Hamstersaurus Rex vs. Squirrel Kong

by Tom O'Donnell

  “Good,” I said. “Thank you, Tina. That’s very—”

  “Just say the first letter of the place where he’s hiding,” said Tina.

  “Tina, I’m not going to—”

  “Is it an A?”

  “What? No!” I said.

  “Is it a B?”

  “You can’t just go through all the letters because—because I don’t even know!”

  “If he’s hiding in Mrs. Gill’s room, say no,” said Tina.

  “No! I mean yes—I mean—”

  Tina’s eyes lit up and she gave a sly tap to the side of her nose. “Thanks, Sam. That’s all I needed.” She turned and started to walk, then jog, then sprint toward Mrs. Gill’s classroom.

  This was getting ridiculous. I had to find a safe place to hide Hammie Rex away for the rest of the day. My shirt pocket was just too risky. I broke off toward my locker. Back when Beefer still haunted Horace Hotwater, that was usually a safe enough place for Hammie to hang out between classes. But when I got there, I found Drew McCoy listening to my locker with a stethoscope.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “When I grow up I want to be a doctor,” he said. Then he shrugged and walked away.

  So my locker was out. I needed somewhere more private. I needed to get Hammie to Meeting Club headquarters.

  The crowd was thinning now. I quickly made my way toward Room 223b, making sure that no one was following me. As I dashed around a corner, I nearly smacked into Julie Bailey.

  “Hey, Sam, do you know what flavor of Funchos Hamstersaurus Rex prefers?” said Julie. “Is he a Texas-Style BBQ Shawarma fan? Or more of a Roast Turkey and Sour Ketchup kind of guy?”

  “Why do you ask?” I said, taking a nervous step back.

  She unzipped her backpack to reveal ten bags of Funchos Flavor-Wedges, all different flavors. My heart skipped a beat.

  “I figure if I open one of these bags Hamstersaurus Rex is bound to come running, right?” said Julie. “And then I can claim the reward money and maybe put a down payment on a pony.”

  “You know what,” I said, “that doesn’t really sound like a good idea because Hamstersaurus Rex doesn’t really like Funchos anymore. He hates them. And they’re too salty and he has high blood pressure, so . . .” I sounded totally unconvincing, even to myself.

  “Hmm. Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out, right?” said Julie. “I think I’ll stick with a classic: Tangy Honey Habanero.”

  She tore a bag open. I felt Hamstersaurus Rex stir.

  “You know what, I’m pretty sure I saw Hamstersaurus Rex in Mrs. Gill’s room!” I cried.

  Without another word, Julie jogged off just as a drowsy Hammie Rex poked his head out of my pocket, his little whiskers twitching for junk food. That was a close one. I made sure the coast was clear and then I opened the door to Room 223b.

  “Okay,” I said as I set Hammie down on a stack of copies of Tapeworms: An Illustrated History. “Hide here and please, please, please, please, please don’t draw any attention to yourself. We can’t afford a mistake right now. The stakes are too high.”

  Hammie Rex growled. I recognized the look in his eyes: he was still hungry for Funchos. The little guy just couldn’t control himself around Flavor-Wedges.

  “You need some self-discipline, dude,” I said. “You have to free yourself from the cycle of junk food addiction.”

  He stared up at me, wide-eyed. He seemed to actually be listening.

  “Now, listen to me very carefully. Relax and take a deep breath. Breathe in.”

  I demonstrated.

  “Breathe out.”

  I did.

  “Breathe in.”

  Hamstersaurus Rex inhaled at the same time I did.

  “Breathe out.”

  The little guy exhaled.

  “You are a rock in the middle of the sea,” I said in a calm and steady voice. “Be the rock.”

  Hammie Rex continued to breathe deeply.

  “You have total control of your impulses. . . . A rock doesn’t go crazy over Funchos Flavor-Wedges. . . . You are a rock. . . . A rock doesn’t risk everything for the sweet taste of junk food. . . . Be the rock. . . .”

  We continued like this for a couple of minutes as I worked my way through all the meditation techniques I remembered from Coach Weekes’s self-control MP3. Hammie Rex looked like he might actually be getting closer to some sort of inner peace. The little guy was sitting calmly, his eyes half-closed.

  Ever so slowly, I took a bag of Classic Italian Cheddar and Mayo Flavor-Wedges from my backpack.

  “Okay,” I said, “now I’m going to open this, and I don’t want you to lose—”

  With a deranged yip, Hammie Rex flung himself at the Flavor-Wedges, spraying slobber everywhere.

  “You nearly got my thumb,” I said. “That’s definitely not what a rock would have done!”

  In a second and a half, the Flavor-Wedges were gone. Hammie Rex licked his whiskers, temporarily satisfied.

  “Hopefully that will at least tide you over,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll be back for you at the end of school.”

  I closed the door behind me. The halls were nearly empty now as I hurried toward Mr. Copeland’s room. Ahead of me, I saw Mr. Duderotti directing the other few stragglers toward their classrooms. I stopped running. Why hadn’t Mr. Duderotti mentioned Squirrel Kong? I needed to find out.

  “Hey, Mr. Duder—” I said. “I mean, hey, Todd.”

  “Yo, Sam,” said Mr. Duderotti. “Qué pasa, little bro?”

  He held out his fist. I had no choice. I bumped it.

  “Todd, why didn’t you speak up during the assembly?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Duderotti, looking ashamed. “You’re right. I really should have.”

  “You could have let the whole school know the truth,” I said.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mr. Duderotti, “I’m sure I’ll get another chance to tell everyone that the Electric Tugboats were the greatest rock band of all time.”

  “Wait, what?” I said. “No, I mean the truth about the giant squirrel.”

  “Giant Squirrel?” said Mr. Duderotti, stroking his chin and considering this. “I like their first album, but everything after that was pretty corporate. After Ronny left, it wasn’t about the music anymore, you know?”

  “Not a band!” I said, “The real, live giant squirrel. The one you sprayed with—”

  “I hate to be ‘The Man’ again,” said Mr. Duderotti, cutting me off. “But it’s really time for you to get to class. Remember: learning is like playing the bass . . . with your brain.”

  I came away from the interaction feeling more confused and frustrated than ever.

  As the day wore on, other kids kept asking me if I knew where Hamstersaurus Rex was, if I knew where Hamstersaurus Rex would be or if I wanted to help them catch Hamstersaurus Rex and split the reward money. My locker was broken into three times before lunch.

  “Sam, be honest,” said Jared Kopernik as I walked past him in the cafeteria, carrying my tray. “How come nobody has ever seen you and Hamstersaurus Rex in the same room at the same time?”

  “Jared, you’ve seen them together dozens of times,” said Dylan with a sigh.

  Jared leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Admit it. Sam Gibbs is your secret identity. You’re Hamstersaurus Rex.”

  “Yep. You’re right, Jared,” I said, shaking my head. “You totally figured it out.”

  “I did?” he said, surprised. “Then, uh, stay right here while I get a teacher!” Jared dashed off to go claim the hamster bounty.

  Dylan and I sat down together to eat our lunch. All the kids at the nearby tables were pretending to talk while they watched and listened to us.

  “This is the worst,” I whispered to Dylan through my teeth, trying not to move my mouth in case any of my classmates knew how to read lips.

  “What?!” said Dylan in an overly loud voice. “Hamstersaurus Rex is hiding in the bottom of the dum
pster behind school? That’s crazy!”

  No less than eight kids leaped up and immediately raced out of the cafeteria.

  “Serves them right,” said Dylan.

  I had to laugh.

  “Man, I really don’t get what’s up with Mr. Duderotti, though,” I said. “He knows the truth. He could have pointed out that it wasn’t Hammie that attacked the school. Why didn’t he say he has the anti-squirrel spray to defeat Squirrel Kong?”

  “He must have his reasons. Todd is the coolest.”

  “Is he?”

  “Sure,” said Dylan. “Remember when he told us how cool he was?”

  “I guess,” I said. “But him being cool isn’t going to help me stop the real menace.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Dylan. “So far you’ve been on defense. Maybe it’s time to play a little offense?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “It’s time to bring the fight to Beefer.”

  The rest of the day was more of the same: more kids following me around, more subtle (and not-so-subtle) Hamstersaurus Rex questions, more half-truths and evasions from yours truly. After school I collected Hammie Rex from Room 223b, deposited him into my backpack, and took the bus home. Jimmy Choi, Caroline Moody, and four fourth graders who I’d never seen before all got off at my stop.

  “Really?” I said as we all stood on the curb. “You’re all getting off here today?”

  “Yep. I’ve just always loved this neighborhood. It has cool . . . grass,” said Jimmy. He pointed to some grass.

  “So it’s just a coincidence that this stop happens to be where I live,” I said.

  “Wait, you live here, Sam?” said Caroline, with fake surprise.

  “Yep,” I said, crossing my arms.

  “That’s so cool,” said Caroline, “and so which one of these houses, specifically, would be yours?”

  “The green one, over there,” I said, pointing to the house three doors down from mine.

  “Is that where you’re going now?” said Caroline.

  “Nah, I think I’m going to hang out here and enjoy my neighborhood’s cool grass for a while,” I said. Then I stood and waited for all the other kids to awkwardly disperse, one by one, in different directions. Once they were all out of sight, I quickly ducked into Mr. Greco’s boxwood bushes. I crawled around back and then made my way through the adjoining backyards to my own.

  My mom wasn’t home yet, so I fed Hammie Rex a quick snack—a half pound of frozen cookie dough covered in nacho cheese—and then headed straight back out to the garage.

  I knew what I had to do. I had to go to the source of all of this trouble, the very den of evil itself. With Hammie Rex tucked into my shirt pocket, I put on my helmet, opened the garage door, and hopped onto my bike. Then I pedaled as fast as I could.

  As I raced down the street through my neighborhood, I saw the astonished faces of the kids who had followed me home. Caroline Moody was hiding under the Padillas’ birdbath. Jimmy Choi jumped out from behind a mailbox on the corner. The four mystery fourth graders had somehow all squeezed into a single recycling bin, which tipped over as they scrambled out of it. All of them ran along the sidewalk behind me, but they couldn’t keep up. After five blocks, I lost them all.

  I didn’t stop pedaling until I’d reached the most vile, sinister address in the whole town of Maple Bluffs—a place that, if you’d asked me mere days before, I would have sworn I would never go, not in a million years. I stood on the lawn of 3223 Birchpoplar Way.

  Perhaps that address doesn’t sound like a nexus of cosmic evil. And the house in front of me certainly didn’t look very different from the others around it. But it was. The proof was a single sinister word written on the welcome mat: Vanderkoff.

  “All right, Hammie, this is it,” I said. “If I can goad Beefer into confessing what he’s done, then I can finally put a stop to this, once and for all.”

  I pressed Record on my UltraLite SmartShot camera and dropped it into my backpack.

  “Test . . . test . . . test,” I said, to make sure the camera was still picking up audio. It was. Perfect.

  Hammie growled, ready for action.

  “We should be prepared for anything,” I said, “but if Beefer is keeping Squirrel Kong in his basement or something, we can’t engage. It’s a fight you can’t win.”

  Hammie grunted in a way that sounded noncommittal. I took a deep breath and then pressed the doorbell. Then I braced myself.

  There was silence.

  I heard movement inside. Someone was coming. I held my breath.

  “Why, hello!” said a cheerful, smiling woman who, unfortunately, looked a whole lot like Beefer.

  CHAPTER 13

  “WHERE’S BEEFER?” I said in a tone that instantly sounded too harsh.

  “Whom?” said Mrs. Vanderkoff.

  “Um. Kiefer, I guess,” I said.

  “Oh!” she said with a smile. “No need to be so formal. We always call him by his nickname: Lil’ Kiefie. But Lil’ Kiefie isn’t home. He’s having a sleepover with a new friend.”

  Beefer didn’t have friends. It certainly sounded like a phony excuse for getting up to something.

  “Are you a new friend of his, too?” asked Mrs. Vanderkoff.

  “What?” I said, aghast. “Absolutely not!”

  She cocked her head, confused.

  “. . . I mean, no way am I a new friend of, uh, Lil’ Kiefie’s,” I said. “I actually know him from his old school, Horace Hotwater. We go way, way back.” With Beefer gone, I realized, I might at least be able to poke around and gather some Squirrel Kong evidence.

  “Well, isn’t that sweet that you came to visit. My name is Judith Vanderkoff,” said the woman, extending her hand. “I’m Lil’ Kiefie’s mother.”

  “I’m, uh, Jarmo,” I said, shaking it. “But I’m not from Finland.”

  “Well, what a coincidence: Neither am I!” she said. “You should really come inside, Jarmo. We’re having crumpets.”

  I stepped into the most florally patterned house I’d ever seen. I sat on a plastic-covered couch while Mrs. Vanderkoff served me tea and crumpets, which are basically like mini-pancakes. A happy-looking man in an extra-wide tie, who also unfortunately looked a whole lot like Beefer, soon joined us.

  “Why, hello there, young fellow!” he said. “So you’re a pal of Lil’ Kiefie’s.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “We like to laugh and laugh.”

  “That’s wonderful to hear,” said Mr. Vanderkoff. “We sometimes worry that he studies too hard.”

  I nearly spat out my crumpet.

  “We’re both dentists and Lil’ Kiefie says he wants to follow in our footsteps,” said Mrs. Vanderkoff. “But privately, we’re both hoping he continues to pursue his interest in Renaissance music.”

  “Renaissance music?” I managed to sputter.

  “Why, yes,” said Mrs. Vanderkoff, beaming. “He doesn’t like to brag, but our Kiefer plays the lute like a magical little lute angel.”

  I swallowed very carefully so as not to choke. “Mr. and Mrs. Vanderkoff,” I said, “can I ask a serious question that may sound strange?”

  “Absolutely, Jarmo,” said Mr. Vanderkoff. “Anything for a friend of Lil’ Kiefie’s.”

  I took a deep breath. “Has Lil’ Kieifie been keeping any oversized squirrels around here lately?”

  The Vanderkoffs looked at each other. I studied their faces for any hint of recognition. They seemed baffled.

  “Can’t say as I’ve seen any oversized squirrels,” said Mrs. Vanderkoff. “How about you, Julian?”

  “Me neither, Judith. And I feel like I’d notice something like that,” said Mr. Vanderkoff. “Why do you ask, Jarmo?”

  “What? Oh, well, a bunch of us are planning a big . . . surprise party for Lil’ Kiefie, and that’s the, uh, theme.”

  “The theme is oversized squirrels?” said Mr. Vanderkoff.

  I nodded.

  “Well, I’m certain he’ll just love it!” said Mr. Vander
koff.

  “Our son is certainly lucky to have a thoughtful, considerate friend like you in his life, Jarmo,” said Mrs. Vanderkoff.

  “No, no, no. I’m lucky to have him in my life,” I said, without even gagging. “Anyway, the real reason I came was that I was hoping maybe I could take a look around Lil’ Kiefie’s room . . . for a different reason . . . which is that he, uh, borrowed something from me. And that thing was . . . a shoe.”

  “Our son borrowed a single shoe from you?” said Mr. Vanderkoff, furrowing his brow.

  “Yep,” I said. “It’s a very cool shoe.”

  “That certainly sounds like our Lil’ Kiefie,” said Mrs. Vanderkoff. “Style for miles.”

  Who were these people? How did they end up with Beefer Vanderkoff as a son?

  “Here, let me show you to Lil’ Kiefie’s room,” said Mr. Vanderkoff.

  He stood and led me upstairs to a door on the second floor. It was covered in a massive poster depicting a werewolf in mid-explosion.

  “Forgive us, Jarmo,” said Mr. Vanderkoff. “Lil’ Kiefie’s room is a bit, um, untidy at the moment. Our son is intelligent, kind, and extremely handsome, but I hate to say it: he can be a little disorganized at times.”

  Mr. Vanderkoff opened the door a little. A noxious Beefer-like odor wafted out of the gap.

  “Good luck finding that cool shoe, Jarmo,” said Mr. Vanderkoff with a bright smile. He patted me on the back and then turned and disappeared downstairs, whistling.

  I stepped into Beefer’s room and shut the door behind me. Then I fumbled for the light switch.

  As I turned it on I gasped. Calling the room “a bit untidy” was the understatement of the century. The entire floor was carpeted in a thick layer of dirty clothes, dirty dishes, and shredded Spicy Cheez Wallet bags. Empty cases of horror DVDs and broken karate-practice weapons were piled two feet high on the bed, which looked like it hadn’t been made since before Beefer was born. A big, empty wood-and-wire-mesh cage sat in the corner, surrounded by melted candles and faded plastic flowers. It was a shrine to Michael Perkins, Beefer’s pet boa constrictor. The walls of the room were totally papered with film posters with titles like Blood Chunk, Welcome to Corpseville, The Mutant Beasts of Dr. Murder, and Barf Dracula II.