Trouble with a Tiny t

by Merriam Sarcia Saunders

I’m still kind of mad at him for not telling me about Snake’s party. If he doesn’t tell me stuff, maybe I shouldn’t tell him stuff.

  Me: Never mind

  J: Are you mad? About the party?

  Me: Coulda told me

  J: Sorry

  Me: Its ok

  I want to ask him why Snake didn’t invite me, but I can’t worry about that right now. I exhale a huge breath as we pull up to my house. It’s still standing, so I guess the T. rex hasn’t grown enormous, poked a hole straight through the roof, and escaped to terrorize the town—yet.

  I ease open the kitchen door, hoping Cappuccino and Fiddles the cat haven’t been chomped to furry bits of dino food. As soon as I’m inside, Fiddles comes from behind the butcher block and rubs against my calf. Whew! First good thing.

  I peer into the living room and see my hamster cage sitting on the coffee table, right where I left it this morning. Cappuccino is still alive and well too—she’s running on the wheel inside. Second good thing.

  Down the hallway, my bedroom door is closed. Third good thing.

  Mom will be home late today, so I have time to deal with whatever awaits me in my room. Before I dare open my bedroom door, though, I run to the coat closet and pull out the cooler, bike pump, baseball bats, and old cowboy boots before I find what I’m looking for—the butterfly net. It’s probably not strong enough to hold a T. rex, but at this point, it’s all I’ve got. Then I grab a handful of deli meat from the fridge. I hope T. rexes like salami.

  I ease open my bedroom door, holding the net out near my legs in case the monster I created charges me. Oh, crud. My room is a disaster. Well, honestly my room is always a disaster, but this is even worse—totally trashed. My curtains are shredded at the bottom, and stuffing from an old bear is everywhere. Scattered across the floor are my green plastic army soldiers, their heads all bitten off.

  “What the—”

  The bottom desk drawer is marked with deep scratches, like the T. rex was trying to get in the drawers. Thankfully the window is shut. Whew! But I don’t see him anywhere.

  The magic pouch is in the center of the room where I dropped it this morning. Maybe the T. rex went back inside, like the crocodile did? I pick it up and look in, as if I can tell, which of course I can’t.

  Just then, a shape rushes at me from under the bed and grazes my right calf.

  “Ow!” I drop the pouch and grab my leg. There’s a bite on my calf—which stings—and I can see a little blood. “You bit me!”

  The T. rex bares his pointy teeth, sort of hisses at me, and retreats under the bed.

  I zoom to the bathroom and slather on the goop Mom puts on me when I get a cut. Who knows what kind of prehistoric germs are swimming in a T. rex’s saliva. I slap a bandage on and head back in. On the bright side, at least he didn’t grow super fast and eat the town or anything. Now I can tell the guys.

  But… maybe I should send him back and start over. Make something way cooler. Less bitey. That’s a better idea. That tyrant lizard’s going into that pouch whether he likes it or not.

  Holding the net out to protect myself, I push away the scattered army men on my floor and lay down a salami trail leading to the pouch, tucking one final piece of meat into the pouch itself. Then I stand on the bed, butterfly net poised to catch the T. rex, in case he won’t go in.

  Nothing happens. For, like, a long time. I kind of want to lean over and look under the bed, but I’d also like to keep my face, so…

  I grab my sketchpad and pencils from the backpack on the desk next to my bed. I might as well keep myself busy while I wait. I glance down at the poor half-eaten army men scattered around the floor. It would be awesome to have reinforcements—something to launch a massive strike and herd the T. rex back into the pouch. Kick his extinct butt. So, that’s what I draw. A headless zombie army attacking a T. rex.

  It’s pretty good, gotta say.

  Then, suddenly, the T. rex races out from under the bed and collects all the salami—man, he’s fast. He doesn’t even come close to going into the pouch.

  I drop my pencil and dive at him with the net. He turns around, tilting right when I swish left, hisses again, and races back under the bed.

  Well, that worked not awesomely. I climb off the bed and pick up the pouch. The last piece of salami is still inside. Dang it.

  I kneel on top of the bed, holding the pouch, fiddling with the gold drawstring. If the T. rex won’t go in on his own, I have to make him go in. If only I could use the army I drew.

  Suddenly, the pouch gets heavy in my hand. Like from out of nowhere, it has a bunch of rocks in it. Only the rocks are moving. Like a pouch full of wriggling spiders.

  I toss the pouch on the floor before I have spiders or something crawling up my arm.

  The pouch moves in waves, and then, one by one, live, green, headless army men come out. The zombie army! Righteous!

  The men get into formation, as if they already know their mission, and march to attack the T. rex under my bed. The scraping and thrashing sound brutal.

  I jump around, peering over the sides of my bed. One by one—schwooff—headless army men hurl out from underneath, bounce off the floor, and regroup to go back in for more reptilian torture. They’re fierce, but they’re no match for the T. rex.

  I ease over the edge of my bed, peeking under to see what’s happening. A huddle of army men surrounds the T. rex, trying their best to attack. He spots me spying upside down and lunges, his sharp teeth narrowly missing my forehead.

  “Yikes!” I scramble back onto the bed.

  From the hallway, Fiddles meows and scratches at my door to come in.

  “Fiddles, get away!” If Fiddles was a hunting cat, maybe she would be feisty enough to catch the T. rex. But that’s not my cat. I love her, but she’s pretty lazy. Kind of fat too. The T. rex would probably gulp her in seconds.

  I have to trap the tiny T. Maybe… oh wait, this is a great idea! Maybe if he won’t go back, I could keep him—like Cappuccino, in a cage. Lots of people have lizards and stuff in cages. Snake would crash down my door to see that. I’d get invited to every birthday party in the world. Now we’re talking.

  Hard to explain to Mom though.

  Anyway, I’ll figure that out later. First things first.

  I go to my bedroom door, watching as plastic army men continue to be shot into the center of my room before charging back under the bed for more. I carefully open the door, sticking my foot out to block Fiddles from coming in, and slip out. I’m going to need more deli meat.

  I grab what I can—four slices of turkey, more salami, and all the disgusting bologna with the gross white blobs.

  Fiddles is still pawing at the door when I return. I know why she wants in—she loves to curl up in the sun on my bookshelf, right under the window.

  “Sorry, girl, not today.” I block her. I feel bad, but this is for her own good.

  I open the door and slip in, but before I can get it closed, Fiddles shimmies in, scuttling between my legs.

  “Fiddles, no!” I drop the deli meat and grab her by the belly.

  “Riaow!” She wriggles free and zooms over to the bookshelf, totally not caring that an army man torpedoes her in the face.

  Hearing the commotion, the T. rex sticks out from the warzone under my bed.

  “Look out!” I shout.

  Fiddles casually looks right, face to face with the T. rex and his shroud of climbing army men. He’s a teensy bit smaller than her, but who cares? He’s a T. rex!

  “Don’t you touch my cat!” I cry.

  Fiddles just stands there and licks her shoulder. Like she couldn’t care less that there’s a ferocious dinosaur snarling under the bed, less than a foot away.

  I grab my whiffle bat to wham the T. rex if he attacks her. But he stays under the bed—like he doesn’t know what to make of this gia
nt furry thing—while the army men crawl over him.

  “Come on, Fiddles. Come here,” I coax.

  Finally, some sort of survival mechanism kicks in. Fiddles flattens her ears and hisses. The T. rex flinches and scurries farther under the bed.

  I swoop in and grab Fiddles, tossing her out and slamming the door. I look back, heart pounding. The tiny T. rex is still in retreat. Geez, Fiddles has no idea how close she came to being prehistoric pet food.

  Side-stepping the army men hurling at my shins, I pick up the deli meat and think. The T. rex obviously has no interest in going back where he came from, but maybe I can at least trap him someplace else—somewhere he won’t eat my face off—until I can get rid of him.

  I lay a trail to the inside of my closet, pushing the sliding door open wide. Then I jump up on my bed and wait, eyes stuck on the first slice of turkey.

  In seconds, I hear the scrabbling of foot-claws. Not as fast as before because now Tiny T is pushing through a pile of army men. He forges through the swarm, shooing them off him like flies, gobbling up each slice of meat. He’s slowing down. Maybe the attack is weakening him.

  As he gets close to the closet, I drop down to the floor. If he looks back, I’m dead. Possibly for real.

  Tiny T munches on the last slice before the closet. Then he stops.

  Crud. One more step, come on. Right into the closet you go.

  He kicks his thick hind legs to toss off an annoying army man and moves a step forward, into the closet.

  As quick as I can, I race to slide the door shut. The T. rex looks up from his snack, his eyes wide, and turns to flee. I thrust my foot to block his escape, and he bites my sneaker, barely missing my toes. Yikes!

  I slam the door on my foot, the T. rex’s snout still stuck on my sneakers. I jiggle, trying to twist free, but his clench is fierce. Frantically I chuck my foot forward, flinging the T. rex off into the closet’s back wall, and quickly slam the door. The T. rex—and all the army men—are shut inside.

  I slump down on the floor and look at the dino teeth marks on my (used-to-be) brand-new sneakers. Then I glance over at the red pouch. I have the coolest magic that can create anything, and what did I make? A ten-inch-tall, violent, uncooperative T. rex and a useless band of headless, immortal army men.

  What was I thinking?

  Oh, that’s right. I wasn’t.

  Vacation Brain strikes again.

  MONDAY NIGHT

  I have to come up with a story that will keep Mom out of my room. Not easy considering she likes to tuck me in at night and shows up from out of nowhere to put laundry away or vacuum.

  I’m at the dining room table finishing my homework when her car pulls into the driveway. She always shops on Mondays, so I run out to help her with the grocery bags.

  “Westin Scott, what a nice surprise. Thanks for helping without me asking.” Mom hands me a heavy paper bag and the carton of milk. “Is your video game broken or something?”

  “Did you buy deli meat? Like, lots of deli meat?” I follow her into the house.

  “Sure, are you hungry? Help me unpack.” Mom unloads the bags onto the kitchen counter, and I exhale when I see the deli packaging.

  “How was school?” she asks.

  “Fine.” I always say that because if I don’t, then the rotor blades on Mom’s helicopter will fire up. She’ll want to talk about it, and who wants to talk about school any more than you have to? “Oh, almost forgot. There’s a homework thing I have to do at some girl’s house tomorrow after school. For Friendship Group.”

  “Do I have to pick you up? Who is this girl? Can you write down her address and phone number, so I know where you are? Maybe I should call her parents first.”

  I can feel the wind as Mom hovers.

  “Mom. I don’t know. It’s just some girl. I’ll text you. And sign this. It’s for a field trip on Thursday.” Thankfully the T. rex didn’t eat my backpack. I’m not getting stuck at school while everyone else goes on a field trip. “Oh, and Mr. Lowde wants me to do some art club. After school. Can I? He’s emailing the permission slip to you and Dad.”

  Mom puts the cereal away and takes the pen from me, scribbling her name. “An art club? That’s nice. Get going on your homework. I’ll start dinner.”

  Right about now is usually when I’d groan, drag my messy backpack to the dining room table, and find a million distractions before starting the work. If I even remembered to bring it home. I never finish my homework before dinner. By ten o’clock, homework that should have taken forty minutes has dragged on for hours.

  But today is different. I had to finish my homework, so I could stay on high alert and keep Mom out of my bedroom. Amazing how motivating hiding a T. rex is.

  “I already did it.” Well, the parts I brought home. Pretty sure I left the science worksheet at school.… or lost it.

  Mom stops unloading and looks at me like I have pizza growing out of my nose.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You finished your homework? Do I need to check your planner?”

  “No, Mom. Promise.”

  She decelerates slightly, thrown off guard. “You’re just full of surprises.”

  Yes, I am. Full of surprises. My room is anyway.

  “Now we’ll have time after dinner to look at that charter school application.” Mom walks to the fridge, balancing a carton of eggs under a head of broccoli and three yogurts. I run to catch the yogurts about to fall off and open the fridge before she drops it all.

  “So helpful tonight.” She smiles.

  A thumping sound comes from my room. Uh-oh. Someone’s not happy to be trapped in my closet.

  “You hear that?” Mom asks, ear cocked.

  “Um…”

  We’re quiet, and the thumping stops. Phew.

  “Huh. It’s gone,” she says.

  “I can’t do the application thing tonight,” I say before Mom can ask any more questions.

  “Why not? You said you already finished your homework. I’d like to get it started before your father—I mean, we just shouldn’t wait, is all.”

  “I’m going to start cleaning my room. I swear. Remember that blue suitcase I found at Gram’s house? It sort of inspired me.”

  That ought to distract her from the school wars with Dad.

  “Really?” Mom crinkles her forehead like I’m speaking Chinese. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing. But… I don’t want you to go in until it’s done. Not under any circumstances, until I say so.”

  Mom puts a pan of water on the stove to boil. “What about hugging you good night?”

  “All good night hugs will have to happen outside the perimeter.” I stand with my hands at my hips.

  “And if I have laundry to put away?”

  “Leave it at the door. I’ll put it away.”

  Mom puckers her lips. “Westin. Seriously?”

  “Have a little faith.” Ha! I can’t even get in my closet.

  Mom gives me a look. “Well, can you at least put Cappuccino back in your room? Her cage is making the living room smell funky.”

  “No!” I almost lost one pet today already. The T. rex would probably stick his tiny dinosaur arms through her cage and terrorize Cappuccino into a little hamster heart attack. “I mean, that’s all part of my organizing and cleaning. She needs to stay on the coffee table. Just until… how about until I go to Dad’s next Sunday? Please?” At least I hope this nightmare is over by then. “And don’t let Fiddles in my room. I’m serious. No one is allowed to touch, look at, or breathe near my doorknob until I say so. Pinky-swear promise? I want to surprise you.”

  Mom stops stirring the macaroni in the boiling water and looks at me. “All right, I promise. But what has gotten into you? Homework is done, you help with groceries, and now you’re cleaning your room. Has an
alien taken over your body?”

  No, a T. rex has taken over my room. At this point, the alien option might be better.

  TUESDAY—AT SCHOOL

  I’m wearing the same underwear as yesterday. Like I care. I have bigger problems. I’m super sleepy, since I got no Zs—not with T. rex and friends waging World War T most of the night.

  As we file out of Mr. Widelot’s class—where I shock-and-awed him by remembering my permission slip—Nicole turns around and says, “Ewww, you smell funny.”

  It’s probably true. I probably do smell funny. My basketball shorts have some kind of giant red stain on the front, possibly spaghetti sauce from last night. Plus the mustard from yesterday. And even I can smell the B.O. on my Red Sox jersey, because I wear it all the time.

  Like I said: bigger problems.

  I hurry to my cubby to get my lunch, pull it out, and slam my cubby door. The guys are already sitting at one of the smaller tables in the quad, so someone needs to slide over to make room for me. They don’t.

  “Hey, guys.” I stand behind Josh. “Can you move over, Josh?”

  Josh doesn’t move. What’s up with him lately? I’ve decided I’ll forgive him about the party thing and tell him about the T. rex, but not if he’s going to act weird.

  Snake looks up from his sandwich, makes a face, and exhales, which causes Alex and Frankie to sigh in unison.

  “Told you we should sit somewhere else,” Alex says.

  “Josh?” I ask again, and he slides right a little.

  I thump down onto the plastic bench; its surface is cold against my butt and legs. Even though it’s October and kind of chilly, we all wear basketball shorts and T-shirts. Mom’s always asking me to put long pants on, but I do not get what her problem is.

  “Geez, now we’re completely squished.” Frankie elbows me and grimaces. “Maybe next time someone’ll catch a clue about whether he’s in or out.”

  “Maybe we wouldn’t be squished if your head didn’t take up so much room,” I mumble.

  “Oh, snap!” Alex laughs. “Good one.”

  “So, I’m going to blow up my house after school,” Snake says. “You guys should teleport in and watch.”