Malcolm Under the Stars

by Brian Lies

  Jesse did a cartwheel. “The Loaded Stash!” he crowed.

  Honey Bunny aimed his light inside. The cabinet was crammed with piles of springs from ballpoint pens, bits of shoelaces, old magazines, a stash of pop tabs, and more. Junk. A blue feather drifted out.

  Billy groaned. “More like a load of trash. What is this place?”

  “It’s a Niche,” Polly said, flittering to the shelf above it and peering in upside down. “Isn’t it?”

  Aggy nodded. “I think the cabinet itself was an electrical panel at one time. Or something. It’s not Academy handiwork. But the stuff inside? Yes, Oscar and I think it’s an old Niche—a place where the Academy collects little bits and bobs from the lankies and nutters. Things they won’t notice missing, but might help us in our work.12 This one’s clearly been here for ages, forgotten. I haven’t explored the whole thing—I don’t quite fit—but there was something just inside the door that made me”—she turned to Honey Bunny and winked—“get my hopes up.”

  “Oh, come on, Aggy,” Honey Bunny protested. “You heard that?” He muttered under his breath, “I thought reptiles weren’t supposed to have a good sense of hearing.”

  “What was that?” asked Aggy.

  “Never mind. What did you find inside?”

  “Malcolm, perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch it?”

  “Me?” Malcolm jumped a little. “Sure.” He crawled in, blinking to let his eyes adjust.

  When he did, he was face-to-face with a mouse! Or a pink, fuzzy, mousy-like stuffed toy—a lot like what they sold in the Pet Emporium. Beyond that, there was a stack of magazines, some comics, a couple catalogs. But that couldn’t be what Aggy was talking about. Who would get excited about “menswear” from 1935? This Niche was a jumble—as messy as the inside of Skylar’s desk! He stuck his head out. “What exactly am I fetching?”

  “Next to the papers,” Aggy urged. “You’ll see.” Malcolm sniffed around the comics and catalogs and come to a hoard of paper clips and a single coin.

  Well, paper clips were paper clips, no matter what year they were from. So Malcolm pushed the coin back out into the light.

  It dropped off the cabinet’s door ledge and rolled to the center of the Academy members, spinning for a moment. It fell over flat with a quick flash in the dim light.

  When it did, every member of the Midnight Academy gasped. Pete clacked his claws dangerously close to Honey Bunny’s ears. “Great greens!” he said, gulping.

  Malcolm pushed his way through to see what everyone else was so excited about. But it was just a coin. A small silver coin, not unlike the ones his nutters had every day in their pockets and desks and backpacks.

  Honey Bunny’s mouth was gaping. “Well, why didn’t you say so before?” he asked Aggy. “Why all the dramatics?”

  “Would you have believed me?” She smiled.

  “What? What?” Malcolm asked. Suddenly, a thought hit him. “Oh! The coin is worth a lot, isn’t it? Is it enough to keep the school running? Repair the electrical?”

  There was a moment of silence—then Polly twittered. Honey Bunny chuckled. And Billy and Jesse actually clung to each other as they laughed at Malcolm. He felt the soles of his feet blush.

  “I’m sorry, Malcolm,” Aggy said, gasping for breath. “But no. This is a nickel. Five cents. You can’t even buy milk in the cafeteria for that much.”

  “Oh, it’s not just a nickel,” Honey Bunny said. “Look what’s on it. Look closely. See anything different?”

  Malcolm stepped closer. On the face of the coin was a dog. Some kind of hound, with his tongue hanging out. Malcolm shrugged. “I . . . still don’t get it.”

  “Pinched parsley, rat, have you never seen a nickel before?” Harriet broke in impatiently.

  “No, not exactly,” Malcolm admitted.

  Honey Bunny explained, “Most nickels don’t look like that, even old ones from”—he glanced at the coin—“1935. No, someone carved into that coin. And they carved a dog . . . on a silver nickel.”

  “‘Dogs into silver’!” Malcolm said with Honey Bunny. “But if that part of the legend is real, that means . . .” Malcolm continued.

  “The rest of the story could be true too,” finished Aggy. “Maybe there is a Loaded Stash out there. It certainly seems more likely, knowing that this coin exists. And if there is a Loaded Stash, well, we need it.”

  A flutter of hope pulsed in Malcolm’s chest. Yes, maybe there was something that the Midnight Academy could do. What did they have—three weeks? Why, anything could happen in three weeks.

  And then Malcolm remembered something else. Maybe it was Honey Bunny saying that year, 1935. But he asked, “Did you mention before that Ernie Bowman always wore red suspenders?”

  Honey Bunny nodded. Malcolm bounded back into the Niche. He tugged on the stack of magazines and comics, pulling the top one free. Then he dragged it with his teeth to the door and out to the center of the circle of critters. “Is this what suspenders look like?”

  Honey Bunny aimed the flashlight at the pages. It was an ad on the back of an old magazine.

  “Color! Style! Comfort! Your choice of suspenders in five new models. 45¢.”

  “Those are suspenders?” Jesse peeped at the picture.

  “Cheez, those look uncomfortable,” Billy commented.

  “If you ask me, all clothes look uncomfortable,” said Polly. “How about the way nutters tie up their feet in shoes? Or put mittens over the ends of their wings?” She shook her head. “It’s a miracle they can do anything!”

  Pete waggled his shell. “Oh, wearing something isn’t so bad. Not if it keeps you safe and warm. Right, Tank?”

  The critters buzzed and laughed.

  Finally, Honey Bunny set the flashlight on the floor. “Um, I hate to say it, but . . . what do we do now?”

  Harriet groaned. “Oh, don’t start that again!”

  “No, no,” Aggy said. “It’s a legitimate question. And actually, Harriet, I think you had a very wise response before.”

  “Was that the one where we don’t do anything?” Billy asked. “We sit around and wait?”

  “Well, yes. But now we have so many more things on which to train our Midnight Academy eyes, ears, noses, and whiskers. Or in my case . . . a Jacobson’s organ and a parietal eye13—but those never seem to make it into the handbook,” she murmured. “Anyway”—she stepped into the flashlight’s beam—“tomorrow, not only do I want you to pay attention to your nutters’ and lankies’ reactions to this news, but we all also need to be watchful for niblets of Ernie Bowman’s legend.” She gestured with her tail. “Apparently, it’s been among us for years, and we never knew it. Now that it’s fresh in our minds, though, we might find we know more than we realize. Maybe it’s a reference to a bird, or a long-hidden Mark under some paint, or . . . well, I can’t for the life of me think of what that wish-granting one could be. But let’s be on our watch tomorrow and the next day. Then we’ll keep our regular meeting on Thursday. Come prepared to share.”

  Chapter 7

  All-Stars

  The next morning, Malcolm was primed and ready to go. McKenna needed saving? A legend needed uncovering? He was the rat to do it.

  Unfortunately, it was 6:30 a.m., and he had a rather long wait until you or the nutters arrived, Mr. Binney.

  Amelia, as usual, was the first one in. She wore a green fleece hooded sweatshirt with matching green socks, and her black hair was pulled smoothly back into a green elastic band. She set her stack of folders and notebooks down (also color-coordinated, according to the subject) at the table she shared with Malcolm, gave him a little scratch through his wire cage, and proceeded to write the vocabulary word of the day on the dry-erase board. This was a task that you used to do, Mr. Binney, but, like keeping the calendar up-to-date and alphabetizing the classroom library, it was simply more efficient to put Amelia in charge.

  “PERSEVERANCE,” she wrote. “Sticking with something, even after it gets hard.”

 
Malcolm watched her dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Did she pick that word on purpose?

  His question was answered by the newspaper article she pulled out of her binder. “Did you hear?” she whispered. “They want to close our school.”

  Malcolm longed for her to pull him out of his cage. He had so much to tell her. And ask her! After all, Amelia was smart—she might know something of the legend. But then you came in, Mr. Binney, and the rest of the fifth-graders, and all Amelia could do was scratch Malcolm again and say, “Lunchtime, okay? We’ll talk then.”

  As the rest of the students poured through the door, Malcolm stood up on his hind legs and pressed his nose to the edge of his cage. He felt a surge of pride and love for his nutters: some sleepy, some shouting, some a little damp from the slushy puddles out on the playground. How could the school board close this? Skylar, trying to put his shoes on the wrong feet. Tianna, slicking on berry-berry lip gloss while blowing an enormous bubble of watermelon-burst gum. Kiera, treating everyone to an encore performance of “Rocky Top.” Michael, trying to forge his mom’s signature on his reading log. (You already knew about that, right, Mr. Binney? Whose mom writes in colored pencil!)

  Jovahn, whose sneakers were probably the dampest because he had just won the impromptu14 puddle-jumping contest (nine feet and, more important, a huge splash that made it all the way over to the fourth-graders’ line), pinwheeled into the classroom. Malcolm’s ears perked up and—he was embarrassed to notice—his stomach rumbled.

  Jovahn dropped his binder on his desk with a bang, then headed over to Malcolm’s cage, like he usually did. Malcolm raised his paws up in anticipation.

  “Hey, mousie!” Jovahn teased.

  “Stop it!” Amelia scolded. Malcolm sniffed and pretended to hide behind his antibacterial water bottle.

  “Oh, come on, you two. I was kidding! Look at that tail. That magnificent ratty tail!” Jovahn said. “Come on, here’s breakfast.” He held out a pinch of Pop-Tart that he had saved in his pocket. Malcolm crept out, his whiskers twitching as he took the snack.

  Crumb, it was good. Blueberry, his favorite. Still, Malcolm gently nipped Jovahn’s finger as he took it—a little payback. Jovahn smiled at the joke and rubbed Malcolm behind the ears.

  “Okay, class.” You flicked the lights to get everyone’s attention, Mr. Binney. “Great work last night. I heard Mrs. Findlay say that it turned out to be one of the best musicals she’s ever directed. So, nice job. I’m glad you pulled it together.” You settled on your tall stool at the front of the room. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about, though. I know some of you have heard that the school board met last night.” You took a deep breath. “There’s a possibility that McKenna might close next year.”

  Michael set his colored pencil down and leaned back in his chair until Malcolm was sure it would tip over. “My dad says it’s already decided. McKenna’s done for. Us fifth-graders will be the last class to graduate.”

  Amelia smoothed the clipped article out on top of her binder. “That’s not what the newspaper said. The newspaper said that we fifth-graders, along with everyone else, don’t know yet.”

  Jovahn agreed. “My mom says we should do something as a class for those listening sessions.” He raised his eyebrows in a question at Amelia.

  Tianna cracked her gum. “Who cares? We’re fifth-graders. We’re out of here anyway at the end of the school year.”

  Malcolm frowned. There it was again. Yesterday it had been you, Mr. Binney, who had mentioned something like that: “. . . before this bunch is ready to leave McKenna for middle school.” What was that about? Crumb, he really had a lot to talk about with Amelia today.

  “My family cares,” Kiera said, putting down her note. She hardly ever disagreed with Tianna, so Malcolm slowed down a little on his exercise wheel. “My little sister’s in second grade. If they close the school, she won’t get to see her friends anymore. They’ll go to Fairfax, and she’ll have to ride the bus twice as long to Parkview. We should do something.”

  Skylar looked up from his shoes. “My Gram went to school here. She says it’s a shame they’re letting the school get so run-down.”

  “Why should they spend the money if there’s room for us at other schools?” Jenna asked. She shrugged. “That’s what my dad says.”

  And the conversation rolled on. Some nutters felt deeply about it. Others were more concerned about the hot lunch menu for the day.

  Finally, you held up your hand and waited for quiet. “Okay, obviously not everyone agrees. But here’s your chance to do something about it. I’ve spoken with our principal, Mrs. Rivera. She and I both feel strongly that a school is more than a building and that this one needs to stay open. We also believe this is not insurmountable. We’re wondering: Would any of you want to work on a presentation of sorts for the first listening session? Show them a student’s point of view. What do you think?”

  The class grew quiet. Skylar, of all people, raised his hand. “I’ll do it. My Gram says someone should talk about the history of the school. How it was named after Walton McKenna. He was a lumber baron—she said that was like a boss. Really rich. Our school was called Clearwater Central High School until the 1930s, when he donated money and land for them to build the gym and auditorium. Then they called it McKenna High School. It didn’t become an elementary school until much later, after they built the high school.”

  The whole class, Malcolm and Amelia included, stared at Skylar. This was maybe the most he had ever said all school year—and definitely the most he had ever said that actually made sense.

  Even you struggled to keep the surprise out of your voice. “Wow—yes, Skylar. I think I’ve heard that before. And your Gram has a good idea, I think. Many in the community will have fond memories of our school. It might be good to remind them. Anyone else?”

  Kiera raised her hand. “I will.”

  “Me too,” Amelia said.

  “Great. Jovahn, do you want to join in? Put that shoe on, then, instead of waving it around.” You made a note and looked at the list. “Well, you should be quite an all-star team. When we go to the library later, why don’t you four get together and we can talk about what you’d like to do. For now, though, let’s get out our math notebooks . . .”

  The rest of the morning zoomed by. Malcolm might have taken a small nap, because all of the sudden Amelia was opening his cage and, with a well-practiced motion, slipped him into her green hood. The rest of the class was busy banging their desks closed, washing up at the sink, and heading out of the room. Lunchtime.

  “You coming?” Jovahn waited for Amelia in the doorway.

  Amelia nodded. “Sure.” She started down the hall with the rest of the fifth-graders, then paused. “Oh, hey, I’m going to run to the restroom. I’ll meet you down there.”

  Jovahn shrugged. “Okay.” And he jogged to catch up with the rest of the class without looking back. Not Kiera,15 though. Malcolm peeked out of Amelia’s hood just in time to catch her spying on them as Amelia slipped into the bathroom.

  To be honest, Malcolm didn’t quite understand what Amelia was up to either. While not exactly as motivated by food as Malcolm or Jovahn, she still had always been a girl who had at least enjoyed lunch. But for the last three weeks, she had pulled this bathroom trick. Not every day, but maybe once or twice a week. She’d start out by going with the class down to lunch, then slip away to the restroom. The weird thing was, she never ended up going back to the cafeteria. She’d stay until the end of lunch recess, holed up in the bathroom. And—most baffling of all—she never had anything to eat. When the bell rang, she’d slip into the pack of milling kids in the hallway. Malcolm couldn’t figure it out. But at the same time, he wasn’t sure he wanted to, either. Because Amelia always brought him along. And it was forty minutes of time they got to spend together—time they didn’t otherwise have.

  Once in the girls’ bathroom, Amelia headed for the last stall. It was a double-wide one from which the toilet had
been removed long ago. Now, instead, it had a bench under its frosted window. Strange, but McKenna was an old school, and, honestly, as far as Malcolm was concerned, you could find anything behind the doors of McKenna.

  Amelia set Malcolm down on the bench, then pulled a well-worn notebook and a Merriam-Webster’s student dictionary out of her backpack. He stepped onto the notebook. He poised his tail. “So much to tell you,” he spelled out.

  Remember how Malcolm’s Knack was learning to read without learning to read, Mr. Binney? Well, for quite some time, Amelia had kept his secret. And between the student dictionary and this notebook with the letters of the alphabet all spaced out, Malcolm could tell Amelia anything. And he did. His rat tail made the perfect pointer.

  Of course, whenever something big happened, like last night, it was a little exhausting for him to—literally—spell it all out for Amelia.

  But at least they had a forty-minute lunch break.

  “No kidding.” Amelia’s brown-black eyes widened twenty minutes later. “A Loaded Stash? Are you serious?” She had brought a couple of graham crackers from the classroom snack cupboard, and she passed him a corner.

  Malcolm was lying on the notebook now, panting. He pointed. “But we don’t know where to look.” He took the cracker.

  “Hmmm.” Amelia leaned back against the wall and drew her feet up on the bench. She twisted the end of her ponytail while nibbling absently on a cracker (she’d make a very good rat, Malcolm thought proudly). “If it were me, I’d ask everyone I know. All the critters.”

  “We have. Everyone was at the meeting.”

  “Not everyone,” she said.

  Malcolm looked at her quizzically.

  She gestured wide. “There’s a whole world outside these walls, you know. Other schools, other . . . places to live, even. You’ve seen a glimpse of it at the pet store. But even in this school, there must be other critters around. Maybe even some who have been around longer than you pets. You should talk to them.”