by Bruce Hale
Mr. Brittle rolled his eyes. “Try someone else,” he called.
“The other men are gone. But anyway, everyone knows you’re the strongest.”
Fuzzy made a face. Sassafras was laying it on awfully thick. Would the sub take the bait?
“Pretty pleeease?” trilled the bird.
With a heavy sigh, the teacher stood. “Oh, all right. But this better be quick.”
Fuzzy smirked. Some humans could be talked into anything.
Muttering to himself, Mr. Brittle marched to the door and peered out. “Miss Keet?” he said. “Where are you?”
Very faintly, Fuzzy could hear Sassafras down the hall. “Right this way, Mr. Brittle!” The door swung shut as the sub followed her voice.
In a flash, Fuzzy rocketed up onto the block, the ball, and then the platform. With a cry of “alley-oop!” he scrambled over the cage wall and crashed onto the table. Sassafras’s trick wouldn’t hold the sub for long; he had to hurry.
Bip-bop-boop—Fuzzy leaped from table to chair and slid down its leg to the floor. He cut a glance at the door. Still closed.
So far, so good.
Dashing like his feet were on fire, he dodged around the students’ desks still crammed together on his side of the room. Fuzzy was just approaching the teacher’s desk when he heard heels clicking down the hallway outside. It sounded like they’d almost reached the door!
With a final burst of speed, Fuzzy closed the distance. His goal: the substitute’s messenger bag. He reached for the leather satchel, which dangled from the chair back …
And fell short.
Aw, cat doodies! Guinea pigs aren’t the world’s best jumpers, and the bag hung just a few inches too high for him to latch on to.
Someone fumbled with the doorknob. Mr. Brittle was returning!
Fuzzy’s heart rat-a-tatted like a tap-dancing tarantula. Desperate, he cast about for something to stand on. A wicker wastebasket stood beside the desk.
No time to think. In one continuous movement, Fuzzy toppled the wastebasket, rolled it against the chair leg, and launched himself up onto it.
The door creaked open. Electrified with fright, Fuzzy lunged for the narrow opening at the top of the bag. As he leaped, the bin rolled away from under him.
Yikes! Fuzzy stretched to his limit, just managing to snag the satchel.
Thunk-thunk-thunk went Mr. Brittle’s heavy footfalls against the checkerboard tiles. The desk would block Fuzzy from sight for another few seconds, but he had to move fast. Clinging to the lip of the bag with both paws, Fuzzy hauled himself up—he really was going to start doing chin-ups tomorrow—and jammed his head and shoulders under the flap.
The footsteps drew nearer as Fuzzy made one last titanic effort, pulling and wriggling for all he was worth. At last, he squeezed himself through the opening and tumbled to the bottom of the satchel. Instantly, he froze.
“Now, what … ?” Mr. Brittle’s voice sounded very near. “How did this happen?”
Fuzzy guessed that the man had noticed the overturned wastebasket.
“Must have kicked it when I got up,” the sub muttered. “What a time waster—that ditz disappeared.”
The inside of Mr. Brittle’s bag smelled of old leather and eucalyptus. In the dimness, Fuzzy could just make out a packet of throat lozenges, along with a notepad, calculator, textbook, a few loose sheets, and a red apple. He heard a rustle of papers somewhere nearby and the faint toonk-toonk as the teacher rapped the edges on the desk to align them.
A jolt shot through him like he’d licked a light socket. Any second now, Mr. Brittle would shove his things into the messenger bag, and Fuzzy did not want to be discovered when he did. Lying down, he grabbed some paper and pulled it over him. It wasn’t perfect, but it might hide him from a casual glance.
Sure enough, the satchel rocked as Mr. Brittle opened the flap and slid a sheaf of papers inside. Since the man said nothing, Fuzzy guessed his fur hadn’t been spotted. He let out a long sigh of relief.
Then a heavy book landed on his back, and Fuzzy went “Oof!”
He froze. Had the substitute heard him?
“What the … ?” Mr. Brittle muttered.
Fuzzy clenched his jaw. It was all over now. As soon as the man plunged his hand into the bag, he’d find Fuzzy and return him to his cage. Probably he’d make the cage permanently escape-proof, then ship Fuzzy off to a pet store in Peru.
So much for the backup plan.
Beedle-deedle-dee. An electronic warble sounded.
“Yes?” said Mr. Brittle.
Fuzzy braced himself. Any second now that hand was coming …
“Uh-huh,” said the sub. “I see. No, I ordered them in brown. B-R-O-W-N. What? No, check the order form. Are you blind as well as useless? Hmm?”
Amazingly, the bag’s flap flopped down again, and the satchel lurched as it was lifted into the air. When Mr. Brittle slung the bag over his shoulder, Fuzzy felt the thump in his back molars.
“Oh, really?” said the teacher. “I would like to talk with your supervisor. Yes, I would. You are not getting off that easy.”
The satchel swayed as the substitute crossed the room, walked out the door, and locked it, talking all the while. Wriggling out from under the textbook, Fuzzy made himself as comfortable as he could.
Step one of his plan was complete.
Now came the hard part: ferreting out the secrets of the Meanest Sub in the Universe.
Fuzzy had heard Miss Wills use the saying familiarity breeds contempt, but he’d never understood it. Until now. The more time Fuzzy spent with Mr. Brittle, the less he liked him. (Which was tricky, since he hadn’t liked the man to begin with.)
It turned out that the substitute wasn’t just mean to his students; he was rude to everyone. He cursed out people who drove too fast or too slow. He insulted the cashier at the drive-through espresso stand. He even said nasty things to the people on the car radio, who Fuzzy was pretty sure couldn’t hear him.
Clapping his paws over his ears, Fuzzy gritted his teeth. He faced a dilemma. How could he learn the sub’s weaknesses if he couldn’t stand to listen to him?
After an annoying car ride, Mr. Brittle hefted the messenger bag again. Schoomp! Beep-beep! The door slammed and an alarm chirped. Fuzzy clung to a textbook as the satchel swung back and forth. Up some stairs and down an echoey hall they went.
The faint sounds of a flute and piano played somewhere nearby. Soothing stuff, Fuzzy thought. Bam-bam-bam! A fist pounded on a door.
“Turn that awful music down!” yelled Mr. Brittle. “How many times must I tell you?”
Fuzzy couldn’t make out the neighbor’s shouted reply, but in another few seconds, he heard the music crank up several notches. The teacher swore, banged on the door again, and shouted, “You just wait—I will take this to the condo board, do you hear?”
Clearly, thought Fuzzy, Mr. Brittle was the ambassador of aloha for his condominium.
When the man got no further reply from his neighbor, he grumbled to himself and moved on. Unlocking a nearby door, he opened it and went inside. Keys clinked as they dropped into a bowl. With a heavy thump, the messenger bag landed on a hard surface. Footsteps retreated. Running water burbled from another room.
Cautiously, Fuzzy crawled to the mouth of the bag and sniffed. A piney scent greeted him, along with a faint, musky odor that made him vaguely uneasy. Of course, who was he kidding? Just being inside Mr. Brittle’s apartment made Fuzzy uneasy.
He poked his head out of the satchel and found it was resting on a low table near an angular gray couch that looked as soft and comfortable as a block of concrete. Fuzzy crept out a little farther, scanning in all directions. The room was empty.
The sparsely decorated space displayed all the charm and warmth of a prison cell in January. No pictures hung on the walls; no color brightened the room. All was gray, black, and brown.
Stepping out onto the table, Fuzzy cast about for clues to this strange man’s inner workings. No magazin
es cluttered the tabletop, just a single thick book: Crime and Punishment.
No wonder he’s such a cheerful guy, thought Fuzzy.
A clatter from the next room reminded him that his position was completely exposed. When a lean figure crossed the nearest doorway, Fuzzy held stock-still. Had he been noticed? Mr. Brittle headed deeper into the apartment, and Fuzzy let out a long breath.
Clearly, he couldn’t stay on the table. His best move was to find somewhere to hide until the teacher went to sleep, then search around for clues.
Footfalls sounded, drawing closer.
Fuzzy leaped off the coffee table and darted under the couch. Just in time. The feet clomped their way up to the table, turned around, and planted themselves directly in front of Fuzzy. The sofa bottom sagged above him.
One by one, Mr. Brittle unlaced his shoes and took them off. A smell like moldy cheese and rotten broccoli wafted out.
Fuzzy fanned the air. Whew. How did humans get so stinky? Maybe from all the weird food they ate. Deep-fried potato slices? Waffles? It was a wonder they could survive.
Settling in, Fuzzy tried to breathe through his mouth. It helped, a little.
The feet shifted. The thump of a book and the rustle of paper told Fuzzy that Mr. Brittle was pulling things from his messenger bag. Fuzzy blew out a sigh of relief. Good thing he wasn’t still inside it!
The television clicked on. For a while, Fuzzy listened to newscasters yammer while the teacher did things with books and paper above him. He fidgeted. It seemed like he might be in for a long, boring wait. How could he entertain himself?
Clearly not with the news program. Fuzzy scanned under the couch for something to help pass the time. He found the crust from an old sandwich, paper clips, lint balls the size of his head, a stray sock, small change, three Froot Loops, and an irritable spider. Fuzzy tried nibbling one of the cereal bits, but it had about as much flavor as the lint ball.
Beedle-deedle-dee. Mr. Brittle’s cell phone chirped. “What?” said the teacher.
“Is this Mr. Brittle?” asked a chipper voice from the phone’s speaker. “Chad Brittle?”
The sub muted the TV. “Yes?” he said warily.
“I’m Sonya Starr from Hot Pop Entertainment,” burbled the phone voice. “We’ve got an exciting proposal for you.”
Fuzzy cocked his head to listen. Mr. Brittle and exciting were not words you’d normally put together.
“What is this all about?” said the sub. He’d gone beyond wary to downright suspicious. “Are you trying to sell me a magazine subscription?”
“A reality TV show!” Sonya bubbled, like she was discussing a delicious tray of fresh parsley. “We’re assembling four teams of former boy-band members to—”
“Stop right there,” said Mr. Brittle. “Those days are over. I do not play music anymore.”
Fuzzy’s jaw dropped. The Meanest Sub in the Universe used to be in a boy band? He used to actually like music? Fuzzy couldn’t have been more surprised if a wildebeest Michael Jackson impersonator had moonwalked out of the kitchen.
“Oh, but we’ve got coaches to help get you—” Sonya Starr began.
“No,” said Mr. Brittle.
“And you’ll be living in a mansion while we film the—”
“No!” yelled the sub. “No, no, no! Are you deaf? Am I speaking Swahili? I will not do it.”
“But we already—” The woman’s voice cut out, midsentence.
Fuzzy’s head whirled like a hamster wheel. He’d seen quite a lot of TV at Miss Wills’s house, and he knew that boy bands were all about the big smiles and fancy haircuts and slick moves. He couldn’t picture Mr. Brittle smiling, let alone singing and dancing.
Above him, the sub gave a frustrated growl. The feet in their gray socks left the couch and began to pace. When the cell phone rang again, he ignored it.
“Let us get the band back together,” Mr. Brittle said in a mocking voice. “It will be so much fun, like having all your teeth pulled.” He continued pacing, muttering phrases like “big mistake,” “laughing at me,” and “never again.”
Questions chased one another around Fuzzy’s mind like puppies on a playdate. What had happened to turn Mr. Brittle from a teen idol to a terror? Why wouldn’t he listen to music anymore? And most important of all, was this information something that the pets could use to drive him off?
He put his chin on his paws and thought deep thoughts. But before he knew it, Fuzzy fell asleep without any answers.
When Fuzzy awoke, the room was dim and something was growling. He tensed, checking for predators, until he realized that the growling was coming from his own stomach.
Fuzzy was hungry.
He sniffed. The stinky sock odor had faded. The apartment was quiet. Maybe Mr. Brittle had gone to sleep?
Ever so cautiously, he edged out from beneath the sofa. The room was dark, lit only by moonlight through the windows. Snores rumbled from somewhere to the right, so Fuzzy turned left, following his nose toward the source of faint food smells.
Another whiff of that unsettling musky odor drifted past, but since Fuzzy couldn’t place it, he kept heading for the kitchen. A guinea pig has priorities, after all. And satisfying hunger was right up at the top of the list.
Fuzzy’s trusty nose led him off the carpet into another room. And just as he rounded the corner, Fuzzy slammed into a furry creature as slim and evil-looking as Mr. Brittle himself.
“Gah!” Fuzzy staggered back in shock. His belly gave a flip. “Wh-who are you?”
Reeling from their collision, the ferret swayed and twisted to regain its balance. Two black eyes in a dark mask locked on to Fuzzy. That musky scent he’d detected earlier was now strong enough to outwrestle an anaconda.
“Intruder!” the creature screamed, clutching its paws to its chest.
“No, I, uh—” Fuzzy began. He reached out.
The ferret hissed, recoiling. “Stranger danger!”
“I—I mean you no harm,” said Fuzzy, whose own heart was thudding faster than a flamenco dancer’s heels. “I’m a guinea pig from Mr.—”
The creature’s eyes widened. “Guinea pig?” It sniffed curiously. “That means you … are prey. Bobo likes prey.”
Fuzzy didn’t like the look in Bobo’s eyes. Raising his palms, he began backing away across the living room. “No, not prey! I’m a, uh, visitor from your owner’s classroom.”
Bobo stalked forward, his gaze drilling into Fuzzy. “Master never brings me prey, but Bobo is a good hunter. Bobo will show Master.”
Casting about for something to distract the ferret, Fuzzy spotted a red rubber ball beneath a high table. He angled toward it, saying, “Hey, what’s the deal with your master, anyway? Why does he act so mean to everyone?”
Still advancing, Bobo shook his head. “Master is not mean. Master pets Bobo, Master feeds Bobo, Master is the best.”
“Are we talking about the same master?” Fuzzy had a hard time picturing Mr. Brittle taking care of a goldfish, to say nothing of a pet like the ferret.
“Master is always good,” said Bobo. His eyes gleamed with a true-believer light that originated from someplace between Creepy Town and Nuttsburg.
Fuzzy groped behind him and touched the cool rubber surface. “Tell me.”
“What?”
“Does your master like to play … ball?” In a flash, he turned, seized the orb, and flung it into the living room.
“Ball!” cried Bobo, wheeling in pursuit.
As soon as the ferret’s attention left him, Fuzzy turned and fled. He dashed out of the living room and into a smaller space that looked like an office.
“Tricky guinea pig!” cried the ferret. “Bobo will find you.”
Holy haystacks! Fuzzy needed a place to hide from this nutjob, and quick. He didn’t know if the ferret’s comment about prey was kidding or serious, and he really didn’t want to find out.
Urgently, he scanned the room. It held the usual office stuff: a desk and chair, a bookcase, a compute
r stand and wastebasket. The ferret was taller and stronger than he was; where could Fuzzy possibly hide?
“I’m co-ming!” Bobo singsonged.
Chills rolled along Fuzzy’s spine like ice-cold pill bugs tobogganing down a hill. He cast about for sanctuary.
In the corner, a sliding door stood ajar!
Fresh out of options, Fuzzy sprinted over, slipped inside, and, shoving with all his might, narrowed the gap to a mere crack. The smell of cedar and mothballs assaulted his nose, but he paid it no mind. Fuzzy put an eye to the crack.
In the spill of moonlight through the window, a lanky silhouette crept into the office.
“Hide and seeeek,” crooned the ferret. “Bobo’s favorite game.”
He sniffed the air, drifting toward the desk. “Let’s see. Is guinea pig behind the … wastebasket?” The ferret pounced, upending the trash bin. “Is it in the … bookcase?” Again the creature lunged, knocking some DVDs off a low shelf.
Fuzzy’s insides flip-flopped like a circus acrobat; his paws trembled. Very soon, this loony ferret would run out of places to look, and then he’d check the closet.
Fuzzy glanced around him. Nothing but boxes and shoes, and hanging above, a rack of overcoats. Nowhere to hide.
He put his shoulder to the door and slid it all the way closed. Then he planted his feet and braced himself against the door’s metal frame.
Bobo’s voice sounded nearer. “I wonder, oh, I wonder, where that piggy could be? Is it in the … closet?” At that, something thumped into the door from the other side. It pressed against his shoulder.
Fuzzy’s heart gave a hitch. He crouched lower, digging his claws into the nubbly carpet for traction. As soon as Bobo figured out that the door slid open rather than pushed, Fuzzy was in deep, deep doo-doo.
“Aha!” cried the ferret. “Little piggy, if you don’t let Bobo in, he’s going to huff and puff and—hyeeeugh your house down!” Bobo heaved again, harder.
A long pause. Fuzzy could almost feel the ferret’s mind working.
“O-ho!” said Bobo. “The door goes slidey-slide, not pushy-push.” Claws scrabbled on the metal frame, inches away from Fuzzy’s shoulder. “Hyeeeugh!”
