittle worked a little while longer, then glanced at the clock and packed away his papers and books. Fuzzy sat up as the teacher passed him, heading for the door.
“Bye-bye, piggy!” said Mr. Brittle. “With any luck, I will soon replace your teacher. And then, I will bring my own sweet Bobo in here and replace you too.”
Fuzzy gasped. His suspicions were true! But he couldn’t let that awful sub know he’d gotten under Fuzzy’s skin.
“With any luck, you’ll quit tomorrow, and we’ll all throw a party!” said Fuzzy defiantly. Still, he knew it would take more than luck to drive that man from his classroom.
It would take a miracle.
The instant the door thumped closed, Fuzzy scrambled up his makeshift steps and over the cage wall. He set a new speedy-escape record, hurtling over the cubbyholes and hustling up the bookcase. Fuzzy hoped against hope that the custodian and any late-staying staff weren’t feeling too observant, because all the class pets would be out of their cages and running free.
Kicking up dust, he galloped along through the crawl space, lickety-split. Fuzzy shaved some time off his trek by using a shortcut across a block of classrooms, rather than taking the long way around like Mr. Brittle. In fact, he got going so fast, he wasn’t sure exactly where he was.
Skidding to a halt, Fuzzy lifted a ceiling tile to check his whereabouts. Below him yawned the empty corridor outside the computer room. Wiggling whiskers—he’d overshot his target!
Fuzzy was about to drop the tile back into place when he saw a familiar head of hair atop a familiar body bobbing up the hallway. Blonde highlights, gray roots, and enough hairspray that not even a follicle quivered.
Mrs. Flake, the principal. And her path would take her right past the music room.
Uh-oh.
What would happen if she bumped into Mr. Brittle before he entered the chamber where all the pets were waiting?
Disaster, that was what.
Fuzzy did the only thing he could think of. Sucking in a huge breath, he wheek-wheeked at the top of his lungs, shouting, “Hey, Mrs. Flake!”
The principal whirled, scanning right and left but seeing nothing.
“Up here!” he squeaked.
Mrs. Flake’s head snapped back, and Fuzzy found himself eye to eye with the most powerful person at Leo Gumpus Elementary.
The woman gasped. She pulled a walkie-talkie from her belt and barked into it, “Mr. Poole, come in, please?”
“Go ahead, Mrs. F,” came the custodian’s warm voice.
“Guinea pig at twelve o’clock!”
A brief silence. “Um, but it’s not even four yet.”
The principal gave a wordless growl. “Twelve o’clock! Right above me—there’s a guinea pig peeking through the ceiling.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you say so?”
Mrs. Flake just shook her head in response.
“Tell me where you are and I’ll come rescue Fuzzy,” said Mr. Darius.
“West corridor, just outside the computer room.” The principal peered up at Fuzzy. “And hurry!”
At that, Fuzzy scurried off, leaving the ceiling tile askew. Hopefully, his distraction would delay the principal long enough that she wouldn’t run into Mr. Brittle and derail the pets’ plans. Fuzzy couldn’t linger if he wanted to help out with their big number.
Yes, there was a chance that Mr. Darius might figure out how he’d escaped and take measures to keep Fuzzy locked up for good. But that was another problem for another day.
Hustling through the crawl space, Fuzzy reached the spot where the music room should be. Had he arrived in time? Moving as cautiously as a cat in a kennel of sleeping Rottweilers, he slid aside a ceiling tile and peeked through the gap.
The room was dark aside from a spotlight illuminating Mr. Brittle, who had apparently just stepped through the door.
Holding up a hand to shade his eyes, the teacher called, “Mrs. Flake?”
And ready or not, it was showtime.
“One-two-three-four,
We’re singing ’bout the business that we all adore!”
The music room’s stereo blasted the song, a hip-hop version of some old tune about show business. At the sound, Mr. Brittle grimaced and recoiled as if the music was physically painful. He whirled, reaching for the door. But Luther the boa had twined himself around the push bar, blocking his exit. (Luther preferred this to dancing.)
The sub shrieked like a kindergartner finding a dead spider in her Underoos.
“Mrs. Flake, this is not funny!” he cried.
The spotlight flipped, illuminating the empty riser where the choir normally stood. From out of the darkness, Cinnabun leaped in a mighty hop right onto the platform. With arms spread wide, she sashayed forward to the beat, waggling her “jazz paws.”
Fuzzy didn’t know whether her dancing
was any good. But one thing was for certain: The bunny sure knew how to make an entrance.
And speaking of entrances, it was high time he made his. Fuzzy was supposed to appear on that makeshift stage in less than a minute, but here he sat, still peeking out of the ceiling far above.
First Mistletoe, then Sassafras showed up on the spotlit riser, flanking Cinnabun. The trio moonwalked with attitude to spare, singing along at top volume even though they knew the substitute couldn’t understand them. Mr. Brittle had clapped his hands over his ears when the music first hit; now he gaped at the three pets as if he thought he might be losing his mind.
Fuzzy scanned the music room, seeking an easy way down. Nothing looked easy. No tall bookshelves or cabinets that a visitor from above could step down onto. How had the other pets made their way inside?
He spotted a long banner of purple fabric attached to the ceiling tile beside him with a square of silver duct tape. Its other end was anchored directly above the riser. In fact, now that he noticed it, the banner was one of nearly a dozen cloth strips in different hues shooting out from the hub like the spokes of a rainbow wheel.
The music swelled as it went into the chorus. Hopping onto the little stage, Marta and Igor joined the trio’s wild dancing. (Actually, Igor hopped; Marta crawled.) Fuzzy should have been down there already. He noticed Marta squinting against the spotlight, searching for him.
It was now or never.
Every instinct told him not to do what he was thinking of doing. But he’d overcome his instincts before, at Mr. Brittle’s apartment, and lived to tell about it.
Bracing himself, Fuzzy reached out and grabbed the end of the purple cloth. He tugged and felt the duct tape loosen. So far, so good. What he didn’t know was whether the other end was anchored more securely. Fuzzy gritted his teeth.
One way to find out.
In a gut-wrenching move, he pushed off with his hind legs and dropped into space.