by Bruce Hale
Shhhick went the tape as it released.
“Aaaahhhh!” screamed Fuzzy, not quite in the same key as the song.
The floor raced up to meet him at an alarming rate. Fuzzy squeezed his eyes shut. Was he about to become a guinea pig pancake?
When his full weight hit the fabric, it nearly yanked the cloth from his paws. Fuzzy clung on for dear life, and suddenly he was swinging, not falling. Opening his eyes, he found himself speeding straight for the riser like a rodent Tarzan.
Dead ahead, Cinnabun and the other pets were traipsing across the platform in what she’d called a grapevine step (though Fuzzy didn’t see what dancing had to do with grapes). One by one, each pet stopped to belt out a line of the song.
All this Fuzzy witnessed as he flew closer and closer.
Then, just before he reached the riser, one vitally important question popped into his mind:
How the heck do I stop?
The cloth strip answered the question for him. At the last second, it tore loose from the staples pinning it to the ceiling.
Suffering mange mites!
He was in free fall—and headed straight for Igor!
Sensing movement from the corner of his gaze, the iguana began to look up.
Whomp! Fuzzy barreled into him at warp speed.
Ba-boomf! Down they both went, like a sack of seed.
But they weren’t the only sacks of seed.
Because Igor slammed into Sassafras, who stumbled into Marta, who knocked over Mistletoe. Before you could say shimmy-shuffle-sham, the whole chorus line, except Cinnabun, lay sprawled on the stage in a massive tangle.
The next few seconds were a blur of limbs and tails, of fur and feathers and scales. When Fuzzy could focus, he found himself sitting on Igor’s chest as the iguana flailed away at him, eyes squeezed shut.
“Gah!” cried Igor. “Help, space invaders! Flying monkeys!”
Fuzzy caught his feet. “Chill, Igor!”
“Oh, it’s you.” The iguana opened his eyes. “Might have known.”
Meanwhile, the music thump-thumped along and Cinnabun kept right on dancing. Past her, Fuzzy could make out Mr. Brittle staring at the stage, his mouth gaping like a hippo at feeding time.
The bunny noticed that her fellow dancers had fallen. “Get up!” she hissed, not missing a step. “The show must …”
Mistletoe encouraged her. “Go on.”
“Exactly,” said Cinnabun, nodding at the sub. “We can’t win him over if we don’t dance. So dance, y’all!”
Galvanized by her words, Fuzzy and the rest scrambled to their feet. Awkwardly, they found the beat and followed Cinnabun’s steps as best they could. To call them as smooth as the Bolshoi Ballet would have been a slight exaggeration. Fuzzy spun left when he should have gone right; Marta tromped all over Mistletoe’s feet; and Igor accidentally thwacked Sassafras with his tail.
But they kept on dancing.
Despite the missed steps and sour notes, despite the staggers and squeaks, the pets gave it their all. By the time they reached the final chorus, Fuzzy was surprised to discover himself belting out the tune with the enthusiasm of a Broadway hoofer on opening night. And when they spread across the stage in a kick line, he actually teared up a little.
For Fuzzy and his friends to expose their true abilities to a human this way was a risky move. And the pets were taking this risk wholeheartedly, for the good of Fuzzy’s students.
A lump the size of a cantaloupe formed in his throat. This, what they were doing, was the truest definition of a class pet’s mission. Caring for the kids came before everything—before pride, before comfort, even before safety. And whatever the result of their performance, Fuzzy felt honored to be on that makeshift stage at that moment with his fellow pets, singing and dancing to help the kids he loved.
At last the big finish arrived. Fuzzy and the other pets hit their ultimate note, struck their final “jazz paws” pose, and sent out their musical plea to the Meanest Sub in the Universe.
They held their pose for a long moment as the final chord faded.
The silence stretched.
Squinting against the spotlight’s glare, Fuzzy peered at the slender figure of Mr. Brittle. The man’s hands had dropped from his ears and were now covering his mouth. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Fuzzy didn’t know.
With the tip of his tail, Luther stretched away from the door’s push bar and flicked on the overhead light switch. All the animals stared at Mr. Brittle. Had their gamble paid off, or were they now in deeper trouble than they’d ever seen before?
The sub was staring right back at them as if he’d just seen Abe Lincoln, the Abominable Snowman, and a three-eyed alien dance the Hokey Pokey. His unblinking eyes were as round as exercise wheels, his body stiff as a Popsicle stick. Slowly, Mr. Brittle’s hands dropped from his mouth.
But still he didn’t speak.
“Well?” squeaked Fuzzy at last. “Say something.”
The substitute’s gaze roamed the room. “Mrs. Flake? I—uh, you—the pets …”
“This guy’s a teacher?” muttered Igor. “He can barely talk.”
Fuzzy shushed him.
“I don’t know where you are,” said Mr. Brittle, “but that … that was indescribable.”
Cinnabun beamed. “Did y’all hear that? We’re indescribable.”
A half smile, rare as an albino alligator, tugged at a corner of the sub’s lips. “Really, that has got to be the worst dancing I have ever seen in my life.”
Fuzzy’s jaw fell open. They were the worst? He glanced at the other pets’ crestfallen faces. Mistletoe’s lower lip trembled. Igor looked ready to bite someone.
A sour taste flooded Fuzzy’s mouth. All that work, all that risk, and for what?
They had failed.
Instead of inspiring the substitute to return to music, they had totally turned him off. Fuzzy’s gut gave a queasy twist, like when he’d gotten into Miss Wills’s chocolate strudel. He felt helpless and hopeless.
How could this be?
The cruel sub would keep on terrorizing his kids, and there was nothing Fuzzy could do about it.
Mr. Brittle barked a laugh, still looking about for Mrs. Flake. “I mean, kudos to you for training all these pets to move, more or less together. Seriously, that is pretty amazing. But their choreography? Ouch!”
“I didn’t think it was so bad,” Cinnabun muttered, studying her feet. Fuzzy patted her shoulder. The others slumped, mired in defeat.
As he strolled around the riser checking out the pets, the former teen idol shook his head. “A grapevine step? Much too complicated. Their moonwalk was ridiculous. And you should never combine jazz hands with hip-hop.”
Luther slithered down from his post on the door and curled up beside a nearby chair. He looked like he was considering constricting somebody.
“I did like when the guinea pig swung down and knocked them all over, though,” said the sub. “Hilarious!”
Fuzzy’s ears grew warm. He avoided meeting the other pets’ eyes.
Finishing his circuit of the platform, Mr. Brittle stopped at the door. “If you really wanted to make an impression, you should have hired a choreographer who knows his stuff. And I will not even mention the singing—or whatever that was they were doing.”
Sassafras pouted. “This dude is tone-deaf. I’ve got a terrific voice.”
Igor was so bummed out, he didn’t even make a snarky comment.
“Mrs. Flake?” the substitute called again. When still no answer came, he smirked. “Not claiming credit for your mistakes, hmm?” Mr. Brittle lingered a moment or two, waiting for a reply. The smirk faded. In almost a whisper, he added, “I know how that feels.”
Then, slowly and thoughtfully, he opened the door and out he went. Before it closed, Fuzzy thought he heard the man humming the tune the pets had just been singing. Probably it was only the building’s pipes moaning.
Fuzzy sighed a heavy sigh. For a handful of heartbeats, nobody spok
e.
Then Cinnabun sniffled. “Well, y’all, I reckon we should be getting back to our cages. Tomorrow is another day.” But her smile looked wobbly.
Jogged out of their gloomy trance, the other pets finally stirred.
Fuzzy swallowed around the painful lump in his throat. “Th-thanks, everyone,” he choked out. “We gave it our best shot. I appreciate all of you.”
Igor punched his shoulder. “Enough schmaltz, fur face. Iguanas don’t do mushy.” But his lower lip was quivering.
Without any fanfare, they trudged away to return to their own rooms. And that, Fuzzy thought, was that.
* * *
After the week he’d had, Fuzzy was beyond relieved when Miss Wills came to pick him up for the weekend, and happy to return to her house for some pampering. He soaked up the snuggles and snacks while listening for clues about when she might return to class.
But he was destined for disappointment. On Saturday, when Miss Wills called a friend, he heard her mention that the case was such a big one, her jury duty might not end for at least another week.
Upon hearing that, Fuzzy couldn’t relax anymore. He dreaded the coming week, and he fretted about Mr. Brittle’s threat. Could the sub really replace Miss Wills and Fuzzy too? And if he did, what would happen to Fuzzy? Miss Wills might not want to keep him at her house all the time. Would he have to go back to the pet store, saying good-bye to all his kids and his teacher?
A lump formed in his throat. For a class pet, not having a class was a fate worse than death.
First thing Monday morning, Miss Wills dropped Fuzzy off at the classroom before heading out for another day of jury duty. “Be good,” she told him. “This trial should be wrapped up soon.”
Soon? Soon couldn’t come soon enough for Fuzzy.
He hunched into a corner of his cage and wouldn’t play with his ball or other toys. Instead, he rested his chin on his paws and waited for the unavoidable arrival of the Meanest Sub in the Universe. That man was harder to defeat than a vampire in a Kevlar vest.
Students dragged into class in ones and twos. Here came Spiky Diego, looking solemn, and Messy Mackenzie, wearing a deep frown above her breakfast-spattered T-shirt. But no Mr. Brittle.
A few minutes later, there was a flurry at the door. In burst a short, round woman with an armload of papers and an angelic smile that spread across her face.
“So sorry I wasn’t here to greet you all,” she told the students, “but I just found out I’d be subbing for this class. The name’s Miss Capstone.”
Natalia frowned. “Where’s Mr. Brittle?”
Dumping her papers onto the desk with a flourish, the woman blew a stray lock of hair away from her face. “Him?” She chuckled. “You’ll never believe it.”
Fuzzy rose and took a few steps forward. The first rays of hope warmed his chest.
“Why, what happened?” asked Diego, sitting up straight for the first time in days.
Miss Capstone flapped a hand. “He quit teaching, just like that.”
Fuzzy gasped. A ragged cheer went up from the students.
“But he was going to show us double-entry bookkeeping,” said Sofia.
“Not anymore,” said the new sub. “Your principal told me he’s going to be on some TV show about boy bands, can you believe that?” Her laughter was rich and warm, like a mug of hot cocoa.
Rocking back onto his heels, Fuzzy sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then …
Wheek-wheek-wheek! He began jumping up and down in delight.
“Look!” cried Diego. “Fuzzy’s popcorning!”
“He didn’t like that guy any more than we did,” said Heavy-Handed Jake.
Miss Capstone held up a palm. “But I haven’t even mentioned the funniest part.”
“What’s that?” asked Maya.
“When he talked to Mrs. Flake, Mr. Brittle offered to choreograph a dance number with all your class pets for the school’s holiday show!” The substitute shook her head. “What a nut!”
The kids laughed, and Fuzzy thought he’d never heard a sweeter sound. He felt lighter than a birthday balloon.
He just might be able to last until Miss Wills’s jury duty was done, after all.
“Now, how about a read-aloud to start the day off right?” asked Miss Capstone. “Here’s one of my favorites: The Phantom Tollbooth.”
The students settled in to listen. Fuzzy curled up in his igloo, letting the tale wash over him like a warm tropical breeze.
Last week had been a long, tiring ordeal, but now that it was finally over, he needed to rest up and recover. After all, if he was going to be a hip-hop dance star in the holiday show, Fuzzy needed all his strength.
“Help, help!” squeaked a piercing voice.
As Fuzzy turned to look, Mistletoe the mouse came tearing down the ramp. Her eyes were wild, her fur stood on end, and she looked as discombobulated as a ferret on a freeway.
“What’s wrong, dear?” asked Marta.
“I just—” Mistletoe began. But she was running so fast, she tripped over her own feet, smacked her head on the ramp, and rolled hibbity-jibbity down to the bottom like a dun-colored mouseball.
Whump!
Fuzzy rushed to his friend’s side. “Are you all right?”
“You mean, aside from having a lousy sense of balance?” said Igor, popping a pawful of spicy peas into his mouth.
Fuzzy shot him a dirty look.
Holding her head, Mistletoe sat up, woozy. “Whazza?”
Cinnabun touched her arm. “Steady now, sweet girl. You took an awful spill.”
“What was I …” the mouse mumbled. Suddenly, her eyes bugged out. “A ghost!” she squeaked.
“Where?” Fuzzy flinched, checking behind him.
“Room 4-B.” Mistletoe rose to her knees. “There’s … there’s a ghost in 4-B!”
BRUCE HALE is the Edgar Award–nominated author and/or illustrator of more than forty seriously funny books for children, including Big Bad Detective Agency and the Chet Gecko, School for S.P.I.E.S., and Clark the Shark series. He lives in Southern California, where he is also an actor, Latin jazz musician, and award-winning storyteller. You can find him online at brucehale.com
This little guinea pig has big plans.
Fuzzy takes his job as class pet of 5-B very seriously. He’s patient and professional, and anyone can see he’s the clear choice for president of the Class Pets Club. That is, until a fresh-faced, annoyingly cute rabbit swoops in and takes over.
But Fuzzy doesn’t give up on his dreams. He’ll prove he’s the greatest leader on four paws—by taking the pets on a field trip! It’ll be an adventure. A triumph. What could possibly go wrong?
He’s big. He’s bad. He’s … innocent?
The houses of all Three (not-so-) Little Pigs were broken into and ransacked, and the Pigs are squealing for justice. So Prince Tyrone, ruler of Fairylandia, drags in the obvious suspect: Wolfgang.
The lone wolf has big teeth, sharp claws, no alibi—and a single day to find the real culprit and clear his big bad name. When Wolf (reluctantly) teams up with the fourth Little Pig to crack the case, the Big Bad Detective Agency—and an adventure way funnier than your average fairy tale—is off to a howling start!
Text and illustrations copyright © 2018 by Bruce Hale
This book is being published simultaneously in hardcover by Scholastic Press.
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Cover art by George Doutsiopoulos, © 2018 Scholastic Inc.
Cover design by Baily Crawford
e-ISBN 978-1-338-14523-6
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