Carl Hiaasen for Kids: Hoot, Flush, Scat

by Carl Hiaasen

  “Guess I’ll try the spaghetti.”

  “Excellent choice.”

  “Hey, did Dad e-mail you at work today?”

  “No. How about you?”

  “Not yet,” Nick said.

  His mother managed a smile. “Don’t worry. He’s probably away from base camp.”

  “I’ll go look on the computer again—”

  “Let’s eat first, Nicky. Know what? I’m not really in the mood for pasta. Why don’t we go out for some barbecue?”

  “You sure, Mom?”

  “Sure as can be,” she said, finishing off the juice. “What time is it in Iraq right now?”

  “Like one-thirty in the morning.”

  “Oh, then he’s probably asleep.”

  “Yeah,” Nick said. “I bet he’s sleeping. I bet we’ll hear from him tomorrow.”

  The headmaster, Dr. Dressler, was neat and cautious and mild-spoken. He was happiest when the Truman School ran smoothly and harmony was in the air. He was unhappiest when the students and faculty were buzzing and distracted.

  “Tell me exactly what happened,” he said to Mrs. Starch.

  She held up the half-eaten pencil. “The young man has serious anger-control issues,” she said.

  Dr. Dressler examined the evidence. “And you’re sure he didn’t spit the rest out?”

  “Oh, no, he swallowed it,” Mrs. Starch reported. “Most definitely.”

  “Why didn’t you send him to the nurse’s station?”

  “Because he stormed out of my classroom,” she said, adding with disapproval, “sixteen minutes before the bell. Sixteen full minutes.”

  “The splinters could be harmful to his internal organs—”

  “I’m well aware of that, Dr. Dressler.”

  “The boy’s parents should be notified as soon as possible.”

  “And informed, at the same time, of his disruptive and unacceptable actions.”

  “Of course,” Dr. Dressler said uneasily.

  Like everybody else at the Truman School, he tried to avoid Mrs. Starch whenever possible. Ever since taking the headmaster job, he’d heard strange stories. She lived alone, yet no one seemed to know whether she was divorced or she was a widow. According to one rumor, her house was filled with stuffed dead animals, such as skunks and raccoons. Ac cording to other gossip, she kept fifty-three snakes as pets, including a diamondback rattler.

  Officially, Mrs. Starch’s private life was none of Dr. Dressler’s business. As a teacher she was punctual, thorough, and hardworking. Students might be afraid of Mrs. Starch, but they also learned plenty from her. Truman classes always scored exceptionally well on the biology questions in the PSATs and SATs.

  Still, Dr. Dressler couldn’t help but wonder if any of the weird tales about Mrs. Starch were true. He found himself uncomfortable in her presence, probably because Mrs. Starch was so large and imposing and spoke to him as if he were a half-witted nephew.

  She said, “I’ll be happy to phone Duane’s parents myself.”

  “That’s all right. You’ve got the field trip tomorrow—”

  “We’re all packed and ready to go, Dr. Dressler.”

  “Good. Very good.” He smiled impassively. “But I’ll contact the Scrods. It’s my responsibility.”

  “Oh, I really don’t mind,” Mrs. Starch said, a bit too cheerily.

  “Let me handle it, please.”

  Mrs. Starch rose to leave. Dr. Dressler carefully sealed the mangled remains of the pencil into a plastic baggie of the type used for sandwiches.

  “The pencil was in my hand when he attacked it. He could easily have nipped off my fingers,” Mrs. Starch said. “I assume disciplinary measures will be taken.”

  The Truman School had a detailed Code of Conduct for students, but offhand the headmaster couldn’t think of a rule that applied to eating a teacher’s pencil. He supposed that it fell under the category of “unruly behavior.”

  “What prompted Duane to do something like this?” he asked Mrs. Starch.

  “He became angry when I asked him to write a paper,” she explained, “and the reason I asked him to write a paper was that he failed to do his class reading assignment. As a result, he was unable to discuss the study material when called upon.”

  “I see.” Dr. Dressler opened a drawer and deposited the baggie containing the mangled pencil into it.

  “By the way, will you be coming along on our field trip?” Mrs. Starch asked. “You can ride with me.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” the headmaster replied quickly. “I’ve got a … a meeting, a board meeting in the morning. Board of trustees.”

  And if there’s not a meeting, Dr. Dressler thought, I’ll arrange one. He was not an outdoor person, and his contact with nature was limited to glimpses of wildlife on Animal Planet while he flipped channels between cooking shows. Dr. Dressler was certain that any place called the Black Vine Swamp was no place he wanted to be.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” Mrs. Starch told him.

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  After she left his office, Dr. Dressler phoned the Scrod household. A man answered, growled something that Dr. Dressler couldn’t understand, and hung up.

  Perplexed, Dr. Dressler pulled out the file of Duane Scrod Jr. It showed that the boy had been held back two years in elementary school and later was expelled from a public middle school for fighting with his P.E. teacher. During that scuffle, the teacher lost three teeth and the tip of his right pinkie finger, which Duane had gnawed off and consumed.

  Dr. Dressler thought: There seems to be a pattern here.

  The mystery of how a person such as Duane Scrod Jr. got accepted into the Truman School was solved when Dr. Dressler came across a letter from the previous headmaster reflecting a large cash donation from Duane’s wealthy grandmother, who was also paying his tuition.

  Dr. Dressler concluded that it would be bad for the Truman School and its future endowments if young Duane became seriously ill from devouring Mrs. Starch’s pencil. He put away the file and somewhat wearily headed for the parking lot, where he got into his car and—using his nifty new dashboard GPS—made his way to the address of Mr. Duane Scrod Sr.

  The unpainted block house sat along an unpaved road through some pine scrub on the outskirts of Naples. By the time Dr. Dressler arrived, the sun had set and the woods were humming with night insects. In the driveway sat numerous vehicles, none of them well maintained. There was a battered pickup truck, a motorcycle with crooked handle-bars, a mud-splattered ATV on blocks, a dented minivan missing two doors, and an SUV upon which someone had painted, in bright orange letters: BOYCOTT SMITHERS CHEVY!!!!!

  Although no lights were on inside the house, the front windows were open and Dr. Dressler could hear classical music, which he found encouraging. It was a Bach concerto.

  The headmaster straightened his necktie and rang the bell. When no one responded, Dr. Dressler began to knock.

  Eventually a lean, unshaven man appeared at the screen door. He wore hunting garb, a red trucker’s cap, and no shoes.

  “You from the guv’ment?” The man pointed aggressively at Dr. Dressler with a rusty pair of pliers. “If you’re here about the taxes, don’t be surprised if I pull off your lips and feed ’em to my bird. I got a macaw speaks three languages.”

  Dr. Dressler resisted the impulse to run away. “I’m f-f-from the Truman School,” he stammered. “Are you Duane’s father?”

  “I am,” the man said. “How ’bout some ID?”

  Nervously, Dr. Dressler drew a business card from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Duane Scrod Sr. snatched the card and disappeared for several minutes. When he returned, a large bird with brilliant blue-and-gold plumage was perched on his left shoulder. With its crusty hooked beak, the macaw was shredding Dr. Dressler’s card.

  Duane Scrod Sr. opened the screen door and propped it ajar with one knee. “What did DJ. do now?” he asked.

  “DJ.?”

 
“Duane Junior. I know he must’ve done something bad because (a) you’re here and (b) he’s not. You wanna come inside?”

  Dr. Dressler shook his head and politely said no thanks. “Your son had what I would call a disagreement with one of his teachers today. A homework issue, from what I understand.”

  “And this is front-page news?” When Duane Scrod Sr. laughed, the macaw laughed, too. It was a perfect imitation, and Dr. Dressler was totally creeped out.

  He realized that he’d made a mistake by visiting the house. Duane Jr. obviously hadn’t told his father what had happened in Mrs. Starch’s class, and undoubtedly he had no intention of telling his father, even if he got sick as a dog from eating the pencil.

  “I don’t see why you drove all the way out here,” Duane Scrod Sr. muttered. “Did my dear old rich ex-mother-in-law call up the school or somethin’? Light a spark under your butt?”

  “No, Mr. Scrod. This was my idea.” Dr. Dressler was itching to leave. “I just wanted to check on your son. Get his side of the story. Clarify our homework policy, you know, to avoid any further confusion about his responsibilities.”

  “Confusion?” Duane Scrod Sr. cackled, followed uncannily by his macaw. “DJ. ain’t confused. D.J.’s just DJ.”

  “Well, his teacher and I were concerned,” Dr. Dressler said, which was only half true. Mrs. Starch hadn’t seemed concerned at all. “You should be aware that DJ. swallowed a pencil at school today. He might need to see a doctor.”

  Duane Scrod Sr. snorted. “The boy’s got an iron stomach. When he was a little shrimp he used to eat rocks, oyster shells, lug nuts, even a piano wire. A pencil won’t hurt him, that’s for sure.”

  “Still, I’d feel better if I could speak with him,” the headmaster said.

  “Well, like I said, he’s not here. He didn’t get home from school yet.”

  Dr. Dressler couldn’t hide his concern. “But classes ended hours ago. It’s already dark out, Mr. Scrod—”

  “You got good eyes.”

  “Did DJ. call to say why he’d be late?”

  “Just chill out, guy.”

  “Wasn’t there soccer practice this afternoon?” the headmaster said. “Maybe he’s still at the ball field.”

  Duane Scrod Sr. informed Dr. Dressler that Duane Jr. wasn’t on the soccer team, the football team, the lacrosse team, or any other team at the Truman School.

  “He keeps to himself,” Duane Sr. explained. “Rides solo, you might say. His granny bought him a cell phone but I don’t believe he’s ever answered it.”

  Dr. Dressler felt a sickly wave of apprehension. He had a mental image of Duane Jr. lost in the woods and writhing in agony, his innards full of needle-sharp pencil splinters. This was followed by an equally unpleasant vision of Dr. Dressler himself being fired by the Truman board of trustees and then getting dragged into court by the Scrod family.

  “Sometimes DJ. doesn’t come through the door until way late,” Duane Sr. was saying. “I don’t bother to wait up—he’s a sizeable young man, and not many folks are dumb enough to mess with him.”

  Dr. Dressler took out another business card and wrote his home phone number on the back. “Would you mind calling me as soon as you or Mrs. Scrod hear from your son?”

  “There’s no Mrs. Scrod around here,” said Duane Sr., “at the moment.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “What for? We get by just fine, don’t we, Nadine?”

  The macaw made a purring noise and nibbled the frayed collar of Duane Scrod Sr.’s hunting jacket.

  Dr. Dressler handed the card with his phone number to the man, who immediately gave it to the bird.

  “Don’t you worry about Junior,” he said, letting the screen door bang shut. “He’ll show up when he shows up. G’night, now.”

  Dr. Dressler hustled down the driveway toward his car, which out of habit he had locked. While groping for his keys, he heard an animal scurrying through the scrub, and he felt his heartbeat quicken.

  The scent of pine needles made Dr. Dressler sneeze violently, and he was startled by a voice from inside the darkened house.

  “Bless you!” Nadine squawked. “À vos souhaits! Gesundheit!”

  THREE

  The students, groggy and rumpled, gathered shortly after dawn in the school parking lot. Nick was sitting alone on a curb when Marta walked up.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Just tired is all.” He’d been on the computer since 4 a.m., but no e-mails had arrived from his father in Iraq.

  Marta sat down. “Where’s Smoke?”

  “Haven’t seen him,” Nick said.

  “Good. Maybe he quit school—he’s old enough to drive, he’s gotta be old enough to drop out, right?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  Marta said, “I’m sorry, but he seriously scares me.”

  “Worse than her? No way,” said Nick.

  Mrs. Starch had arrived wide-awake and in high spirits. She wore wading boots, stiff canvas pants, a baggy long-sleeved shirt, and a frayed straw hat under an upturned veil of mosquito netting. Mrs. Starch always prepared for the worst.

  “Slather up, people!” she barked. “Sunblock, bug juice, lip balm—it’s a jungle out there!”

  Nick and Marta got in line for the bus. “Maybe she’ll get bit by a scorpion,” Marta muttered.

  “That would be awful,” Nick whispered, “for the scorpion.”

  Mrs. Starch whistled sharply. “Did everybody in my classes remember to bring their journals?” She held a black writing notebook above her head. “Keep a list of everything you see—insects, mammals, birds, trees. This will count as a lab grade.”

  Graham, who was dressed like a pint-sized version of the Crocodile Hunter, raised his hand. Mrs. Starch ignored him, as always.

  “We have three portable first-aid kits,” she went on, “and each teacher will be carrying one. If you get into a situation where you need help, speak up right away. Remember: Stay with your hiking teams, do not wander off, and, most importantly, be respectful toward this very special place that we’re exploring. Turn off your cell phones—if I or any of the other teachers hear one ringing, it will be confiscated.”

  Mrs. Starch put down the black notebook and picked up a device that Nick recognized as a portable boat horn. They made loud, gassy honks and were a favorite toy of drunken idiots at Buccaneers football games. Nick’s dad had season tickets.

  “This will be our emergency signal,” said Mrs. Starch, demonstrating the boat horn with a short, earsplitting beep. “If you hear that sound, immediately line up behind your teacher and proceed straight back to the bus. Any questions?”

  Graham hopped up and down, waving one arm.

  Mrs. Starch stared past him. “All right, people,” she said, clapping. “Let’s enjoy our day in the Black Vine Swamp!”

  The bus was roomy and clean and air-conditioned, unlike the one they rode to school. Nick and Marta sat together toward the front, their backpacks stowed under their seats.

  Marta nudged Nick and pointed out the window. Mrs. Starch was getting into her car, one of those teardrop-shaped hybrid models that ran on both electricity and gasoline. It had a “Save the Manatee” license plate.

  “I guess she left her broomstick at home,” Marta said.

  Nick thought it was odd that Mrs. Starch wasn’t riding out to the swamp with everybody else. He wondered if, after what happened the day before, she might not want to be on the bus with Smoke.

  But, to Nick and Marta’s relief, Smoke was nowhere to be seen. The other science teachers, Mr. Neal and Miss Moffitt, moved up and down the aisle, collecting forms from each of the students. The forms, which were signed by the parents, said that it wasn’t the school’s fault if their kid got hurt on the field trip.

  “I almost called in sick. I do not like swamps,” Marta confided to Nick.

  He said, “I hope we see a panther.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Seriously—that woul
d be so cool.” Never in the re corded history of Florida had a panther harmed a human being. Now there were fewer than a hundred of the big cats left in the whole state.

  “I got a video camera,” Nick said, “just in case.”

  Marta said her mother wanted her to bring home a ghost orchid. “I said, ‘Yeah, right, Mom. It’s against the law.’ And she goes, ‘But I’ll take good care of it!’ And I’m like, ‘You want me to go to jail, or what?’ Gimme a break.”

  Nick could tell that Marta was in a better mood because Mrs. Starch wasn’t on the bus. The absence of Smoke was a bonus.

  “How’s your dad?” Marta asked, which caught Nick off guard.

  “He’s okay.”

  “When’s he get back?”

  “ Twenty-two days.” Nick hadn’t told Marta or any other friends that his father had been sent to Iraq; the Naples newspaper had published the names of those serving in the war zone, and the list had been posted on the bulletin board outside the Truman gym.

  “And after that he’s home for good?” Marta asked.

  “I sure hope.”

  Nick put on his iPod, and Marta put on hers. The ride took almost an hour because a truck full of tomatoes had flipped over on State Road 29, blocking traffic. A fire-engine crew was hosing the ketchup-colored muck off the pavement. Nick spotted a dead buck by the side of the road, and he figured that the tomato truck must have struck it in the early fog. He wondered if the deer had been running from a panther.

  Eventually the bus made a slow turn onto a rutted dirt track that was very narrow. Twice the bus had to pull over to let flatbed trucks pass from the opposite direction. Nick noticed that both trucks had red diamond-shaped logos on the doors and looked brand-new. They barely slowed at all, churning dust as they rumbled by the bus.

  The wet prairies that usually glistened in the morning had turned brownish and crispy without rainfall. Ahead, Nick could see a rising tree line that marked the edge of the Black Vine Swamp.

  He dug into his backpack for a tube of sunblock, and he smeared some on his arms and neck.

  “Don’t forget your nose,” Marta said. “Here, let me do it.”

  “No, that’s okay—”