Give My Regrets to Broadway

by Bruce Hale

  “They weren’t too happy when Scott quit the team to be in Mr. Ratnose’s silly little play.”

  Natalie and I exchanged a glance.

  “Ah . . . ,” I said.

  “Ha!” said Natalie.

  “As we . . .”

  “Suspected,” she said.

  Ms. Petite’s fudge brown eyes went wide. “Was that helpful?” she asked.

  I tipped my hat. “That, my dear Ms. Petite, is what we detectives call a lead.”

  Natalie chipped in. “And where it leads, we follow.”

  “You follow me?” I asked the teacher.

  “I thought we were supposed to follow the lead,” said Natalie.

  It didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to locate the soccer players at lunchtime. If you guessed that we found them on the soccer field, give yourself a gold star.

  When we arrived, a dozen or so sweaty kids were scrimmaging, kicking a beat-up ball around the grass. Natalie and I stopped on the sidelines.

  “Let me handle this,” I said. “It takes finesse.”

  “You, all finesse-y?” she said. “This I gotta see.”

  I stepped onto the field. “Hey, soccer jocks! Seen Scott Freeh today?”

  Foom! The ball whizzed at my head.

  I ducked. My hat didn’t.

  As I picked up my battered fedora, a bowlegged weasel trotted over. She kicked the ball back to her teammates. “Whatcha want with that loser?” she snarled.

  “Scott’s missing,” I said. “We’re trying to find him.”

  “Yeah? He can stay lost,” said the weasel.

  “Didn’t you like him?” I asked.

  Bam!

  “Oof!” Something whacked me in the back and sent me sprawling. I pushed up off the grass and saw the ball bouncing merrily away. Sneaky soccer players.

  The weasel snickered. “Some free advice, Gecko. If you value your health, don’t talk about that traitor around here.”

  “Traitor?” asked Natalie.

  A chuckwalla built like a refrigerator stopped the ball. “Yeah,” he growled. “Dat punk dropped soccer for a stupit play.”

  The big reptile advanced, bouncing the ball off the tops of his feet. His teammates drifted over.

  “Yeah? Then why’d Scott disappear on the first day of rehearsal?” I asked.

  “Dunno,” said the chuckwalla. He tapped the ball higher and higher, off his knees now. “Maybe he’s outta his head!”

  And with that, he bounced the soccer ball—whap!—off his forehead and—whump!—right into my gut.

  I staggered back onto Natalie. We went down like a lead-bottomed duck.

  The soccer players cackled till they choked. “Good one, Frankie,” said the weasel. “T’anks, Angie.” The chuckwalla chuckled. Wiping away tears of laughter, they reclaimed the ball and trotted back onto the field. Natalie and I picked ourselves up.

  “That finesse worked well,” she said, brushing grass from her feathers.

  “It’s a gift,” I said.

  “Really?” said Natalie. “Then I think you might wanna return it.”

  4

  For Better or Rehearse

  The rest of the day flew by like a steel-winged moth with arthritis. I didn’t learn much about the case at recess, and I didn’t learn a danged thing in Mr. Ratnose’s class. (Of course, that’s not unusual.) The last bell rang. Time for another rehearsal.

  Oh, joy.

  I dragged my heels. By the time I reached the auditorium, my classmates were inside, but a pack of kids were milling around out front waving placards.

  KEEP SHAKESPEARE PURE, read one sign. KOWS AGAINST CORNINESS, said another.

  I approached the pompous pigeon who carried the second sign. “Hey, ace. What’s that mean?”

  “We’re KOWS,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “You’re a pigeon. And she’s a rabbit, and he’s—”

  “Not cows.” He frowned. “KOWS.”

  “Right, and I’m Mother Goose.”

  The pigeon’s grip tightened on his stick. He spoke slowly. “KOWS is Kids Opposed to Wrecking Shakespeare.”

  Somebody needs to get a life, I thought. But all I said was, “I see.”

  The rabbit cleared her throat. “We believe this play is, um, insulting to . . .”

  “To all true Shakespeareans,” the pigeon said.

  “Really?” I said. “How now, young KOW?”

  “Try this,” said the bird. “How could Omlet, Prince of Denver, be a Dane? Danes are from Denmark.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Methinks thou dost protest way too much.”

  The rabbit, a bedraggled bunny with a bad over-bite, spoke up. “An’ we’re gonna keep on protesting until . . . until . . .”

  “Until the school shuts the play down,” said the pigeon. He quivered with indignation. “We think it’s a dreadful mockery.”

  I nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Then you’ll drop out of the play and join KOWS?” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not in the moo.”

  The bunny blinked. “Huh?”

  My humor is wasted on most kids at this school. “Look, I’ve protested already,” I said. “And Mr. Ratnose gave me the lead role.”

  The pigeon puffed himself up. “It’s no joke. This play will go down, and you will go down with it.”

  “Probably.” I wished them luck and headed inside to meet my fate.

  A happy babble rang from the auditorium walls. Kids in small clusters practiced their lines. Our music teacher, Zoomin’ Mayta, was a cheery hummingbird with a hyperactive sense of rhythm. She pounded out the show’s theme song on an upright piano while a group sang:

  “He’s the guy who talks to ghosts:

  Omlet, Omlet!

  He’s the Dane we dig the most:

  Omlet, Omlet!

  He’s a good egg, that’s for sure.

  Never cracks; he keeps it pure

  Even at high temperatures.

  Ooooh-oh-mmleeeet!”

  Onstage, Mr. Ratnose hopped and jittered about with the students playing castle guards, teaching them intricate dance moves. They stepped, they swirled, they spun.

  My mouth hung open. Even to my untrained eye, they looked like Spazzmaster Flash and the Spazzmotics.

  Natalie broke away from the gang at the piano.

  “Hiya, Chet,” she said. “Ready to make theater history?”

  “I wish this play was history,” I said.

  Just then, one of the singers turned and glowered at me. It was the chubby chipmunk who had tripped me at the first rehearsal.

  His black eyes smoldered, and the white streaks on his fat cheeks looked like racing stripes on a balloon. Nearly as wide as he was tall, the fuzzy critter looked as if he’d like nothing better than to smoosh me like a steamroller.

  I pointed him out to Natalie. “Who’s that mook, and what’s his beef?”

  “You don’t recognize him?”

  “No.”

  Natalie preened her wing feathers. “Remember Baby Boo? That TV commercial:

  ‘Baby Boo, only two.

  Watch the baby chew and chew.’”

  “Yeah . . . bubble gum for babies. So what?”

  “That’s Baby Boo. Boo Dinkum.”

  “That lard bucket? He sure grew up. And out.”

  Natalie poked my gut. “Look who’s talking, jelly belly.”

  “For your information, that’s relaxed muscle. Now, why is this overgrown baby giving me the old stink-eye?”

  “First,” she said, “he’s got a bad attitude . . .”

  “I noticed that this morning.”

  “And second, you only got the lead in the play. He’s been acting for years. You think he’s maybe, I don’t know . . . jealous?”

  The elevator suddenly went to the top floor of my brain. “Of course. And if he really wants that part, he would’ve resented Scott Freeh, too.”

  “Enough to kidnap him?” said Natalie.

  I square
d my shoulders. “That, birdie, is what we’re gonna find out.”

  But before I could take three steps, duty called. (And this time, it sounded like a lean rat with a short fuse.)

  “Chet Gecko,” said Mr. Ratnose, “get your tail up here and rehearse this scene.”

  What else could I do? My tail and I headed for the stage.

  5

  Chipmunky Business

  I’ll spare you the gory details of rehearsal. Imagine the excitement of watching a mole’s nose hairs grow. Then combine that with the splendors of a visit to the lint museum. Now multiply it by the thrills of dental surgery without novocaine. . . .

  You get the picture.

  Things heated up while rehearsing my romantic scene with Shirley Chameleon. Although we were only supposed to be reading it, my overexcited classmate really got into her part.

  When she read the line, “Oh, Omlet, you’re my sweet patootie,” Shirley went as pink as a six-foot stack of valentines. All in a tizzy, she leaned forward, puckering. Her lips loomed, plump and perilous.

  “Hah-choo!” I faked an epic sneeze, spraying her with spit. Shirley backed off.

  Whew.

  When Mr. Ratnose finally called a break, I was raring to get back to detecting. I signaled Natalie. We cornered Boo Dinkum in the back of the room.

  “What ho, young Dinkum,” I said. “Prithee, tarry awhile.” (A sure sign that this dumb play was getting to me.)

  The chipmunk’s whiskers bristled. “What do you want?” he said.

  “A word,” said Natalie.

  “How ’bout get lost?” he sneered.

  “That’s two words,” I said.

  “Beat it.”

  “Still two,” said Natalie.

  “You . . . stay outta my face!”

  I shook my head. “Aw, now you’re not even trying.”

  The puffy rodent crossed his arms. I could tell this would be fun.

  “We’re after Scott Freeh,” said Natalie. “Any ideas on where to look?”

  His dark eyes flitted between us. “Why should I know?” he said. “Or care?”

  “Got something against him?” I said.

  The chipmunk snorted. “That clown? He couldn’t act his way out of a wet paper bag.” Boo looked me over. “Like some other morons I could name.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Yeah? Go ahead and name ’em, bucko.”

  But before his mouth wrote a check his fists couldn’t cash, Boo Dinkum spotted something past my left shoulder. He clammed up.

  I followed his gaze. A bigger, uglier version of Boo—if that was possible—had caught Mr. Ratnose by the piano. Big Boo had a touchy temper and a face like a bucket of mud.

  “What are your qualifications?” the chipmunk half shouted.

  Mr. Ratnose bared his yellow teeth. “I am the director,” he said. “I don’t need qualifications.”

  “What kind of lamebrain would cast a rank amateur in a lead role when he could have an experienced actor like my son?”

  Mr. Ratnose gripped the chipmunk by the elbow and led him toward the door. “If you’d rather not be a parent volunteer,” he said, “just say so.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” said the snippy rodent. “I’ll be sticking around to make sure you don’t give my boy an even smaller part.” He stared at us as if we were something he’d scraped off his shoe. “Come along, Boo.”

  Boo Dinkum deflated like a bagpipe in a cactus patch. Head down, he slouched over to the door and joined his father.

  Natalie nodded at the chipmunks, father and son. “Think they could’ve done something to Scott Freeh?”

  “No doubt,” I said. “But the soccer players were steamed at Scott, too. For a guy with no enemies, he’s got some interesting friends.”

  Before we could discuss our case further, Mr. Ratnose called. “Let’s do some blocking for your scenes,” he said.

  I frowned. “Blocking? Why, is someone trying to tackle me?”

  Mr. Ratnose took a long breath. “Blocking means planning where the actors move.” His whiskers looked frazzled. Either all the excitement was getting to him or my teacher needed to try a new conditioner.

  We joined the group. Under Mr. Ratnose’s direction, we exited and entered, walked here, stood there, and generally bopped all across the stage. After ten minutes, my legs felt like lasagna noodles and my brain felt like mush. Acting was harder than it looked.

  Once, some high, mournful singing distracted me. I looked over at Natalie.

  She’d heard it, too. “Wasn’t me,” she said.

  The singing continued.

  Mr. Ratnose scowled at the kids onstage, but none of them was making the sound. He stared out into the auditorium.

  “Ms. Mayta,” he said, “will you stop that singing?”

  The hummingbird glanced up from her crossword puzzle. “What singing?”

  The song had stopped.

  “Very funny,” said Mr. Ratnose. “People, let’s save the songs for music rehearsal. We’re acting now, so let’s act.”

  We gave it a shot. But between the corny lines and the giggly crew, it was hard to focus.

  Until something happened that sobered everyone up.

  We were working on the scene where Omlet has breakfast with the king and queen—the queen being Natalie, and the king being a toad named Hiram. Other kids walked to and fro, pretending to serve us.

  “Prithee, good Omlet, pass the butter,” said Queen Natalie. (I’m not kidding, that’s how we had to talk.) “This honey doth make my belly rumble.”

  “To be or not to be,” I said. “That’s indigestion.”

  I had leaned over to grab the pretend butter when two things happened almost at once:

  Creeeak came a noise from above us; and then . . .

  CRASH! fell a stage light, two inches from my tail.

  6

  A Midsummer Lights Scream

  Glass shattered. The stage exploded in confusion. Kids jumped back, kids crowded forward. Girls (and a couple of boys) wailed like wet babies.

  And me? For once, my quick gecko reflexes failed me. I stood and stared at the heavy light like I’d been turned into a statue of Doofus Maximus.

  Natalie reached my side, her worried eyes big as bowls. “Are you all right?”

  “Gaa,” I finally managed. “Gaa go gee.” I pointed at the hunk of black metal and broken glass.

  “You said it,” she said.

  I found my voice. “Another few inches, and it would’ve crushed my tail.”

  “Or your head,” said Natalie.

  “That’s my least vulnerable spot,” I said. But a chill danced a mambo down my spine, nevertheless.

  After making sure I was okay, Mr. Ratnose checked out the light. “I don’t know how this could have fallen,” he said. He fumbled with the bracket that had attached the fixture to a pipe up above. “Strange . . . ,” he said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The bracket didn’t break, and the screws that held it together are missing.”

  “Which means?” said Natalie.

  The rat shook his head. “Somebody deliberately . . . No, I can’t believe it.”

  “You mean . . . ?” My blood sizzled like triple-strength espresso. “Someone tried to take me out?”

  Natalie and I exchanged a glance.

  “Mm, and they might still be up there,” said Hiram the toad.

  We all gazed at the network of pipes and stage lights that hung from the ceiling. Dark shadows lurked behind the lights. They could hide anything—from a skulking bad guy to a bunch of bats playing patty-cake.

  Still buzzing from shock, I acted without thinking. (Okay, it wasn’t the first time.) I leaped onto the moth-eaten blue curtains. Up, up, up I scrambled.

  “Chet,” called Natalie, “be careful!”

  At the top, I paused and surveyed the space. Nothing moved. Nobody home but us geckos.

  Below me, a long way down, upturned faces watched my progress.

  “What do
you see?” shouted Natalie.

  Swirling dust tickled my nose. “Nothing yet.”

  I latched on to a pipe and shinnied out toward where the light had hung, carelessly singeing my tail on another fixture.

  Yikes! I almost lost my grip. But I kept crawling.

  “Well?” called Natalie.

  A clear space showed in the dust where the bracket had been.

  With a flap and a flutter, Natalie flew up and landed on the pipe beside me. “Leave your partner in suspense, why don’t you,” she said.

  “Swell,” I said. “You just erased any prints.”

  She winced. “Oops. Hey, check that out.”

  A narrow ledge jutted beside the pipe, some kind of catwalk. Natalie was pointing at something on the walkway. Three screws. Well, well.

  We climbed onto the catwalk and spotted scuff marks in the dust. They led along the ledge and ended at a ladder.

  “Great. Now I find the easy way up,” I said.

  “Maybe someone removed the screws, ducked down the ladder, and went out the back door,” said Natalie.

  My eyes traced the route. “And in the confusion, nobody would’ve noticed.”

  “Or,” she said, cleaning dust from her feathers, “it could just be the paw prints of whoever hung the lights here.”

  I edged to the ladder and began climbing down.

  “Either way, this whole thing stinks like rancid centipede stew,” I said. “And you and I, partner, are gonna get to the bottom of it.”

  “Eew,” she said. “Of the rancid stew?”

  “No, ding-dong. Of the mystery.”

  Honestly. Some birds.

  7

  No Business Like Crow Business

  The cast’s concentration had shattered along with the fallen light—even Mr. Ratnose had to admit it. He canceled the rest of rehearsal.

  Natalie and I headed to my house for a restorative snack. Nothing like a brush with death and dismemberment to give you an appetite, I always say.

  The next day, we met by the flagpole before school. Mornings aren’t my strong suit. Normally, I’d rather be torn apart by savage rhinoceros beetles than wake up early, but these weren’t normal times.