Despite her remorse, I could tell Dylan was excited for today. We were going to start a whole week of disc golf—the sport where you throw circular discs at various targets to score points. As I mentioned, disc golf was Dylan’s absolute favorite thing in the world. She’d even brought her own discs from home. They were officially certified for tournament play.
“All right, everybody,” said Coach Weekes, blowing his whistle. “Disc golf is out.”
“What?” cried Dylan. “How come?”
“Because it’s not a real sport, D’Amato.”
“Is too,” said Dylan. “Disc golf is played in over forty countries worldwide. By 2031, it will be more popular than devil sticks!” Dylan had a premium subscription to Disc Golf Online.
“Enough facts, D’Amato,” said Weekes. “I’m the one teaching physical education, so leave the educating to me. Anyway, what we’re going to do instead is way better.”
“Fight each other with real swords?” asked Jared Kopernik.
“Maybe next term, Kopernik,” said Coach Weekes. “No, we’re going to participate in a class-wide physical fitness competition called Little Mister Muscles.” Coach Weekes held up his dusty trophy with the grimacing hulk-child on top.
I sighed. Like I said, I’m not the most athletic student at Horace Hotwater Middle School. Any contest of physical fitness was bound to be humiliating.
“Little Mister Mucles?” said Julie Bailey. “Coach, half of us are girls.”
“Fair point, Bailey. So the new name is Little Mister or Miss Muscles. But that’s the only change I’m making. Otherwise it’s going to be the exact same competition it was in 1983, when I won it. Right before it was discontinued in 1984 for legal reasons.”
“Why was it discontinued in 1984 for legal reasons?” I asked.
“Not sure. Some kid lost an ear or something. Don’t worry about it, Gibbs. Anyway, I made a few calls this morning, and SmilesCorp—manufacturers of some of my favorite health and dietary supplements—is going to sponsor Little Mister or Miss Muscles. They ponied up for a new trophy. Winner’s going to be awarded it on Science Night.”
I knew SmilesCorp well. That’s where my mom works as an accountant. They make everything from the aforementioned Funchos Flavor-Wedges to video games to orbital satellites. The company probably employs a third of the people who live in Maple Bluffs.
“Now,” said Coach Weekes as he lovingly polished the trophy with the corner of his shirt. “Does anybody have any questions? Perhaps you’d like to know more about the various feats of prowess that earned yours truly the coveted title of Little Mister Muscles?”
Dylan raised her hand.
“Question, D’Amato,” said Coach Weekes.
“Coach, did you know that there are some three thousand disc golf courses in the United States and over four thousand more worldwide?”
“Drop it! I’m talking real tests of fitness here: Knuckle-ups! Rod Bends! The Sixty-Foot Sandbag Drag! The classics.”
“Well I’ve never heard of any of them,” said Dylan. “So maybe those are the real made-up sports!”
Coach Weekes clutched the trophy close, and his mustache fluttered like he might burst into tears. “If you don’t like it, D’Amato, I suggest you take it up with your pal Gibbs. Bringing back Little Mister or Miss Muscles was his idea in the first place!”
The whole class turned to stare at me. They didn’t look happy.
“Okay, how about this, Coach,” said Dylan, gritting her teeth. “If I win Little Mister or Miss Muscles, then we play disc golf for a whole month. How’s that sound?”
“Fine,” said Coach Weekes. “If you win, we can play whatever crazy non-sport you want for the rest of the year! It can be tic-tac-toe for all I care! Now, everybody pair off and grab a medicine ball. You’re going to need to build your glute strength for the Sandbag Drag. Little Mister or Miss Muscles is happening next week. Mark your calendars!”
“I can’t believe Weekes,” said Dylan as we tossed a thirty-pound medicine ball back and forth. “Disc golf is a real sport. One day I’m going to play in the majors. When there are majors.”
“Sorry I accidentally suggested this weird competition to him,” I said, catching the ball with a grunt. “I was just trying to distract him long enough to grab—”
A flash of movement over Dylan’s shoulder caught my eye: a little orange shape scurried along the base of the gymnasium wall toward Coach Weekes’s office. Sure enough, it was Hamstersaurus Rex!
I looked around to see if anybody else had noticed him. Nobody had . . . nobody except Beefer Vanderkoff, that is.
Our eyes met. Beefer smiled. Then he reared back to lob his medicine ball right at the hamster. He was going to flatten the little guy!
I had to do something. As Beefer heaved the ball, I dove.
“Sam,” cried Dylan, “what are you—”
I threw myself right in the medicine ball’s path. KA-THWAP! My vision went white as the ball ricocheted off my head and flew high into the air. It hung there for a moment and then fell, landing right on Coach Weekes’s Little Mister Muscles trophy and smashing it to bits.
I lay on the floor, dazed. After a moment, I sat up to see that Hamstersaurus Rex was gone. The whole gym was silent, except for a quiet sobbing noise. It was Coach Weekes.
“Who threw that?” he said, eyes welling with tears as he looked down at what remained of his trophy. Outside, thunder crashed.
Nobody said a word, but Beefer and Jimmy Choi were the only pair without a medicine ball. Jimmy stared at his feet.
“Vanderkoff,” snarled Coach Weekes.
“I wasn’t trying to hit him. Dumb nerd just got in the way,” said Beefer. “I was actually aiming for, uh, nothing. Whatever. Never mind. Everybody shut up.”
“I don’t care what you were trying to do, Vanderkoff!” said Coach Weekes. “Choi is standing right in front of you, yet you managed to throw your medicine ball twenty feet in the wrong direction and destroy my trophy!”
“Uh, he also hit Sam in the face,” said Dylan.
“Not now, D’Amato!” said Coach Weekes, sniffling yet barely managing to contain his rage. “Do you have anything else to say for yourself, Vanderkoff?”
Beefer gave a surly shrug. “School sucks.”
“You’re going to Principal Truitt’s office right now!” said Coach Weekes, and he marched Beefer right out of the gym, leaving the class unattended.
“Sam, you look worse than the time you accidentally ate that grasshopper,” said Dylan as she helped me up. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” I said. “My pancake hair spike absorbed most of the force.” Indeed, my hairstyle had finally been flattened.
“So, what do we do now?” asked Tina Gomez.
“Let’s fight each other with real swords,” suggested Jared Kopernik.
“How about disc golf until Coach gets back,” said Dylan. “I’ll teach you guys the basics.” And so the class started an impromptu pickup game with the discs Dylan had brought from home. Not me, though. Now was my chance. While Coach Weekes was out, I could try to find Hamstersaurus Rex.
When I was sure nobody was watching, I quietly opened the door to his office. It was dark inside. But suddenly someone was shining a flashlight into my eyes.
“Stop right there,” came a loud voice.
“Sorry, I thought this was the bathroom!” I said.
“Oh, hi, Sam,” said Martha Cherie, lowering her flashlight. “I’m here on official Hamster Monitor business.” She flashed her ID again. “I think Dylan was right. I think this might be where Hamstersaurus Rex is living.” Martha held up a plastic bag she’d labeled “Evidence.” Inside it was a half-eaten SmilesCorp Total NutriSlam protein bar. The wrapper had been chewed through.
“What?” I said. “Nah. Coach Weekes was, uh, probably just saving that half for later.”
“Really?” She shined her flashlight down at the hole where I’d seen Hamstersaurus Rex before. “Because I found it st
uffed inside the wall.”
“Weekes is a weird guy.”
Martha crouched beside the hole and shined her light in it. “I can only see a little ways in, but it’s full of food wrappers.”
“On second thought, you should keep looking. I bet he’s in there,” I said. Because at that moment—on the shelf above Martha’s head—I saw a muffin-size rodent feasting on Coach Weekes’s weird dietary supplements. It was Hamstersaurus Rex.
CHAPTER 6
MARTHA LEAPED TO her feet. “Nope, I don’t think the fugitive is in the area.”
“The fugitive?” I said.
“Hamstersaurus Rex, silly,” she said. “As an officer of the law, I’m fully authorized to use all necessary measures to recapture the fugitive.”
“Officer of the law?”
“Duh. Hamster Monitor,” she said as she pointed to the ID lanyard again. “Now, I’m going to have to stake out this location and wait for him to come back. Maybe set up a perimeter.”
Directly behind her head, the tiny “fugitive” continued to gobble Coach Weekes’s odd supplements. He was now gorging himself on a greenish SmilesCorp bodybuilding powder. Something called Dinoblast Powerpacker.
“So, uh, hey, Martha,” I said, trying to hold her attention so she wouldn’t turn around. “I know you like narwhals and, uh, being a hamster supercop, but what are some of your other interests?”
Martha cocked her head. “I have a collection of antique dolls. I find it extremely satisfying not to play with them.”
“Wow. Neat!” I said.
“You know, Sam, if you’re really interested in learning more about doll collecting—which isn’t just a hobby but also an investment—we could visit the Antique Doll Museum.”
By now, Hamstersaurus Rex had eaten most of the container of Powerpacker. He looked wobbly and sick. I shuddered to think what consuming half a pound of powdered bodybuilding supplement might do to a human, much less a hamster.
“A whole museum full of dusty old dolls,” I said, trying to think of a way to distract Martha so I could grab Hamstersaurus Rex. “That sounds awesome! If anything, I worry that I’d want to spend too much time there.”
“You can stay for up to nine hours before the security guard asks you to leave. They have an original Ginny Gossamer, famous for being history’s most fragile doll. Definitely worth the price of admission to see a G.G. in person,” said Martha. “We could even ride my tandem bicycle there together!”
Hamstersaurus Rex had keeled over. Why did he eat all that stuff? Was he some sort of fitness buff? He was starting to twitch now. He looked like he might be dying. I had to help him fast.
“Okay, yes, let’s go to that,” I said, racking my brain for a way to rescue him.
“You’re not just going to back out at the last minute?” said Martha, cocking her head.
“Nope, I promise. Seriously, tandem bicycles are my favorite because they’re, uh, not weird.”
“I’ll pencil you in for the thirtieth then.”
“Absolutely. Wait, is that Hamstersaurus Rex?”
I pointed to the floor behind Coach Weekes’s desk.
“Freeze!” bellowed Martha as she whirled and shined her flashlight in that direction. Behind her back, I scooped up Hamstersaurus Rex and tucked him into my pocket.
“False alarm. Just an old gym sock,” said Martha, holding one up. “I’ll bag it as evidence.”
“Great,” I said. “Got to go!”
I dashed out of the office, ran across the gym—where Dylan was humiliating the rest of the class at disc golf—and ducked into the janitor’s closet. There, I pulled Hamstersaurus Rex out of my pocket. Lightning flashed outside.
The little guy looked gravely ill. He was breathing fast. His eyes were fluttering, and green foam was bubbling up at the corners of his mouth. I didn’t know what to do. If only they taught useful subjects in school—like hamster first aid—instead of math or whatever!
“Come on,” I said. “Don’t die on me!”
His breathing slowed and then seemed to stop altogether. His body felt rigid. How do you check a hamster’s pulse? I listened for a heartbeat. Nothing.
“Don’t die,” I whispered. “Don’t die. Don’t die.”
But he was still. I felt him growing cold in my hands now. I didn’t know what else to do, so I clutched him close to my chest, under my shirt for warmth. The seconds crawled by. I couldn’t believe I’d found Hamstersaurus Rex, only to watch him eat poison and die before my eyes. It wasn’t fair!
“If you pull through this, I promise I’ll look out for you,” I said. “I’ll take care of you and I’ll feed you whatever you want, as long as it’s not dietary supplements. And I’ll never let anybody hurt you—”
A thunderclap rattled the window. Suddenly, Hamstersaurus Rex shuddered inside my shirt. He was alive! The little guy was alive!
CHAPTER 7
DYLAN SQUINTED AT me from across the backseat of the car. On some days, my mom works late and Dylan’s dad gives me a ride home. I tried to act normal, but Dylan knew something was up.
“Sam, I’m really sorry for being a blabbermouth before,” she said.
“No problem,” I said. “I already forgot about it.” I smiled and gripped my lunch box tightly.
“And you’re sure there’s nothing, like, weird going on.”
“Nope. Nothing. Hey, beautiful weather we’re having!” I pointed out the window. It was still raining outside. Every once in a while my lunch box shook wildly, and I had to lean hard on it to keep it still.
“Oh, stop grilling him, Dylan,” said her dad from the front seat. “Whatever it is, maybe he just doesn’t want to talk about. Like how his mom calls him Bunnybutt.”
“Dude. You told your dad about that?” I whispered.
“Yeah, sorry,” said Dylan.
The truth was I couldn’t tell Dylan that Hamstersaurus Rex was currently rattling around inside my lunch box. I felt terrible about it, but I was worried Dylan would spill the beans again. I couldn’t risk it.
And I couldn’t leave Hammie Rex at school, either. The little guy was alive but far from well. Plus Martha was taking her Hamster Monitor duties way too seriously. If she found the “fugitive” and locked him up in the cage in our classroom, Beefer would be able to get his revenge.
The way I saw it, I only had one option.
“Home sweet home, Sam,” said Mr. D’Amato as he pulled over to the curb.
“Thanks for the ride, Mr. D! See you later, Dylan!” I hopped out of the car.
“Okay,” said Dylan. “Let me know if you want any help on your Science Night project.”
“Science what now?” I said.
“Science Night,” said Dylan. “The bimonthly science fair sponsored by SmilesCorp. Coming up in two weeks. Half your science grade depends on it. You have started on your project, right?”
“Um . . . yes?” I said unconvincingly. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. It’s going to revolutionize the field of . . . science!”
“Cool,” said Dylan, looking concerned.
“Bye!” I said.
Once inside, I ran upstairs—past Raisin, my mom’s twenty-three-year-old hairless cat who sleeps approximately twenty-four hours a day—and into my bedroom. I closed the door behind me, took a deep breath, and opened the lunchbox.
I gasped. Hamstersaurus Rex looked . . . different. His stumpy little arms were even stumpier than before. His lips were curled back to reveal teeth—no longer square, but sharp little fangs. Most disturbing of all, he’d grown a little lizard-y tail that swayed from side to side behind him.
Hamstersaurus Rex had just been a silly name before, but now he really did look like he was part dinosaur. Had consuming the bizarre mixture of Dinoblast Powerpacker and other vitamins mutated him somehow? What was SmilesCorp putting in that stuff? The supplements didn’t seem to be having the same effect on Coach Weekes, but then again, he was pretty weird in other ways.
Hamstersaurus Rex bli
nked at me.
“Uh,” I said. “Are you . . . okay?”
In answer, he let out a thunderous Jurassic roar. I jumped five feet backward and may or may not have temporarily lost bladder control.
“Heh, heh, heh,” I said, my voice trembling. “Nice Hamstersaurus. Good Hamstersaurus.” It suddenly occurred to me that after his change, he might not be so friendly anymore.
Hamstersaurus hopped out of the lunch box and stomped toward me—he seemed to prefer walking on his back legs now. He gave a snarl.
I went limp and fell to the ground as if I were dead. I’d read somewhere that you were supposed to do this in case of a bear attack. I figured a mutant hamster-dinosaur hybrid attack was kind of like a bear attack because they both have, uh, feet?
I opened one eye and saw Hamstersaurus Rex spread his jaws wide. He chomped down on my finger! I squealed, but it didn’t hurt. Much. The little guy was definitely gnawing on me, but in a friendly way.
“You only sort of want to eat me, huh?” I said.
He whined and wagged his tail and chewed a little harder on my knuckle. Now it did hurt.
“Ow,” I said, yanking my hand away. “Guess you must be hungry. Let me find you something to eat. Stay there.” I closed the door behind me and went downstairs to the kitchen. I took a head of lettuce from the vegetable crisper and returned to my room.
“Bon appétit,” I said, holding out a leaf toward Hamstersaurus Rex. “Leafy greens. Full of fiber. Hamster-licious but also hamster-tritious. Better than human fingers.”
Hamstersaurus Rex nibbled a little. Then, in three big bites, he ate the whole leaf.
“Wow, you’re starving. Mutating into a dinosaur probably burns a lot of calories.” I held out another leaf. But Hammie Rex wasn’t there. I turned around to see the little guy standing behind me on the bed. He’d already wolfed down the rest of the lettuce head.
“Dude,” I said. “You’re a straight-up salad slayer.”
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