Teeny Weenies: Fishing for Pets

by David Lubar

  FIGURED OUT

  “Clear your desks, it’s test time,” Mr. Verber said.

  Matt shoved his books inside his desk and closed the lid. It didn’t go all the way down. He pushed harder. It resisted for a moment. Matt pushed even harder. He was rewarded with the sound of cracking plastic.

  “You may use your calculators,” Mr. Verber told the class. He walked over to the window and lowered it, shutting out the noise that drifted in from the construction site down the street.

  “Oh no.” Matt groaned as he realized the most likely source of the sound of destruction that had shot from within his desk. He lifted the lid of his desk and pushed aside the piles of books and papers. Sure enough, there was a big crack on the front of his calculator, right between the number keys and the display.

  “Matt, pay attention please.”

  Matt looked up. “Sorry,” he said to his teacher. He put the calculator on his desk and took the test paper from Mr. Verber.

  Work, he thought as he turned the calculator on. Please work.

  The display came up. But instead of the usual line of zeros, it flashed a series of random numbers. Matt punched the 0 key. Nothing happened. He tried the plus key, the clear-entry key, and then the equal key. The calculator didn’t respond.

  “Oh boy.” He sighed as he looked at the first question on the test.

  Joseph has 37 marbles. He puts them on a scale and discovers they weigh 8½ ounces. How much does one marble weigh?

  Matt shook his head. He knew he had to divide 8½ by 37 to get the answer. It would take him forever to do the test by hand. Around him, he could hear the click of fingers tapping calculator keys. Out of habit, he reached toward the keys on his own busted calculator. It was worth another try. His hand froze an inch above the keys. The display had stopped changing. It showed a number. The number 8.5 was there, just as if Matt had punched it in.

  “Weird,” he muttered, moving his hand toward the divide key. Before he could press it, the display blinked. Then the number changed to 37. Then it blinked again and became 0.229729729, and stayed that way.

  Matt grabbed a pencil and started to check the answer by hand. As he wrote each digit, first the 2, then another 2 and then a 9, his hand started to tremble. Finally, he dropped the pencil. For a moment, he just stared at the calculator. Then he looked at the next problem on the test.

  A train leaves Boston traveling at 67 miles per hour. How far will it have traveled after 75 minutes?

  That problem was a bit tougher. Matt wasn’t sure whether he should start by figuring out the speed in miles per minute. He moved his hand over the calculator. The number 75 appeared. It blinked, as if he’d hit one of the function keys, then he saw the number 60. Another blink, and the display showed 1.25. Matt realized that 75 minutes divided by 60 showed how many hours the train had traveled. Sure—seventy-five minutes was one and a quarter hours. The display changed to 67, then became 83.75. Matt wrote down the answer and went to the next question.

  He was the first one to turn in his test.

  “Did you double-check your answers?” Mr. Verber asked when Matt walked up to the teacher’s desk.

  “I was very careful,” Matt said. He hurried back to his seat as an idea flashed through his mind. He picked up the calculator and thought about calling his friend Travis. A surge of excitement rushed through Matt as he stared at the display. It showed Travis’s phone number.

  For a while, Matt just held the calculator. Another thought seized him. Getting the calculator to show Travis’s phone number was no big deal. Matt already knew it. But what about another number? He thought about his favorite musician. The number changed. Matt couldn’t believe his luck. He was holding the number for Johnny Backslash, lead guitarist for Toasted Brain Chili.

  “I’ll take that,” Mr. Verber said.

  “But—” Matt gasped as his teacher grabbed the calculator.

  “The test is now over. Please pay attention to the lesson,” Mr. Verber said. He dropped the calculator into his desk drawer.

  Matt tried to pay attention, but his mind swelled with the thousands of ways he could use the calculator. At the end of class, he went up to his teacher and asked, “Could I have my calculator back, please?”

  “Do you promise to pay more attention in the future?” Mr. Verber asked.

  Matt nodded. His teacher handed him the calculator. It was all Matt could do to keep from snatching the treasure from the man’s hand. As calmly as he could, he took the calculator and walked from the room.

  How hot is it outside? he wondered as he walked.

  The display changed to 73. Matt stepped from the building into the mild air. It definitely felt like the low seventies.

  That was close, he realized, thinking about how his teacher had taken away this marvelous device. Matt promised himself he would never risk losing the calculator again.

  He gazed at the display, wondering what to ask it next. Before he had any thoughts, the number changed to 3704. Matt paused for a moment, and tried to figure out what it meant. Then he shrugged and said, “How much is Uncle Carl going to give me for my birthday?”

  The display changed to 25. “Not bad,” Matt said. Uncle Carl had given him twenty dollars last year, so this was an improvement.

  The display changed back to 3704.

  Matt didn’t worry about that. As long as he got the answers he wanted, he really didn’t care what other numbers appeared. He tested it again, wondering about how much Mr. Verber weighed and how many points the Lakers would score in their next game. He got an answer each time. And after each answer, the display returned to 3704.

  Matt’s mind swam with a thousand ways to use the calculator. Sports scores, stock market results, lottery drawings, there was no limit. Dreaming of ways he’d become rich and famous, Matt stared at the calculator as he walked. It showed 3704. Something looked very familiar about the numbers, but also very wrong.

  “Hey kid,” someone shouted at him.

  Matt ignored the shouts. There was definitely something familiar about the numbers.

  “Kid!”

  “That’s it,” Matt said. He turned the calculator upside down. The display of 3704, seen this way, became letters instead of numbers. The message was hOLE.

  “Hole?” Matt said.

  His foot met air as he took his next step.

  Matt dropped the calculator as he fell into a hole. It wasn’t a deep drop, but it knocked the wind out of Matt. He didn’t care about that. He cared about the smashed pieces of plastic he felt beneath his knee.

  “Hey, kid? You okay?” a man wearing a hard hat asked as he peered into the hole.

  Matt nodded.

  “You should pay more attention to where you’re walking,” the man said. “You went right past the barriers and warning signs.” He reached down and gave Matt a hand.

  Matt looked back into the hole at the shattered pieces of his calculator.

  The man followed his gaze. “Forget that junk,” the man said. “Those things are nothing but trouble. A person should do his own thinking. Don’t you think so?” The man grinned and waited for a reply.

  “But…” Matt stood. He had no answer for that question. He had no answers at all.

  EASTER BOOGEY

  “It’s an easy job. Anyone could do it,” the Master of Holidays said.

  “Then why don’t you do it, yourself?” the Boogey Man asked.

  The Master of Holidays winced and rubbed his left knee. “I would, but I’ve got this bad knee. And I’m very busy.”

  “It’s really not my sort of thing,” the Boogey Man said. “I specialize in scaring kids and making sure they don’t try to sneak out of the house at night.”

  “And you’re great at that,” the Master of Holidays said. “But we’re in a real jam. Fluffy quit, yesterday. She just walked off, right before Easter.”

  “Why?” the Boogey Man asked.

  The Master of Holidays shrugged. “She said she’d developed an allergy to eggs. What
ever the reason, she left me without an Easter Bunny for tomorrow. We need you. I asked the Master of Myths, Legends, and Monsters if she could spare you for an evening, and she agreed.”

  The Boogey Man sighed. It looked like he was stuck with the job. “What, exactly, do I have to do?”

  “Hide eggs,” the Master of Holidays said.

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all,” the Master of Holidays said. “It helps to be clever about it. The eggs need to be hard to find, but not too hard. We want the youngsters to have a great time.”

  “What’s so great about eggs?’ the Boogey Man asked.

  “They have marvelous surprises inside them,” the Master of Holidays said. “You never know what you’ll find when you open one up. It could be a piece of candy, a small toy, or some coins. That’s part of the fun. Children love surprises.”

  “Surprises…” the Boogey Man said as a lovely idea trickled into his crafty mind. “You’re right. That could be fun.”

  “Great!” The Master of Holidays leaped to his feet and clapped his hands together in delight.

  “Your knee seems much better,” the Boogey Man said. “Maybe you should be hiding the eggs, after all.”

  The Master of Holidays dropped back into his chair. “Sometimes I get so excited, I don’t notice the pain.” He winced and rubbed his right knee. “I definitely need you to do this. Just make sure there are lots of surprises.”

  “I’m good at creating unexpected experiences and tampering with reality,” the Boogey Man said. He didn’t add that the biggest surprise of the next day would be for the Master of Holidays.

  As night fell and the Boogey Man placed the first egg, he grinned his scary grin and said to himself, “He’ll never ask me for another favor.” He worked hard, and he worked fast, but even so, he barely managed to finish the job before the sun rose and eager children ran outside to greet the hidden treasures of Easter morning.

  The Boogey Man hovered in the shadows at the far end of a dead-end street, and listened for his favorite sound. And soon enough, it came, as he knew it would. Screams started destroying the peaceful calm of neighborhoods everywhere very early on Easter morning as children discovered the colorful hidden eggs and broke them open in search of wonderful treats.

  There were eggs filled with wasps.

  Surprise!

  Some had dozens of tiny spiders.

  Happy Easter!

  Others had one large tarantula that barely fit inside the shell and was so happy to be set free it crawled up its rescuer’s shirt to give them a grateful hug.

  Say hi to your new pet!

  A few very special and rather large eggs had rats. But not just any kind of rat. These were zombie rats. The Boogey Man was quite proud of them, since they combined two fears into one wonderfully horrifying package.

  Just for you!

  The screaming baby bats were another clever and highly successful creation.

  Keep on hunting!

  By the end of the day, it was an Easter no child would ever forget. That evening, the Master of Holidays tracked down the Boogey Man in his cave, where he was sitting by a cold, dead fireplace, reading scary stories by Edgar Allan Poe.

  “That was horrifying,” the Master of Holidays said.

  “Indeed.” The Boogey Man grinned, again.

  “You will never ever be asked to do that again,” the Master of Holidays said.

  “Just as I’d planned,” the Boogey Man whispered in a voice too soft to be heard. But then his grin flipped to a frown that shifted to a pout as he remembered the wonderful shrieks of terror that had decorated the morning. He hadn’t wanted to take the job. He’d done everything he could to make sure he would never be asked to fill in for the Easter Bunny again. But now that he knew how much fun it was to think up special treats to hide in eggs, he wanted to surprise children every Easter. And every other holiday. He pictured the wonderful horrors he could stuff inside a Thanksgiving turkey, and the dreadful presents he could sneak into houses for any gift-giving occasion. But now, he’d been told he’d never get to do any of that.

  “Never ever?” he asked, just to be sure.

  “Never ever at all, and absolutely not,” the Master of Holidays said. “Oh, and one more thing…”

  “What?” the Boogey Man asked.

  “Now that I’ve had a good look at what sort of work you do, I’ve decided we need to eliminate your position,” the Master of Holidays said. “Children are smart enough not to need fake scares to keep them from doing something silly.”

  The Boogey Man stared at him, unable to speak.

  “You are outdated, obsolete, and no longer necessary,” the Master of Holidays said. “I spoke with your boss, the Master of Myths, Legends, and Monsters, and she agreed. You are no longer allowed to hide in closets, lurk under beds, creep through attics, slither across rooftops, or in any other way disturb the nights or ruin the sleep of young children.” With that, he left the cave.

  The Boogey Man moped, sulked, whined, moaned, and possibly shed a tear or two. But then his eyes fell on the object he’d been holding, and he realized there was still one way he could keep doing what he did best. Not only did he love scaring children, but he thought being safely scared was an important part of their lives. While he could no longer creep through the night, he knew there was more than one way to strike terror into young hearts.

  He took a pen and a notebook—for he was truly a relic of the past—and started writing the opening line of the scariest story he could think of:

  They teased Riley Shreager because he was an easy target. He was small, round, soft, and rather pale, with large, moist eyes that led to him being called owl face or bug boy by the meaner kids in his class. Even the nicest students avoided him. None of the taunts seemed to bother him. Or if they did, he kept his feelings to himself.

  The Boogey Man was smiling again, now, as the terrifying tale poured out of him. This was perfect. He could scare countless young readers without ever leaving the discomfort of his cold, damp cave. He’d always wanted to be a writer. And now, he had his chance …

  THE INVENTION OF MOTHERS

  They teased Riley Shreager because he was an easy target. He was small, round, soft, and rather pale, with large, moist eyes that led to him being called owl face or bug boy by the meaner kids in his class. Even the nicest students avoided him. None of the taunts seemed to bother him. Or if they did, he kept his feelings to himself.

  This lack of response only fueled the actions of the two worst bullies, Norbert Klezner and Andrea Vanderwitz. They mocked, taunted, and teased Riley anytime they could get away with it. All the teachers worked hard to prevent bullying, but every teacher has a dozen goals to accomplish throughout the day, or perhaps a thousand, while a bully usually has just one task in mind.

  Things grew worse as Mother’s Day approached. The students at Elmore Leonard Elementary School always put on a special play for their mothers, or other female guardians, the Friday before Mother’s Day. (Fathers got a similar treatment right before the end of the school year.)

  As everyone in the school who wasn’t in the play filed into the auditorium, Norbert slipped behind Riley and whispered, “Where’s your mother, you little worm?” He put his hand above his eyes like he was shielding them from the sun, and scanned the auditorium. “I don’t see anyone ugly enough to be related to you.”

  Riley didn’t respond.

  “He’s not a worm,” Andrea said. “He’s an owl. But not a wise one.”

  “Maybe his mother had to stay home with her eggs,” Norbert said.

  Riley’s mouth twitched, like he was about to say something. But he remained silent, and managed to slip out of range of Norbert and Andrea when he took his seat. That was probably a good thing, since the play this year was about diversity and how there were all sorts of families, which would have given the bullies even more fuel for their taunts, because they didn’t like anyone who wasn’t exactly like themselves.

 
But just as Riley’s luck would have it, they spotted him on Sunday morning, by the flower shop on Bachman Ave. Norbert and Andrea pretty much always hung out at the tiny corner market across the street from the shop because their parents pretty much always told them to stop horsing around and go play outside.

  “Look who crawled out from under a log,” Norbert said, pointing toward Riley, who was just entering the flower shop.

  “Maybe he really has a mother,” Andrea said.

  Several minutes later, after a series of customers left the store holding bouquets of various sizes, Riley emerged clutching a single pink carnation as if it were a rare and delicate treasure.

  “How pathetic,” Norbert said. “One stupid little flower.” He didn’t add that he’d failed to get his own mother anything. Though it did occur to him that he had an easy shot at a carnation, if he wanted it. Not that he did.

  Andrea, who had also been far from the best daughter, and ended up scrawling a Mother’s Day card on a napkin with a crayon at the last minute, laughed. “What a loser.”

  “We have to see where he’s going,” Norbert said.

  “For sure,” Andrea said. “This should be interesting.”

  They waited until Riley was half a block away, and then followed him.