by Bruce Hale
Natalie’s eyes went wide. “Football camp?” she repeated, her accent slipping.
“Hey,” said Hugh’s father. “Who is this, really?”
Oops. I wrestled the receiver toward me. “Hi, is John there?” I asked.
“There’s no John here,” the voice replied.
“Then where do you go to the bathroom?” I giggled falsely.
A grunt of disgust came from the phone. “Crazy kids!” he shouted.
I hung up. Natalie and I stared at each other, as perplexed as two penguins in a pomegranate tree.
She scratched her head. “How could he be at football camp without the coach knowing it?” she said.
“I don’t know. But it’s time to get some answers . . . straight from the groundhog’s mouth.”
“All right,” said Natalie. “I just hope he flosses regularly.”
17
Gym Dandy
The gym’s double doors stood open like a giant’s gap-toothed smile. We breezed past some kids playing basketball and crossed to the coach’s office.
Assistant Coach Jim Schortz sat licking his fingers, with his feet up on his boss’s desk and an empty lunch tray before him.
“Whassup, dude?” he said.
“Where’s Coach Stroganoff?” I asked.
He scratched his throat wattles. “Dunno,” he said. “Running errands?”
Natalie pushed up against the desk. “Maybe you can help us,” she cooed.
“I’ll sure try,” he said. Jim grinned and put his hands behind his head, flexing his biceps in turn. His silk jumpsuit stretched.
I doubted the big muscle-headed dandy could help us find the gym door if his tail was shut in it. Still, he was the assistant coach.
“It’s like this,” I said. “Herman told us that Coach had called the missing kids’ parents, and they said their kids weren’t at home—”
Natalie interrupted. “But we just called Hugh’s dad, and he said Hugh has been off at football camp since last week. Something screwy’s going on.”
Jim’s mouth fell open. He looked from Natalie to me. “No way,” he said.
“Yes, way,” I answered.
Natalie checked the open doorway behind us for eavesdroppers. “Someone’s kidnapped these guys and is trying to cover it up.”
“Who do you suspect?” he asked.
Mr. Ratnose would’ve told him it’s whom do you suspect, but I never gave two hoots for grammar. I leaned back on my tail. “We’re not sure. But it could be the water boy.”
The chuckwalla’s eyes widened. “Buford,” he said. “Of course! He’s the one, dude. Have you told anyone else?”
I shook my head. “Nobody. Our client is, uh, laying low, and Coach thinks I’m just a football player.”
“Aren’t you?” asked Jim.
“We’re really private eyes,” said Natalie. “But nobody on the team knows.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” said Jim.
“Why?” I asked.
The chuckwalla lowered his voice. “Coach has a lot on his mind with the big game coming up tomorrow. It’d be a feather in my cap if I find these kids.”
If he finds them? Pssh. Everybody wants to be a detective.
“Well, I . . . ,” I said.
Natalie touched her wing tip to his arm. “It’ll be our secret.”
Jim’s eyes flicked to me.
“Yeah, sure, why not,” I said. A thought struck me. “Hey, maybe you can do something. You know that polecat who talks to Buford after practice?”
He nodded.
“Who is she?”
“Dunno her name,” said Jim, “but she’s from Petsadena.” His eyes lit up. “Say, you don’t think . . . ?”
“That she’s in cahoots with Buford?” said Natalie. “Absolutely.”
Jim Schortz tossed a baseball. “Wow, dudes, this is exciting.”
“Isn’t it?” I said. “See what you can dig up on Mrs. Petsadena, and we’ll cover Buford.”
“Deal,” he said. “And remember,”—Jim put a clawed finger to his lips—“dumb’s the word.”
“Dumb and dumber,” I agreed.
Truer words were never spoken. Jim was so dumb, if you gave him a penny for his thoughts, you’d get change.
18
In Hog We Trust
Our last football practice was as jolly as Christmas Eve in Dracula’s castle. We barely had enough players to make up a team.
Lining the bench to either side of me were some of the longest faces you’d ever see outside of an anteaters’ convention.
Everyone knew we were going to get creamed in tomorrow’s game.
Everyone but the coach, that is.
The huge groundhog paced before us, reading football wisdom from The Little Red Book of Football Wisdom by Coach Dumbrowski.
Even that comic relief didn’t help.
“If at first down, you don’t succeed, hike, hike again,” Coach Stroganoff read. “Too many quarterbacks . . . spoil the huddle.”
The pep talk ground on and on, until the pep was flatter than yesterday’s pop. Over by the bleachers, the cheerleaders began practicing their routines. Natalie gave me a thumbs-up—she was on the lookout.
Finally, Coach sent us onto the field.
“And remember,” he shouted. “Use those nicknames!”
All the time I was trying to catch passes from Twisted Blowdryer (or was he Mad Refrigerator?) I kept an eye on our water boy, Buford.
This wasn’t easy. Several times I tripped over my tail or ran out-of-bounds. (Fortunately, most of the players played that badly, so nobody noticed.)
Here’s what I saw: Buford sulking on the sidelines; Buford pulling sports drinks from the cooler; Buford picking his nose.
None of this seemed especially sinister, but I didn’t give up hope. Before long, Natalie or I would catch him in the act.
By the end of practice, with the skunk behaving like a model water boy, nobody had gotten sick. Then I suspected the truth: He was on to us. Either Buford had good radar, or someone had tipped him off.
As I started for the showers, I gave our water boy a hard stare. He returned his usual glum-and-surly look—no nyah-nyah, no I-sure-tricked-you.
I couldn’t beat a confession out of him; this was one big skunk. But maybe I could trick him. . . .
“Hey, Buford,” I said. “What’s shakin’?”
He glowered down at me. “Whaddaya want?”
“A word.”
“How about moron?”
“It suits you,” I said. “Tell me, what do you think of our chances tomorrow?”
Buford’s lip curled. “Without all our best guys?” he said. “Slim and none.”
I removed my helmet, the better to study his face. “Bet that makes you happy, being from Petsadena and all.”
Buford’s tail raised. His expression was colder than a polar bear’s earwax. “Is that what ya bet? You’d lose, Gecko.”
Something off to one side caught Buford’s eye. I followed his gaze. Over by the fence stood the little old polecat from Petsadena, carrying a paper sack and waving.
“Better get over there and meet your contact,” I said. “Has she got the stomachache pills in that bag?”
“What—” His comeback faded as we watched Jim Schortz hustle up to the polecat.
“Who is that lady?” I asked.
“She’s—just someone I know,” said the skunk, looking past me.
“What’s she want with you?” I moved to block him.
He glanced at me, then back to the pair in the parking lot. “She’s my ride, okay? Like it’s any of your business.”
I crossed my arms. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe it or not,” he said. “She, uh, works at the pharmacy in town.”
I risked a quick peek over my shoulder. The polecat was running away from Jim.
“Gotta go,” said Buford. He pushed past me and trucked off after her.
I sat on the bench and wai
ted for the cheerleaders to finish. It didn’t take long. Natalie flapped across the field and landed on the bench beside me.
“Did you get a load of that?” she said.
“Yup. Looks like your friend Jim put a scare into her.”
I told her what I’d learned from Buford about the Petsadena mom working in the pharmacy.
Natalie hopped in excitement. “That’s great, Chet! Now we know where Buford got his poison pills.”
“But we still don’t understand how he made the players disappear.” I scratched my head. “You know, maybe we’ve been going about this all wrong.”
“What do you mean?” asked Natalie.
“Maybe we should give up trying to figure out how, and concentrate on where—where to find those missing players.”
Natalie cocked her head. “Well, we didn’t find them at Emerson Hicky,” she said. “So I have a hunch the answers are at Petsadena.”
“Partner, I have a hunch your hunch is right.”
“Thanks. I have a hunch your hunch about my hunch is right.”
“And I have a hunch your—ah, never mind.”
19
Countdown to Injury
Friday morning dawned cool and crisp as a frozen Pillbug Crunch bar. And the day brought with it some good news. After punishing my body with a week of killer workouts, I didn’t feel the pain anymore.
I was testing my newfound fitness on the swing set.
“Hey, Natalie,” I said, pushing off. “My muscles aren’t sore. Does this mean I’m getting in shape?”
She eyeballed me from the next swing over. “Nope,” she said, as I slipped off the swing and fell to the sand. “You’re numb.”
Ah, the benefits of exercise.
I climbed back on. We swung in silence for a while. Carefully. It was recess—school’s reward for staying awake a couple of hours.
Around us, students simmered with excitement over the game. Kids wore badges that read BASH THE BABOONS! (Petsadena’s mascot), and they kept coming up to me saying things like “Attaboy!” and “Go, Gophers!”
The day passed in a haze of football spirit and foolishness. Somehow, I made it to last period.
In Mr. Ratnose’s class, it was “free reading time.” This meant we could read anything we wanted to—except for comic books, gory tales, and stories the PTA didn’t like. (In short, most of the fun stuff.)
I slumped in my seat with a copy of Stewart, Belittled open before me. I mused. Maybe the answers to my case lay at Petsadena, but I wasn’t looking forward to going there. I wondered, Would I come back in one piece?
After the last bell rang, the halls were hopping like grasshoppers on a griddle. Kids flowed toward the parking lot, where buses and cars idled, waiting to take them to the big game.
Beside the gym, my own chariot stood: a dirt-brown bus for the players, staff, and cheerleaders. The school mascot, a golden gopher, leered down from its painted side.
“Hey, check this out, Gecko!” called Brick, lounging by the door. He laughed and hooked a thumb toward the front of the rig.
Across the grill, some wit had strapped a dummy of Petsadena’s baboon mascot, like monkey roadkill.
“Very funny,” I said.
“C’mon, get with the program,” said Queenie. She grabbed my arm and hoisted me up the steps of the bus.
I ambled down the aisle. Teachers filled the front. I noticed a moony Nurse Supial gazing across the aisle at Coach Stroganoff, who was talking with the principal.
Natalie was jammed into the back with the other cheerleaders. The only free seat was by Jim Schortz, the cheery chuckwalla.
I slipped in beside him.
“Hey, dude,” he said with a broad grin. “Ready to rock and roll?”
“How can you be so happy?” I asked. “Those missing players are still missing, and we’re no closer to finding them than we were yesterday.”
Jim tsk-tsked. “Don’t worry. I have a feeling they’ll turn up soon.”
“And it doesn’t bother you that we don’t stand the chance of a snow cone in a sauna against Petsadena?”
The assistant coach shook his head like I was the slowest student in class. “The game’s not over till it’s over, dude.”
Optimism makes me grumpy.
I sighed and turned to rest my cheek against the window. Jim’s heavy hand landed on my shoulder.
“Cheer up, Chet,” he said. “Hey, you know how hard you got tackled in practice this week?”
“Yeah?” I said.
“Well, those Petsadena players are gonna hit you twice as hard.” He chortled and slapped me on the back. “Welcome to the big leagues, dude!”
Big league, schmig league. If I survived this game, I vowed never to play anything more athletic than checkers.
If I survived this game.
20
The Perils of Petsadena
Petsadena Elementary wasn’t much to look at. It lacked the breathtaking views of Mount Everest, the glitter of the Taj Mahal, or even the sheer size of the pyramids.
It was an average school, for a palace.
It managed to make Emerson Hicky look like a bunch of tar-paper shacks in a swamp.
My teammates gawked as we shuffled down the hallways toward the gym. After we suited up, Jim Schortz gave us the signal. He pushed the door open and we streamed past him into the stadium.
The field was a long slab of green, as pure as a preschooler’s prayer. Chalk lines gleamed against it, but not as much as the silver-uniformed Petsadena Baboons. Their outfits put the twink in twinkle.
The crowd’s noise pressed against us like a little sister on a long car trip. The stands shook with hundreds of kids and parents from both schools, raising a ruckus.
My teammates waved as we trotted across the track to the benches.
Our stand-in quarterback, Brick the hedgehog, swaggered out to the fifty-yard line. By time-honored tradition, the two team leaders played rock-paper-scissors. In a close match, Brick’s scissors beat the other guy’s paper.
Petsadena would kick off.
Coach Stroganoff marched down our line, choosing the starting players. “Gecko—er, I mean, Stinky Bottomchucker, you’ve got bench duty,” he growled.
Fine by me. While everyone else was wrapped up in their football thing, I could focus on my strength: the detective thing.
The teams took the field while I surveyed the scene. Behind me, the bleachers rocked with Emerson Hicky fans. Our band made a sound like a warthog choking on a xylophone. To this lopsided beat, a couple of cheerleaders began flinging around a dummy of Petsadena’s baboon mascot, kicking it gleefully.
“Wow, check out their setup!” It was Natalie, leaning over my shoulder and pointing across the field.
On the other side, an army of Petsadena fans swelled the stands. Cheerleaders in shiny costumes danced a supersonic can-can, backed by the Petsadena Sympathy Orchestra.
“What, no fireworks?” I said.
Just then, red, silver, and black streaks shot into the sky, bursting into flowers of fire. A stunt plane spelled out PETSADENA RULES! with its smoke trail.
Something caught my attention in front of the enemy’s bleachers. “Natalie, what’s that?”
“That,” she said, “is a pronoun, used to indicate something, like that bench, or that cloud.”
I grimaced. “No, down-for-brains, what’s that?” I grabbed her beak and pointed it toward a line of figures. “Use your eagle eyes.”
“Mockingbird eyes. Please.” She squinted. “Huh. They’ve even got us beat in the mascot department.”
“What do you mean?”
“I see one, two, three . . . six dummies of our gopher mascot, hanging from the stands.”
What the Petsadena cheerleaders had planned for those dummies, I didn’t want to know. Probably something involving cannons and farm machinery.
Pock!
The sound of a football being booted grabbed our attention.
“Go, Gophers!” shouted N
atalie in my ear. “Sorry,” she said, wincing. “Cheerleader training.”
Petsadena had kicked off, and our team staggered around the field like blind mice on ice, trying to capture the ball. At last, P. Diddley fell on it. Four beefy beavers from Petsadena promptly fell on him.
Yikes.
The ball was at our own twenty-yard line. Both teams huddled—except for P. Diddley. He lay on the ground for the longest time, then wobbled to his feet, swayed like a hula girl in a hurricane, and ralphed up his lunch onto the grass.
“Ah, reminds me of Mom’s home cooking,” said Natalie from behind me.
Jim Schortz and Buford the skunk hustled onto the field and dragged P. Diddley off while the referees dealt with the stinky mess.
“Glad I’m not playing,” I muttered.
A heavy paw fell on my shoulder.
“We can change that right now, bucko,” grunted Coach Stroganoff. “You’re up. Get out there and make your school proud!”
21
Tackling Dummies
My wobbly legs carried me onto the field. A couple of Petsadena players snickered as I passed them. An enormous badger growled.
“Nice doggie,” I said.
He feinted at me with a razor-edged paw, and I dodged away. One day, my mouth would land me in trouble. (Worse trouble than being on the football team, I mean.)
Emerson Hicky’s players crouched with their heads together. As I slipped into the huddle, Brick was calling the next play.
“Okay, Heavy Dogswater,” he said, pointing to Queenie. “I want you—”
“I’m not Heavy Dogswater, I’m Raging Eggplant,” she said.
“Right, Raging Eggs . . . water.” Brick frowned.
“Eggplant,” said Queenie.
“Whatever!” Brick’s spikes stood on end. “You fake left and run a buttonhook. Now, you,” he pointed at a surly frog. “Grumpy Potsticker . . .”
“Mean Moisturizer,” the frog said. He jerked his head at a ground squirrel. “He’s Grumpy Potsticker.”
