Fuzzy Takes Charge

by Bruce Hale

  The door jerked open an inch. Fuzzy felt his feet slip. He frantically shoved the slider closed.

  It was only a matter of time before that masked maniac would out-shove him. Still, Fuzzy swore to resist until his final breath. He tensed for another assault and then …

  Bright light flooded through the narrow crack beneath the door.

  “What the hey?” It was Mr. Brittle. “Bobo, you naughty, naughty boy. How did you get out of your cage?”

  “Master, there’s an intruder!” cried the ferret. “Bobo hunted him down.”

  The teacher’s voice sounded very close to the door. “You know you should only come out when I am watching, you little troublemaker. Right back into the cage with you, widdle Bo-Biddle.”

  Bo-Biddle? thought Fuzzy. Sweet name for a psycho.

  Even so, he couldn’t believe how tender the man sounded. Almost as if he had a heart.

  The ferret begged his master to set him down, but it seemed that Mr. Brittle could no more understand ferret talk than Fuzzy could manage to pole-vault. Their voices receded, and the lights went out.

  Fuzzy waited. He wanted to be absolutely positive that the teacher was asleep and the ferret behind bars before venturing out again. Easing open the sliding door until moonlight penetrated the closet, he decided to kill time by snooping.

  The nearest box was already open. Fuzzy clambered up inside and rummaged around. It seemed to contain lots of photos and clippings, as well as some plaques that might have been awards.

  He held up one of the photos, angled it into the light, and peered at it closely. When he recognized the face, Fuzzy snorted in surprise.

  It was a big, glossy image of a young man’s face, much like the autographed photos of authors and actors that hung in Miss Wills’s den at her home. The eyes smoldered like burnt toast, the hair hung long and floppy, and the thin lips were twisted into a pouty smile.

  But it was a younger Mr. Brittle, all the same.

  The photo was autographed:

  Badd Boyz 4 Eva!

  All my love, Chad

  Fuzzy couldn’t help it—he wheeked softly in amazement. He shook his head wonderingly.

  Just wait until the other pets got a load of this!

  Fuzzy awoke with a snort to find himself huddled under Mr. Brittle’s photo. He yawned. Morning light streamed in through the office window, penetrating the closet and hurting his eyes.

  Morning?!

  He leaped to his feet. Had Mr. Brittle left for school yet? Was Fuzzy stranded in the sub’s apartment with only a deranged ferret for company?

  He poked his head out of the closet door and listened. A clattering came from another room, along with the mutter of voices. Either Mr. Brittle had a visitor, or he was watching TV again. The bitter tang of coffee drifted in the air.

  Fuzzy relaxed. He hadn’t overslept after all. But now he faced a different challenge: How would he sneak back into the teacher’s messenger bag without being detected?

  He squeezed through the narrow gap and into the office, scanning for danger. No ferret, no Mr. Brittle. So far, so good. Soundlessly, Fuzzy crept across the carpet to the office doorway. He peeked around the edge …

  And ducked back as the sub stepped into the living room wearing sky-blue pajamas and carrying a smallish paper sack. Fuzzy pressed his back to the wall, heart hammering.

  Had he been spotted? Should he take cover?

  Fuzzy listened intently as Mr. Brittle’s heavy footsteps receded. He let out a long breath. After another minute, he risked a quick glance. The coast was clear.

  Fuzzy readied himself for the dash, and then a sudden thought stopped him in his tracks. His eyes were drawn back to the closet. For a few seconds, he wavered. Then, before he could change his mind, Fuzzy dashed back to where he’d spent the night, snatched Mr. Brittle’s teen idol photo, and hustled back to the office doorway.

  He checked left, right. Then Fuzzy gathered his courage and raced across the living room floor, photo flapping behind him. Just before he reached the coffee table, a familiar voice froze him in his tracks.

  “Fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell the smell of a piggy … um.”

  It was Bobo. The ferret might not have been much of a poet, but he had a keen sniffer.

  Fuzzy whirled. On the far side of the living room, Bobo was slinking through the doorway like Dracula’s shadow. His eyes sparkled with jolly insanity.

  Suffering mange mites! Fuzzy flung the photo on top of the ottoman and scrambled up after it. His heart felt like it was about to thump right through his chest.

  “I’m coming for yooou,” crooned the ferret. He stalked forward as Fuzzy trembled.

  Fuzzy’s natural guinea pig instinct was to freeze in place until the danger went away. But this danger was drawing ever closer.

  He risked a glance at the coffee table. The teacher’s satchel was so near, resting beside the brown paper bag. But almost a foot’s distance separated the table from his perch.

  Too far to jump …

  Taking a step back, Fuzzy felt the photograph crinkle under his foot.

  … Or was it?

  A mad idea popped into his head. The ferret was slinking closer, humming an evil ferret tune. Fuzzy would get only one chance at this. He fought his instincts and won.

  He reached down, picked up the oversized photo, and held it above his head with both paws, arms spread wide. He retreated as far back as he could go, gritted his teeth, and ran like lightning, leaping straight off the edge of the ottoman.

  Time seemed to slow.

  Fuzzy felt the slight tug as the photo caught a draft. He glimpsed Bobo’s upturned face beneath him, gaping upward. And he saw the table ahead, drawing closer, closer …

  Time sped back up with a whoomp as his hind feet caught the edge of the table, and Fuzzy tumbled like an acrobat, over and over.

  Thoonk. He collided with the satchel and finally stopped. When Fuzzy raised his head, both he and the photo were safe on the tabletop.

  “Not fair!” cried Bobo. “Guinea pigs can’t fly!”

  Still a bit dizzy, Fuzzy climbed to his feet. He had to think fast. The ferret would be upon him before he could hide, and Mr. Brittle might come through the door at any moment.

  “Guinea pig is tricky,” said Bobo from below. “But nothing stops Bobo.”

  Fuzzy scanned the table for anything that could distract the ferret. All he saw was the satchel, the sack lunch, and the photo.

  The photo?

  In a flash of inspiration, he picked it up and held it before him, leaning over the edge of the table, so that the image of the teen idol faced the ferret.

  “Widdle Bo-Biddle is a very naughty boy,” said Fuzzy, in his best Mr. Brittle imitation.

  “Master?” came the ferret’s voice.

  “Bobo should go back to his cage right now!”

  “I, uh,” the ferret stammered. “But …”

  Fuzzy ducked back out of sight. Quickly, while his opponent was still confused, he folded the picture in half and scrambled up inside the messenger bag, then hid under the photo like a tent.

  And not a second too soon.

  “Bobo?” came the teacher’s voice. “There you are. Back in the cage, you widdle rascal. No arguments.”

  “Master?” said Bobo, sounding thoroughly confused. “But how … ?”

  Their voices receded as Mr. Brittle carried his pet away.

  Fuzzy exhaled a sigh of relief gustier than a giant’s sneeze. Worn out by his morning adventure, he curled up under his improvised shelter and dropped into a light doze. Even the satchel swaying as Mr. Brittle headed off to work barely roused him.

  His last thought as he drifted off was, Thank Darwin for dumb ferrets.

  When Mr. Brittle learned of the all-school safety assembly that morning, he groused and grumbled. “A waste of time!” he muttered. But since every class was going, he finally relented, leading the students out the door.

  As soon as they’d gone, Fuzzy seized his chance. Quick as a f
lash, he escaped his cage and scampered off to call an emergency meeting of the Class Pets Club. He wanted to share his news—but more than that, they had to put a stop to the sour substitute before it was too late.

  “You what?” squawked Sassafras after Fuzzy had begun his story. “Get out of town!”

  The rest of the pets crowded around Fuzzy in their clubhouse, listening to his tale and marveling at the photo of young Mr. Brittle.

  “And you should have seen that Bobo,” said Fuzzy. “He was nuttier than a squirrel’s sundae.”

  Cinnabun looked around at the rest of the pets. “Well, hush my mouth. He faced a ferret and lived to tell about it. And he went above and beyond the call, all for the good of his students. I think Brother Fuzzy deserves special recognition.”

  “What did you have in mind?” asked Marta.

  “Ooh, let’s sing him the Freeze Song,” Mistletoe suggested.

  Igor arched his brow. “The Freeze Song?”

  “You know,” said Mistletoe, picking up the melody. “Freeze a jolly good fellow, freeze a jolly good fellow …”

  The other pets joined in, belting out the lyrics with gusto. Fuzzy ducked his head, feeling his cheeks go warm.

  When they finished, Cinnabun patted him on the shoulder. “Well done, Brother Fuzzy.”

  “So your Mr. Brittle was really in a boy band?” said Luther. “Crazy, baby.”

  “It’s true,” said Fuzzy. “According to the stuff in those boxes, they made two albums. The Badd Boyz were on TV and everything.”

  “Wowza-yowza,” breathed Mistletoe.

  “Holy heartthrob!” said the parakeet. “So the Meanest Sub in the Universe used to be a teen idol?”

  Cinnabun cocked her head wistfully. “He must really miss the music.”

  Glancing up from his fruit chew, Igor snorted. “He’s got a funny way of showing it.”

  “Look, him being in a boy band is weird, I admit,” said Fuzzy, “but there’s a more important question.”

  “Who put the bomp in the wop-bop-a-lu-bomp?” said Igor.

  “No—how can we use this to help make him leave?”

  The other pets offered frowns and shrugs. For a while, nobody said anything. All that could be heard was the hum of some machine deep inside the school building and the sound of an iguana munching a snack.

  “Maybe if we play music he hates really, really loudly, he’ll run away?” said Mistletoe.

  “His neighbor already does that,” said Fuzzy.

  “And?” asked the mouse.

  “No luck so far.”

  Mistletoe slumped, toying with some loose threads on her pillow.

  Marta stared thoughtfully into the candle flame. “Fuzzy, you said Mr. Brittle got an offer to rejoin the band and be on TV again?”

  “Yeah,” said Fuzzy. “He turned it down flat.”

  The tortoise’s kind eyes crinkled in a smile. “What if we could somehow convince him to take it?”

  Fuzzy met her gaze. A faint tingle danced down his limbs. It might have been fur mites, but he thought it was hope.

  “After all,” Marta continued, “that would solve both his problem and ours.”

  “His problem?” Luther uncoiled lazily. “I thought his problem was that he’s a miserable excuse for a human being.”

  Marta shook her head. “Not really. I think he turned mean because he’s so disappointed.”

  “That’s totally whackadoodle,” said Sassafras. “Wouldn’t someone who’s disappointed act sad?”

  “Who knows?” said Igor. “Humans are weird.”

  Cinnabun licked her shoulder, grooming herself. “Sister Marta’s right. That man gave up everything he loved because—um, why did he give it up, Brother Fuzzy?”

  Fuzzy scratched himself. “From the magazine clipping I saw, it looks like everyone loved the band’s first album. Then Badd Boyz made a second album that stank. Critics panned it, and the band broke up.”

  “So our Mr. Brittle didn’t quit music by choice,” said the bunny. “My stars, that would make anyone sadder than a slice of stale carrot cake.”

  “Yeah, but if he was any good, why not just start a new group?” Igor broke off a piece of fruit chew, tossed it into the air, and caught it in his mouth.

  Fuzzy thought about the beginning of the school year. Back then he’d tried to become Class Pets president but had been beaten by Cinnabun. “Maybe he lost confidence,” he said quietly.

  “My thought exactly,” said the bunny. “So he gave up, and it turned him bitter, poor thing.”

  “Poor thing?” said Fuzzy. “He’s bullying my kids and making them miserable. They’re the poor things.”

  “True,” said the bunny. “But doesn’t that unfortunate man also deserve our pity?”

  “No way!” cried Fuzzy, Luther, Sassafras, and Igor.

  Marta and Cinnabun exchanged a look. “Maybe if he got a little more sympathy,” said the tortoise, “he might be a little less mean.”

  “Amen, sister!” said Cinnabun.

  Fuzzy lifted an eyebrow. “You think that showing him the milk of rodent kindness will change him? I’ve got news for you: Mr. Brittle is bad to the bone.”

  “Amen, brother!” Igor smirked.

  “Besides,” Fuzzy said, massaging his forehead, “none of this is getting us any closer to a plan.”

  Cinnabun nibbled on one of her front claws. Marta stared into space. Luther uncoiled one way, then coiled up the other.

  “I’ve got an idea,” squeaked Mistletoe.

  Everyone turned with a start. She’d been so quiet, Fuzzy had forgotten she was there.

  “Ssso?” hissed Luther. “Lay it on us, little bit.”

  Clearing her throat, Mistletoe glanced around at the others. “Well, I was thinking … if music got him into this mess, maybe music could get us out of it.”

  “Pinch me,” Igor told Fuzzy. “I think the mouse is finally making sense.”

  Fuzzy pinched him.

  “Ow!” said the iguana. “Don’t be so literal.”

  Leaning forward, Cinnabun asked Mistletoe, “Do you have an actual plan, sweet girl?”

  “We just have to remind him how much fun it is to sing and dance,” said the mouse. “Right?”

  Fuzzy’s brow furrowed. “It couldn’t be that easy,” he said. “Could it?”

  “Why not?” asked Mistletoe.

  “Well …” Fuzzy bit his lip. “Maybe. I guess if Mr. Brittle remembers how fun it is to perform, he might want to give up being a teacher.”

  “Which he’s terrible at anyway,” said Igor.

  “But here’s the problem,” said Fuzzy. “He’s probably seen some singing and dancing over the past ten years, and he hasn’t quit teaching yet.”

  “It’d have to be something really different,” said Marta. “Something special.”

  Sassafras’s eyes opened wide. “Ooh! I know! One of us should sing and dance for him. That’d be special.”

  Luther rolled his eyes.

  “He’ll be so inspired,” said the parakeet, “he won’t be able to help himself.”

  “Inspired to lose his lunch,” muttered Igor.

  Clapping her paws together, Cinnabun cried, “Bless your heart, Sister Sassafras! That’s a splendid idea.” She knuckled her dimple in typically adorable fashion. “But however shall we pick the performer?”

  Fuzzy raised a skeptical eyebrow. Two to one odds, she was angling to do it herself.

  “The only fair way would be to hold auditions,” said Marta, “just like the students do for the school play.”

  “Fun-tastic!” squeaked Mistletoe, eyes shining. “And we can all vote for our favorite, like the judges on those TV shows.”

  “Sweet fancy Moses on buttered toast!” cried Cinnabun. “We’re holding auditions!”

  “Yay!” cheered Sassafras and Mistletoe.

  Fuzzy hated to mention it; still, he felt he had to. “But if one of us does this, won’t it blow our cover? Mr. Brittle will realize that that pet i
sn’t just an ordinary pet.”

  “Nah, he’ll think someone trained us to do it,” said Sassafras. “Humans only see what they want to see.”

  “Well, if you’re sure …” said Fuzzy.

  Cinnabun nodded definitively. “It’s well worth the risk. Now, everyone who wants to try out, take a few minutes to work up a routine. Then we’ll let you strut your stuff.”

  The pets scattered to figure out their dance steps.

  “Ooh,” said Sassafras. “I’m doing something by Lady GooGoo.”

  “Pretty sure that’s Gaga,” said Luther.

  “GooGoo, Gaga, either way, I’ll be a hit!” The parakeet fluttered off to one side of the clubhouse and began practicing her moves.

  Fuzzy glanced at Igor, who was sitting back on his pillow.

  “Don’t look at me,” said the iguana. “I’m strictly a judge.”

  Blowing out a sigh, Fuzzy retreated to his own corner. He wasn’t what you’d call a Dancing Rodent, but if it meant getting rid of the Evil Sub, he was willing to try anything. Feeling a total fool, he attempted a few steps. He didn’t actually trip over his own feet, but that was about the best you could say for his dancing.

  All too soon, Cinnabun called the pets together and formed them into a circle. Wearing a huge grin, she met their gazes, one by one.

  “Okay, Class Pets, so you think you can dance?” said the bunny. “Come on up and show us how!”

  And just like that, auditions began.

  Enthusiasm goes a long way. But it doesn’t go all the way. Some actual talent is required.

  As Fuzzy watched the other pets perform, he thought that somehow their auditions weren’t quite in the same league as those song and dance competitions he’d seen on TV. Instead of colored lights and a killer sound system, they had a few votive candles and a handful of animals humming along in different keys. Instead of slick steps and flawless singing, they had …

  Luther wiggling a half-baked hula to some half-remembered Hawaiian song.

  Cinnabun performing a hip-hop anthem with ten times the hopping (and half the hipness) of the original.

  And Sassafras belting out a Broadway show tune that sounded like someone had tossed The Sound of Music into a blender and hit liquefy. For her big finale, she flew round and round the clubhouse until her wings put out all the candles, causing her to fly into Cinnabun, knock the president off her podium, and squash the grapes.