by Bruce Hale
I mulled over her answers on the way back to class. Three bellyaches in a row, eh? Sounded like one of my parent-teacher conferences.
Mr. Ratnose looked up as I slipped into my seat.
“Well?” he asked. “Where’s your note?”
“What note?”
My teacher’s ears twitched. “The note from Nurse Supial about your sickness.”
“Oh. She said it was all in my head.”
Mr. Ratnose grimaced and turned back to the chalkboard. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he muttered.
9
Rookie Tookie Tavi
By the end of the day, I was regretting my bold undercover plan. What business did I have being on the football field?
Too fast, the clock’s hands marched toward the last bell. My palms prickled. My stomach felt like last night’s butterfly lasagna was making a break for it.
I was doomed.
The bell agreed. It rang a funeral dirge.
For once, I was the last student out the door. I cruised down the hall like the loser of a garden-snail drag race.
Coach Stroganoff and Jim Schortz were waiting in the gym—woodchuck and chuckwalla. All they needed to make three chucks was a chucklehead, and I knew who that was.
Me.
I gulped.
“Let’s hustle, Gecko,” said Coach. “Get dressed, and get out there!”
Jim walked me back to the equipment room. With his help, I strapped, snapped, and sealed myself into the uniform. It felt very natural, like angel wings on a warthog.
And it smelled nice, too. Whoever wore the uniform last had left behind enough B.O. to paralyze Paris.
I tried not to breathe.
The big chuckwalla thumped my shoulder pads. “Let’s go, dude,” said Jim.
We trundled along. I figured I might as well work on the case while waiting for my funeral.
“So, Jim,” I said. “Tell me: Does Coach Stroganoff have any enemies?”
He stopped dead and stared. “What a weird thing to say. Why do you ask?”
I tugged at my slipping shoulder pads. “Uh, no particular reason. Just curious.”
Jim Schortz gave a tight chuckle and smoothed his blue silk shirt. “No worries, dude,” he said. “Coach is a great guy. Everybody likes him.”
We started walking again.
“Wait,” he said. “There is someone who’s not too crazy about the coach.”
“Who’s that?”
Jim paused to slurp a grasshopper off a bush. Then he glanced around. “I probably shouldn’t—crunch—say, but—nulp—Coach and the school nurse used to be sweet on each—urp—other. She felt bad when he dumped her.”
I didn’t feel that great myself, watching Jim’s digestive process close-up.
“Would she try for revenge?” I asked.
He turned. “Hey, you mean like making those players disappear?” Jim Schortz wasn’t quite the dim bulb I’d taken him for.
“Yeah, something like that,” I said.
The chuckwalla smiled. “Dude, you’re pretty good with this deduction stuff. Ever thought of getting into detective work?”
“You never know, Jimbo, you never know.” I smirked.
Then we walked through the gate and into a sea of uniforms packed with mean, ugly football players. My smirk hung by one corner and dropped like a concrete kickball, right into my socks.
What was I thinking? The smallest of these guys was twice my size. Even the water boy was a hulk.
Coach Stroganoff plowed through the players and draped an arm, like a sleepy anaconda, over my shoulders. “Listen up, gentlemen.”
“And women!” said one of the players, a hefty horned toad with painted-on eyelashes.
“Sorry, Queenie,” Coach rumbled. “And women. As you know, we’re a few players short, so I got us a new sub: Chet Gecko.”
“Bit of a short player himself, isn’t he?” a badger cracked.
The rest of the team chortled. I craned my neck and found many pairs of avid eyes under helmet visors—all watching me.
“Now, now,” said the coach. “Treat him like one of your own.”
Ah, that was nice of him.
“Fresh meat!” shouted Brick the hedgehog.
Or maybe not.
“Yaaahhh!” My new teammates piled on, pounding my helmet and shoulders, pumping my hands. The squirrel I’d seen outside the principal’s office slapped my back hard enough to leave a paw print on my chest.
Coach’s voice cut the hubbub like an ax through ice cream. “Enough mushy stuff, ladies.”
“And gentlemen!” said the badger.
The coach harrumphed. “Give me ten laps around the track and fifty push-ups.”
The herd trompled off. I tried to dig my helmet out of my shoulder pads.
“Get the lead out, Gecko!” growled Coach Stroganoff.
“What, me, too?” I said.
“You, too, rookie.” The titanic groundhog pointed the way with a sausage-like finger.
I trotted along after the other players, desperately hoping for a break in the case, or failing that, a stuntman to handle my workout.
“Pick it up!” shouted the coach.
It was going to be a long, long day.
But sometimes, the case comes first—before pride, before common sense, before broken bones. That’s the mark of a true detective.
Or a true moron, I forget which.
10
Bruised, Battered, and Bewildered
Two hours later, every muscle in my body hurt. My legs throbbed, my armpits ached, my tail felt like it’d been fed into a sausage grinder—even my tongue hurt. (Of course, maybe I should’ve tried catching the ball with my hands, instead.)
We’d undergone more forms of torture than I could count—running, blocking, speed drills, scrimmaging. Worst of all, I’d had no chance to snoop.
Of course, nothing suspicious happened. Maybe all the players didn’t love one another. But they helped out when one blocker, a feisty crow, felt sick and went to the nurse.
The only bright spot was that Natalie had been right: Football players did get all the bubble gum they could chew. When Jim and the water boy passed it around, I packed my mouth full. My cheeks were bigger than the surly squirrel’s (whose name, I learned, was P. Diddley).
When Coach Stroganoff blew that last whistle and the team trotted to the showers, I staggered to a bench and collapsed. All I wanted was a quick death.
A shadow with a long, pointy beak fell on the grass.
“Hey, hotshot, how was practice?” It was Natalie.
Too pooped to lift my head, I slurred, “Exercise should be against the law.”
“Then only outlaws would exercise,” she said.
“Suits me,” I said. “Where you been?”
Natalie hopped onto the bench beside me, cheerleader skirt swirling. “Practicing our cheers in the gym. We learned ‘Fight, You Gophers, Fight’; ‘Tunneling to Victory’; and ‘Crush, Kill, Destroy.’ How’s the detecting?”
I told her about the love note I’d found in the nurse’s office, and about Jim’s tip that Nurse Supial and Coach Stroganoff had had a falling-out.
“You think she could be behind all this?” asked Natalie.
“It’s a long shot, but we’ve got to check everything—even Coach’s ex-girlfriends.”
An unmistakably funky smell descended on us with the subtlety of a Force 5 hurricane.
“Whew!” said Natalie. “Who cut the—”
“Gecko and birdie,” sneered Herman the Gila Monster. “Big-time detectives.”
I looked up. “Herman.”
My client might not have been the sharpest pencil in the pocket protector, but at least he hadn’t blown my cover during practice. Aside from the occasional, bone-shattering block, he hadn’t spoken to me. I soon learned why.
“You big-time liar,” he said.
“I never lie,” I said.
That wasn’t strictly true. I had lied before, but no
t to Herman—at least not recently.
“You say you like help, but you like play football,” he said. “You lie.”
I swayed to my feet and held out my hands. “Relax, big guy,” I said. “I didn’t want to join the team.”
Natalie jumped in. “That’s right. Chet’s gone undercover. He’s just pretending to play.”
The Gila monster picked me up by my helmet. I looked straight into his bloodshot eyeballs.
“Find players fast,” he said, “if you know what good for you.”
“Long naps, healthy food, and plenty of playtime,” I said. “But what’s that got to do with anything?”
Foomp!
Herman dropped me like a rancid sandwich and stomped off to the showers.
Natalie shook her head. “You sure can smooth talk a client,” she said.
I moaned. “Help me up.”
“You want up? This’ll cheer you up: Why did the doughnut maker retire?” She grinned at me, waiting.
I grunted.
“Because he was fed up with the hole business.” Natalie cackled.
I muttered, “I know how he feels.”
After a shower and a change, I limped out of the gym. Hard to believe that some kids actually volunteered to get beat up like this.
Natalie was leaning against a wall, chatting with Frenchy LaTrine, the mousy cheerleader.
“Hiii, Chet!” called Frenchy.
“What pom-pom did you crawl out of?” I gave her my steely look.
Natalie waved me over. “Frenchy was just saying something interesting.”
I joined them. “Spill it, Frenchy.”
She spilled. It seemed that a guy she knew, Buford the skunk, was a wanna-be football player.
“He’s not strong like you, Chet—he didn’t make the team!” said Frenchy. “Poor guy—now he’s always Mr. Grumpy Face. I told him, turn that frown upside down!”
“And did he?” asked Natalie.
“No way, Jose!” said Frenchy. “But he did agree to be water boy! That’s a start, isn’t it?”
It was indeed. But not in the way she thought.
If anybody held a grudge against the team, it’d be someone jealous—someone like Buford. That skunk bore watching.
I grunted my thanks. My wobbly legs carried me homeward.
“See you later, Chet?” called Frenchy.
“Yeah,” I said. “The later, the better.”
This case held more danger than I’d first suspected. Not only would my client knock my block off if I failed, but the investigation carried another risk: cheerleaders.
And between a butt-whomping and a snootful of cooties, I’d choose the butt-whomping every time.
11
Hickory, Dickory, Jock
Whether or not you’re a bird, every school has its pecking order. The jocks beat up the brains, the brains pick on the oddballs, and the bullies bother everybody.
Somehow, the word had gotten out overnight: Chet Gecko was now a jock.
When I limped into school the next day, students treated me differently. The guys gave me more respect, and the dames—well, let’s just say they were more obnoxious than before.
It didn’t float my boat. After yesterday’s workout, I felt like leftovers from a vulture’s lunch pail.
At recess, my sore feet led me toward the sixth graders’ playground.
Halfway there, they were joined by a pair of birdie claws belonging to Natalie Attired. “Hiya, Chet!” she said. “You’re sure draggin’ your wagon today.”
“Mmf,” I grunted. I’m always quick with a comeback.
“You know, if you plan to stay on the team, you really oughta get in shape.”
“I am in shape,” I said. “Round is a shape.”
Natalie smirked. “So, where we headed?”
I raised a limp arm to point. “To the sixth graders’ stomping grounds,” I said. “We need answers. My body can’t take much more undercover work.”
A bunch of football players (a huddle? a thickness?) were standing under the trees, acting mature. I could tell because they were pulling girls’ tails, punching one another’s shoulders, and giving wedgies to weaker guys.
My teammates, love ’em or leave ’em.
I planned to leave them as soon as possible.
Natalie and I approached. Besides Justin Case (our otter quarterback), I noticed P. Diddley, Queenie the horned toad, and Brick the hedgehog.
“Hey, sports fans,” I said. “What’s shakin’?”
Queenie chuckled. “Your knees, rookie,” she rasped. “You were so lame at yesterday’s practice.”
The others hooted.
“Don’t hold back, Queenie,” I said. “Tell me what you really think.”
She took a breath. “You were lamer than a—”
“Thanks, I get the idea.” Sarcasm is wasted on horned toads.
Natalie tried for small talk. “So, how we gonna do in the big game?”
“Who dis?” said P. Diddley.
My partner threw out her wings in a frightening display. “Gimme an N, gimme an A, gimme a T-A—”
“A cheerleader,” I said, punching her lightly. “She’s with me.”
“Ow.” Natalie rubbed her shoulder.
Queenie grinned. She liked pain—as long as it was someone else’s.
Brick scratched his neck bristles. “The big game doesn’t look good,” he said. “We lost some key players.”
“Yeah,” said Justin, stretching his passing arm. “And we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel for replacements.” He nodded at me. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I said. “So where do you think those missing guys went?”
P. Diddley spat between his buckteeth. “Sumpin’ happened, sumpin’ bad.”
I took a different tack. “What do you guys think about Buford, the water boy?”
Queenie cracked her knuckles. “That loser? Why you wanna know?”
“I heard he tried to make the team.”
“Couldn’t cut da mustard,” said P. Diddley. He spat again.
Natalie cocked her head. “I didn’t know you had to be a mustard cutter to play football,” she said to me. “Do you have to make a pigskin sandwich?”
I elbowed her and asked Justin, “Could Buford be so cheesed off about not making the team that he’d do something awful to the players?”
The quarterback cleaned his slick fur with his tongue. “Buford?” he said. “Hah! They’d break him like a bread stick.”
Suspicion drew P. Diddley’s features together. “Hey, why you askin’ all dees questions?”
In unison, my teammates’ ugly mugs swung in my direction.
Rrrrinngg! went the bell.
I knew an exit cue when I heard one. Grabbing Natalie’s wing, I said, “They’re playing our song. Gotta go, guys.”
And on a wing and a prayer, we went.
12
Beefie Baby
I don’t care what anyone says, cafeteria food is one of the joys of school. Where else can you get baked beans and greasy horsefly burritos without having to sweet-talk your mom?
Natalie and I found a relatively quiet bench in the lunchroom and sat down for our south-of-the-border delight. When the last cheesy fly had been munched, we hit the doors—fed and feisty and looking for suspects.
First on the list was Marge Supial, ex-girlfriend and grumpy nurse.
Two minutes and a short crawl through the bushes later, we peeked into Nurse Supial’s window. No patients waited. No business pressed. It was slower than the last lap of a glacier race in her office.
The wombat sat at her desk, head drooping in the first stages of a nap attack.
I nodded to Natalie. She made a sound like the static of an intercom. Kzztch!
Mockingbirds. They sure can mock.
“Nurse Supial?” said Natalie in Coach Stroganoff’s voice. “Marge?”
Her gray-furred head snapped up. “Beefie?”
Beefie? I mouthed. Natalie and
I barely stifled our giggles. We dived for cover.
“Are you all right?” asked the nurse, addressing the intercom.
“Uh, yes,” said Natalie. “Had something in my throat. Marge, I must ask you something . . .”
“Oh, yes, my love muffin, all is forgiven.”
I made a face at Natalie. Love muffin? This wombat had it bad.
“Um, that’s nice,” said Natalie-as-Coach. “Tell me, did Tito the crow come in yesterday feeling sick?”
“Well, uh, he did,” said the nurse.
“And where did he go afterward?” asked Natalie.
I risked a quick peek through the window. Nurse Supial was leaning over her intercom with a puzzled frown on her furry mug. I sank down again.
“I treated his stomachache and sent the lad off with Mr. Schortz,” she said. “Didn’t Mr. Schortz call the boy’s parents to pick him up?”
Natalie went wide-eyed. “Oh, uh . . .”
I glared at her, and she recovered. “I, er, haven’t seen Jim today,” she said, continuing her Coach Stroganoff impression.
“Is everything okay?” said the nurse. “You sound funny.”
“Just this darn Chet cold—I mean, chest cold,” Natalie said.
I gave Natalie the OK sign and peeked in at the nurse again.
“Alrighty, then,” said Natalie. “Gotta go.”
“But, love muffin, what about us?” Nurse Supial pouted.
“Uh, we’ll always have Paris.”
“Oh, Beefie, I knew you wouldn’t forget!” said the wombat.
“Adoo, ma cherry!” said Natalie. “Kzztch!”
“What?” I whispered to my partner, ducking out of sight.
As we crawled out of the bushes, she explained, “I saw that in one of my sister’s soap operas. It’s romantic.”
“It’s weird,” I said. “But nice Stroganoff impression, Beefie Baby.”
We strolled down the hall. Natalie groomed her feathers. “So,” she said, “do you believe Nurse Supial is involved?”
“Not with the kidnapping, if that’s what you mean.”
