by Sheila Grau
He opened it and examined the packaging list.
“Twenty-five cc of Suggesterol.” He looked confused. This was not unusual; most professors were constantly forgetting little things like names and birthdays and office supply orders because their minds were so focused on their studies.
He put the package down and pulled out his Necromancers Desk Reference. “Suggesterol, Suggesterol,” he muttered as he looked it up. “Here it is: ‘Suggesterol is the strongest potion available for making a victim susceptible to suggestion. Eighty-seven percent success rate. Do not take with alcohol, other drugs, or puff pastries. Side effects include dizziness, nausea, and involuntary leg spasms. Do not exceed recommended dosage. Discontinue use after three days to avoid permanent brain damage.’ ”
That seemed like a pretty dangerous drug to me. Professor Vodum noticed me staring at him and said, “I didn’t order this.”
“Do you want me to take it back?”
“No, no,” he said quickly, stashing the box under his desk. “I’ll take care of it. Not to worry, Higgins. Now, then, what was your question?”
“I wanted to know the real names of your zombies. I don’t like calling them numbers.”
“Right, sure.” He swiveled around and opened his file. “I have the names, of course,” he said. He thumbed through the file until he found what he was looking for. “Here we go.” He turned back around and handed me a paper. There were fifteen names beneath the title “Zombies—Vodum.”
It was just a list of names. There was no reference to the numbers they wore. “How do I know which one is which?” I asked.
“How should I know?” he whined. “They all look alike to me.”
I read the names. “You didn’t keep track of their numbers?” I asked.
“Why would I? Now, if you don’t mind, I’m very busy trying to save the school. The board of directors will not stand for another accident around here, and Dr. Critchlore seems more interested in recreational activities than in running things.”
“Do you mind if I work with the zombies during detention?” I asked.
“Detention?”
“Yes, you gave me detention. In the graveyard. Because of the bones. Remember?” Why was I reminding him?
“Of course, right. Yes. That would be fine. Work with the zombies for detention. Now run along, I’m a busy man.”
I had a plan. I’d warn Mrs. Gomes about Pismo at lunch, after Literature. Once that was done, I’d be free to work with the zombies after school. As I headed back to the castle, a part of me wondered what Professor Vodum was going to do with that Suggesterol, but I didn’t have time to worry about that.
True genius lies in identifying a minion’s strength and enhancing it for maximum effect.
—FROM THE TEXTBOOK MINION SPECIES, BY DR. D. CRITCHLORE
At lunch I found Mrs. Gomes supervising the construction of a giant wall near the lake. She was nibbling on one of her manicured fingernails. Actually, all her fingernails had been chewed down.
“Mrs. Gomes? I have some new information for you.”
“Higgins,” she said, “I’m very busy right now.” She pointed to one of the workers. “Hubert, that’s not high enough. Darrell, I told you to check the expiration dates on the safety stations. Revis, when you finish here, you need to talk to Cook about having all potential choking hazard foods removed from the cafeteria menu.”
“But this is important,” I said, jumping in front of her so she had to look at me. “Um, what’s the wall for?” I couldn’t help it, I was curious.
“To protect us from tsunamis.”
“Tsunamis? Don’t they usually happen to cities that are, you know, near the ocean?” Stull was completely landlocked.
“That lake is as big as an ocean,” she said. “It has tides! And we had three minor earthquakes last year, and then the temblor that triggered the explosion in the cemetery. It could be a precursor to a bigger quake. A big earthquake, centered under the lake, could be disastrous.”
“But aren’t you investigating the bomb? The leak in the dungeon? The explosive minions? Dr. Frankenhammer’s work was destroyed, and Dr. Critchlore’s office nearly was too.”
“Yes, those investigations are ongoing. Don’t worry, we have everything under control.”
“Mrs. Gomes, I think someone is trying to destroy our supply of minions,” I said. “And I think I know who it is.”
“Really?” she said.
I told her about my suspicions. I laid it all out. The bad attitude, the curious way he was always near the sabotage. “It’s obvious he’s a plant by Dr. Pravus!”
“Higgins, that’s all very interesting, but it’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Every student’s background is checked,” she said. “By me. Are you suggesting that someone could get by me?” She glared at me.
“No,” I said. “But don’t you think it’s suspicious?”
“Actually, I don’t,” she said. “Each of our students is a unique individual, Higgins. You can’t judge someone by a few instances of bad behavior.”
“But—”
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll have a talk with the boy.”
“Please don’t tell him I said anything.”
“Of course not. Now, please, go to class so I can do my job. There are dangers everywhere, and it’s my job to protect us!”
I felt better having shared my suspicions. So after school I asked Frankie to help me with my zombie project, because he has a photographic memory. I sat him down at a computer in the library and showed him the cemetery database, which had information on everyone buried there, including a picture or description of physical characteristics. Frankie quickly memorized everything about each name on my list.
We found the zombies out by the Necromancy Building, swaying and chanting for brains. I darted inside and asked Professor Vodum if he had any brains, because the zombies were going crazy, but he said no, and could I please leave him alone so he could get some work done.
The zombies really didn’t want to leave, but we managed to pull them back to the Memorial Courtyard and line them up by number. Frankie carefully looked at each zombie. Then, without hesitation, he walked down the line, naming each one as he pointed to it.
“Frankie, you’re amazing!” I said. He seemed to blush a little, and I worried about how embarrassment might affect him. Would he pop an arm? A leg?
“Thanks,” he said.
I studied my new list, now with numbers next to the names. I recited the names as I looked at each zombie. “Hilary, Harold, Eunice—”
But then I heard Frankie sniff. I turned and saw him blinking away tears.
“Frankie, what’s the matter?” I asked.
“Is it true?” he asked. “Is it true that Darthin is Dr. Frankenhammer’s assistant?”
“Not officially. He’s just been helping him out with some stuff,” I said. The tears Frankie had been battling broke free and dripped down his cheeks. “Oh, Frankie, I’m sorry.”
He wailed. Somehow, between sobs, he managed to say, “Why does he hate me?”
“He doesn’t hate you, Frankie,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. I wished Dr. Frankenhammer could see the effect his careless words had on his creation. “He’s just really, really self-absorbed. He doesn’t think about other people. Or their feelings.”
Frankie’s whole body shook with sobs. He plopped down on the grass, and I sat next to him. He covered his face with his hands and said, “I just wish I knew what was wrong with me. Maybe I could fix it, and he’d love me.”
“Frankie, there is nothing wrong with you. It’s just your bad luck that you had to be created by a perfectionist. Don’t you see? You can never make him happy, and that’s his problem, not yours. I know it hurts, and I’m really sorry.”
Just then a group of fifth-years came down the path from the lake. They were humans, laughing at something the biggest one said. At once, Frankie clamped down on his sobbing and
wiped his eyes. He forced out a fake laugh and said, “That’s so funny, Higgins.”
The fifth-years stopped talking and looked at Frankie, which made him even more self-conscious. He swallowed hard and looked from me to them.
I nodded at them. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” the big one, Jeremy, said. “Everything okay?”
“Sure,” I said. Then I looked at Frankie, and it was obvious that everything wasn’t. He was trying so hard not to cry. I recognized the signs of imminent head popping: the blinking eyes, the biting of his lower lip, the rapid breathing. “Frankie,” I whispered, “it’s okay to cry, just let it out.”
He shook his head. “I’m … fine.”
The fifth-years weren’t helping by standing and staring at him. But I couldn’t really blame them. How often did they get to see a head pop?
“Is he gonna blow?” another fifth-year asked. I tried to answer him with an angry stare that said “Shut up, you idiot,” but my mouth said, “He’s fine. You guys can keep going.” I tilted my head in the direction they’d been walking, hoping they’d get the hint.
“Oh no!” Frankie said, right before his head popped off. I caught it in the air, placed it on the ground, and reached for Frankie’s body.
“A little help, please?” I said. Jeremy ran over and the others followed. I guided them through the steps, and we put the head back in place. I asked them to leave before I turned the blood flow on again.
“Frankie?” I said.
He blinked a few times and sat up, noticing the blood on my shirt. “Again? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“It’s okay, Frankie,” I said. “I know why your head pops off.”
“Really?”
“Yes! Don’t you see? You were fine until you tried to stop yourself from crying. You have to let your emotions out. When you clamp down on them, the pressure inside you must build up until …”
“… my head pops off,” he finished. “Higgins, you’re right!”
I smiled.
“But I can’t let people see me cry.”
“Why not?”
“Because Frankenminions don’t cry,” he said. “Daddy said that when he saw me crying. He wanted me to jump over to the roof of the castle, but I could only make it to the third-floor windows.”
“That’s stupid. Everyone cries.”
“Try telling him that,” Frankie said. “I just can’t look at him without being scared.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Did you know his first name is Cyril?”
Frankie looked at me, his face blank. Then a laugh burst out from behind a huge smile. “Cyril? Really?”
I nodded. For some reason, it was hard to be frightened of a Cyril.
At dinner Pismo charged up to me and stabbed my chest with his pointer finger. “You filthy little squealer!” he yelled, loud enough for the whole cafeteria to hear.
It’s not often someone confronts me like that, and I froze. I don’t like confrontation. I probably looked so feeble, standing there blinking in confusion, my mouth hanging open. My face grew hot when I noticed everyone looking at us.
“I thought you were my friend! Ha! Everyone says how nice you are, and you go and accuse me of stuff I didn’t do. What’s your problem, huh?”
He thought I was his friend? He’d only stolen my exploding gum, gotten me detention—twice!—lost my DPS, taken credit for my work, and left me to be killed by the muscle Thing. I wondered how he treated his enemies.
“I … you … who told you I …” I stammered. I couldn’t form a complete sentence if my life depended on it.
He mocked me. “I … you … what … Do you know what you’ve done? If I’m expelled, who knows where my father will send me? Do you even care?”
“Maybe you’ll go to the Pravus Minion Academy,” I said. “Since you love it so much.”
“I was already expelled from there! This is my third flipping minion school, and I’m still a stupid first-year!”
Whoa.
“You were at Pravus’s?” My voice must have been shocked too, because it came out as a whisper.
“Shut up,” he said. “Just shut up for once in your life!”
I could tell he hadn’t meant to say he’d been at Pravus’s. It had come out in anger. And you know what? That made me even more sure he was the saboteur.
My friends—Darthin, Frankie, Eloni, Boris, and Syke—came over and stood behind me for support.
“You and your loser friends,” Pismo went on. “You’re nothing but a bunch of misfits.”
Once again, whoa.
I don’t have a problem with someone attacking me. I have thick skin. Because I’m a werewolf. But nobody attacks my friends.
“Misfits?” I said, stepping forward. “I don’t think so. Darthin knows more about biology and chemistry than half of the professors here. Frankie is a physical marvel with a photographic memory. Eloni and Boris are the most loyal friends a person can have. And Syke is tougher than most of the monsters I know. They are the kind of students that make this school great. You, on the other hand, are selfish, mean, and conceited. You’ll never be a minion.”
“At least I know what I’m not,” he said. I heard everyone in the room gasp.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not a werewolf, Runt,” he said. “Everybody knows that but you.”
I stood there, shocked. I think I stopped breathing. How do you answer something like that? It was ridiculous. I forced out some laughter. Then I looked around the room. As soon as I caught anybody’s eye, he or she quickly looked away.
“Don’t listen to him, Higgins,” Darthin said.
“Yeah, he’s just mad,” Frankie added.
“He’s just trying to hurt you,” Syke said.
Pismo shook his head. “You’re such an idiot,” he said. Then he turned around and left.
A friend in need needs minions.
—A PROMOTIONAL GIFT CARD, REDEEMABLE FOR A GIFT OF MINIONS
I had a rough night. My friends had assured me that Pismo was crazy, angry, vengeful, and wrong, but I couldn’t get his voice out of my head: “You’re not a werewolf, Runt. Everybody knows that but you.”
Me? Not a werewolf? Impossible.
Wasn’t it?
I had grown up with wolves. I remembered that. I had a medallion with a wolf on it. I had morphed when I was seven.
My fist wrapped around my necklace, but I couldn’t sleep. At last I stopped trying and got up. I had no junior henchman test that morning. Coach Foley needed an extra day to think up the final one, so my morning wasn’t going to start as early as it usually did. I didn’t want to go to breakfast and face Pismo again. That left me with too much free time before my first period with Mistress Moira.
I decided to find out for myself, once and for all. I had to know if what Pismo said was true.
I grabbed my slingshot and headed for the stables.
The stables were a series of buildings and pens located behind the castle, past the boulderball field and far enough away that the smell wore off by the time it drifted to us. On my way there I passed the road that led to the aviary, also located behind the castle but closer to Mount Curiosity. I heard the crows cawing, the owls hooting, and the harpies complaining about the food. I thought about making a detour because I loved helping Master Ping feed the birds. No, I didn’t have time for that. I was on a mission.
I continued on my path, heading farther away from the castle. As I neared the stables, the odor got stronger: the smell of animals and hay and dung. There were three stables: one for horses, another one for the cows and goats and smaller animals, and one for the dragons. I entered the dragon stable.
The stalls were nice, each as big as a classroom. The dragons sat on piles of fake treasure: gold bars and coins, diamonds and rubies. Dragons like treasure.
I put a coin into the treasure dispenser, turned the knob, and a handful of mini-goblets and plastic gems tumbled into my hand. The dispenser was for guests, just lik
e the one in the barn that gave out little food pellets so visitors could feed the goats and sheep. I tossed the dragons handfuls of loot as I passed. In return, they didn’t breathe fire at me.
I wasn’t there for the dragons. The creature I was looking for lay curled up asleep in the rafters.
I pulled out my slingshot, loaded a pebble, and shot. I hit the beast in the rump, and she sprang up hissing.
Killer, the mountain lion. The dragons seemed to like the giant cat, so the stable master let them keep her. She had a horrible disposition, always hissing and spitting at anyone who came near.
I shot again.
Killer jumped down from the rafters in one smooth leap. I stepped back, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I realized that maybe this had been a stupid idea. Slowly, she stalked closer, keeping her head low. Wow, she has really big teeth. I kissed my medallion for luck.
Morph, I told myself.
I had to morph. I was facing certain death. If ever there was a time to morph, it was now.
Morph!
The cat neared me, her eyes as cold and lifeless as the dungeon’s darkest corners. I was so scared I started shaking.
Morph!
I stretched my neck, checking for thickening hairs on the back, but it was smooth. I howled as loud as I could. “Ahhh-wooooooooo!”
MORPH!
But my feet remained feet, my hands remained hands, and no fangs grew in my mouth. The massive, angry cat lunged at the puny human boy that I remained and knocked me backward. My head clanked onto some treasure, and everything ended.
Until I woke up.
My head throbbed and I felt tiny prickles all over my body. I was lying in a haystack. I looked over and saw Jake, the stable master.
“Hey there,” he said.
“Hi, Jake. What happened?”
“Killer pounced on you,” he said. “But I chased her off. Good thing I’d just had her declawed. Stupid cat keeps scratching up my furniture.”
“Ouch,” I said, feeling the lump on the back of my head.
“What were you doing, Higgins?” He held out an ice pack and gently placed it behind my head. The cold was shocking, but I let him hold it there. I deserved to be in pain. I was such a loser.