by Bruce Hale
“Shaddap!” snarled Dum-Dum. “Ben, we gotta teach these punks a lesson.”
“If it’s an English lesson,” I said, “don’t bother.”
Natalie and I backed away. The two bruisers advanced on us like a pair of tanks against tricycles.
This was going to get very ugly. Very quickly.
“C’mere, Gecko,” said the wolverine. “Time to take your medicine.”
I sidestepped his grab. “Not unless it’s sugarcoated.”
The badger reached for Natalie, who took flight. He snagged her leg.
“Chet!” cried Natalie.
“Let her go!” I shouted.
“What’s going on?” A buzz-saw voice sliced through the hubbub.
Kids parted, and up waddled an alligator in a pillbox hat. She was mean, she was green, but I’d never been happier to see the Detention Queen—Ms. Glick, the Beast of Room 3.
“Ms. Glick,” I said. “Natalie and I—”
The Beast of Room 3 whirled on me. “Chester Gecko!”
I hate it when they call me by my full name.
“Making trouble?” she said. “What a surprise.”
“Not me,” I said. “These punks were just about to—”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t try to pass the buck. Detention for you tomorrow, mister.”
“But—”
“Mr. Dumbrowski!” said the alligator, turning to Dum-Dum.
“Um, yeah?” squeaked the badger.
“Put down that mockingbird right now. Everyone, back to class.”
B-r-r-r-ring!
The bell rang, underlining her words. I sighed.
It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t pretty. But what’s a grade-school detective to do? The teachers hold all the cards, and it’s a stacked deck anyway.
Off to class I went.
7
The Squirrelly Bird Gets the Squirm
The next day dawned hot and sunny as a supermodel’s smile. At least, that’s what Natalie told me.
I missed the dawn, missed my alarm clock, and, what’s worse, even missed breakfast.
Mornings are not my best time of day.
Ten minutes before the school bell, I straggled onto campus and met Natalie by the flagpole. The hind end of a worm was vanishing into her mouth as I approached. (Or maybe it was the front end; with worms it’s hard to tell.)
“Hey, mmf, sleepyhead!” she mumbled around the worm. “You’re the late bird, so you don’t get one of these.”
“I’ll try to live with the disappointment,” I said. “Shall we snoop?”
As Natalie and I headed back to Viola’s locker to resume our stakeout, we chewed over the case. It wasn’t as tasty as breakfast would have been.
“So, who’s left on our suspect list?” I said.
“Perry Winkel and Ben Dova,” said Natalie. “My money’s on Perry.”
“But he’s the front-runner,” I said. “Why would he threaten Viola?”
Natalie shrugged. “He’s gone nutso for power?”
“A cuckoo fox? Maybe. But I’m betting that Ben’s our boy.”
We passed the office. Down the hall, our sandpiper client was doing some early morning politicking, talking to passersby.
“. . . hope I can count on your vote,” she was saying to a nerdy chipmunk.
“Sure,” he said, “if you’ll really consider my idea of putting cola in the drinking fountains. It’s highly feasible.”
Viola passed the little rodent a slip of cardboard that read, Vote for Viola!
The chipmunk looked at it. “Perry’s giving out gum,” he sneered, and left.
“Hey, Viola,” I said.
She gave a start and scuttled away. “Oh!” she said. “It’s you.”
“We just wanted to ask—” Natalie began.
“Don’t look at me!” squeaked Viola. “Eyes front!” She scampered behind a shaggy skreezitz bush.
Natalie raised an eyebrow. We pretended to gaze across the schoolyard.
“Ooo-kay,” I said. “Happy?”
“You know I’m not happy,” said Viola. “Someone’s spreading rumors that I’ve had a, er, nervous breakdown.”
“The nerve of them,” said Natalie.
“And today I found another threatening note.”
I turned. “What’s it say?”
“Don’t look!” shrieked the sandpiper.
After I faced front, she tossed a piece of paper onto the ground at our feet. The note read:
THIS IS YER LAST CHANCE. QUITT BY LUNCHTYME, OR YER TOAST!
Mmm, toast. That reminded me: I hadn’t eaten yet.
“Chet?” said Natalie.
“Hmm?”
“What do you think?”
“I think a Termite Twinkie would help me make it to lunchtime.”
Natalie swatted me. “About the note, ding-dong.”
“Oh, right.”
The bushes rustled. “Can you, er, stop this lunatic?” asked Viola.
“Definitely,” I said.
“Soon?” she asked. “I’m giving a speech at recess, and I’m afraid.”
“Buck up, sister. Tell me: Aside from the other candidates, has anyone got it in for you?”
“Impossible,” said Viola, poking her head through the bush. “I’m a straight-A student, president of four clubs, captain of the girls’ soccer team, editor of the school newspaper, and first-chair tuba.”
“And who could carry a grudge against such perfection?” I said.
“Nobody,” said the sandpiper. “Just ask the librarian.”
“Cool Beans?” said Natalie. “Why?”
“He’s running the election. All the candidates have to—”
A cheerleader approached.
“Shh!” hissed the sandpiper. “Act naturally.”
I studied a cloud as if it contained the secrets of turning water into chocolate syrup. Natalie began to whistle “Boogie Wonderland.”
The cheerleader passed us. “You guys are so weird,” she said.
I turned to Natalie. “Then I guess we were acting naturally,” I said. “Good enough for you, Viola?”
No reply.
“Viola?”
But when we searched the bush, our client had skedaddled.
“Where’d she go?” asked Natalie.
“Beats me,” I said. “But I know where I’m going.”
“Where?”
“To see about that Termite Twinkie.”
Staking out Viola’s locker seemed a waste of time, since she had already received another note (or made one up—I wasn’t ruling out her nuttiness).
Natalie split for class. I hit the snack zone.
For a handful of quarters, the vending machine coughed up its treasure of termitey goodness. I had just peeled the wrapper and chomped into the treat, when the unmistakable sound of tough-guy patter reached my ears.
“Hold it right there, Gecko.”
I looked up. My path was blocked by two rats wearing shades. One was short and burly, the other tall and gangly.
“I’m already holding it,” I said. “Mind if I keep on eating it?”
Short-and-Burly snarled, “That ain’t all you’ll be eatin’ if you don’t listen up.”
“Be still, my beating heart. Is that a threat?”
Tall-and-Gangly cracked her knuckles.
Burly sneered. “Look, peeper, I’m only gonna tell you once.”
“Good,” I said. “Then I’ll only be half as bored.”
Burly snapped his fingers. Gangly lifted me by my shirtfront, leaving my feet dangling.
“Stay away from Ben Dova,” said the shorter rat.
“I’m trying,” I said. “He won’t let me.”
“Try harder,” said Burly.
“Is that all?” I asked Gangly. She gave me the stone face.
“Nah,” said Burly. “If I even hear Chet Gecko and Ben Dova mentioned in the same sentence, your bum is gum, and I’m the chewer.”
“Does that last sentence count?”
I asked Gangly. Still no response.
Burly smiled. “Nah,” he said. “I’m givin’ you one for free.”
I smiled back. “Since you’re so generous, I don’t suppose you’ll confess who told you to lean on me?”
“You don’t suppose right,” he said.
“Okay, then, tell me something.” I pointed at Gangly. “She never cracks a smile. Why do you have her along?”
The short rat looked up at the taller one. “For her fine conversation,” he said.
Burly snapped his fingers again. Gangly hoisted me overhead, bent her knees, and lofted me into the trash can. A picture-perfect hook shot.
“Plus she’s one heckuva ballplayer,” said Burly. “The girl got game.”
Wriggling upright in the can, I watched the cut-rate thugs swagger off. I smiled. Maybe Gangly got game, but Gecko got clue.
Someone was turning up the heat—someone who didn’t want me sniffing around Ben Dova. And that made Ben my Suspect Numero Uno.
Would I keep on sniffing?
Indeed I would. Just as soon as I got out of the trash can.
8
Little Boys’ Blew
I couldn’t tell you what we studied that morning. Math didn’t add up to much. Poetry lacked rhyme or reason.
All through Mr. Ratnose’s class, something kept tickling the edges of my mind, like a good-night kiss from a porcupine. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but for some reason, bullies and threats were popping up all over.
Something was afoot at Emerson Hicky Elementary.
And that foot was stinky.
Recess came, sweeter than a honey-covered fruit fly after a plateful of brussels sprouts. Hoofing it out the door, I scooted over to Natalie’s room.
Her classmates were just leaving. My partner joined me.
“Heya, Chet,” she said. “I’ve got a new one for you.”
“A lead? I can’t wait.”
“What do you get when you pour boiling water down a rabbit hole?”
I held up a hand. “Don’t tell me.”
“Hot cross bunnies.” She giggled.
“I asked you not to tell me. Hey, I’ve got one for you, too.”
As we cruised up the hall, I tipped her to my run-in with the two rats.
“I hate to say I told you so,” I said. “No, wait, I don’t. I told you so.”
“Ha, ha,” said Natalie. “So, Ben’s our guy?”
“Looks like. All we’ve gotta do is prove it.”
It seemed like Viola Fuss’s speech might offer the chance to gather that proof. Natalie and I turned our toes toward the grassy patch near the library, where the sandpiper’s rally was about to start.
We had to duck under four kids who were hanging by their tails from an overhead beam. No, they weren’t bats; they’d been strung up by Herman the Gila Monster and Erik Nidd, who were snickering and chanting, “Turn that frown upside down.”
Say what you will about our bullies; they are creative.
Kids were gathering on the grass. Our client’s crew, wearing VOTE FOR VIOLA! tags, herded the group into a rough kind of order.
“Let’s split up,” I said to Natalie. “Keep your eyes peeled for Ben or a couple of rats in shades.”
“Okey-dokey, artichokey,” said Natalie.
She hung out at the back of the small group. I stood near the front, by the bathrooms.
In another minute, Viola motored out of the building’s shade. Eyes darting right and left, the sandpiper hopped onto a box and raised her wings.
“Fellow . . . er, students,” said Viola. “Ours is a . . . er, wonderful school. Great teachers, great students. But we can do even better.”
I won’t bore you with the rest. Once was enough. But I will say this: Viola seemed to believe what she was saying. As she spoke, her nervousness faded. And kids listened.
The group looked peaceful. No Ben, no rats.
Viola’s speech rambled on. Hard as it is to believe, I must have drowsed for a minute. Nearby movement snapped me back to attention.
Ben Dova strolled past the boys’ bathroom. From the crowd, Rocky Rhode waved at him, but the wolverine either didn’t see her or pretended not to.
Something was cooking.
Hot dang. I eased closer to the sandpiper.
Viola was saying, “And that this school of the students, by the students, and for the students will become a shining—”
Ba-ka-DOOOM!
An explosion rocked the crowd!
Smoke billowed from the bathroom, followed quickly by a geyser of yellow-brown water.
I was standing right in its path.
SPLIZOOSH!
The spout pummeled me, driving me back. Viola tumbled off her box. Kids scattered.
A second later, the stench hit us.
“Eeew!” burst from a dozen throats.
Apparently, my fellow boys hadn’t learned nurse Marge Supial’s Bathroom Health Rule #1: Flush first, ask questions later.
Soon, the waters subsided to a steady flow.
Ears still buzzing from the blast, I wrung out my soggy coat. This would not go down as Chet Gecko’s spiffiest day.
Students shook water from feathers, clothes, fur, and scales. Viola hopped to her feet, wild-eyed.
“I knew it!” she cried. “They’re out to get me!” And off she skittered as fast as her shish-kebab legs could carry her.
Natalie hopped gingerly over the wet grass. She stopped a few feet away.
“Where’s Ben?” I asked.
“Was he here?” she said.
“Yup. Rocky, too—just before things went kablooey.”
“Coincidence?”
I flung droplets from my hat. “Private eyes don’t believe in coincidence.”
“So, what’s up, buttercup?” said Natalie.
“Chew on this: Rocky and Ben are both bullies.”
“Duh.”
“Could they be working together to scare off Viola?”
“Why don’t we go ask Rocky?” she said.
We turned to leave, but were stopped cold by a massive figure.
“Just a minute, Gecko.”
I stepped back.
It was Principal Zero. A big tomcat with a bad attitude, Mr. Zero struck fear into first graders, terror into third graders, and the rest of us—he just plumb scared.
“Toilets explode, and I find you on the scene,” he said. “Interesting.”
“Interesting?” I said. “Nah. Meeting the winner of the annual Scarf ’n’ Barf Contest—now, that’s interesting.”
“Cute.” (The way he pronounced it, cute sounded like extremely dumb.) Mr. Zero’s claws flashed, then retracted. “Gecko, I’m investigating this vandalism. And if I learn you had anything to do with it, you will wish you’d never been hatched. Am I clear?”
“As the windows in a Windex factory.”
He growled.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Now, scat,” he said.
What can you do when the cat says scat? We scatted.
9
Green Legs and Lam
Unfortunately for our case, Natalie and I didn’t have time to grill Rocky Rhode and Ben Dova before class. And I couldn’t haul them before Principal Zero without proof.
So I washed off, changed my stinky T-shirt, and that was that.
Lessons passed, as lessons will (slowly and excruciatingly). When lunchtime arrived, I was primed for action. I zipped out the door with a glide in my stride.
Extortionists beware—Chet Gecko is on the prowl!
This euphoria lasted all the way down the corridor, where I bumped into Ms. Glick, the Beast of Room 3.
“Going somewhere?” she snarled.
“Uh . . . lunch?” I said.
Ms. Glick planted her scaly legs. “Have you forgotten our appointment?”
“Absolutely not.” (Actually, I had.) I smiled winningly. “Just grabbing a bite before detention.”
The alligator grinned back. “Don’t both
er. It’s catered.”
Rats.
Outgunned and outmaneuvered, I slouched down the hall with my captor. We passed Natalie on the way. My eyes sent her a silent message: Help!
No use. A minute later, the booger green door of Room 3 shut behind me. I was stuck in the slammer without bail—serving time while hoodlums ran free.
Grumbling, I slumped into a pink plastic seat. At least we would eat. My stomach rumbled like thunderstorms on Mars.
Foomp!
A tray landed on my desk. I stared. Cauliflower, beets, and lima beans?
“Where are the bugs?” I said. “I need my protein.”
Ms. Glick snapped, “It’s the health plate. You’re on a diet.”
The hefty alligator waddled to her desk and tucked into a platter laden with everything my lunch lacked.
A hubbub of distant voices reached my ears. Kids were outside having fun—other kids.
Life was most definitely not fair.
While eating, I scanned the room. Three fellow prisoners—a mouse, a pigeon, and a skink—and none of them had anything to do with my case.
I sighed.
Then the intercom squawked.
“Calling all teachers, all teachers,” croaked our school secretary, Mrs. Crow. “Report to the office on the double.”
Ms. Glick looked from the speaker to the four of us. She hesitated.
The box crackled again. “Come on, Glick, move your tail!”
Our warden frowned at the intercom. She growled at us, “Don’t even dream about leaving this room.” Then she hustled out the door.
The skink raced to the window to watch Ms. Glick pass. Seconds later, he turned back to the room. “She’s gone.”
We four inmates looked at one another.
“That’s it,” I said. “I’m buzzing this beehive.”
A logjam formed at the door when we all tried to leave at once. But we squeezed into the hall. The other kids hightailed it.
Torn between getting more food and investigating, I paused. Then I beat feet toward the playground. Cauliflower would have to hold me until I could con a late lunch from the cafeteria workers.
I scooted past an intersection.
“And where do you think you’re going?” barked the voice of Ms. Glick.