“So we . . . wear trash?” I said.
Martha furrowed her brow. “I think you guys are focusing on the wrong things.”
“If I could make a suggestion,” said Drew, “we should wear fedoras instead of trash.”
“Fedoras are unknown on the world of Zoblorg VII,” said Martha.
“You still didn’t answer my question about the gym,” I said. “The library has a couch where I could lie down.”
“Gibbs, stop being a zaglorff and use your head!” yelled Coach Weekes. “You’re practicing in the gym because I’m the head coach of this team!” He stood in the doorway to his office wearing pajamas and holding a steaming cup of herbal tea.
We all stared at him.
“. . . Do you sleep at school, Coach?” I said.
“Huh? That’s not the— Look, don’t worry about that, okay, Gibbs,” said Coach Weekes. “In fact, I want you to give me three laps around the gym, right now!”
I stood up. Martha shook her head. I sat back down. Coach Weekes shrugged.
“The rules require every Model Interplanetary Council Delegation to have a faculty coach,” said Martha. “I figured Leslie would offer the least amount of interference in terms of how I run this team, which, to be perfectly frank, is with an iron fist.”
“And I make an extra two hundred bucks this semester,” said Coach Weekes. “Works out for everybody.” He sipped his tea.
“So how exactly do we go about learning these thousands of made-up facts about our made-up planet?” asked Dylan.
“We have to study our official planetary information packets,” said Martha.
She handed us each a thick, spiral-bound guidebook with the Model Interplanetary Council logo emblazoned on the cover. The books gave a not especially brief overview of the history, culture, and economy of the fictional planet of Zoblorg VII. For example, did you know the atmosphere of Zoblorg VII is 33 percent nitrogen? Or that in the year 11,459 B.Z., Xyxlorff the Heptarch got a brand-new sklorff? I didn’t either, yet after learning these two exciting facts, somehow I instantly fell asleep.
“Sam!” cried Martha.
“Don’t call me Bunnybutt!” I said as I snapped awake.
“What is the main export of Zoblorg VII?” she said.
I considered the question. “The main export,” I said. “Is it, uh, . . . sklorffs?”
“No!” cried Martha. “Our world is forced to import over ninety percent of its sklorffs.”
“Even I know that,” said Drew.
“Oh, you did not,” I said.
Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, he did,” she said.
“Everyone, repeat after me,” said Martha. “The main export of our planet is space pasta.”
“The main export of our planet is space pasta,” we all repeated.
It went on like this all morning. Sifting through mountains of incomprehensible Zoblorg VII info and then getting ruthlessly drilled on it by Martha. I wasn’t sure how much of it I was retaining . . . or what sklorffs were. After our single break, we moved on to a mock debate of the kind we would face at competition. Our topic was the adoption of Galactic Resolution 872.3, a proposed law that increased a sales tax on disposable bags to five glorffs apiece. Martha and I were supposed to argue the pro side and Drew and Dylan would argue the con. Coach Weekes kept score, while also flossing and doing a sudoku.
“I stand before you here today to say that there is literally nothing more important than Galactic Resolution 872.3!” said Martha. “The passage of this law is not only crucial to the prosperity and well-being of the people of Zoblorg VII, but quite literally to everyone in the universe.”
Martha paused dramatically. I nodded in support. Martha mouthed the words “Sam, you go now.” I shook my head emphatically. Martha nodded emphatically. I sighed.
“. . . Hi. Yeah, so, nondisposable bags are good because you can, uh, use them again, instead of just throwing them away,” I said. “And in the grand scheme of things, when you really get down to it, uh, five sklorffs isn’t that much, right?”
Martha face-palmed. Dylan smiled. My time was up. Confused, I ceded the floor.
“My colleague says five sklorffs isn’t that much,” said Dylan, straightening her notes for effect. “Well, perhaps to him it isn’t, but most of us don’t just have fifty thousand glorffs lying around, which is the market price of one sklorff!” She laughed mirthlessly. Point scored.
“Glorffs are our money, not sklorffs, Sam,” hissed Martha. “Get it right!”
“Sorry,” I said, gritting my teeth. “No idea how I mixed those two up.”
“But this merely illustrates the underlying problem with GR 872.3,” said Dylan. “It is a tax that will disproportionately affect poor and middle-class space aliens, that only stands to benefit wealthy fat cats, like Sam Gibbs.”
“Hey!” I said. “Am not.”
“Face it: you’re out of touch, Sam,” said Coach Weekes.
“Aren’t you supposed to be impartial?” I said.
“You know we didn’t have much growing up,” said Dylan. “My daddy was a simple trash-miner who struggled to put a plate of space pasta on the plodnorff for us every night. He depended upon people throwing away their disposable bags for his livelihood. A tax like this would have destroyed our family.”
“Thank you for sharing that, Dylan,” said Coach Weekes, who looked like he might tear up.
“It didn’t even happen!” I said. “Her dad’s a brand manager!”
“No talking during another delegate’s time,” said Coach Weekes. “Twenty-five-point penalty.”
“You’re sabotaging us, Sam!” said Martha.
“Doesn’t Drew have to talk?” I said. “What about Drew?”
“Leave Drew out of this,” said Dylan.
“Despite his attitude, Sam has a point,” said Martha. “If we hope to win Best Delegation, all of us have to contribute.”
“McCoy, your go,” said Coach Weekes.
“’Sup?” said Drew.
“Okay, Drew,” I said, crossing my arms. “I can’t wait for you to wow us with your amazing grasp of this non-fedora-related topic!”
“You’re being rude, Sam,” said Dylan.
“Agreed,” said Coach Weekes. “Fifteen-point penalty for rudeness.”
“It’s all good,” said Drew, trying to calm her down. “I’m happy to orate.” He cracked his knuckles, cleared his throat, and straightened his fedora. “So . . . what I’m kind of gathering is that we’re all sort of pretending we’re from another planet,” said Drew. “Have I got that right?”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Martha looked horrified. Dylan looked angrier than I had ever seen her.
“Nailed it, Drew,” I said.
“That’s it, Sam!” said Dylan, leaping to her feet. “I’m not going to put up with your awful attitude any longer. Martha, I’m doing this as a favor to you. But I won’t stand for it.”
“My awful attitude? My awful attitude?” I said. “My attitude is amazing!”
“No, it’s not,” said Martha, who had put her head down on the table.
“Sam, your problem is you think you’re better than everyone, just ’cause you’ve got a new rich friend, Cid Wilkins!” said Dylan.
“Huh?” I said, dumbfounded. “That’s not what’s going on at all. You think you can forget about all your old friends because you’ve got a new boyfriend, Drew!”
Dylan turned scarlet, then mauve. “Drew is not my boyfriend!”
“’Sup,” said Drew.
“Wow, feels like there’s a lot going on here, so I think I’m just going to go do some online shopping while you guys work it all out,” said Coach Weekes, standing up from his chair. “Negative-fifty-point penalty to Gibbs. Bye.”
Martha leaped to her feet. “Friends! Friends! My last Model Interplanetary Council team descended into anger and recriminations,” she said. “I can’t let that happen again.”
“Well, I won’t sit here and have my non-bo
yfriend, Drew, be disrespected by Sam,” said Dylan, and she crossed her arms.
“Well, I won’t even be on this team unless Drew starts pulling his weight,” I said, and I crossed my arms.
“Oh, like you’re doing any better, Sam!” said Dylan. “You didn’t even know the difference between sklorffs and glorffs!”
“Those two words sound very similar!” I said.
“Do not,” said Dylan.
“Are we all still pretending to be aliens and that’s why you guys are fighting?” said Drew.
“Look, I know this is going to sound crazy,” said Martha, “but what if we all took an unscheduled second break to cool off?”
“Perfect timing!” said Serena. We all turned to see her standing with Beefer in the doorway to the gym.
“Salivations, Martha,” said Beefer. “How are you on this fine, vertiginous afternoon?”
“I’m racked with anxiety but also consumed with a burning desire to win at all costs. Thank you for asking, Kiefer,” said Martha. “What are you two doing here? You don’t go to this school.”
“I’m glad!” said Beefer, looking around the gym. “I’d forgotten what a dump this place is.”
“Horace Hotwater Middle School is my number-one favorite place in the world,” said Martha.
“No, me too,” said Beefer. “Me too. Definitely. I’m really digging the . . . cheese smell?”
“That’s moldy basketballs,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Sam, I have something I thought you should know about,” said Serena. “It might just break your mystery open.”
“Far out,” said Drew.
“Who are you again?” said Beefer.
“No time for that,” I said. “What did you learn?”
“So, ‘Epic Ninja 360-Degree Fail’ got a ton of hits,” said Serena.
“My lawyer told you to take the video down!” said Beefer.
“Michael Perkins isn’t a lawyer,” said Serena. “Anyway, I’ve pretty much been following Beefer around filming him in case he, uh, produces more content.”
“You mean has another terrible accident and hurts himself?” I said.
“Yeah, basically,” said Serena.
“Not gonna happen!” said Beefer. “That was the only time I ever messed up.”
“How about when you knocked yourself out cold by hitting yourself in the head with a marble trophy?” I said.
“I have no memory of that,” said Beefer. “And I’m not sure why.”
“Whoa. Nobody got it on video, did they?” asked Serena.
“Unfortunately, no,” I said. “So, you’ve been filming Beefer?”
“Yep,” said Serena. “Mostly it’s been pretty mind-numbing. He likes to sit around in his sweatpants eating Funchos and watching this movie where all these werewolves explode. It looks super fake.”
“Uh, it’s several movies where werewolves explode and it does not look super fake,” said Beefer. “And I also do very refined cultural-type stuff, too, Martha. Like, for example, I play the lute.”
“Ugh. That’s the most boring of all. Renaissance music is a snooze. You should listen to Mary and the Feet,” said Serena. “It’s got kind of a late sixties garage vibe but definitely with some EDM influences.”
“I feel like we’re getting off topic here,” I said.
“Sorry,” said Serena. “Anyway, this morning Beefer went into Harry’s Health Food Hut to buy some rash ointment—”
“I was purchasing general health vitamins!” said Beefer.
“And I was there filming him in case he knocked something over, or something fell on his head, or maybe he electrocuted himself,” said Serena, “when I happened to notice another customer was buying Dinoblast Powerpacker.”
“The stuff that mutated Hamstersaurus Rex,” I said. “But that’s not exactly suspicious. I mean, if they sell it, somebody must be buying it, right?”
“I didn’t get to the suspicious part yet,” said Serena. “This person was buying up all the Powerpacker in the entire store. Like, cases and cases of it.”
I paused. “Who was it?”
Serena pulled out her phone. “This guy.”
On the screen I saw a video of a pale man loading a shopping cart with all the remaining canisters of Dinoblast Powerpacker that were on the shelves. As he went to the register to pay, the camera panned up to his face. I swallowed. It was Cid’s manny, Rupert.
CHAPTER 12
“DO YOU RECOGNIZE this red-haired weirdo?” said Serena.
“That’s Rupert MacFarquhar,” I said. “Cid’s manny.”
“Of course that kid Cid has an evil manny!” said Dylan.
“Hey, Rupert isn’t necessarily evil,” I said. “Maybe there’s a good explanation for this whole thing.”
“Oh, I’m sure there is,” said Dylan. “The explanation is that Cid is a total creep who is up to no good.”
“Dylan, even if Cid’s manny is evil, you can’t just put that on him!” I said. “Maybe Rupert is acting on his own!”
“Who’s Cid?” said Serena.
“I think it’s this guy,” whispered Beefer, pointing a thumb in Drew’s direction.
“’Sup?” said Drew, who hadn’t been paying attention.
“Cid is this new kid that Sam loves so much ’cause he’s loaded and Sam gets to use his indoor tennis court,” said Dylan.
“He does not have an indoor tennis court! His tennis court is outside! And I don’t even play tennis, I pretty much stick to the indoor archery range and the waterslide, thank you very much.”
Everyone stared at me.
“Cid is actually a cool guy!” I said. “Martha, I’m really sorry but I need to cut practice short. I’ve got to go investigate this lead.”
“But what about Model Interplanetary Council?” said Martha. “It’s only six days away! We’re not ready!”
“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “Maybe I can do, like, a double practice tomorrow or something to make it up?”
“We’re already doing two double practices tomorrow!” said Martha. “You’d have to do four quadruple practices!”
“Whatever. Martha, this is a code-red Hamster Monitor type deal,” I said. “I’m leaving.”
I could tell she wanted to argue but she stopped herself. “. . . You’re right, Sam,” she said. “Let me know if you need backup.”
I nodded and snagged Hammie Rex before heading to Cid’s house.
I buzzed at the heavy security gate and a second later it opened automatically to let me in.
“Heya, Homerun! What’s up, Sam Dunk! How’s it going, you two?” Cid stood in his front doorway, wearing an odd, bulky helmet with attached goggles. “Man, I was just going to call you. You’ve got to check out this new VR helmet my dad got for free. It’s a simulation that makes it actually feel like you’re eating toast.” He flipped the helmet down and did a slow toast-eating motion, then laughed hysterically.
“Maybe next time, Cid,” I said, stepping inside. I scanned the hallway. “Is Rupert anywhere around?”
“I don’t think so,” said Cid. “But then again, it’s a big house. I just found out we have a solarium.”
“Great,” I said. “Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?”
“Sure,” said Cid, “but I don’t know what a solarium is either.”
“No, not about that,” I said. “About Rupert MacFarquhar.”
Cid flipped his VR goggles up. “What’s up?”
“Like, how much do you really know about him?”
Cid stroked his jaw. “Well, I know he’s from a village seventy miles outside of Aberdeen, and he plays a ton of backgammon against himself. Gets really mad when he loses,” said Cid. “Not a lot of people skills but he’s an okay guy, I guess. One of the top three mannies I’ve ever had.”
“Well, I saw the guy acting kind of suspiciously,” I said. “He was buying up all the Dinoblast Powerpacker in Harry’s Health Food Hut.”
“Really?” s
aid Cid. “If I’ve got my H. R. trivia straight, isn’t that the stuff that mutated the little guy into the awesome rodent-dino hybrid we know and love?”
“Exactly,” I said. “The key ingredient, PaleoGro, is also what the Mind Mole used to take away Hammie’s dino-powers and turn him into a normal hamster. PaleoGro is dangerous stuff.”
“Yikes,” said Cid, scratching his head. “So you’re wondering why Rupert would need so much of it.”
“Look, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” I said. “But right now somebody is gunning for Hamstersaurus Rex and I have no idea who it is. I know your dad gets all these awesome toys and games in advance through his job. Did he somehow get you a Snuzzle before they were available in stores?”
Cid paused. “. . . Yeah, he totally did. He owns stock in Fundai so they send him free stuff sometimes. I got some pretty sweet glow-in-the-dark Astro-Robo footie pajamas, too.”
“Look, this might sound crazy,” I said. “But is there any chance that Rupert got his hands on your prerelease Snuzzle and somehow, I don’t know . . . reprogrammed it to terminate Hamstersaurus Rex?”
“I don’t think so. He mostly drives us places and makes sure there are enough yogurt cups in the house,” said Cid. “But . . . I guess you can never be totally sure someone’s not an evil mastermind.”
“Do you recognize this?” I tossed my backpack on the floor and pulled out the shapeless, broken Snuzzle.
Cid cocked his head. “Is it . . . a fuzzy slipper full of garbage?”
“It’s the Snuzzle that attacked me,” I said.
“Mine doesn’t look like that,” said Cid. “Here, I’ll show you.”
He disappeared down the hall, leaving Hamstersaurus Rex and me alone in the cavernous hallway. A few minutes later, Cid came back holding a box. Inside it was a Snuzzle.
“Here’s the one my dad got me,” said Cid.
He tossed it to me. This model was apparently called “Bobbo,” and it was brand-new, still in its original packaging. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Wake up, Bobbo,” said Cid.
Bobbo opened its yellow eyes and blinked in a too-cute way. “HEWWO, FWIEND,” it said.
Hamstersaurus Rex vs. the Cutepocalypse Page 10