by Bruce Hale
“Glog,” I said, rubbing my throat.
“You can stop choking,” said Natalie. “He’s gone.”
“No, birdbrain, Glog is what I learned. He said Glog thinks lizards shouldn’t lead.”
“Glog? Sounds like a Swedish mouthwash.”
“Whoever or whatever, Glog is serious,” I said. “And he’s giving Ben orders. That mook has dropped out of the race, but he’s still trying to make me quit.”
“Call me crazy, but I get the feeling that Ben doesn’t like you.”
“Okay, you’re crazy.” Once more, I surveyed the milling crowd. “Hey, where’s Mr. Zero, anyway?”
“Right here, Gecko,” purred Natalie, in a dead-on impersonation of our principal.
“You,” I said. “You’re good.”
“Marvelous impression, Miss Attired,” said Mr. Zero’s voice again.
I goggled. “And that time, I didn’t even see your mouth move.”
Natalie stared, big-eyed, at a spot over my shoulder. “It didn’t,” she said.
I turned.
The real Principal Zero stood behind me, smelling of tuna fish and kitty litter and trouble. “Well, well,” he growled. “There’s a rumble in the schoolyard, and here you are. Is this your handiwork?”
“Me?” I said. “I was just giving a speech, when—”
“I thought so,” said Mr. Zero. “Detention for you, Chet Gecko.”
“But—” I said.
“But what?” snarled the principal, with an extra-strength glare.
“Uh, he’s already had detention today,” said Natalie.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Principal Zero smoothed his whiskers. “Very well. I don’t wish to seem unfair . . .”
“Thanks, Mr. Zero,” I said.
“. . . so I’ll make this detention for tomorrow,” said the cat. “Get back to class.” He waded into the mob, dispensing punishment.
“But recess isn’t over yet,” I called after him.
The class bell jangled. Recess was over.
“It’s spooky how he does that,” said Natalie.
13
Taking the Bully by the Horns
When a case heats up, it helps to stop, take a step back, and look at all the facts. And it really helps if you’ve got a brainy partner to do this with.
After school ended, Natalie and I put our gray matter to work.
“So, what have we got?” I said, as we cruised down the halls.
“Aside from your epic string of detentions?” said Natalie. “This: Somebody—maybe Perry, maybe Rocky, maybe Glog—is trying to control the election.”
I shot out my tongue and nabbed a slow horsefly. Afternoon snack.
“Also, we’ve got, mmf, lots of action from the bullies,” I said, chewing.
“Think they’re cooking up a plan?”
I burped. “I’d be surprised to find that they could even cook.”
“Still,” said Natalie, “I get the feeling that some organized group is at work, dedicated to making our lives miserable.”
“Teachers?”
“No, bug-brain. Some other group.”
We were just passing the bike racks, a favorite after-school ambush spot for thugs. And there was Rocky Rhode, up to her old tricks—dangling a second grader over a trash can until he coughed up his money.
“Who enjoys making everybody’s life miserable?” I said, nodding at Rocky.
“Who indeed,” said Natalie. “But how do we get her to confess?”
Rocky counted the kid’s change and sent the tyke off with a gentle punt.
“Well,” I said, “we could just ask.”
And armed only with that brilliant plan, we started toward Rocky Rhode.
Her shoulders were broad enough for a linebacker—if that linebacker had full-body spikes, too much eye makeup, and a fierce crush on Albert Einstein (don’t ask). She greeted us with charm and grace.
“Shove off, screwballs!” said Rocky.
“Nice to see you, too,” I said, stopping just out of reach. “It’s been too long.”
The horned toad snarled. “Are you cruisin’ for a bruisin’?”
“No,” said Natalie, “but we’d hoedown for the lowdown.”
“Huh?”
We were moving too fast for her. “We likee information,” I said. “You havee. Savvy?”
Rocky growled.
Natalie and I stepped back.
“You want the scoop, peeper? It’s gonna cost you,” said the bully.
I dug in my pocket. “What will a quarter buy us?”
“Diddly and squat,” said Rocky. She circled toward us.
We circled back away.
“If you peepers got no cash, you gotta pay me another way,” said the horned toad.
“What’s on your mind?” I said. “If we can call it that.”
“For every question I answer, we play Flinch.”
“Ooh, I love games,” said Natalie. “What’s Flinch?”
Rocky grinned like a barracuda in the dentist’s chair. “If I make you flinch, I get to pound your shoulder.”
“Sure you wouldn’t rather play Go Fish?” I asked.
“Flinch or nothing.”
Natalie and I traded a glance. “Sounds like your game,” she said.
“Thanks a bunch.” I stopped. “But how do we know she’ll tell the truth?”
Rocky Rhode loomed before me. Up close, she was a lot bigger. (And a lot funkier. These hoodlums never heard of deodorant?)
“I may be a cheat and a bully . . . ,” she began.
“No,” said Natalie, “you are a cheat and a bully.”
“Oh, right,” said the horned toad. “But I’m not a liar. Ask away.”
“Um, here goes,” I said. “Did you and Ben force Viola to quit the race?”
“First answer: nope,” said Rocky. “Ben and me don’t hang out anymore. He’s changed.”
In a lightning move, she drove her fist at my face.
“Aaugh!” I jumped back.
“Flinch!” bellowed the horned toad. She grabbed my arm and gave my shoulder a tremendous wallop.
“Ow! What was that?”
“Second answer,” said Rocky. “That was Flinch.”
“Wait, that wasn’t a real quest—”
I shrank from her swing. Again she hammered my shoulder.
“Owie-ow-ow! That hurt!”
“Hee, hee,” Rocky chuckled. “Next question.”
Gritting my teeth, I tried for calm. My shoulder could take only so much.
“Are you in cahoots with someone called Glog?”
“Never heard of ’im,” said Rocky. She feinted at my eyes with spiky fingers.
I tried my best to keep my eyes open. Naturally, I blinked.
“Flinch!”
This time, she popped me so hard, my hat came off, and my upper arm turned to jelly.
One last question. Then, a well-earned trip to the hospital.
“Rocky,” I said. “You bullies have been acting really screwy lately. If you’re not fixing elections, what are you up to?”
She smiled. “We’re forming a union. See, I thought we’d be much more efficient if we organized. It’s working out great.”
“Good thinking,” said Natalie.
I stared at her.
She lifted a shoulder. “What? It’s clever.”
Rocky kicked off another round of Flinch, with the expected results.
My whole arm throbbed. I gave a grim smile. Maybe the horned toad wasn’t behind my ex-client’s troubles, but I didn’t want to leave her with the upper hand.
“A final question, Rocky.”
She grinned wickedly and formed a fist. “Shoot.”
“What is the square root of an isosceles triangle?”
Rocky blinked. “Huh?”
“Well, if you can’t answer my question, I guess I get to play . . .”
I threw a fake punch at Rocky’s horned mug. She winced in surprise.
&
nbsp; “Flinch!” I cried, and belted her shoulder with all my might.
I hadn’t counted on her spikes.
“Yow! Oh man!” My hand stung like a bucketful of jellyfish.
As I stumbled off with Natalie, Rocky called after us. “Hey, come back anytime. I could play Flinch all day!”
Natalie walked me home. My arm dangled like an elephant’s earlobe.
“No wonder the bullies have been so busy,” I said.
“Guess Rocky’s not behind the threatening notes,” said Natalie.
“Guess not,” I said. “But at least we learned one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Next time someone wants to play Flinch, you’re asking the questions.”
14
Vote Like a Butterfly; Sting Like a Flea
Election day morning felt like any other morning—a rotten way to start the day. Honestly, if the world got going at noon, I’d be a much happier gecko.
At school, election-day fever gripped the campus. Kids waved flags, chewed Perry 4 Prez gum, and lined up at the library to cast their votes.
I had no illusions. Perry would easily beat Popper and me. But I didn’t much care about my political career.
What bothered me was, my unseen foe was still one step ahead—making Viola quit, Ben attack me, and pulling who knows what other dirty tricks?
And if I didn’t catch up with him, her, or them today, that was it.
Game over.
Natalie and I met at recess in the voting line, which snaked out the library door and onto the grass.
“So,” I said, “it’s not Ben, since he’s dropped out. And it’s not Rocky . . .”
“Who does that leave?” she said. “Perry Winkel, or this Glog guy?”
“Must be,” I said. We shuffled with the line, up onto the library steps.
Natalie cocked her head. “But something doesn’t make sense. With Viola gone, Perry’s gonna win by a landslide. Why would he or his goons feel threatened by you?”
“Because of my winning personality?”
“Oh, sure.” She smirked. “You’ll probably capture the smart-aleck vote.”
“Don’t underestimate my people,” I said. “We’re small but mighty.”
Natalie and I entered the library. As we waited, Popper passed us coming out. She boinged up like a pogo stick doing hip-hop.
“Hey, hi, hi, you guys!” she said. “Going to vote?”
“Nah,” I said, “we heard they were passing out free earwig fudge bars.”
For a moment, she frowned in confusion, then brightened. “Well, enjoy! This was a fun, fun race. And may the best inny-unny-animal win!”
I watched her go. “It’s candidates like her who give politics a bad name.”
We cast our votes with the rest of the kids, and then pushed out the doors.
“Who’d you vote for?” I asked Natalie.
“My lips are sealed,” she said.
I raised an eyebrow. “Birds don’t have lips.”
“Nevertheless.”
We were at loose ends. To stop the plot, we had to prove Perry or Glog was breaking the rules—and do it before the votes were tallied. Cool Beans would count the ballots that evening, long after school was out.
We had less than four hours—minus my lunchtime detention.
“Let’s split up,” I said. “I’ll try to find Glog; you go shadow Perry.”
“I think he’s already got a shadow,” said Natalie.
I rolled my eyes. “Just stick with him.”
“Forsooth, great sleuth!”
I shot her a look.
“What,” she said, “you don’t like Shakespeare?”
Recess disappeared like a snow cone dropped on a summer sidewalk. I asked kids about Glog, but all I got were odd looks, a few buzz offs, and an invitation to a Norwegian fish-slapping dance.
Come class time, I was none the wiser. That condition lasted throughout my morning lessons—despite Mr. Ratnose’s best efforts.
I sulked through the long minutes. It wasn’t fair that I got two days of detention just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Yeah, I know. Tough-guy private eyes don’t sulk. But let’s see Sherlock Holmes or Sam Spade face my frustrations and come up smiling.
By the time lunch arrived, my mood was as foul as a spoiled stinkbug casserole. I dragged my tail out the door of Mr. Ratnose’s classroom and down the hall.
At the intersection, I paused. One corridor led to detention; one led to freedom.
Which would I pick?
“Chet Gecko!” yelled the grumpy gator Ms. Glick from outside Room 3. “Get your scaly tail over here.”
Detention it was.
Then I slouched into Room 3, and strangely enough, things looked sunnier. Ben Dova and Dum-Dum the badger sat moping by the windows. (They’d been so palsy-walsy lately, they even sulked together.)
“Hiya, girls,” I said. “Whatcha in for?”
“Somebody ratted us out for breaking up your speech,” wheezed Dum-Dum in his odd, high voice.
“Well, well,” I said. “Small world, isn’t it?”
“Not as small as your pea-brain,” snarled Ben. They chuckled.
Before I could punish them with my wit, a heavy hand clamped onto my shoulder.
“Park your carcass,” said Ms. Glick. “And zip your lip. You’re not going anywhere this time.” She passed out our lunches, and then chained and padlocked the door.
I sat in the next row over from the two cutiepies, far enough to be out of reach, but close enough to eavesdrop. As I munched, I kept my ears tuned to Ben and Dum-Dum, but they behaved like model prisoners.
I waited until Ms. Glick was busy disciplining a surly rodent up front. “What’s the matter?” I whispered to Ben. “Did Glog desert you?”
He stared with hooded eyes. “Never,” he said.
“Who is Glog, anyway? A sixth grader? A teacher?”
Ben and Dum-Dum chuckled. “You don’t know squat about Glog,” said Ben.
“Oh, yeah?” I taunted. “Show me how dumb I am.”
But Ms. Glick shushed us, and I resumed chewing my tasteless food.
A flicker of movement caught my eye. Someone was skulking outside the open window, beyond Ms. Glick’s line of sight: a sneaky-looking weasel in dark glasses and a fluorescent orange tank top. Spy-Girl Barbie.
I felt I’d seen her before, but couldn’t place her.
Spy-Girl waved at the two brutes. As Ben and Dum-Dum watched, the weasel folded a note into a paper airplane and lofted it through the window.
Her aim was as bad as her fashion sense.
The plane wobbled through the air, past Dum-Dum’s grasp, and headed straight for me. Just at that moment, Ms. Glick chose to look up.
I shot out my tongue and snagged the missile—glomph!
“What’s going on there?” snarled the Beast of Room 3. The weasel pulled a vanishing act.
“Um, wreally bwig cwockroach,” I mumbled around the message.
The wolverine and badger stared daggers at me. If we’d been a knife-throwing act, they’d have carved me into flank steaks in no time flat.
“Dova, Dumbrowski—eyes front!” Ms. Glick harrumphed. “And Gecko, no snacking during detention.” She returned to grading tests.
When the coast was clear, I fished the soggy note from my mouth.
Yuck. I hate it when girls write on perfumed paper.
The message read:
URRGENT—
GLOGG AT BOOK KLUB. MEET TODDAY AT 3:30.
LUV,
CYDNI
Something struck me as familiar about the crummy handwriting and worse spelling. Hmm.
I glanced over at the wolverine and badger. These bruisers were no book club members. In fact, I’d have been willing to bet that neither one had read anything since his last report card, which mostly consisted of one letter: F.
So Glog was going to be at the book club, eh?
I didn’t know e
xactly what this club was up to, but I did know one thing. It was about to get a new member: one Chet “Super Snooper” Gecko.
I just hoped the “book” they were reading didn’t turn out to be a cliff-hanger.
15
Bubba Ganoosh
Detention didn’t last any longer than the Roman Empire, the Jurassic period, or the World’s Most Boring Movies marathon. It just seemed that way.
At long last, Ms. Glick unlocked the door. I scooted out before the other delinquents, making sure to give Ben and Dum-Dum the slip.
My hunch told me Glog’s book club could hold the answers to all the latest strangeness at Emerson Hicky. If I could catch the phony literature lovers working their mischief, I could write a new ending to their twisted story.
During late recess, Natalie and I met by the scrofulous tree to regroup.
“I didn’t learn anything from watching Perry,” she said. “He campaigned, he voted, he ate lunch, and he played basketball. Bo-ring.”
“Wait till you hear about my lunch,” I said, and filled her in on the latest.
Natalie perked up. “That’s what I call a lead,” she said. “Hey, that spy weasel—did she look like the one we saw casing Viola’s locker?”
I smacked my head. “Of course! That’s where I’ve seen her before.”
“Show me the message,” said Natalie. I showed her.
“This looks like the writing on those mean notes Viola got,” she said.
“So that’s why it seemed so familiar.”
Natalie smirked. “Lucky you’ve got me around to connect the dots.”
“Dots what friends are for,” I said. “Now, let’s figure out how to bust Glog and his book club.”
“If only we could bring a teacher to catch them making their mischief.”
“Better yet,” I said, “we’ll bring the mischief-making to the teacher. Tell me, does your brother still work for the newspaper?”
After school, Natalie and I sat on the rooftop across from the library. She had borrowed her brother’s tape recorder. We were loaded and ready to go.
Our goal: plant the device before the meeting began. We waited for school to empty out. Ten minutes dragged by like a caterpillar with sprained ankles.