The Curse of the Were-Hyena

by Bruce Hale

  “And if the water fountains ran with chocolate milk,” said Benny, “I’d drink two gallons a day. Get real, Carlos. Homework is never this much fun.”

  Dinner that night was a quiet one, just me and Abuelita at first. Dad had to work late, and Mom and my little sister, Veronica, were still down in L.A. for her audition. Oh, yeah, my six-year-old sister wanted to be an actress. And my stagestruck mom wanted to make sure she got what she wanted—even if it meant driving Veronica five hours to a silly tryout.

  Honestly, if you have a choice, don’t be the oldest kid. The parents use up all their strictness on the firstborn, and by the time the second one comes around, they let them do anything.

  The younger ones always have it easier.

  I must have been wearing a worried look, because my grandma asked, “Anything wrong, mijo?”

  “Not really.” Not that I could talk about anyway. I tilted my head. “Do you believe in the supernatural?”

  She snorted a laugh. “You mean vampires and zombies and ghosts?”

  “And, uh, stuff like that.”

  “Ay, Carlito.” Abuelita ruffled my hair. “My mother’s mole, a glorious sunset, a blazing sax solo—that’s supernatural. But ghosts?” She chuckled again. “¡Qué imaginación!”

  I wished it were just my imagination. But the other kids had seen Mr. Chu’s crazy antics, too.

  Abuelita and I were halfway finished eating by the time Dad showed up, looking like one of Zeppo’s old chew toys. He joined us at the table and picked at his dinner, distracted. But he still made sure to ask me the usual parent questions.

  “What did you study today, Carlos?” Dad asked, toying with his enchilada. His hair was messy and his eyes looked tired.

  “Oh, the usual stuff,” I said. Exorcisms, loup-garous, and werewolf cures. “Nothing special.”

  “And what are you up to tomorrow?”

  I wiped my mouth. “Um, Benny and I are going to present our social studies project.” And try to cure our teacher from becoming a monster.

  “Oh,” said my dad, his eyes on some work papers and his mind a million miles away. “Good luck with that.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said. “We sure could use it.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, we had so much stuff to carry, Benny’s mom volunteered to drive us to school. She dropped us by the flagpole, like all the other moms and dads, and blew Benny a kiss, which he ducked. It was an old routine with them.

  “Have a successful day, boys!” she called to us. Mrs. Brackman is one of those up-with-people people, always saying things like, “It’s Monday—don’t forget to be awesome,” “Be a warrior, not a worrier,” or “My blood type is be positive.”

  It’s nice, I guess. But a little goes a long way.

  Benny and I hauled our gear—including his covered pet carrier, which was making suspicious noises—into the flow of kids heading for class. Tina Green fell in beside us.

  “Hey, Brackman, Rivera,” she said.

  “Hey, Karate Girl,” I said.

  Tina had arrow-straight cornrows and braids with beads on them that clicked as she moved her head—tik-tik-tik. She’d also been taking karate lessons since she was three or something, so nobody ever teased her about her hair. Eyeballing our massive collection of bags and bundles, she asked, “You moving in?”

  “Yup,” said Benny. “Just can’t get enough of school.”

  I shook my head. “Social studies project.”

  Tina patted her book bag. “Mine’s in here. You guys might want to consider doing something simpler next time.”

  “Yeah.” I traded looks with Benny. “If we could, we would.”

  Glancing to both sides, Tina lowered her voice. “Hey, what’s with Mr. Chu? He was acting so weird yesterday.”

  “Really?” said Benny. “Hadn’t noticed.”

  “Uh-huh.” Tina arched an eyebrow. “’Cause most normal teachers growl and dash across the room in a flash. Riiight.”

  “Okay,” I said, “he was a little weird. Maybe it was only a bad mood.” I didn’t know why, but I wasn’t eager to discuss our shapeshifting theory with her.

  “Uh-huh,” Tina said again, like she didn’t believe a word. “I’m sure that’s all. Well, if you guys decide to let me in on it, just send a text.”

  And she lengthened her stride, pulling away from our weak protests and into the classroom.

  “You think she knows?” Benny asked.

  “She’d be a lot more worried if she did,” I said.

  I noticed that Benny hadn’t volunteered our plans either. I wondered if he, like me, had a secret wish to be the hero, to save the day.

  Room Thirteen was about half full. Kids were catching up with friends, doing last-minute homework, and getting ready for another school day. Mr. Chu wasn’t around. But his coat hung on his chair, and his sustainable bamboo briefcase (which he’d told us all about during our ecology unit) sat on his desk.

  Benny scanned the room. “Perfect timing!” He dumped his bags by his desk and rummaged through one of them. “I brought a little insurance, in case our you-know-what doesn’t work.”

  “Insurance is good,” I said.

  Then Benny fished out a spray can with a whispered, “Ta-da!”

  “No way,” I whispered back. “You didn’t.”

  With a broad smile and a waggle of his eyebrows, Benny hurried up to the teacher’s desk with the canister. I followed on his heels.

  “Benny, you can’t—”

  “Stand a little more over that way, to cover me,” said Benny. He crouched, shook the can, and began spraying Mr. Chu’s jacket with Doggie-Off—the stuff you use to keep your dog from chewing on furniture and stuff.

  Automatically, I moved to conceal him. “Seriously, Doggie-Off? We don’t even know what he’s turning into.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “So? If it’s something doglike, or even something that hates dogs, it might work. A good dose might scare the whatever-it-is out of him.”

  “Or make him lose his breakfast,” I said. The formula kind of stank.

  After soaking the jacket, Benny went on to spritz the desktop. I checked out the room. A few kids were staring at us curiously.

  “Enough,” I muttered. “We’ve got an audience.”

  Benny pretended to wipe off Mr. Chu’s desk. “And there we go,” he said in a fake-cheery voice. “Spick-and-span.”

  “Teacher’s pet,” sneered Tyler Spork, who had just come in.

  I didn’t have a comeback, but Benny said, “Cleanliness is next to godliness, and godliness is next to good grades. Jealous much, Tyler?”

  Tyler scowled, and we headed back to our desks. Just then, the bell rang. On the heels of the last few students, Mr. Chu burst through the door, a bundle of energy.

  “Gooood morning, Monterrosa!” he boomed.

  The class started to respond in the usual singsong way, but most of us faltered halfway through our “Good morning, Mr. Chu.”

  Why? His hair.

  Yep. Bald-headed Mr. Chu now sported a crop of spiky black hair a good three inches long. He looked like a hedgehog that had stuck its paw in a light socket, and he was grinning like a lottery winner.

  “It’s another awesome day,” he said, “and I can’t wait to learn something new!” Then our teacher ripped out a long, high giggle. “Let’s get edumacated!”

  I turned to Benny. He looked just as concerned as I felt, and the rest of the class wore various shades of confusion on their faces.

  Oblivious, Mr. Chu dived right into his first lesson, playing Base Ten Bingo with us like nothing was the matter. Benny and I kept an eye on his Doggie-Offed coat and desktop, but our teacher didn’t even approach them. Instead, he roamed the aisles like a daytime-TV host, occasionally calling out “Bingo!” and giggling.

  At the end of the lesson, Mr. Chu finally sat down. His nose crinkled, and he brought it right down to the desktop, sniffing deeply.

  “Whew!” He fanned the air in front of his face. “I have to hav
e a talk with the janitor.”

  “Or Benny,” said Tyler.

  “Or Benny,” our teacher agreed. “’Cause someone unleashed a whole new kind of clean here.” He cackled again, like he’d just said the funniest joke in the world, then plunged into a discussion of our class read, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

  Clearly, the Doggie-Off wasn’t working.

  But on the other hand, Mr. Chu didn’t seem particularly wolfy, aside from the extra hair. He was pretty cheerful. In fact, with all the wild laughter, he seemed a lot like a certain comic-book character. I scrawled a quick note:

  Any chance he could be turning into The Joker?

  And I folded it up and passed it to AJ, who handed it across to Benny. When Benny read it, he glanced at me and shook his head.

  “Benny, you don’t agree?” said Mr. Chu coldly.

  “Uh, what now?” said Benny.

  “With Cheyenne’s point that our author condemns greed in this story. Are you some kind of illiterate moron? Did you even read the book?” As though his mean switch had just been flipped, our teacher grew flinty-eyed, and his lips peeled back from his teeth in a snarl.

  Benny looked like he’d been slapped. I gaped. Had our kindly Mr. Chu just slammed my friend?

  “Well?” our teacher demanded. “Are you a mute, too?”

  Benny held up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “Um, no. I agree one hundred percent,” he said, voice wavering.

  “Then why shake your head?” our teacher barked.

  “Um, a fly was bothering me?” said Benny.

  “Flies?” Mr. Chu’s snarl disappeared, replaced by keen interest. He sniffed the air eagerly. “Is there something dead or rotten around here?”

  “Yeah,” said Tyler. “Benny’s lunch.”

  The class laughed. But it was a nervous laughter. Most of us were rattled by Mr. Chu’s bizarre mood swing from Dr. Giggle to Mr. Snide. Our teacher snuffled awhile longer, and then, disappointed, got back to the discussion.

  Benny sneaked a glance at me. Worry carved new lines in his face.

  I gnawed my lip. Whatever Mr. Chu was turning into, he was no longer the friendly, funny Teacher of the Year we’d come to know and love. Something was rotten, and it wasn’t Benny’s lunch (although to be honest, he ate stuff that I wouldn’t touch).

  Benny was right. We had to do something.

  Right after recess, Mr. Chu asked, “Who would like to go first with their social studies project?”

  I looked over at Benny. We exchanged a tense nod.

  I raised my hand.

  Showtime.

  YOU CAN’T RUSH an exorcism. It took a couple of minutes for us to haul everything to the front of the room and set it up. Throughout, Mr. Chu seemed particularly interested in the draped pet carrier. His sniffer was working overtime.

  Finally, we were ready.

  I cleared my throat. Public speaking didn’t seem quite as scary now that there were bigger things at stake. (Plus I had a partner who loved to talk.)

  “Our, uh, report was supposed to be about fireworks,” I began, holding up a sparkler. “Fun fact: they were first used at celebrations to bring good luck and chase off evil spirits.” I shot a look at Benny.

  He took my handoff. “But as we researched, we found the whole getting-rid-of-evil-spirits thing totally fascinating.”

  “Totally,” I said.

  “More fascinating than fireworks. So now our report is about…exorcism around the world!” Benny held out his hands in a ta-da! gesture.

  Big Pete frowned. “Exercising?”

  “Exorcism,” Benny and I said together. I checked on Mr. Chu.

  His expression landed somewhere between amused and confused. “Hmm. Not quite the same as—hee-hee—fireworks.” He was back to being Dr. Giggle again.

  “True,” I said. “But we put a lot of work into it.”

  “Then—hee-hee-hee—go ahead,” said Mr. Chu. His fingers scratched furiously at his cheek like a dog with fleas.

  With a wary glance at our teacher, Benny hefted one of his dad’s sturdy walking sticks. “In Buddhist cultures, they used three things to cast out demons….”

  “First, incense,” I said.

  I lit a stick that we’d borrowed from Benny’s mom and paraded it around like a torch. A sweet, woody smell began to fill the room. When I waved the incense under Mr. Chu’s nose to give him a good dose, he sneezed.

  “Next, religious verses,” said Benny. “Um, we can’t read Japanese, so I made up one of my own:

  Demon, demon, go away

  Don’t come back another day

  Beat it, scram, and let him be

  Cheese it, freeze it, one-two-three!

  As he said the final lines, I twirled the incense around Mr. Chu’s head and shoulders and stood back. We watched him expectantly.

  A funny look crept over his face.

  Then, in a manic burst, our teacher giggled and sneezed simultaneously, which sounded something like, “Aahhh-hee-hee-hee-CHOO-heh!”

  Not quite what we were hoping for.

  Some of our classmates laughed. Others shook their heads, or looked down as though embarrassed for us.

  “The final part of the Buddhist cure,” I said, “is making a loud noise with a big stick.”

  At this, Benny hoisted the walking stick over his head and thwacked it down on Mr. Chu’s desk. Once, twice! With the third thwack, our teacher’s coffee cup jumped, and he had to grab it to prevent a spill.

  “Enough sticks!” growled Mr. Chu. His lips peeled back in a wicked snarl, and his face went tomato red. “I hate sticks!”

  Eyes wide, Benny put away the cane.

  Mr. Chu definitely wasn’t his normal self yet, so I motioned at Benny to continue.

  “Christians also have a long tradition of exorcising witches, devils, werewolves, and all that kind of stuff,” he said.

  “Cool,” said Tyler. Then, recognizing he’d actually expressed interest in something, he scowled. “I mean, it would be, if it wasn’t totally lame.”

  Benny and I dug into one of our bags. “Priests use a combination of prayers, symbols, and holy water to drive out demons,” I said.

  In a rush, we produced a wooden cross I’d borrowed from my grandma, a Bible, and a Super Soaker squirt gun. I brandished the Bible and cross at Mr. Chu, the way vampire hunters do in the movies.

  Benny squirted the gun, first at our classmates, then over at Mr. Chu. Kids squealed. Our teacher recoiled, and Benny and I recited the only prayer we knew by heart:

  Now I lay me down to sleep,

  I pray the Lord my soul to keep;

  If I should die before I wake,

  I pray the Lord my soul to take!

  This time, Mr. Chu’s reaction was instantaneous. “Enough squirting!” he barked, looking fiercer than ever.

  “Sorry,” I said. “We got carried away.” Although I watched him like a hawk, Mr. Chu didn’t start steaming where the holy water had hit him. He wasn’t speaking in some demonic gobbledygook language or rotating his head. In fact, he looked exactly like a wet, annoyed teacher.

  Guess you can’t believe everything you see in the movies.

  “Okay, then,” said Benny. “Our last exorcism cure comes from the Caribbean.”

  I turned to look at him. “It does?”

  “Does it involve pirates?” asked Tina, who was nuts about pirate movies.

  “Nope, voodoo,” said Benny.

  The class went “Ooh!” Now, I knew from my dad’s Cuban friend Lorenzo that Vodoun was an actual religion and not some mumbo jumbo of voodoo dolls and zombies. But most people have no clue.

  “It’s actually called Vod—” I began.

  “In the voodoo culture, they use graveyard dirt to make their exorcism strong,” said Benny, reaching into the sack and flinging handfuls of dirt on the floor around Mr. Chu’s desk.

  “They don’t actually—” I said.

  “Hey, now,” said our teacher, sounding like himself for a
moment. “You’re cleaning that up.”

  But Benny didn’t pause for a second. He was on a roll.

  “The voodoo priests shake a sacred gourd.” Here he waved a rattle that looked suspiciously like the one his parents had brought back from their vacation in Acapulco.

  “And then comes”—Benny whisked the cover off the pet carrier and opened its door—“the sacrifice!”

  Two chickens burst through the opening, squawking their heads off.

  “Whoa!” I said. “You’re not really gonna—”

  Spouting a wild, fake witch-doctor chant, Benny produced a pair of scissors and lunged for the nearest chicken. Being a chicken, it bwaaked in alarm, beat its wings, and fluttered up onto Mr. Chu’s desk. The other bird flew straight out, landing in Zizi’s lap.

  She gave a surprised shriek, and the class erupted. Some kids scrambled away from the chicken, some tried to catch it. Chasing after the bird flapping about on Mr. Chu’s desk, Benny yelled, “Carlos! Help me!”

  “You’re beyond help,” I said. But I followed him anyway.

  Benny grabbed and missed. The bird fluttered up and landed on the far edge of the desk. There it sat, clucking in an offended way. Benny stalked around the desk after it.

  Mr. Chu’s eyes were as round as volleyballs. He gazed at the chicken the way Zeppo stares at squirrels, and his whole body vibrated with tension. Both he and Benny were totally focused on that bird. Then…

  Schoomp!

  Just as both of them started to make their move, a figure shot across the desk, scooping up the chicken and landing in a crouch on the other side.

  Karate Girl.

  Benny and Mr. Chu knocked heads in the empty space where the chicken had been. The scissors fell on the floor. Benny looked dazed.

  Our teacher recovered first. Wheeling on Tina with a crazed gleam in his eyes, he grabbed greedily for the bird.

  You don’t take several years’ worth of karate classes without learning some serious moves. Tina ducked and twisted, keeping the chicken out of reach.

  “Gimme!” our teacher demanded.

  “No.” Tina sent me a silent appeal.

  “Um, Mr. Chu,” I said, “Tina’s got it under control.”