Trouble with a Tiny t

by Merriam Sarcia Saunders

  I’m pretty sure it’s because of the black-eye incident the first week of school. Everyone plays basketball at lunch, but one day I missed a pass. I guess Snake thought I was going to catch it, but I was sort of spacing out. The ball went right past me and hit Snake straight in the face. He ended up with a black eye.

  At first, he said it was super painful, but then everyone else thought it was cool, so he did too. I don’t know exactly why he’s still mad—it’s not like I did it on purpose—but it hasn’t been the same since.

  Just another thing ADHD has ruined for me.

  Mom always says that having ADHD doesn’t mean I’m not smart. Yeah, right. It’s a month into fifth grade, and I’ve already failed a bunch of math tests and missed a bajillion history assignments. How am I supposed to know what’s on the test? Or which page to do for homework? Or how to divide fractions? Vacation Brain is rafting the Nile while I’m at school, but no one believes me! Especially not my new teacher, Mr. Widelot.

  Most days when I get home from school, I just stare at my agenda, which is usually blank. I have no clue what I’m supposed to do. So I don’t do it.

  That doesn’t seem very smart to me—or to Mr. Widelot.

  “I probably won’t get into your school or Dad’s,” I tell Mom. “My grades suck.”

  “Language, mister.” Mom scrunches her face. “I think this new nature school could really improve your ADHD. I don’t know how else to help you, sweetie. Maybe it’s time to try some medicine? I’ve read a bunch about it online, and it seems to help a lot of kids.”

  I shrug. If medicine could shut down Vacation Brain’s travel plans, it would be great. But Sherman Levine takes pills for his ADHD, and he says they make him feel like a zombie—without the people-eating part, of course.

  Then there’s the whole Dad thing. He says he doesn’t want his son on “drugs.” He thinks I just need to try harder, that I need more structure and discipline—which usually blows up into another fight between him and Mom. She thinks he’s too hard on me.

  I look out the car window at the trees whizzing by, thinking about what poster to make come alive in my room. Behind my bedroom door is an old Pokémon poster. That would be the most amaze-balls thing ever. I could put the magic pouch next to that poster and make a live Pikachu come out. I can trap it in the case, then invite Snake and Josh over to show them. Snake will think it’s so rad, he’ll have to forgive me.

  I glance over my shoulder at the suitcase on the floor. Everything is about to change. Vacation Brain may get me into trouble with a capital T, but with Uncle Marty’s magic, trouble is a thing of the past.

  SUNDAY—BACK AT MOM’S

  I run into my room straight from the car, slam my door, and set the suitcase behind it, right under the Pokémon poster—the one with one hundred fifty characters. I leave the pouch in the suitcase, so when the Pokémon start to come out, I can trap them.

  Barely breathing, I peer over the open lid of the case and look in. The red pouch stays flat and empty.

  I wait.

  Nothing.

  I wait some more.

  Still nothing.

  Oh, come on.

  I sweep books, baseball cards, and an old rubber T. rex off a corner of my desk and put the case there, right under the poster of the Red Sox. I’d rather have Pikachu, but a baseball team is a solid second choice.

  I open the case and take a step back. Closing my eyes, I say, “Ta da!” before opening them again.

  Nothing.

  Dang it.

  I slam the case closed and a foot-high pile of Pokémon cards spills over and lands on a bunch of clothes. Dumb magic pouch. Would’ve been nice if that indoctrination manual came with it or something.

  “West! Can you please bring me your dirty laundry?” Mom calls.

  “I’m sorta busy!” I holler back. I shove my hands deep into my pockets and stare at the pouch, willing it to do something, even if it’s just the chompy crocodile again.

  Nothing happens. Maybe posters don’t work?

  I run out to the living room.

  “Westin, the washer is already started! Can you hurry, please?”

  “Just a sec!” I grab a painting off the wall, the small one of a clown on a tricycle. I’m not a huge clown fan, and honestly, a tiny clown could be super creepy, but the only other paintings are of flowers.

  “Westin, did you hear me?”

  “Be right there!” I shove the little painting into the suitcase just next to the bag and cross my fingers.

  “Don’t make me come get it!” Mom’s voice is up a whole octave.

  Nothing is happening, so I blast out a breath, grab some dirty clothes, and kick my bedroom door shut behind me. Magic will have to wait.

  After pizza and a movie, Mom goes through each item in my planner for the previous week—even though I told her I already did it with Dad—double-checking to see if I actually did everything. As soon as she releases me from her torture, I try putting the suitcase near the Pokémon poster again. I hold my breath and close my eyes, hoping maybe the magic just needed time to recharge.

  Still nothing.

  I even dare to put the suitcase under the tiger poster. The tiger would probably be tiny anyway, just like the croc—that could be mega-cool, like a man-eating kitten.

  But the pouch just sits there. I try magazines with football players, the newspaper, and even the cover of a scary novel. Nothing comes out. Not even one, tiny half-eaten turtle.

  Darn. I toss the case on the floor, shut off my light, and go to bed. Maybe the magic needs to charge overnight. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe tomorrow I’ll make something amazing.

  MONDAY MORNING

  “Shoes on, please!” Mom tucks a sandwich into my lunch bag. I don’t move from my spot on the floor where Fiddles, the largest, laziest cat ever, is using her sandpaper tongue to lick maple syrup off my face. “Westin, please don’t let the cat lick you like that. Go wash your face.”

  “But she loves syrup!” I give Fiddles a last chin scratch and gently nudge her off me.

  “Hon, we were supposed to leave five minutes ago,” Mom says. “You don’t want another tardy, right? You’ve had seven, and it’s only October.”

  Pretty much like every morning, Mom rushes around, getting ready for work, making my breakfast and lunch. I take about a thousand hours to get ready. Mostly because there are about a thousand things way more interesting that distract me: our cat, Fiddles, or bowling over my plastic army men with a tennis ball, or reading the sports page, or sketching. I did one of a giant two-headed spider with jagged fangs earlier this morning and tried putting it next to the pouch to see if it would come out. It didn’t work either.

  Anyway, that was probably a bad idea. Worse than the tiger, even.

  “West, did you hear me? Shoes! Now!”

  I shuffle down the slick hallway, working up enough speed in my socks to glide into my room like I’m on ice. Whoosh. I slide right into the middle of my room. That was awesome! I should try that again.

  I slide back into the hall and glide back into my room, nearly slamming into the hamster cage on my floor. Whoa!

  “Westin!”

  Wait, why am I in here? I can’t remember, but now that I’m here, I might as well try the magic one more time.

  I kneel beside the case. There should be some sort of formula.… I just need to figure it out. I look at the old card from Madame Zaqar. Blah, blah, conjured by the eye, is to be activated by one conjurer only and passed down by blood, blah, blah. Not helpful.

  Think. Think. I was in the basement, sitting next to the case, holding the pouch and thinking about—

  Wait.

  I was holding the pouch. Since I got home, I haven’t actually touched it again. It’s been in the suitcase so I could trap anything that came out. But in the basement, I was holding it an
d thinking about the crocodile and the turtle.

  Whoa, whoa, whoa.

  What if I have to be holding it for it to work? What if it’s not the painting that made the animals come alive.… What if it was my MIND?

  I lift the pouch out of the suitcase, squeezing it, hoping I’m right. I have to find out.

  I leap up and head for the Pokémon poster, hopping over the rubber T. rex I threw off my desk last night. Ooh, a live T. rex could be—

  “Westin Scott Hopper! What’s taking you so long?”

  Shoot. This’ll have to wait. I gotta go to school! I drop the pouch on the floor and grab my black sneakers—the ones with the red stripes—from under a pile of clothes in my closet. I just about finish tying one shoe when something catches my eye.

  There’s a lump in the pouch!

  I sit up straight. Then I inch over to it, moving on my hands and knees, my stomach clenched. The pouch isn’t in the case anymore, so whatever this is, there’s no way to trap it.

  As I watch, the pouch wiggles, and a small, green scaly tail appears. The crocodile again? My shoulders slump. Maybe that’s all it makes. Turtles and crocodiles. That’s not nearly as awesome.

  But then the lump stands up. Crocodiles don’t stand.

  The pouch falls open, and holy dinosaur! It’s a ten-inch-high, very live, very angry T. rex. Just like the rubber one from my desk.

  “I did it!”

  “West, did you hear me? We’re going to be late!”

  The T. rex looks at me, then looks at my open bedroom door. He dashes for it, his thick tail swishing.

  “Oh no, you don’t!” I race to my door. I can cover a lot more ground with my long legs than a mini T. rex can. Even a super-fast one, like this guy. I slam my door shut.

  “I’m counting to ten!” Mom hollers. “And don’t forget your backpack. One. Two…”

  My heart is throbbing in my throat, my back is against the door, and I’m facing a live T. rex. That I made with magic. And I’m late for school.

  “Okay, you’re really cool, but you have to go back into the pouch now.”

  The T. rex cocks its little head to the side, sort of like a dog who doesn’t understand its owner.

  “Pouch. Go in. Now.”

  But then the dino spies the hamster cage on my floor—more importantly, he spies Cappuccino, my hamster, running on the little wheel inside.

  The T. rex’s nostrils flare, and he bares his pointy dinosaur fangs in my direction. Then he makes a run for the cage.

  I grab the whiffle bat leaning against my white bookshelf and start swinging. “Get away from her!” Right before the T. rex gets to the cage, I clobber him. He hisses, backing away.

  “Ten! West, if I have to come get you, I swear, no TV for a month.”

  “Coming! Mom, I’m coming!” I put my left sneaker on top of the hamster cage and grab the handle, backing out of my room while I swoosh the whiffle bat with my other hand. Once I’m safely in the hallway, I drop the bat and shut the door.

  Mom is right there waiting for me. “What are you doing with Cappuccino’s cage? And a bat? Stop playing and let’s go. Put your other shoe on in the car.”

  She shoves my lunch bag at me, then huffs out of the house, mumbling something about being late for work again.

  I set the hamster cage on the coffee table and look back at my bedroom door. There’s an inch-high opening between the floor and the bottom of the door. I cross my fingers that:

  The T. rex is too large to fit underneath.

  The T. rex is too small to wreck my bedroom.

  There’s nothing else I can do now. I race out the front door and flop into the passenger seat of Mom’s car, breathing hard. As we pull away, I stare at our small, gray house—our regular, normal-looking house that now has, oh, just your average, ordinary, tiny T. rex running around inside.

  “Put your other shoe on,” Mom says.

  I keep staring at the house. That T. rex is going to rip it to shreds.

  “Where’s your backpack?” Mom asks. “West?”

  I snap out of my trance and look at her.

  “Again?” She takes a deep breath, but her knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, we don’t have time to go back today. You’ll have to make do without it. You know, West…”

  Mom rattles on about tightening our morning routine or whatever. But I’m not listening. I’m too busy wondering how the heck I’m supposed to pay attention at school knowing there’s a live T. rex destroying my bedroom.

  MONDAY—AT SCHOOL

  The reason most of the fifth grade loves Mr. Widelot is because of Candy Fridays. On Candy Friday, if the class behaves all week and earns enough points, he chucks candy at us. Mini chocolates, hard candy, small bags of jellybeans.

  I say most of fifth grade loves him—not all—because then I’d have to include myself. I dread Candy Fridays.

  If my class doesn’t earn the points, it’s usually because of me. Mr. Widelot doesn’t seem to get that Vacation Brain makes me draw in the margins instead of finishing my work or get out of my chair to get a piece of paper without asking or yell out an answer without being called on. I swear I don’t mean to. But all those things deduct points. We need twenty-five for candy, and if we’re short, then Nicole King whines, “It’s Hyper Hopper’s fault.”

  On the Fridays we do get enough points, Mr. Widelot never throws candy in my direction. The rule is you must be seated, and whatever candy lands near enough to grab is yours. The kids sitting around me know they’ll likely get nothing. The one and only time Mr. Widelot threw in my direction, he actually pelted me in the eye with a sour-apple candy.

  This week’s point tally is sure to be no different. Mr. Widelot stands in front of the class, like always, wearing a T-shirt with a math saying that—I don’t know—is supposed to make us think he’s cool or something. Today’s is:

  Dear Algebra,

  Stop asking us to find your X.

  She’s not coming back.

  And stop asking Y.

  Mr. Widelot is definitely not cool. None of my teachers are. But they’re not all awful. Mr. Lowde, my art teacher, is super nice—even though it’s kind of funny that he whispers everything, given his name.

  Mr. Widelot, on the other hand, is like his name—wide. As wide as Fenway Park. Probably from all that candy.

  “Settle down, class.” Mr. Widelot taps his whiteboard marker in his left hand. “The field trip to the museum is Thursday, and I’m still missing a couple of permission slips from…” He leans over his desk to check. “Oh, only one missing. Westin Hopper.”

  Figures. I have the permission slip. In my backpack. In my room. Unsigned.

  “Do you have it?” Mr. Widelot asks.

  I shake my head.

  “I need it by Wednesday, or you stay behind.”

  I know the truth—he’s secretly hoping I forget to bring it in. Without another word, Mr. Widelot turns his back and starts writing equations and stuff on the board, spewing monotonous math facts in a tone so boring it makes my head hurt. I’m doodling jagged teeth, tapping my foot on the leg of Nicole’s chair. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thinking. About the small dino problem that I accidentally on purpose created.

  Nicole turns around. “Cut. It. Out,” she whispers.

  “Mr. Hopper?” Mr. Widelot clears his throat. “Earth to Mr. Hopper?”

  If I had a dollar for every time that he uses that hilarious Earth saying, I could buy a new brain.

  “I asked if you have the answer to number four.”

  I put the pencil in my mouth and gnaw on the eraser end. Of course I don’t have the answer to number four. Even though I did the homework—for once—it’s in my backpack, along with the unsigned permission slip. In my room. Getting eaten by a T. rex.

  “Uh…”

  Mr. Widelot st
ands with his whiteboard marker in the ready position, probably calculating how much candy he’ll save this week because of me.

  Nicole shoots her hand into the air. “I have the answer, Mr. Widelot.” Her blond hair is so long it can get trapped between the back of her chair and the front of my desk. Sometimes I focus on her hair when I’m supposed to be paying attention to something else, watching as she inches her chair back, unaware any minute her hair will be trapped, and she’ll scream, “Ouch!”

  It’s one of the highlights of my day.

  The beige wall phone in the classroom rings, which means the office is calling, saving me from having to tell Mr. Widelot that I don’t have the homework. He answers the phone and looks straight at me.

  Uh-oh.

  I knew it. The T. rex magically grew and now Principal Peckinpaw is calling to say that a T. rex is on the loose, and we all have to run for it. Vacation Brain strikes again. Seriously, a dinosaur? I couldn’t just make Pikachu? Unreal.

  “Mr. Hopper, to the office.” Mr. Widelot hangs up the phone. His expression is a mix between annoyance that his class has been interrupted because of me—again—and relief that I’ll be leaving.

  The class breaks into “Oooooohh.” They think I’m in trouble with a capital T. I probably am.

  “Dang it.” I slip out of my desk. Nicole has a total nah-nah-nah-nah-na look on her face, so I stick my tongue out at her.

  “Mr. Widelot!” she cries out.

  “Detention after school, Westin.”

  For that? He can’t be serious. I can’t have detention. I have a T. rex in my room.

  Double dang it. Great going, Vacation Brain.

  When I get to the office, I nearly crash into Mr. Lowde as he walks out.

  “Oh, sorry, Mr. L.”

  “Westin, glad I bumped into you,” he says quietly.

  “You are?”

  “I’m starting an after-school art club for my accelerated students. I’d like to invite you to participate.”