“No, we can trust each other,” I said, struggling to explain. “It’s just that after you accidentally revealed where Hamstersaurus Rex was hiding, well, I—I was worried you wouldn’t be able to keep the secret.”
“I made a mistake, and I said I was sorry, Sam. You should have given me a second chance.”
“I know, but I was—I just . . .”
“Just what? Because as I understand it, you’re the one who actually got Hamstersaurus Rex caught by Martha!”
That hurt a lot. Probably because it was true.
“Oh, and by the way, a tandem bicycle ride to the Antique Doll Museum with Martha Cherie?” said Dylan. “Gross!”
“I don’t know. I promised.” I shrugged and studied at the linoleum pattern of the cafeteria floor.
“And you promised me you were being honest!” She stood and picked up her lunch. “You know what the worst part is?”
“What?”
“I could have helped you with this whole thing. I could have helped protect Hamstersaurus Rex. I could have helped you deal with Beefer. We could have thought all of this craziness through. Together. But you didn’t let me.” And with that, she left to find another table.
“Wait!” I said. But Dylan didn’t look back.
It was the lowest I’d felt in quite a while. Don’t worry, though, things were about to get even worse. Not thirty seconds after Dylan left, Beefer Vanderkoff sat down in her place.
“You must think you won, huh?” said Beefer.
“Nope,” I said as I stared at my mashed potatoes. I guess he wasn’t afraid of me anymore.
“Why? You got everyone to call me Urinal Head. You pretended like you were a werewolf just to make me look dumb. And then you stole my girl and practically broke my arm.”
“That’s not what happened!” I said, realizing that, wow, it sort of was.
“Well, laugh it up,” said Beefer. “But you know what’s going to be really funny? When I take that hamster out of its cage and flush it down the toilet today. That’s right, it’s Monday. Which means I’ve got after-school detention. All I need is one minute alone with that cage. Your precious Hamstersaurus Rex is a goner, and you’re not going to be there to stop it.”
Beefer pounded the table once and left.
Back in class, Hamstersaurus Rex looked more pathetic than ever. I couldn’t leave Beefer alone with him, not even for a moment. But how could I keep an eye on Hammie Rex during after-school detention? I’d be long gone by then.
Or would I? I sighed as I realized that I only had one option.
“Excuse me, Mr. Copeland,” I said, raising my hand. “But I drew a picture of you.”
“Uh, this is social studies class, but okay,” said Mr. Copeland.
I held it up. I’d brought all my hard-won caricature skills to bear: it showed a crude image of Mr. Copeland with missing teeth, a ridiculous mustache, and a word balloon.
Mr. Copeland looked at the picture. “That’s extremely hurtful, Sam. You know I can’t grow a mustache.”
“Also I just wanted to add that I, uh, think your tie is ugly,” I said, trying for a surly, Beefer-ish tone.
“This tie was a gift from my late aunt,” said Mr. Copeland, taken aback. “Purple-and-red parrots was her favorite color.”
“Who cares,” I said with a shrug. “School sucks!” Everyone in class stared at me now, utterly baffled.
“He’s lost his mind,” whispered Omar Powell.
“Mr. Copeland,” said Martha, “even though Sam and I are romantically linked, I just wanted to stress that his opinions are his own and they don’t reflect my—”
“Hang on, Martha,” said Mr. Copeland. “Sam, I’m confused. This really isn’t like you.”
“Yes it is. I’m not a quiet weirdo or even a popular cool guy anymore. I’m a misbehaving bad kid now. For example, check this out.”
I jumped to my feet and grabbed Wally the class walrus puppet in one hand and a pair of safety scissors in the other. Then I tried my very best to snip off his left flipper. Of course, the safety scissors couldn’t cut through the felt.
“Hang on,” I said, struggling. “Almost got it. Just give me one more . . .”
“Put the walrus down, Sam,” said Mr. Copeland.
“Fine,” I said, dropping Wally. “But how about this?”
I grabbed a tube of glue off the shelf and twisted the cap so it was open. I waved it around menacingly. The other students leaned back in their desks.
“Easy, Sam,” said Mr. Copeland.
When push comes to shove, I’m not a jerk. So I pointed the bottle back at myself and squirted it—all of it—right into my face. The whole class watched with a mixture of horror and disgust.
“Sam, you’ve left me no choice,” said Mr. Copeland, “but to give you detention.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking my seat, feeling the glue drip down my neck.
Hamstersaurus Rex wouldn’t be alone with Beefer after all.
CHAPTER 16
“NO TALKING. NO laughing. No screaming. No singing. No whispering. No sleeping. No eating. No drinking. No chewing gum. No toys. No games. No puzzles. No word scrambles. No Sudoku. No electronic devices. No non-electronic devices. No cooking. No baking. No defrosting. . . .”
As Mr. Copeland read off the long list of rules of outlined in Horace Hotwater Middle School’s Official After-School Detention Policy, I could feel a thin skin of dried glue still coating parts of my face. Despite what Jared Kopernik thought, I didn’t enjoy the sensation of peeling it off.
It was my first detention. For the next two hours, it would just be Mr. Copeland, Beefer Vanderkoff, and me: a standoff. I stared at Hamstersaurus Rex, crouched in his cage, looking hungry. He gave a low, pitiful growl. Could he feel the tension in the room? I snuck a glance at Beefer. He scowled at me so hard it looked like his face might break. Slowly, Beefer extended his index finger and pointed—despite the “no pointing” rule—at Hamstersaurus Rex. Then he drew the finger across his neck. I turned away.
“In the event that a student disobeys any of the stated detention rules, that student will earn two extra detentions, to be served at a later date. These future detentions are cumulative. If the student is unable to serve all detentions because he or she has graduated from Horace Hotwater Middle School, these detentions will transfer to whichever high school the student subsequently attends. In conclusion: discipline.” Mr. Copeland took a deep breath. He had finally reached the end of the rules. “Beefer, obviously you’ve heard this many, many times before. Did you get all that, Sam?”
I opened my mouth to answer.
“No talking,” said Mr. Copeland.
I closed my mouth and nodded to indicate that I understood.
“Fantastic,” said Mr. Copeland. “If you need something from me, write it down on a piece of paper. Then raise your hand. I will come by and read your note.” He smiled, cracked open a can of seltzer, and leaned back in his chair. “Hmm. Do you hear that?”
I shook my head.
“Exactly,” said Mr. Copeland. “Utter silence. At home, my family talks over me. My next-door neighbors are always hammering things in the backyard. Here at school, I have to listen to you kids ask question after question, all day long, only occasionally interrupted by earsplitting bells. Detention is the only place where I get any peace and quiet. To tell you the truth, this is my favorite time of the week.”
I nodded to indicate that I understood.
“And now, as always, I plan to read the newspaper,” said Mr. Copeland as he unfolded it. “And drink a nice cold seltzer water.” He took a sip and frowned. “Hmm. This seltzer seems to have gone flat. Both of you wait right here while I get another one from the soda machine. And in my absence, don’t do any of the hundred and forty-six things I just mentioned.”
He stood to leave. Beefer grinned; this would be his chance. I raised my hand and frantically scribbled something on a piece of paper. Mr. Copeland came to my desk to read my note. It said:
He squinted at the note. “Ugh. This sounds like something your new girlfriend might write.”
I opened my mouth to protest.
“No talking,” said Mr. Copeland. “But okay. You are hereby granted permission to buy me a can of seltzer.” He handed me a dollar.
I walked extra slowly to the soda machine. I needed to run out the detention clock.
“This isn’t seltzer,” said Mr. Copeland, when I handed the can I’d bought to him. “It’s grape soda.”
I scribbled another note:
“All right,” said Mr. Copeland as he read it. “But hurry up.” He handed me another dollar. Beefer looked like he wanted to kill me (even more than normal).
Once again, I made my way to the soda machine. This time I really did purchase a seltzer. But I walked back so slowly I would have made Wilbur Weber’s snails impatient. It took me ten minutes to travel the hundred yards back to the classroom.
“Sam, you took so long that I finished reading the newspaper!” said Mr. Copeland, annoyed. He tossed it into the recycling bin. “This detention is my ‘me time.’ Every Monday I enjoy a seltzer and read the paper, simultaneously. Now I have to go find something else to read while I drink this. Both of you wait here.” He stood up to leave.
Again I raised my hand and frantically scribbled another note. It said:
Mr. Copeland frowned as he read it. “Okay, fine,” he said, plopping back down in his chair. “Go get me a book. Maybe a spy thriller. But, you know, funny.”
Beefer was stewing as I left the classroom again. My plan was working. Maybe he wouldn’t get his moment alone with Hamstersaurus Rex after all.
It took me a while to find an espionage comedy in the school library (Day of the Cackle; 1973).
“Thank you, Sam,” said Mr. Copeland as I handed him the book. “I’ve heard very good things. It’s supposed to be more exciting and even funnier than The Thirty-Nine Yuks.”
I smiled and took my seat. Only forty-five minutes of detention left. It was starting to seem like Hamstersaurus Rex might survive the day. Hungry though he might be, the little guy looked calm and collected inside his cage.
Mr. Copeland stood up. “But now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the restroom. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Again, I raised my hand and wrote a note. Mr. Copeland read it.
“Sam, I don’t really understand how you going to the bathroom for me would work.” He crumpled it up and tossed it in the garbage.
Just then Beefer raised his hand. Mr. Copeland walked to his desk and read his note. He turned it sideways. Then upside down.
“Some of these aren’t letters, Beefer. But if I understand your intention correctly, you want to go to the bathroom yourself?”
Beefer nodded.
“Fine,” said Mr. Copeland.
Beefer stood to go. I hadn’t considered that he might want to leave me and Mr. Copeland alone with Hamstersaurus Rex. What was he playing at? Beefer returned five minutes later and took his seat without a word.
It wasn’t long after that when I smelled smoke.
“Is something burning?” cried Mr. Copeland, sniffing the air. “Hang on!” He leaped to his feet and dashed out the door.
In an instant, Beefer was at the PETCATRAZ Pro™. Hamstersaurus Rex sensed the danger. His tail whipped, and he bared his fangs. Beefer grinned.
“I didn’t think you had the guts to get a detention, Sam,” said Beefer. “Too bad you still can’t do anything to stop this. In fact, it’s better this way. You’ll get to watch.” He grabbed the cage with his good hand and shook it. Inside, Hamstersaurus Rex snarled and puffed out his chest.
“Come on, Beefer,” I said. “You don’t need to hurt him.”
“Together, you and this hamster ruined my life! People used to be afraid of me. Now they call me Urinal Head! They laugh when I walk by!”
“Hamstersaurus Rex was only trying to protect me,” I said. “I’m the one you should be mad at. Not him!”
Beefer shook his head in disgust. “That might be the saddest part of all. You’re nothing without this hamster, Sam. Just some weird loser with no friends who draws little pictures.”
It stung. Maybe because he had a point.
“Now, just like Wolfsplosion III,” said Beefer, turning back to the cage, “this is going to end with violence.”
“Beefer, please,” I cried. “Don’t do—”
I felt a flash of pain as Beefer socked me across the jaw. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor, dazed and blinking. Hamstersaurus Rex roared.
“Not so scary anymore,” said Beefer. “Come on out, Martha Junior.” He pulled on the locked cage door. It didn’t budge. Beefer grunted and pulled harder. Nothing. He put the cage on the floor and put both his feet on it and pulled as hard as he could. The PETCATRAZ Pro™ held up. It was as good at keeping mutant hamsters in as it was keeping raging bullies out.
“You’re not getting off that easy!” cried Beefer at last. He jammed his fingers through the tiny gaps in the bars. For a moment, Hamstersaurus Rex’s eyes met mine. I swear the little guy winked at me—right before he chomped down on Beefer’s index finger!
“Aaaaaaaaah!” Beefer squealed, ripping his hand back. The tip of his finger was bloody. “Hang on. I know how to get inside that cage!”
He threw open the drawer of Mr. Copeland’s desk and began to rummage through his stuff. After a minute of this he stopped and grinned. The key caught the light as he held it up.
At that moment, we both heard a noise down the hall. Beefer swore, dropped the key, and slammed Mr. Copeland’s drawer shut. Both of us scrambled back to our desks just in time.
“Beefer!” said Mr. Copeland, furious, his hands covered in soot, his purple-and-red-parrot tie singed at the end. “Did you start a fire in the water fountain?”
Beefer shook his head.
Mr. Copeland took a deep breath. “Look. I might not be able to prove that you did it. But I know it was you. So let this be your final warning: Beefer Vanderkoff, if you misbehave one more time—just one more time—you’re suspended from school. Is that clear?”
Beefer nodded to indicate that he understood. Mr. Copeland noticed the cage key on his desk. He picked it up and put it into his bag.
Mr. Copeland didn’t dare leave us alone again, even for a second. The rest of the detention passed smoothly. Hamstersaurus Rex glowered at Beefer from inside his cage, but Beefer didn’t try anything else. Five minutes to go. I breathed a sigh of relief. The little guy would live another day.
But right before it was time to leave, I saw Beefer scribble a note. Instead of raising his hand, he simply left it on his desk. He’d written it for me.
I palmed the note as I walked past and only unfolded it once I was riding home in the car with my mom. It was only three words:
CHAPTER 17
TUMOROW FINUL REVINGE.
The correctly spelled versions of those words ran through my head all night. I barely slept at all. What evil did Beefer have planned? The next morning I made my mom take me to school an hour early.
“Sam, I still don’t understand why you squirted glue on your face,” she said as she drove me. “Are you in a gang?”
“No, Mom.”
“Is this about your little girlfriend?”
“Mom!”
“Okay, okay. I won’t pry,” she said. “But you haven’t been yourself lately. I’m worried about you, sweetie.”
“You shouldn’t be, Mom,” I said, eager to get out as she pulled the car up to the school. “I’ve got everything under control.”
“All right, I’ll leave it alone,” she said with a sigh. She handed me a ten-dollar bill from her purse. “This is for dinner—something healthy—since you won’t be coming home before Science Night. I’ll see you around five.”
“Uh-huh. Wait, what? You’re coming back?”
“Yes, honey. SmilesCorp asked for volunteers tonight. I’m so excited to see what your project is.”
>
“Oh. Right. My project’s awesome. Lots and lots of data. Maybe too much,” I said, kissing her on the cheek. “Got to go.” I hopped out of the car and ran toward the double doors of Horace Hotwater Middle School.
Beefer was neither early nor late. He arrived at school exactly on time. What diabolical master plan was he hatching?
I watched him closely all day long. The guy was on his absolute best behavior. That in and of itself was troubling. Once, he even raised his hand in class to answer a question. He got the answer wrong, of course—the capital of Pennsylvania isn’t England—but it made my blood run cold all the same.
Dylan was right. I really could have used her help. I wanted to apologize. At lunch I tried to talk to her, but she turned her back and walked away before I could say a word. I ate cold tater tots alone.
Hammie Rex looked truly pathetic in his cage. When he growled it was more of a moan. Martha fed him his two half lettuces. Other than that he barely moved. The little guy seemed to be practically starving. I had to help him. But how?
“And I look forward to seeing what each of you has prepared for tonight,” said Mr. Copeland, around an hour before school let out. “Word is that SmilesCorp is sending someone to demonstrate one of their new products for all of you. Should be quite the Science Night.”
For some reason, those words snapped me out of my reverie. I raised my hand.
“Yes, Sam,” said Mr. Copeland.
“Um, what exactly is Science Night?” I asked.
The whole class burst out laughing.
“Good one, Sam,” said Mr. Copeland, chuckling. “See, you don’t have to pour glue on yourself to get attention.” And he continued our lesson about the French and Indian War.
Later, I found a poster on the bulletin board in the hall that answered my question. Beneath an image of a bubbling beaker, it read:
This was not good. Not good at all. With all the hamster drama, I had neglected to do anything for Science Night. Worse yet, my mom’s job was sponsoring the event and she was volunteering. Today she would witness firsthand her only son flunking science in front of her professional colleagues.
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