by Bruce Hale
I scratched my head. “Wait, you mean serving two different lunches every day is actually cheaper?”
“They have the expense reports to prove it,” said our principal. “But we’re getting off track. Since food fights are not a legitimate form of protest, we should be discussing your punishment.”
“Torture us all you like,” said Benny, getting into his role, “but you can never take away…our freedom!”
Mrs. Johnson lifted an eyebrow. I elbowed Benny. No use giving her any ideas.
“We don’t believe in torture here at Monterrosa Elementary,” said our principal. (Although anyone who’d experienced standardized testing might disagree.) “But we do believe in making the penalty fit the crime. Since the lunch ladies have refused to let you wash dishes, your punishment will be…”
I gritted my teeth, bracing myself.
“Helping Mr. Decker clean up the cafeteria, and two days of detention.”
“Aw, but—” Benny began.
“Starting now,” said Mrs. Johnson.
When he tried to protest again, I kicked Benny’s ankle. It had just occurred to me that this particular punishment might actually work in our favor.
“We’re really sorry, Mrs. Johnson,” I said. “We’ll go help Mr. Boo—um, Decker right away.”
She scrubbed a hand over her face. “As if I didn’t have enough to worry about with a student gone missing,” she said, half to herself.
I perked up a little. Maybe there was a way we could learn something….
“You mean Justin?” I said. “Has there been any sign of him?” It had been a full day, and I was worried about the kid.
Mrs. Johnson shook her head. “Vanished like the last slice of peach pie.”
“Have you tried look—” Benny began.
“We’ve searched everywhere, thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your concern, but you two have done enough for one day.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I mean, sorry?”
She squinted at us. “It’d make me happier than a gopher in soft dirt if I never had to call you into my office again.”
“Us too,” said Benny. “Believe me.”
Mrs. Johnson made a shooing motion. “Now skedaddle!”
What else could we do? We skedaddled.
“WHY WERE YOU so eager to sign up for hard labor after we already picked up trash?” Benny asked as we trudged back to the cafeteria. “Do you like cruel and unusual punishment?”
“Well,” I said, “I have voluntarily eaten your mom’s vegan tofu snack balls.”
He grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”
“But no, I was thinking of our investigation. The more time we spend in the cafeteria, the better chance we have of figuring this thing out.”
“The sooner, the better,” said Benny. “Who knows what those fake lunch ladies have got planned.”
“Whatever it is,” I said, “I’ll bet it’s not a pony ride in the park.” I frowned. It struck me as odd that the cafeteria workers wouldn’t let us wash dishes, the lowliest of kitchen tasks. Something was definitely up.
As if to underline this, on the way to the lunchroom, we saw some strange sights. A second-grade girl stealing a soccer ball from a pair of fourth-grade boys. Cheyenne and Gabi arm wrestling. And a pack of fifth-grade girls treeing a boy in their grade, then chucking old milk cartons at him.
It seemed like our Monterrosa females were taking girl power a bit too literally. In fact, even my own sister was acting stranger than a rhino dancing the rumba. When we bumped into her, I mentioned that we were still looking for her missing friend.
Her lips pursed. “Justin? He’s not even a supporting player—more like a walk-on.”
“Huh?”
“Who needs him?” snapped Veronica. “He’s a booger face.” And she flounced away.
This from the girl who’d begged me to find her friend.
But girl-related strangeness was another mystery for another day. As ordered, Benny and I reported to Mr. Boo, who was scouring tomato sauce off the cafeteria walls.
“Dudes,” he said, wagging his head, “I can’t believe you started a food fight.”
“Yeah, well…” I shrugged uncomfortably.
“On the one hand, it’s awesome,” said the grizzled surfer. “But on the other, it’s a ton of work for whoever has to clean it up.” A sudden smile lit his face as he tossed us two sponges. “Luckily, that someone is you.”
Mr. Boo kept scrubbing at the high stuff we couldn’t reach, and assigned us everything from his waist level down. Dunking my sponge into the pail of soapy water, I surveyed the aftereffects of our food fight. With all the puddles of lasagna, Jell-O, succotash, and gravy, the place looked like a family of rabid wolverines had dismantled an Italian Thanksgiving.
As Benny and I swept and swabbed and scrubbed, I kept an eye on the kitchen. The lunch ladies had lowered the serving-counter grille, but left the kitchen door halfway open. Various thumps and clatters came from behind it, along with occasional bursts of clickety-clacks.
Ever so casually, Benny and I headed over to tidy up the part of the lunchroom that gave us the best view of the kitchen.
“See anything?” Benny asked.
I swept up some stray pasta and sneaked a look. “Mrs. Robinson is…arguing with Mrs. McCoy.”
The click-clacking escalated as they waved their hands wildly, getting up in each other’s face. Mrs. Perez stepped between them.
“What are they saying?” Benny asked.
I edged closer. “Beats me. Sounds like a dolphin concert.”
As I watched, Mrs. Robinson threw off Mrs. Perez’s restraining hand, spun, and punched the jumbo-size refrigerator with a mighty blow. I gasped.
“Now she’s beating up the fridge,” I said. Even from here, I could spot the enormous dent. Mrs. Robinson was unharmed. “And she’s winning.”
“No human could do that, not even Batman. What could they be?” Benny straightened from mopping up a gravy lake and craned his neck to see. “Ooh, what if these freaks are wearing the real lunch ladies, like a costume?”
“First, eeww,” I said. “And second, I don’t think that’s possible.”
He gave me an ominous look. “If they’re aliens,” he said, “we have no idea what’s possible.”
Benny had a point. I brushed a pile of random food bits into the dustpan as Mrs. Perez slammed the kitchen door with a suspicious glare, cutting off our view. “If only there was some way for us to get a good look around in there. Who knows what we might find?”
A crafty expression spread over Benny’s normally innocent features, like a pat of butter on a hot tortilla. He cast a sidelong glance at the custodian’s cart, which stood near the wall, not far away.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he muttered, “but doesn’t the head janitor have keys to all the doors at school?”
“You’re right, but you’re wrong,” I said. “We are not going to steal Mr. Boo’s keys.”
“Borrow,” Benny corrected me.
Shaking my head, I said, “Not even.” I glanced over at the lanky custodian, who was cleaning up across the room, whistling away. “(a), he would totally notice in five minutes flat. And (b), we could get suspended.”
“Spoilsport,” said Benny, pouting.
“There’s got to be a better way,” I mused, studying the cart. And then my gaze landed on the invention no guy can do without. Duct tape. Checking out the kitchen door, I noticed it had no dead bolt, just the single lock in the knob.
Hmm…
I carried the full dustpan over to a garbage can, not far from Mr. Boo. Jerking my head at the kitchen, I asked, “How late do they stay around?”
“The lunch ladies?” he said. “Maybe another half hour. They split long before second recess.”
“Do they lock up when they go, or do you?”
“Sometimes they do,” he said, “but mostly it’s me. Why do you ask?”
Tipping the contents of my dustpan into the trash, I th
ought fast. “Um, I was thinking about being a custodian when I grow up. Just wanted to know what it involves.”
That was both the right and the wrong thing to say. It did distract Mr. Boo from wondering about my motives, but it also set him off on a five-minute monologue about how totally awesome it was to be a custodian.
The class bell rang, and Benny and I had to go.
“Later, dudes!” Mr. Boo waved as we left. “Come help anytime.” Then something on the floor caught his eye, so he stooped, picked it up, and showed us a small green vegetable. “Hey. Whisper words of wisdom, lima bean.”
“Uh, right.” Custodians say the darnedest things. I smiled and waved as we left, but I felt a little bad about having borrowed his roll of duct tape.
I felt even worse about slipping a piece of it over the lock mechanism in the outer cafeteria door. But all heroes have to bend the rules sometimes. It’s practically in the hero handbook.
Or if it isn’t, it should be.
Turned out, the hardest part of my plan was sneaking back into the cafeteria to rig the kitchen door after the lunch ladies had left but before Mr. Boo locked it. What excuse to use? Returning books to the library? Mr. Chu told me to wait until after school. Talking to the principal? Ditto.
I couldn’t just make a break for it. Mr. Chu was pretty mellow, but even he tended to frown on kids wandering off during class time. We were halfway through our design-your-own-dinosaur unit when it suddenly struck me.
I was overthinking. When in doubt, turn to the classics.
I raised my hand. “Mr. Chu, can I go to the bathroom?”
Benny shot a glance my way.
“Are you physically able to go to the bathroom?” said our teacher. “I’m guessing the answer is yes, or you wouldn’t still be alive. But if you’re asking for permission to go right now, the answer is…” He paused dramatically. “Yes. Go!”
I left walking like a guy who has to use the restroom, but as soon as I was out of sight, I sprinted for the cafeteria.
Tearing past the third-grade rooms, I heard the drone of kids reciting their times tables. Out beyond the buildings, the playground was as deserted as an all-you-can-eat menudo buffet. Luck was with me.
Hustling down the hallway, I stopped only when I reached the door I’d taped earlier. It swung open on a darkened cafeteria.
So far, so good.
The empty room still smelled of tomato sauce and gravy, the aftermath of our food fight. With the duct tape bulging in my pocket, I crossed to the kitchen door and tried it. Closed but not locked.
I pulled out a short strip of the tape and tore it with my teeth—scritchhh!
And a woman’s voice said, “What the H-E-double-toothpicks are you doing in here?”
I WHIRLED. In the dimness before me stood the familiar figure of Mrs. Ponytail, the PTA mom. She looked just as surprised to see me as I was to see her.
“What are you doing?” she demanded again.
“I, uh, what?” I said. Because I’m so good with words. Casually, I tried to hide the duct tape behind my back.
“You shouldn’t be here.” She scowled. “Why aren’t you in class, bothering your teacher and pretending to learn something?” Mrs. Ponytail advanced, and although she was still the same PTA mom as before, an uneasy tickle, like the feet of many daddy longlegs, crept across my flesh.
“I’m uh, doing something for my, um, teacher,” I said.
Mrs. Ponytail loomed over me. Her flowery perfume was so strong it could have beaten up Iron Man and Spider-Man without even breaking a sweat. Her voice grew lower, rougher. “I know all about boys like you. Troublemakers and promise-breakers, yes indeedy. Boys that lie and steal.”
Are you talking about an old boyfriend or your son? I thought. But what I said was, “Honestly, I was just—” I gestured with one hand, still keeping the hand with the tape behind me.
“Helping yourself to free food, like a looter and pillager?” said Mrs. Ponytail. “Go ahead. Tell me another—”
“Ah, there you are!” Sunlight speared into the murky room, outlining Benny’s silhouette in the doorway. “Mr. Chu was wondering.”
The PTA mom whirled to confront Benny. I took advantage of the distraction to fumble behind me for the doorknob.
“And why in the name of all that’s wholesome are you here?” Mrs. Ponytail demanded of Benny.
I motioned at him to stretch out his explanation.
“Here on this earth, here at school, or here in the cafeteria?” he said. “I’m only here in school because the law makes me. But why I’m here on this planet is complex and mysterious—something I may not be able to figure out until I’ve lived most of my life.”
You’ve got to hand it to Benny—he can do annoying and thickheaded better than almost anyone. His little speech gave me the time I needed. I opened the door, covered the latch with duct tape, pushed the button on the inside knob, and spun back around, closing the door behind me.
If Mrs. Ponytail were a cartoon, she’d have had little frustration lines bursting out of her head. Benny has that effect sometimes. She ground her teeth and practically growled, “Unless you want that life cut tragically short, you’ll leave now.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “Sure thing,” I said. “We were just going. Weren’t we, Benny?”
“Yup, yup,” he said. “Lots of learning left in the day. I can’t wait to fill my head with fascinating factoids.”
We nodded pleasantly to the PTA mom, who was practically pulling off her ponytail, and strolled out the door.
“Did Mr. Chu really send you?” I asked Benny as we hustled back to class.
He snorted. “Same as you, I asked to go to the bathroom. Is the tape in place?”
“All set,” I said. “Everything’s ready for Operation Kitchen Snoop.”
Before that, of course, there were lessons to get through, detention to serve, and what was left of the afternoon to kill. But Benny and I are nothing if not resourceful. Finally, as the sun sank low, we made an excuse to my mom, promised we’d be home for dinner, and rode our bikes back to Monterrosa Elementary.
There’s something almost sad about a school with nobody in it. The flagpole stood as bare as a Q-tip. No kids shouted on the playground. No cars graced the parking lot.
We were alone.
After stashing our bikes in some nearby bushes, we made our way to the outer cafeteria door. Amazingly, the tape still covered the latch. Mr. Boo must have been too into his after-school surfing safari to double-check whether everything was locked up.
Sometimes, you get lucky.
The door creaked open, and we slipped inside. Darkness pooled in the corners as the last sunlight bled away from the room.
Benny reached for the wall switch.
I stopped him. “Don’t. The light will show through the windows.”
“Okay, then,” he said, “break out the flashlight.”
“I thought you were going to bring it.”
“I thought you had it,” he said.
Pointing at the lump in the pocket of his hoodie, I asked, “Then what’s that?”
Benny reached in and drew out a spray can of Raid insecticide. “Insurance,” he said. “In case things get seriously buggy.”
I wiped my palms on my jeans, surprised to discover that they were sweaty. The thought of running into an alien or an enormous insect had me feeling a bit jumpy. Benny caught my reaction.
“Chill,” he said. “Nobody’s here. No cars in the lot.”
“Maybe that’s because alien bug monsters don’t drive,” I said.
Benny’s smile looked a little less confident. “Heh,” he said. “Good one.”
We crossed the cafeteria to the kitchen. Here too my tape had stayed in place—the door swung open without a sound. I felt a swell of confidence.
Too bad we weren’t master criminals; school security was pretty laid-back.
As soon as we stepped inside, though, second thoughts ambushed me.
; “Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea,” I said. “What if they sleep here or something?”
Benny scoffed. “You’re thinking of vampires.”
My pulse throbbed in my temples. “For all we know, they could be some kind of vampire E.T.s.”
“Relax,” said Benny. “You worry too much.”
“And you don’t worry enough.”
The last weak rays of sunshine struggled to penetrate the high, filthy window above the sink. They mostly failed. Vague shapes loomed in the dimness—the refrigerator here, the food-prep island there. The ghostly aromas of burritos, pizza, and so many school meals haunted the room.
It was just a kitchen. But somehow the place seemed different after hours.
Spookier.
More sinister.
“Hello?” Benny called. “Anybody home?”
I shushed him. “If someone is here,” I whispered, “we don’t want them to hear us.”
We listened intently. But all we heard was the soft whir of the jumbo-size refrigerator and the faint gurgle of water in the pipes.
“See? We’re alone,” said Benny, plunging on ahead into the dimness.
“So what are we looking for?” I said.
Biting his lip, Benny scanned the space. “Anything that seems out of place. Alien technology, giant egg sacs, kidnapped boys, a lunch that actually tastes good…”
“That narrows it down,” I said.
He pulled open some cabinets under the counter and peeked inside.
“Um, a bit small for a missing kid,” I said.
“Not if he was chopped up,” said Benny.
I grimaced. “Morbid much?”
With that cheerful thought in mind, I peeked into the space under the sink. Nothing there but the dim shapes of pipes and cleaning products. The harsh tang of ammonia cut through the funk of old hot dogs and fryer grease.
The deeper we moved into the kitchen, the more I had the sensation of being watched. Twice I spun around, ninja fast. And twice I spotted nothing but cabinets, a deep fryer, and the usual kitchen junk.
“You sure we’re alone?” I asked Benny.
