by Bruce Hale
Our eyes locked. She sneered. I sneered back. We each stepped forward.
Then I heard it: a faint buzzing above us. I spared a quick glance. A fat, juicy fly was circling lazily.
Ms. Darkwing saw it, too. Her mouth twitched; saliva dribbled from the corner. Just as she opened up to make her move, I shot out my tongue and nabbed the fly.
Bull’s-eye.
Even on her best day, no bat can beat a quickdraw gecko when there’s food at stake.
Ms. Darkwing snarled. “Smooth move, Gecko. Now let’s see if you’re fast enough to beat my friends.”
Suddenly the doorway behind her filled with a tough armadillo and a huge, evil cat.
Squint and Knuckles. Sounded like a good name for a comedy team. But somehow I didn’t think I’d like their jokes.
“Tie ’em up,” said Knuckles.
“Why is it crooks always want to tie me up?” I said. “It’s getting boring. Can’t you guys think of anything original?”
They exchanged puzzled looks. Natalie and I bolted for the open window. We would have made it, too, if it hadn’t been for that old bat. She was fast.
Ms. Darkwing clutched our tails in her claws. That stopped us long enough for Squint to drag us back into the room.
Knuckles and Ms. Darkwing tied up Principal Zero’s feet again while Squint pinned one of us under each arm. His armpits smelled worse than a skunk’s T-shirt after two weeks in the laundry hamper.
“You won’t get away with this!” said our principal. “You mmph—”
Knuckles jammed the tape over Mr. Zero’s mouth. “Oh, yes, we will,” he said. “And you’ll be our biggest supporters.”
“Never!” I said as they wrapped me in ropes like a sausage in string. Natalie pecked Ms. Darkwing, who shrieked in pain like an opera mouse butchering the score from Carmen.
“We’ll never help you,” said Natalie. Ms. Darkwing tightened her ropes sadistically.
“Oh, I think you will,” said Knuckles, “when we pour the concrete for the new buildings at our Vocational Criminal School. Lying there in the foundation, you’ll provide such great support.”
He was slimier than a dingo’s drool cup. Knuckles chortled nastily. His gang joined him. I would have tossed off a snappy comeback, but they had taped my mouth shut.
“What, no more wisecracks?” said Knuckles. “Well, toodle-oo, kiddies. We have a big meeting to prepare for.”
They left, deadbolting the door behind them. We lay there like three lumps of lasagna. Mmm, lasagna. I wondered if they would feed us dinner before they buried us in concrete.
I rolled over to face the window. It wasn’t far. I crawled for it as fast as I could, like an ancient inchworm with arthritis. If I could just pull myself up, maybe a neighbor would see.
Maybe they’d come investigate.
And maybe we’d starve to death first.
It took forever to reach the wall. Empires rose and fell. A whole new TV season came and went as I crawled. I heard a door slam below and a car engine start.
The crooks were leaving! If we didn’t show up at that meeting, they’d trick the PTA into approving their plan.
I struggled to a sitting position. Natalie and Principal Zero cheered me on with their eyes.
At least I think they did. They could’ve been swearing, for all I knew.
I levered and twisted my rope-wrapped body upright, like a mummy dancing hip-hop. Finally I stood and leaned on the windowsill. I poked my head outside.
“Hey, hey, hey, I found you!”
I looked down. Popper the tree frog bounced merrily on the ground below. “Now you’re it, you’re it!” she said. “Or do I have to come up and tag you, tag you first?”
16
Cops and Froggers
“Wowie, wow, wow!” said Popper. She hopped in a circle as she shouted up at me. “You guys are good at hide-and-seek. I never would have found you without that nice, nice neighbor lady.”
“Mmph, vvmm, gmff,” I said. The tape over my mouth didn’t help my diction any. I motioned with my head for Popper to come upstairs.
“I have to come up and tag, tag, tag you?” she said. “Okey-dokey-dokey!”
Two short hops and a long leap later, Popper crawled along a tree branch and in through the window. I slid over to make room for her.
She tagged all three of us. “You’re it, it, it!”
Then she started back out the window.
“MMMMPH!” Natalie, Principal Zero, and I screamed together.
Popper turned. “What, what? You’ll have to speak uppity-up.” Finally she noticed the ropes around our bodies and the tape over our mouths.
“Oh,” she said. “What a funny, funny game. Can I play, can I please play?”
The little tree frog peeled the tape off Natalie’s beak.
“It’s no game,” said Natalie. “These crooks tied us up and they’re trying to take over our school. Untie us, quick. We’ve got to stop them!”
“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy,” said Popper. “What a fun, fun game—cops and robbers!”
“Mmph!” I said. I’d straighten her out after we were free. She gave me a big-brother sort of feeling. The kind I get when I want to cream my little sister, Pinky.
For a frog, Popper had clever fingers. She untied us all in less time than it takes to sing “Polly Wolly Doodle” backward.
As soon as he was free, Principal Zero started making plans.
“I’ll fetch the police,” he said. “Chet, Natalie, you go to the PTA meeting and stall them until we get there.”
“What about me, me, me?” said Popper. She quivered like a tuning fork.
“You come with us,” said Natalie.
My stomach rumbled. It was long past snack time. “But, Principal Zero,” I said, “why do you need us at the meeting? Can’t the cops handle this? After all, they’ve got these crooks dead to rights for the kidnapping and for doing away with Mrs. Shrewer.”
His tail twitched. Mr. Zero frowned. “She’s just hiding,” he said. “Look, you don’t understand. I’m not worried about the criminals, I’m worried about the PTA. Once they vote on something, they never change their minds.”
Natalie cocked her head. “Oh,” she said. “You mean—”
“Exactly,” he said. “You’ve got to keep them from voting on Knuckles McGee’s plan, or it’s curtains for Emerson Hicky.”
And he wasn’t talking about interior decorating.
We dashed downstairs. Principal Zero waddled. He tried using the phone, but the crooks had disconnected it. Spoilsports. They weren’t as dumb as they looked.
Principal Zero growled. “I’ll call from next door. The police can pick me up. You get over to that meeting, pronto!”
We didn’t need to hear it again. Natalie, Popper, and I burst out the front door and down the driveway.
“Natalie,” I said. “Take me on your back. We’ve got to fly over there.”
“Me too, me too!” said Popper. She hopped like a jumping bean on springs.
“What do I look like,” said Natalie, “a passenger pigeon? There’s no way I’m letting you two on my back.”
“Oh, all right,” I said. Then my mental flashbulb went off. “Hey, stop the presses—I’ve got a great idea!”
“Hmph,” said Natalie. “Beginner’s luck.”
I stood on my skateboard and lifted Popper onto my shoulders. I gripped her ankles tightly.
“Popper, grab Natalie’s feet. Natalie, just grab back and flap away. You can tow us there, like water-skiing!”
Natalie sighed and shook her head. “Chet, you’ve been watching too much TV. But . . . okay. Let’s do it.”
She flapped a couple of times for altitude, then grabbed Popper’s hands. And away we went. Faster and faster we rolled. I didn’t know if the principal’s plan would work.
But I knew one thing.
If we didn’t make that meeting on time, at least we’d make it big on The Wild World of Sports.
17
/> Pandemonium at the PTA
Wind whipped my coat and lifted my hat. We took a corner on two wheels.
“Yee-haw!” I cried, like a Texas detective.
“Urk!” Popper seconded.
Solo skateboarding would never be the same again.
Heading into the last stretch, Natalie was gasping like a weaselly sixth grader trying a cigarette. Popper was stretched out like a torture victim on the rack.
And me? I was ready for action.
“Faster, faster!” I said. “Get the lead out!”
Natalie flashed me a dirty look. “You try towing . . . a lard bucket and a pipsqueak . . . see how fast . . . you can go,” she said between pants.
Dames. They get so moody sometimes.
We rolled into the school parking lot. The auditorium waited just ahead. So did the curb.
“Natalie, there’s a—”
Ba-gonk!
There was no time to react. My skateboard rammed the curb. The impact jerked Popper’s legs from my hands. She and Natalie hit the grass in a tangle of feathers and webbed feet.
Like a slow-motion movie, I watched myself tumble through the air. Unfortunately, things sped up as I landed—whomp!—right on top of them.
When the world stopped spinning like a windup ballerina, I staggered to my feet. Natalie and Popper didn’t stir.
“Stop lollygagging around, you guys,” I said. “Let’s go!”
They groaned. These junior detectives—always lying about on the job.
I rushed through the auditorium doors. In rows of folding chairs sat parents, teachers, and the odd student who couldn’t get out of coming. At the front stood the phony Principal Zero. Behind him sat Clint Squint and Ms. Darkwing.
The principal was talking. “So, as you can see,” he said, “this vocational school will be good for the students, good for the community, and good for Emerson Hicky Elementary.”
The audience swallowed his line like a catfish gulps mosquito fudge ripple ice cream. They applauded politely.
Principal Zero—or should I say, Principal Knuckles—smiled like a dentist facing a mouthful of expensive cavities. His gang looked tickled, too. If you’ve never seen an armadillo and a bat grin, take it from me: It’s not a pretty sight.
“Now, if there are no questions,” he said, “let’s put this matter to a vote. All in favor—”
“Wait!” I said. “I have a question.”
I ducked behind a parent, so Knuckles couldn’t spot me.
“Yes, someone in the back?” He shaded his eyes and peered into the audience.
“Here’s my question: How do you define vocational?”
The fake principal’s tail twitched. He snapped, “Who said that?” Then he caught himself and forced a chuckle that sounded as merry as a rattlesnake with the mumps.
“Well,” said Knuckles, “it means, ‘relating to training for a job or career.’ We’ll train these children for a nice, profitable career.”
“What kind of career is that?” I said. I crept down the row.
Knuckles tracked me with his eyes. He signaled someone behind me. I turned, and Guido the janitor trotted toward me with arms spread wide.
“We’ll train these children for careers in a growth industry,” said the bogus principal. “Any other questions?”
I left my row of chairs and scooted down the aisle. With Guido on my tail, I had no time to talk.
“I’d like to know something,” said a voice from the back. “What kind of growth industry makes kids take classes in stealing cars and picking pockets?”
Good old Natalie, right on cue.
The audience murmured. “What’s this about stealing cars?” said a dignified old pigeon. “Whatever does she mean?”
“She means they want to turn this into a school for crooks!” I shouted.
Guido grabbed at me. I ducked under his arms and almost got knocked out by his B.O. Didn’t any of these criminals know about personal hygiene? They needed to take Marge Supial’s “Healthy Habits” class.
I jumped to the wall and scuttled out of reach. Mr. Squint started down the aisle for Natalie.
“Pay no attention to these kids,” Knuckles growled. “They’re just playing a childish prank. Let’s vote. All in favor—”
The audience rumbled like a pack of wolverines who forgot to make dinner reservations. An argument broke out between two parents. Jabbering teachers converged on Knuckles.
I leaped off the wall and onto the stage. Dodging behind chairs, I dashed for the fake principal, with Guido in hot pursuit. If only I could rip off that mask . . .
I hopped onto Knuckles’s back like a flea on an elephant.
“He’s a fake!” I cried. “Look!”
I tugged with both hands at the mask. Knuckles’s big paws clamped down on my wrists.
“Somebody get this gecko off me,” he snarled.
Guido plucked me off like a piece of belly-button lint. I looked for Natalie, but Mr. Squint had her cornered.
It looked like our luck had run out.
Bye-bye, detectives, hello crime school.
18
Knuckles’s Sandwich
Popper burst through the back door. “It’s a raid, it’s a raid!” she cried.
Blue uniforms poured into the auditorium from all sides. Parents screamed. Teachers shouted. I bit Guido’s paw.
“Yow!” He dropped me like a bad habit.
The crooks made a break for the door by the stage. Too late! Cops surrounded them.
Fweeeet!
Principal Zero’s whistle cut through the pandemonium like a belch through a church service. Everyone fell silent. He waddled up the aisle toward me.
“Took you long enough,” I said.
“Principals don’t run,” he said. Mr. Zero turned to the cops. “Officers, arrest these evildoers.”
The police looked from the fake principal to the real one. They hesitated.
“Arrest this man for disrupting our meeting!” said Knuckles.
Principal Zero advanced on him, eyes narrowed and neck fur bristling.
“It’s not just that you’re guilty of kidnapping, assault, and plotting to do very bad things . . . ,” he said. In one quick move, our principal reached out and tore off the mask. “But you’re impersonating a principal, mister, and I won’t stand for that!”
The parents and teachers gasped at the unmasked Knuckles McGee. I didn’t blame them. If ugliness were art, he’d have been the Moan-a Lisa.
Principal Zero wound up like King Kong pitching for the World Series. His punch connected with a whump that made me wince. The criminal went down like a concrete submarine.
“Enjoy your knuckle sandwich . . . Knuckles,” purred Mr. Zero. He smoothed his whiskers and turned to the cops. “Take them away.”
I heard a heavy sigh. There, just behind me, slumped a dejected Rocky Rhode, horned toad and juvenile delinquent.
“Oh, man, this is the pits,” she said. “I knew it was too good to be true—a principal who really understood me.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I think the real Principal Zero understands you, too.”
Rocky grumped. “I know. That’s the problem.”
The police loaded the four crooks into a paddy wagon outside, while Principal Zero told the crowd what had happened. Popper watched everything, wide-eyed and twitching.
“Wowie, wow, wow!” she said. “This is the best, the best cops-and-robbers game ever!”
Natalie joined me by the door. She groomed her feathers as we watched the police van pull away.
“Just think,” I said. “We never would have uncovered this plot if I wasn’t such a great artist.”
“Yeah, right,” she said. “Chet, you can barely draw a bath.”
I told you: Great artists are never appreciated.
Principal Zero spotted us and stepped away from the crowd. His heavy paw landed on my shoulder. He squeezed. I flinched.
“You kids have done great work on this
case,” he said. “Take some time off. You deserve it.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said.
He smiled. “Let’s see . . . today is Friday. Don’t come back to school until Monday.”
He wasn’t funny. But he was our principal.
As Natalie and I walked away, I began planning my next cartoon.
I’d start with a big, fat Principal Zero. And for the sake of Art, I’d make his stomach bigger than a Thanksgiving Day parade float. . . .
Mmm, Thanksgiving . . . That reminded me of dinner. Art could wait. I’d find my next masterpiece at home on a plate.
1
Fright of the Iguana
Mrs. Bagoong was a hundred pounds of tough, leathery iguana. Her eyes were like chocolate drops, her cheeks soft as AstroTurf and about the same color. Her thick, powerful body was wrapped in a blue apron that said KISS THE COOK.
Yuck. Nobody in his right mind would try to smooch Mrs. Bagoong.
She ruled the lunchroom as head cafeteria lady. If you wanted extra dessert, you had to go through her. Few tried.
But I’ve always loved a challenge. Mrs. Bagoong was all right. For an iguana. So when I saw her frown at lunchtime that day, I was worried.
“What’s the story, brown eyes?” I said. “If your face were any longer, you’d have to rent an extra chin.”
Mrs. Bagoong piled lime Jell-O onto my tray. The green gelatin was packed with juicy dung beetles. Yum. My mouth watered like an automatic sprinkler system.
The queen of the lunchroom sighed. It sounded like a small hurricane. “Chet, honey,” said Mrs. Bagoong, “we’ve got problems.”
My heart raced. “You’re not running out of mothloaf, are you?”
“Not yet.”
I relaxed. “So it’s not serious, then.”
“Serious enough!” she said. “Someone’s stealing our food. If it keeps up, it could put me out of business.”
My fists clenched. Food thieves! Scum like that are lower than kidnappers, blackmailers, and people who don’t return library books. They stink like leftovers from a hyena’s lunchbox.