by Bruce Hale
“We won’t do you rung,” said Natalie.
The mongoose grunted. “I wait right here.”
Natalie and I hoisted the ladder and lugged it through the trees.
“I hope James is still there,” she said.
“He better be,” I said. “’Cause if something’s happened to him, I’m gonna kill him.”
We staggered up to the oak tree. No sign of the wannabe detective.
“Bland!” I called. “Where are you?”
“Olly, olly, oxen free!” cried Natalie.
I glanced at her. “You know, I’ve always wondered about that. Does it mean that the oxen don’t cost anything?”
“Or is it telling some guy named Olly that his livestock has escaped?”
“I say, chums,” came a voice from the tree fork. “You are going to rescue me by teatime, aren’t you? I’m a bit peckish.”
“That seems only right for a bird,” I said.
We wrangled the ladder up against the trunk, and with Natalie’s help, the penguin made his way down it.
I was helpful and supportive. Of course, it would’ve taken a stronger gecko than me not to crack up when Bland missed the last four rungs and landed—boomf!—on his bubble butt.
“Ooh!” he said, struggling to his feet. “Thanks awfully. I say, I’m absolutely famished. Don’t suppose either of you has the odd bonito biscuit?”
“Not even the even one,” I said. “We’ve gotta get you to the game, pronto.”
His eyes brightened. “And settle Ginger’s hash?”
“Buddy,” I said. “Can’t you think of anything else but food?”
“Look who’s talking,” said Natalie. “Now, let’s go!”
We dragged the ladder back through the woods and propped it against the fence where Maureen DeBree waited.
“You found the missing kid,” she said. “Maybe you really is one hotshot detective, eh?”
“All in a day’s work, sister. Give us a hand?”
A soft clap-clap-clap came from Ms. DeBree’s side of the fence.
I shook my head. Custodian humor.
With the mongoose’s help, we hustled penguin, ladder, and ourselves back over onto school property. A distant cheer floated from the playing field.
“What time is it?” I asked the janitor.
She checked her watch. “Almost three o’clock.”
“Come on!” I said. “Time to give that sparrow her just deserts!”
“Mmm, dessert,” murmured Bland.
I charged across the playground, Natalie flapping just overhead. But we hadn’t gone far when she said, “Chet, wait.”
“For what?”
“James.”
Slowing, I glanced back. The penguin waddled along on his stubby legs, sluggish as a Sunday in August.
“Hurry!” I cried.
“This is as hurry-ish as I get,” said Bland. “Penguins aren’t built for speed.”
My teeth clenched. The big butterball was costing us time. But I couldn’t get off the hook without him.
I jogged back. What a time to get caught without my skateboard.
Skateboard? Hmm.
Eyeballing the slope of the lawn, I asked, “Ever done any sledding, Bland?”
His forehead creased. “Well . . . on the snow? Certainly, old bean.”
“Try grass, old sprout,” I said.
“Well, all right,” said Bland. “But I don’t suppose it’s very tasty.”
When he bent to nibble the lawn, I gave him a boot in his penguin booty.
“Oof!” Bland belly flopped onto the lawn.
I hopped onto his back like a flea at a dog show, kicked once, twice with my foot, and away we slid.
“Oi!” said James Bland.
“Ride ’em, Gecko!” called Natalie from above.
Faster and faster we glided, pouring on steam as the slope increased. I whooped and guided him around some bushes. “Go, Bland, go!”
We just might make it after all, I thought.
A trash can loomed dead ahead.
Or not.
15
Soccer Blew
“Watch out for the—” cried Bland.
“Yikes!” I grabbed his fins and steered hard right.
Ffssssh! We brushed past on edge, toppling the can and spilling its trash.
“Ms. DeBree won’t like that,” cried Natalie.
“Never mind her,” I said, wrestling for control of the speeding penguin. “Just watch for obstacles.”
My Bland-sled spun a 360, nearly dumping me before I could get us back on track.
“Easy on the—oof!—old tum-tum,” he said.
Luckily for the penguin, his old tum-tum was well padded. But he’d still have a heckuva belly burn.
Flapping just overhead, Natalie said, “This reminds me of a song.”
“‘The Electric Slide’?” I asked.
“Nope.” She sang, “Dashing through the snow, in a one-penguin open sleigh . . . Through the school we go, laughing all the—stairs!”
I glanced up. “Huh? Stairs doesn’t rhyme with sleigh.”
“No, Chet . . .”
“Stairs!” cried Natalie and Bland together.
We crested a rise, and then I saw it: The grass ended in a flight of stairs.
My body tensed. No way to stop in time.
“Hang on!” I cried, clutching the penguin’s flippers in a death grip.
“AAAHHHH!” cried James Bland.
And we were airborne.
Hang time is slow-mo time. I could see past the stairs to the gym and the soccer field beyond. I could read the scoreboard: PETSADENA 3, EMERSON HICKY 0. In fact, I even had the chance to regret my bogus science report on land sharks.
But hang time doesn’t last.
The penguin’s body hit with a whump! As we jounced down the steps, Bland’s cry turned to “AH-uh-AH-uh-AH!”
Ka-fomp!
We collapsed in a detective dog pile at the foot of the stairs.
I lay still. The world had turned dark, suffocating, and as cramped as a hermit crab’s closet. I struggled, but couldn’t move. Had the fall paralyzed me?
“Mmf!” I cried.
Something tugged on my leg. Then the world rolled away and I could breathe again.
“Chet, are you okay?” asked Natalie.
I grinned weakly. “As okay as anyone smushed by a penguin butt could be.”
She helped me to my feet.
“Let’s go bust a sparrow,” I said. “Coming, James?”
Bland levered himself up. “Can’t pack it in just yet. Let’s carry on.”
Supporting each other, we staggered past a low fence and out to the field. The cheers seemed especially loud and the uniforms especially bright. Everything spun with an off-key giddiness, like a carnival in Munchkin Land.
“Sure you’re okay?” said Natalie as I weaved.
“Never better,” I said. “Where’s Mr. Zero?”
Natalie’s sharp eyes spotted our principal in the front row of bleachers. I waved to the hefty tomcat and pointed at Bland.
Principal Zero scowled, nodded grudgingly, and twitched an ear. That was as close to an apology as the big guy ever got.
I turned to the game. The field was utter chaos—kids in silver jerseys and golden jerseys butting and tripping one another, while adults screamed from the sidelines. Madness reigned.
“We’re too late!” I cried. “Ginger’s pulled off her plan.”
Natalie lifted an eyebrow. “This is what our soccer games usually look like.”
“Oh,” I said. “I really must get out more often.”
She turned to James Bland. “So, what’s Ginger’s plan?”
The plump penguin smiled weakly. “I don’t actually, er, know, do I?”
“You don’t?” I said, scanning for the sparrow. “Well, that’s just swell.”
“Over there, Chet,” said Natalie.
Ginger Vitus, Frankenbunny, and a gawky box turtle stood by the
benches on our side, holding towels and spray bottles. Coach Stroganoff called a time-out, and three Emerson Hicky players jogged off-field.
“Look alive, you geeks!” shouted one of the players. Ginger and her nerd pals bustled over, wiped off the athletes’ sweat, and spritzed them.
“Pretty sinister,” I said. “And for this I nearly got thrown in the slammer?”
“Let’s have a look-see, shall we?” said Bland.
As we approached, the coach was arguing with Charles de Gull.
“I don’t care if you’re the greatest player since Jacques Le Strappe,” said Coach Stroganoff. “You go in when I say you go.”
“But ze team, she eez losing!” squawked the gull.
“Siddown,” barked the groundhog.
Charles de Gull mumbled, casting black looks at Ginger. She pretended not to notice.
Coach gave some last orders to the three players, a beefy duck and two raccoons, then clapped his paws. “Let’s play some ball!” he yelled.
The three jocks ran back onto the field, shaking their heads and wobbling a little. Whistles shrilled, and the game resumed.
I stopped behind Ginger. “Well, if it isn’t the evil birdbrain herself.”
The sparrow jumped. Frankenbunny and the turtle gasped.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” said Ginger.
“I’ve come to clip your wings, upset your apple-cart, spike your scheme.”
Several expressions chased each other across her face. Ginger settled on innocent. “What scheme?”
“I say, Chet,” said James Bland.
“Not now, ace.” I eyed the sparrow. “What do you take me for?”
“A has-been,” she said.
“You didn’t shoot down my rep just for yuks.”
“Uh, Chet?” said Natalie.
“Later. You didn’t snatch Bland and stash him in your nest for nothing.”
Ginger pouted. “I don’t know what you’re, uh, talking about.”
“Chet, look!” cried Natalie.
“What is it?” I followed her gaze.
Out on the field, Emerson Hicky’s athletes were tripping over their own feet like dodo birds at a disco. One of the raccoons slipped and did a face-plant, right into the grass. The duck stumbled into Mindy, knocking the ball loose.
A triumphant Petsadena player booted it in for a goal.
“Yeah, so?” I said. “Our jocks are duds.”
Natalie shook her head. “Something’s nutty.”
“Or nerdy.” Charles de Gull spat from the bench.
“Come again?” I said.
Ginger shot the gull a dark look of her own. “Charles . . .”
“No!” he spat. “You promise eef I ’elp you fake Connie’s kidnapping, I would play. But I am still warming ze bench.”
“That’s not my fault,” said the sparrow.
“Hah,” said de Gull. “Enough lies. Zees eez her plan: She turn ze team into geeks, and we lose.”
I blinked. “What? How?”
“Simple, smart guy,” snarled Ginger. “With nerd spray.”
And she spritzed a double squirt of her bottle—right into my face.
16
A Nerd’s-Eye View
“Aaugh!” I wiped my streaming eyes on my sleeve.
By the time my vision cleared, Ginger’s friends had scattered, and the sparrow herself had taken to the skies.
“Get her, Natalie!” I shouted.
“I’m on it!” she said, flapping in pursuit.
I dashed onto the field, bumping bodies, trying to keep the sparrow in sight.
“Hey, watch it!” snarled a chuckwalla in Petsadena silver.
“Where’s your jersey?” asked a weasel.
“Next to my york,” I said. (But I doubted they got the joke.)
Up above, Natalie overtook Ginger, wheeling to force her to turn.
A strange tingle numbed my face. I shook my head, and zigzagged after the sparrow.
Strange thoughts clouded my mind. Fractions and two-digit multiplication, the Treaty of West Kalamazoo, the difference between igneous and sedimentary rocks—all made a kind of beautiful sense.
An odd feeling crept over me. I wanted to . . . study?
“Unh!” I smashed into a hefty toad and stumbled back. Pain cleared my head. My aim returned.
Get Ginger.
Glancing up at her, I thought, as my study partner.
I bit the inside of my cheek. “No, dummy. Stop her!”
“Huh?” said a nearby otter.
Fighting the urge to sit down and crack a book, I hauled after the sparrow, who was headed toward Petsadena’s goal. I was gaining—only yards to go.
My legs pumped like pistons. I reached for Ginger’s dangling claws.
Just another few inches . . .
“Gecko, think fast!” someone called.
As my foot swept forward, it met something hard and rubbery.
Poomf!
I booted the soccer ball just as my hand glommed on to Ginger’s leg.
“Gotcha!”
For a few brief moments, I was airborne. The crowd cheered.
“Let go!” she cried, kicking with her free leg. “We’ll crash!”
Ginger dipped. I looked down in time to see the goalie’s wide eyes.
Whoomp!
We scooped him up like a feather-and-scale cyclone.
Foomp! The three of us hit the goal net.
All was a crazy goulash of legs and tails, arms and elbows, until the referees got us untangled.
“Spectacular goal, Gecko.” Coach Stroganoff chuckled, looking me up and down. “Have you ever considered soccer?”
A voice in my head said, Yeah, I consider it a total waste of time, but I guessed that was just the nerd juice talking.
“Think how good he’d be if he actually practiced,” said Natalie.
James Bland showed up with Mr. Zero in tow. Ginger wilted under the principal’s stare, like dandelion salad in a microwave oven.
“Missy, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” he growled.
The sparrow hung her head. “I, uh, just wanted to show them how it feels to be a geek like me,” she whimpered. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
Mr. Zero’s tail twitched. “You consider kidnapping not hurting anyone?”
“I guess it got a little, uh, out of hand?”
“I’d jolly well say so,” Bland sputtered. “These blighters had me in a freezing-cold dungeon lined with spikes, ringed round by a piranha-infested moat. Why, Chet and Natalie had to fight past rabid wolverines to—”
“Is that true, Gecko?” asked Coach Stroganoff, arching a furry eyebrow.
I spread my hands. “Would an ace PI tell a lie?”
The penguin beamed a surprised thank-you. Mr. Zero harrumphed.
He took Ginger by a wing. “You and your little friends will join me in my office now,” he said. “A couple of boys in blue are dying to meet you.”
The massive cat collected Frankenbunny and the turtle, and he led the three nerds away. I suspected that the spanking machine would be working overtime.
“I hope he throws the book at that lot,” said James Bland.
“Oh, I dunno,” I said. “They’re not really that evil . . .”
Natalie tugged on the skin of my cheek.
“Hey, easy on the merchandise,” I said.
“Just checking that you’re not some impostor wearing a Chet Gecko costume,” she said. “I could have sworn my partner was ready to fricassee whoever wrecked his reputation.”
I pushed back my hat and scratched my head. “Well, I . . . guess I know how Ginger feels, that’s all.”
“How she feels?” said Natalie. “Who-ee! You must have gotten a double dose of that nerd spray.”
The penguin flung a flipper over our shoulders. “I say, old chums, as long as we’re here, shall we find some nibbles and watch the game?”
I looked from them to the teams on the field, and felt a warm buzz.
“Actually,” I said. “I’ve got something important to do—something I’ve been needing to do for a long time.”
“Thank-yous?” said Natalie.
“Revenge?” asked Bland.
“Homework,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”
17
Swing Cleaning
By the next day, the effects of the nerd spray had evaporated like a bully’s bluff in the principal’s office. I had to struggle through morning lessons using the same wits I was born with.
Yes, it was that bad.
Still, I got to savor Mr. Ratnose’s expression when my math homework earned a perfect score. He hadn’t looked like that since someone moved his favorite cheese.
By recess, the details of Ginger’s scheme had spread throughout the school. Apparently, she and her chemistry club pals had developed the spray as an experiment in boosting intelligence.
When they discovered that clumsiness came as a side effect, Ginger hatched her plan to take down the jocks who had always mocked them. She faked her sister’s kidnapping to trash my reputation and put me on ice.
Then, when I still came up swinging, she framed me for Bland’s disappearance. Twisted? Yes. But flattering, too. All that plotting, just to get rid of little ol’ me.
At recess, Natalie and I were enjoying some quality time on the swings.
“One thing I don’t understand,” she said.
“Why, if you spill spot remover on a dog, he doesn’t disappear?”
“No,” she said. “Why, if the nerd spray was supposed to make kids klutzy, you didn’t act any klutzier than usual.”
I leaned back and pulled on the chains as the swing rushed forward. “Maybe I’m invulnerable. Like Superman.”
Natalie cackled. “Right. Or maybe you can’t be any klutzier than you already are.”
I swung in silence for a while, savoring that glow that comes from wrapping up a case. I’d get her back, of course, but not just yet.
“You know,” I said, “maybe it’s just the aftereffects of the nerd spray, but I’ve been thinking . . .”
“Careful, it’s tricky the first time out.”
“Ha, ha,” I said. “Seriously. I feel like I understand Ginger a little more than the usual bad guys we’ve busted.”