by Bruce Hale
Fuzzy ground his teeth in an agony of impatience. The one thing the sub didn’t do was open the desk.
Finally, just before recess, his ballpoint ran dry. Mr. Brittle scanned the desktop. “Where does your teacher keep her spare pens?” he demanded of Messy Mackenzie.
“In the top drawer,” said the girl.
At last! Fuzzy gripped the bars of his cage, and his mouth curled into a grin.
This was going to be good.
As Mr. Brittle pulled open the drawer, Fuzzy heard a faint hiss.
The reaction was immediate.
“Yahhh!” screamed the sub. His eyes went as round as volleyballs, and his mouth opened wide enough to accommodate small aircraft. Mr. Brittle shoved the wheeled chair away from the desk so hard, he went over backward with a thud.
Wheek-wheek! Fuzzy jumped straight up with excitement. “Take that!” he cried.
Several helpful students rushed to Mr. Brittle’s side and tried to help him up. “What’s wrong?” asked Sofia.
Swatting their hands away, the sub snarled, “Back off, you monsters! You think you can prank me, then turn around and help me? Hmm?”
“Prank you?” said Malik.
The teacher climbed to his feet, eyes blazing. “I know who put that snake there.”
Malik and Sofia exchanged puzzled glances. “Snake?” she said. “We didn’t—”
“No more lies!” snapped Mr. Brittle. “No more tricks. This thing just got serious.”
The students cried out, protesting their innocence. But the substitute snatched his ruler off the desktop—steering well clear of the open drawer—and shook it at them.
“I am a teacher,” he snarled. “You should be respectful and obedient. Instead, you treat me like this.” He thrust the straightedge at Luther’s drawer.
The recess bell rang. Students got up to leave.
“Sit your little heinies down!” roared the sub. “You are not going anywhere.”
“But—” Loud Brandon began.
“Recess is canceled until further notice!”
“Nooo!” cried the kids. Fuzzy gasped. Luther had goofed—the fear approach was only making things worse!
Mr. Brittle’s face turned an interesting shade of crimson. He spat out his words like bullets. “Sit. Down. Everyone.”
Sulky and reluctant, the students obeyed.
“Now, you”—the sub jabbed the ruler at Heavy-Handed Jake—“go tell the janitor to remove that snake. I am giving everyone twenty pages of homework tonight.”
The students groaned, but there was nothing they could do. Right away, Mr. Brittle launched into another accounting lesson. They had no choice but to follow along.
As Jake left on his errand, Fuzzy scanned the room. Zoey-with-the-braces had laid her head on her desk. Brandon and Lily trembled, near tears. Aside from math-loving Sofia and Gabe, the rest of the students seemed lower than a centipede’s belt buckle.
Fuzzy hissed in frustration. Water didn’t work. Fear didn’t work. Even the mighty principal had failed. Was there no way to drive out this sinister substitute?
* * *
After school, the Class Pets’ clubhouse was nearly as gloomy as the atmosphere in Room 5-B. Luther nibbled listlessly on a PowerBar as Cinnabun tried to lighten his mood.
“It’s gone,” the boa told her. “All gone.”
“What is?” she asked.
“I couldn’t scare him off. I’ve losssst my mojo.”
The bunny patted a muscular coil. “Fiddlesticks,” she said. “You’re just as scary as ever.”
“You’re only saying that.”
“Not in the least,” said Cinnabun. “Why, Mistletoe is plumb terrified of you.”
“I really am,” the mouse put in kindly.
Luther rested his chin on the snack and sighed. “No ussse trying to cheer me up.”
“You know the worst part?” Fuzzy raised his head from the pillow where he’d sprawled.
“Worse than having scare tactics backfire?” said Sassafras.
“Okay, maybe the just-as-awful part,” said Fuzzy. “It’s the students’ morale. In three days, they’ve gone from bright kids excited about learning to sad mopes who just don’t care. And there’s no sign of Miss Wills coming back.”
Cinnabun tut-tutted. “Poor little angels,” she said. “There must be some way we can lift their spirits.”
“Let’s put on a show!” chirped Sassafras in a burst of enthusiasm. “A little song, a little dance, a little razzle-dazzle. They’ll be smiling again in no time.”
“Great idea, except for one thing,” said Igor, popping a grape into his mouth.
“What’s that?” asked the parakeet.
“It’s a terrible idea.” The iguana ticked off the reasons on three of his long fingers. “First, if we leave our classrooms to perform for the kids, everyone will know we can break out of our cages. Not good. Second, they’ll wonder who could have trained all of us to put on a show. Also not good.”
“And third?” asked Marta.
Igor scowled. “I don’t dance.”
Cinnabun hopped up onto the presidential podium. “Enough moping, y’all. As your thoroughly adorable president, I call this meeting to order!”
The pets sat up straighter (except for Luther, who still sprawled) and gave her their attention.
“First off, I move we jump right past old business and start with new business,” said the bunny.
“I second that,” said Mistletoe.
All the pets agreed, and so Cinnabun continued. “Our job—no, our calling—is to bring joy into children’s lives, is that not so?”
“You got that right,” said Luther, rallying a bit.
“So if we can’t entertain the little darlings, as Brother Igor has so helpfully pointed out—”
“I live to serve,” said the iguana.
“We’ll have to bring joy in a sneakier fashion,” said Cinnabun.
Luther’s head rose. “Did someone mention my favorite word?”
“Um, what did you have in mind?” asked Fuzzy. He wanted to cheer up the kids, but he knew the bunny tended to go overboard with the cutesy-wutesy stuff.
“Love notes,” said Cinnabun.
“But it’s not Valentine’s Day,” said Mistletoe.
Their bunny president sent the mouse a sugary smile. “And why should love be limited to just one day a year?”
Mistletoe looked to Fuzzy, who shrugged. Cinnabun had a point.
“Love notes,” said the rabbit, “will remind the kids that they are precious, delightful people, no matter what this so-called teacher says.”
Fuzzy nodded slowly. Syrupy she might be, but Cinnabun’s statement was true. “I get you. Anonymous notes, maybe?”
“Slipped into their desks,” said Cinnabun.
Igor’s face lit up with a wicked grin. “And while we’re at it, I’ve got a great idea about something we can slip into Mr. Creepazoid’s desk.”
“All in favor?” said Cinnabun.
“Aye!” shouted the pets.
With twinkling eyes, she sized up the group. “Then what are we waiting for, y’all? Let’s get gooey!”
For the next few hours, mushiness ruled the clubhouse. But that wasn’t to say that the course of love ran smoothly. Although all the animals could read to varying degrees, writing was another matter entirely. Still, they gamely gathered colored paper, and with crayons held in paws, mouths, or coils, they set to work. Painstakingly, the pets scrawled messages like:
You are a good person, and
People really, really like you, and
No matter what that stinker says, you’re a smart cookie.
After decorating the messages with little hearts, the pets carried them through the crawl space to Room 5-B. Every kid’s desk received a note, except for Diego’s, which got three. (Fuzzy thought he needed extra encouragement.)
Over Cinnabun’s objections, Igor, Fuzzy, and Sassafras each left a little surprise in Mr. Brittle’s top drawer.
&
nbsp; “After all,” said the iguana, “we haven’t tried grossing him out yet.”
Fuzzy wasn’t sure this tactic would work, but he had to admit it felt satisfying. Everyone wished him good night, and the other pets headed for their own classrooms, worn out from the long day.
But before Sassafras left, Fuzzy pulled her aside to ask a favor. Just in case the gross-out trick fell short, he wanted to have a backup plan in place. After all, this substitute had proved to be harder to get rid of than a case of mange mites, and a wise rodent is always prepared for anything.
* * *
The next day dawned cloudy and gray as a wolf’s wardrobe. Before the students arrived, Fuzzy ran a few laps around the cage and chased his ball. He wanted to be full of energy and ready for whatever the day would bring.
Mr. Brittle turned up first, no surprise there. He followed the same routine as the previous day, down to ordering Fuzzy not to stare at him. As before, he didn’t open his desk drawer but started in with the textbooks and his smartphone.
In ones and twos, students trudged into class. Fuzzy watched as first this one, then that one found their notes. A warm feeling, sweet as sunshine, spread through his chest as their eyes brightened and smiles bloomed. It was almost like the good old days of last week, before the sub troubles began.
Bit by bit, with each note discovered, Fuzzy felt the room’s spirits lift. Amazing what a little love can do. Kids were looking around, asking one another who had left the messages. Nobody knew. When he discovered his stash, Spiky Diego grinned from ear to ear. Fuzzy cherished a secret smile.
But he should’ve known it was too good to last.
Just after the first bell rang, Mr. Brittle noticed the colorful scraps of paper in his students’ hands and their wide grins. His eyes narrowed. “What’s all this?” he asked Natalia.
She held up her message. “Somebody left me—left us—the sweetest notes.”
The sub leaned over his desk, his dark eyes scanning the words. “Hmph. It seems that someone with terrible handwriting is trying to spread good cheer.” A strange expression, almost like hope, flashed across his face. “Let’s see if they left me something too.”
For just a second, Fuzzy felt sorry that they were playing a mean trick on the man. But the feeling passed when he thought about how the sub was bullying the kids.
Easing back from his desk, Mr. Brittle slid out the drawer and reached inside. First puzzlement, then alarm, then utter disgust crossed his face.
“Who is responsible for this?” he thundered, wiping his hand on a blank sheet of paper.
“Didn’t you get a love note?” asked Maya.
Face purpling with rage, the sub hustled over to the classroom sink, blasted the hot water, and began scrubbing his hand hard enough to peel the paint off a small battleship.
“What is it?” asked Connor.
“You know perfectly well what it is,” he snarled. “Feces! Fecal matter!”
“Huh?” said Heavy-Handed Jake, who was a bit behind on vocabulary words.
“Poop!” roared Mr. Brittle. “There’s poop in my desk!”
Kids giggled. Fuzzy figured they couldn’t help themselves.
“It’s not funny!” the substitute snapped.
Actually it was kind of funny, and Fuzzy couldn’t help snickering too, even though he felt a little bad for the man. But things didn’t stay amusing for long.
“Who did this?” Wiping his reddened hands with a paper towel, Mr. Brittle stalked down the aisles, glaring right and left. “Was it you?”
“No!” said Brandon.
“You?” The sub accused Zoey-with-the-braces, who was having trouble controlling her giggles.
She covered her face and wordlessly shook her head.
“Or maybe it’s been you all along, hmm?” Mr. Brittle snarled with silky menace, stopping directly in front of Spiky Diego.
The boy’s eyes widened and he held up his palms. “It wasn’t me, honest.”
Fuzzy saw all the good feeling from the love notes melting away like sugar in a saucepan. His heart went out to the boy. This wasn’t supposed to happen—the gross-out was supposed to make Mr. Brittle leave, not give him an excuse to torture more kids.
Everything was going horribly wrong.
“Think you can fool me, with your sneaky little face and your shifty little ways?” said the substitute. “You crept in here before school and left that mess, yes?”
“No,” said Diego. “I don’t have a key.”
“Ha!” Mr. Brittle’s eyes bulged. “You stole it. Your type always does.”
“What do you mean, ‘his type’?” Maya defended her friend. “Diego’s no thief.”
The sub wheeled on her. “And you are his partner in crime, is that it?”
“No!” Maya and Diego protested.
Baring his teeth, Mr. Brittle snapped, “Whether you did it or not, you two will scrub out my desk drawer.”
“But—” Maya began.
“I want it spotless and feces-free.” When the two of them just sat there staring, the teacher barked, “Now!”
Diego and Maya traded a quick glance, then rose from their chairs to follow his orders. Fuzzy slumped to his pine-shaving floor. His stomach knotted up like a first grader’s shoelaces.
Mr. Brittle addressed the room. “Would someone like to confess?”
No one spoke. The students watched him with wide, worried eyes.
“Last chance,” said the sub. “If no one confesses, I will have to punish everyone.”
“Nooo!” the class moaned.
“Then you leave me no choice,” said Mr. Brittle.
“Wh-what will you do to us?” Nervous Lily’s voice shook.
The sub regarded the class for a long moment, hands on hips. A cruel light entered his eyes, and Fuzzy couldn’t help trembling in sympathy for the kids.
“If you keep behaving like savages, you will be treated like savages,” said Mr. Brittle. “Everyone, move your desks to the side of the room.” When they gaped at him in confusion, the teacher snapped, “Do it!”
With much scraping and bumping, the students obeyed.
“Now, fetch your notebooks and pencils, and sit on the floor.”
“But this is my favorite dress. It’ll get dirty,” Abby objected.
“I do not care,” growled the sub. “Savages do not sit at nice desks. Savages sit on the ground.”
Reluctantly, the kids retrieved their notebooks and sat on the floor. Fuzzy winced. Those cold tiles would feel really hard, really soon.
By this time, Spiky Diego and Maya had rejoined their classmates. After inspecting their work, Mr. Brittle scrawled something on two sheets of paper, snipped off a couple of lengths of twine, and taped one to each sheet in an upside-down U shape. He handed the pages to them.
“What’s this?” asked Maya.
“Your punishment,” said the sub. “Wear these all day long, so that everyone knows what you have done.”
“But we didn’t—” Maya began.
“I do not care. Since no one confessed, you will serve as an example to the rest.” He pointed at Diego. “You with the hair, read yours aloud to the class.”
The boy scanned his sheet and his face went gray. When he read, his voice was barely audible.
“Nice and loud,” said the teacher. “Make them hear it in Poughkeepsie.”
After clearing his throat, Diego read,
“I am a rude, lying student who doesn’t respect his teacher.
I deserve every punishment I get.”
By the time he choked out the last few words, Diego’s voice quavered and his eyes were moist. Mr. Brittle crossed his arms, nodding with a satisfied smirk.
At this, Fuzzy’s sympathy turned to ice-cold anger. He bristled, rumbling deep in his chest. This man, this so-called teacher, had gone way, way too far.
It was time to launch the backup plan.
Time to delve deep into the substitute’s secrets and find his weakness.
Time for Fuzzy’s revenge.
Like the reek of a dead rat in the attic, the effects of Mr. Brittle’s punishment lingered throughout the day. He kept calling the students “savages” and treating them more and more barbarically.
Recess was canceled because “Savages do not play.” The kids had to eat lunch off the cafeteria floor because “Savages do not use plates and tables.”
And art class was called off because “Savages cannot appreciate the finer things.”
After witnessing all this, Fuzzy thought that the true savage was Mr. Brittle himself. His nastiness took Fuzzy’s breath away. The sub was the Mozart of meanness, the Cezanne of cruel. If nastiness were an Olympic sport, he would walk away with a fistful of gold medals.
By day’s end, the kids were shuffling about in a state of shock, red-eyed and stoop-shouldered. Needless to say, very little learning took place that day.
When at last the students shambled out the door like the dazed survivors of a zombie apocalypse, Fuzzy was aching to put his plan into action. Pacing around his cage until he wore ruts in the pine shavings, he waited for Sassafras to arrive.
And waited.
Mr. Brittle lingered, doing whatever it is that teachers do after the kids have gone. But Fuzzy knew the sub wouldn’t stick around much longer. Hoping the teacher wouldn’t notice, he set up his ball, blocks, and platform to prepare for a quick escape.
But Sassafras still didn’t show.
Fuzzy was gnawing his lip in frustration when he finally heard what he’d been waiting for.
“Mr. Brittle?” The faint voice came from outside the door. “Are you still there?”
The substitute frowned. “Who is it?”
“Miss Keet, one of the other teachers.” Fuzzy felt giddy with relief, though he winced at the fake name Sassafras had chosen. Keet, as in parakeet? That bird did not have much of a future as an international spy.
“What do you want?” said Mr. Brittle. “I am busy.”
Sassafras’s voice turned honeyed. “I need the help of a big strong man like you.”
“Can it wait?” The sub looked annoyed, which seemed to Fuzzy practically the sole expression he had.
“It’ll only take a minute,” said Sassafras, “and I’m just down the hall. Pleeease?”
