The lunch bell rang.
“Sam, what happened?” asked Dylan as we filed out of the cafeteria toward gym class. “You disappeared yet again. What’s going on, dude?”
“Sorry, I—I forgot something,” I said. I could tell she was hurt. At this point I should have told her everything, but . . . I knew how disappointed she’d be. Turns out, the longer you tell a lie, the harder it is to get out of. “Hey, I know I’ve been all over the place recently,” I said, changing the subject, “but what have you been up to?”
“Training,” she said.
“Training? For what?”
“For the Little Mister or Miss Muscles Competition,” said Dylan. “It’s today.”
CHAPTER 11
COACH WEEKES STOOD in the gym with his arms crossed. Martha Cherie was beside him holding a clipboard.
“All right, line up, you kids!” bellowed Coach Weekes, really drawing out the last word. “Believe me, if I could call all of you ‘maggots’ I would, but the school handbook makes it very clear that I cannot. Got it?”
Nobody said anything as we formed a line.
Coach Weekes looked us up and down and then shook his head in disgust. “Your generation has been pampered by video games and seat belts and such. When I was a kid, the seat belt just went across the lap. No shoulder strap! And the only video games we had were crappy. Terrible graphics. You’d die three times and have to start all over again. No saves! But still we played them all day, anyway. And we didn’t complain!”
We stared at Coach Weekes, confused.
“What are you getting at, Coach?” said Dylan.
“My point, D’Amato, is that when I was young, everything was harder and also better! That’s why I’ve decided to bring back Little Mister or Miss Muscles. In the year 1983—probably the peak of human civilization—we knew what a real test of physical fitness was. We didn’t toss little flying saucers around at stuff and call it a sport.”
“The first disc golf game was played in 1926,” said Dylan, crossing her arms, “in Bladworth, Saskatchewan.”
“Yeah, right. You just made that up, D’Amato. You and I both know ‘Saskatchewan’ isn’t a real place,” said Coach Weekes. “Anyway, zip it. It’s time for Little Mister or Miss Muscles. The first feat in this legendary competition is Knuckle-ups. A true test of arm-al and shoulder-al strength. Whoever does the most in thirty seconds wins. I earned this”—he held up his trophy, barely recognizable since it had been taped back together—“by doing eighteen knuckle-ups.”
I raised my hand. “Um, what if, hypothetically, someone couldn’t do any knuckle-ups at all?”
“Then that would be completely humiliating and everyone would probably laugh at that person,” said Coach Weekes. “Hypothetically.”
“Great,” I said.
I felt Hamstersaurus Rex stir. He poked his head out of my pocket and growled in Coach Weekes’s direction. It was like he could sense when someone was making fun of me.
“Easy, pal,” I whispered as I shoved him back down. “If you eat him, I’ll probably have to retake this stupid class.”
Coach Weekes blew his whistle. “You ready with that clipboard, Cherie?” he said.
Martha nodded and held it up. “It’s the Rentzler ‘Executive’ model (A SmilesCorp Product™). The choice of scorekeepers everywhere.”
“Hang on,” said Dylan. “Martha doesn’t have to participate?”
“My parents arranged for me to do my Little Mister or Miss Muscles in advance,” said Martha matter-of-factly. “The college admissions process is very competitive these days, and they figured that any little bit might help.”
“Of course that’s what happened,” said Dylan, gritting her teeth.
Coach Weekes shrugged. “Enough chitter-chatter. On your knuckles, D’Amato! Get ready! Get set! Go!”
Dylan did twenty-one knuckle-ups. Martha jotted it down. Coach Weekes could barely believe it.
“Got to get this stopwatch checked,” he grumbled, holding it up to his ear. “All right, you’re next, Choi. You don’t want to play disc golf for the rest of the year, do you? So let’s see you do twenty-two!”
Jimmy Choi dropped to his knuckles. And so, one by one, each of the students in our class did as many as they could. I gradually shifted myself down the line until I was standing at the end, on the far side of Wilbur Weber. I was pretty sure I couldn’t do a single knuckle-up. I hoped Wilbur wouldn’t be able to do one, either. If there were two of us in a row, maybe I wouldn’t look quite so pathetic. Maybe.
“Look alive, Weber. You’re up,” said Coach Weekes. Now only Wilbur and I remained. According to Martha’s count, Dylan was still in the lead by four.
“On your knuckles, son!” said Coach Weekes. “Go!”
Wilbur Weber flopped on the ground and laid there, motionless, just as I had wished. For nearly half a minute the class stared at him in uncomfortable silence. Coach Weekes sighed. I wondered if Wilbur had actually fallen asleep. But somehow, one second before time was up, he grunted and did a single, perfect knuckle-up.
“What?” I cried. “Come on!”
Everyone looked at me.
“I mean, good job, Wilbur,” I said. “Way to go, buddy. Perseverance.”
He shrugged.
“It’s showtime, Gibbs,” said Coach Weekes. “Let’s see what those little noodle arms can do. And when I say ‘noodle arms,’ as per the school handbook, I don’t mean that as an insult. I love noodles. I eat ’em with ketchup. Anyway, on your knuckles.”
“I think I can save us all some time,” I said. “Just mark me down for a zero, Martha. Thanks.”
“Nope,” said Coach Weekes. “On your knuckles.”
“Really?”
He nodded. I laid on the ground—careful not to squish Hamstersaurus Rex in my breast pocket. I could hear the other kids starting to snicker and whisper among themselves.
“Get set. Go!” cried Coach Weekes.
I took a deep breath and tried to mentally prepare myself for thirty seconds of humiliation. But instead a funny thing happened: I did a knuckle-up. Then I did another. And another. I was doing knuckle-ups. They were so easy!
I realized this was because Hamstersaurus Rex was the one actually doing all the work. Inside my pocket, the little guy was jumping up and down, bouncing me right off the ground. Man, he really was as strong as a dinosaur! The other kids weren’t laughing anymore. They had fallen silent.
“Stop!” cried Coach Weekes, punching his watch.
I sat up and smiled. I’d barely broken a sweat. Everyone in the class was staring at me, wide-eyed. Especially Coach Weekes.
“Forty-five,” said Martha.
At that, the class let out a cheer. Everyone except Beefer, of course.
“That’s a hundred and fourteen percent more knuckle-ups than Dylan,” Martha added.
“How did you do forty-five knuckle-ups?” asked Coach Gibbs, scratching his head.
“Beginner’s luck?” I said with a shrug.
“Wow, Sam. I didn’t know you had that kind of knuckle power,” said Dylan, slapping me on the back. She smiled, but it looked a little forced.
“All right, that means Gibbs is in first place. D’Amato is second. And then after her is McCoy.”
While nobody was watching, I gave Hamstersaurus Rex a quick belly rub. He closed his eyes and kicked his back foot.
“Now it’s on to the second Little Mister or Miss Muscles fitness feat: the fabled Rod Bend,” said Coach Weekes. “Everybody grab one of these.” He indicated a plastic barrel full of shiny metal rods, each a quarter-inch thick. We all took one.
“Hold your metal rod like so,” said Coach Weekes, grabbing it by both ends. “And bend it as far as you can in thirty seconds. Now, watch and learn!”
Coach Weekes took a deep breath and then started. He quivered and strained and his mustache fluttered like a frightened bird. With a high-pitched shriek he managed to bend his metal rod ever so slightly. Time was up. Panting, Weeke
s took a protractor from Martha and measured the angle of the bend. “One hundred sixty-one degrees. Would have been better, but I recently hurt both my arms saving an old woman from drowning. When I won Little Mister Muscles back in 1983, I did a hundred and forty-five degrees. Now that was an epic bend. . . .”
He looked at us like he was expecting someone to ask for the whole story. Nobody did.
“All right. Fine, then.” Coach Weekes looked at his stopwatch. “Rods up, everybody. On your mark. Get set. Bend!”
We all attempted to bend our rods. Mine wouldn’t move at all. Dylan was bending hers a little. Wilbur Weber was using his to clean inside his ear. Nobody was watching, so I whispered to Hamstersaurus Rex. “Um, if there’s any way you can handle this one, there’s another belly rub in it for you. Possibly a behind-the-ear scratch.”
The little guy seemed to understand. He popped his head out of my pocket, opened his jaws wide, and bit down hard on the middle of the rod. The force of his dino chomp practically folded the thing in half! I held the two ends until the time was up.
Coach Weekes blew his whistle. “Stop bending! Rods down, people! Rods down!”
One by one, he inspected our metal rods and measured the angle with his protractor. Martha recorded the results. He whistled when he saw mine.
“Fifteen degrees,” he said, after measuring and remeasuring. He looked at me with genuine suspicion. “How’d you manage that, Gibbs?”
“I’ve been bending stuff around the house for practice,” I said. “I was skeptical at first, but now I feel like Little Mister or Miss Muscles is more than just a bunch of weirdly outdated, possibly dangerous fitness tests for kids. It’s about giving it your all and seeing if you really have what it takes to be number one. It’s about becoming a champion.”
“Gibbs, honestly that’s . . . that’s beautiful,” said Coach Weekes. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Write that down, Cherie.”
Martha started writing.
“Sam, I thought you forgot about Little Mister or Miss Muscles,” said Dylan.
I was about to reply, but Coach Weekes interrupted. “You’re just sore ’cause he’s beating you, D’Amato! For the Rod Bend we have Gibbs coming in first. Again D’Amato in the number two spot. And in third place we have, ugh, Vanderkoff, who is automatically disqualified because he broke my trophy the other day.”
“Whatever,” said Beefer. “This class is dumb and I hate everyone. Except, uh . . .” He glanced at Martha. She kept on scribbling on her clipboard. Beefer kicked his metal rod across the floor of the gym with a loud clang.
“Never disrespect the Rod Bend, Vanderkoff,” said Coach Weekes. “Principal Truitt’s office now.”
Beefer shrugged. He probably spent more time in the principal’s office than the principal did.
“Cherie,” said Coach Weekes to Martha. “Escort Vanderkoff to make sure he actually gets there. Last time I sent him on his own, he somehow managed to start a fire in the water fountain.”
Martha raised her hand. “May I ask a question?”
Coach Weekes sighed. “No, temporarily leaving class won’t affect your attendance record.”
Dylan rolled her eyes. If eye rolls had been part of the competition, she would have won easily. Martha nodded and handed the Rentzler Executive to Omar to keep score. Then she and Beefer—who seemed perfectly happy with his punishment now that it involved Martha—left together.
“All right, this is the final portion of the competition,” said Coach Weekes. “It all comes down to this, kids. Can you feel the electricity?”
Nobody could. I turned my back to the other kids and gave Hamstersaurus Rex a quick round of victory scratches in my pocket. It was the least I could do.
“Welcome to the Sixty-Foot Sandbag Drag,” said Coach Weekes, waving dramatically. On the floor of the gym, sitting at a starting line, was a sandbag the size of a pillow. It had a heavy rope tied around it.
“Competitors drag the sandbag a distance of sixty feet,” said Coach Weekes, “to there.” He pointed to a finish line on the other side of the gym. “Whoever does it the fastest wins.”
“This is literally the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of,” said Dylan.
“Quiet, D’Amato,” said Coach Weekes. “On your mark!”
Dylan walked to the starting line, rolling her shoulders.
“Get set!”
Dylan spat on her palms, grabbed the end of the rope, and threw it over her shoulder. She nodded to Coach Weekes.
“Go!” he cried.
Dylan strained and dragged the bag across the floor at a slow jog. I could see the effort in her face as she crossed the finish line.
“Ten-point-four seconds!” called out Coach Weekes, looking at his stopwatch. “Not bad for having the wind at your back.”
“We’re inside,” said Dylan, wiping the sweat from her brow. “There isn’t any wind.”
“It was the air conditioning then,” said Coach Weekes.
The Sixty-Foot Sandbag Drag looked hard. The sandbag itself was massive. I doubted I could move it an inch, much less sixty whole feet. Still, by the time it was my turn, I was feeling pretty confident.
“I think you know what to do, amigo,” I whispered to Hammie Rex. He looked me square in the eyes and burped. That’s Hamstersaurus Rex for “we’re on the same page.” Martha and Beefer were gone, so I decided I could risk it. I opened my pocket, and he jumped out and scurried across the floor of the gym.
I walked to the starting line and grabbed the rope. Wow, even the rope was heavy.
“You can do this, Gibbs,” said Coach Weekes. “Sure, when this class period started, I thought you were pathetic. A physically weak specimen who likes drawing little pictures more than doing important stuff, like sports. But you proved me wrong by winning two out of three Little Mister or Miss Muscles events. Now I see that you’ve got the fire in your guts. You’ve got the champion’s will.” He leaned in close and whispered, “Gibbs, you have the spirit of the Velvet Shark.”
“No,” I said, thumping my chest. “I’ve got the spirit of the Dinosaur Hamster!”
“I don’t get it, but I love it!” said Coach Weekes, slapping me on the back. “All right. On your mark, Gibbs. Get set. Go!”
I pulled the rope. The sandbag wouldn’t budge. I gritted my teeth and strained with my whole body. At last, the bag shifted. I started to walk. Then run. Faster and faster, the sandbag trailing behind me. Everyone cheered me on.
It only got weird when the sandbag actually sped up and passed me.
“Hey, not so fast!” I said. “We’ve got to make this look convincing.”
The bag slowed just in time for me to pass it and cross the finish line.
Coach Weekes blew his whistle. “Seven-point-seven seconds!” he cried, staring at his watch. “Seven-point-seven seconds! Unbelievable! Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new Little Mister or Miss Muscles!”
The class exploded in applause. People patted me on the back and shook my hand. I smiled. It was the nicest anyone had been since seeing their Sam Gibbs caricatures.
“Congratulations, Sam,” said Dylan, giving me a bear hug. “If it wasn’t me, I’m glad it was you who won.”
“I win a lot of awards for participation,” said Wilbur Weber to no one in particular.
“You keep this up, Gibbs,” said Coach Weekes, beaming as he shook my hand, “and you could be the next me!”
It was a terrifying thought but not enough to bring down my mood. Yes, I’ll admit that it felt pretty good to be crowned the new Little Mister or Miss Muscles. I poked my index finger into my pocket and gave Hamstersaurus Rex the world’s smallest high five.
CHAPTER 12
MY TRIUMPH WAS short-lived. After PE but before math, I somehow found myself in the second-floor boys’ bathroom, alone yet again with Beefer Vanderkoff. I guess it’s true what they say: those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I said with a forc
ed laugh.
Beefer wasn’t smiling. “I heard you won that dumb Muscles thing while I was chilling in the principal’s office,” he said. “Big deal, Sam.” He’d put himself between me and the door now. Running for my life was out.
“Yeah, I guess the adrenaline just took over,” I said. “You know what that’s like. From when you head-butt rocks or take lunch money from the weak or whatever.”
“You may have all of them fooled,” said Beefer. “But I know something’s up.”
“Uh,” I said. Not the greatest comeback. Did he know that Hamstersaurus Rex was in my shirt pocket at that very moment?
“I see what you’re doing,” said Beefer, “trying to move in and steal Martha Cherie from me?”
“What?”
“On the way to the principal’s office, she told me how much you wanted to go the doll museum with her.”
“But I don’t!”
“She said you two are even going to ride one of those dumb double bicycles.”
“Okay, yes that’s happening, but it’s not what it sounds like. I don’t, you know, like Martha like that.”
“Oh, so you’re just playing games, huh? You don’t care if you break her heart?” said Beefer, looking, if possible, angrier than he ever had before.
“I’m not. I mean—”
“And now I look like a fool,” said Beefer. “Just like when you showed everybody that picture you drew of me.”
“It was nothing personal. I was just trying to learn how to do caricatures! And they weren’t stink lines, they were motion lines—”
“You want to take something from me that I care about, then I’m going to take something you care about: that dumb gerbil. That’s right. I know exactly where he is. . . .”
“You do?”
“Uh-huh,” said Beefer, nodding. “He’s living in the computer lab, eating electricity to survive.”
It occurred to me that Beefer really didn’t know very much about hamsters.
“And when I catch him there,” he continued, “POW!” Beefer slammed his fist into his palm.
I felt Hamstersaurus Rex tense up inside my pocket. He sensed I was in danger, and he wanted to defend me. I mentally tried to will him to stay still.
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