Hamstersaurus Rex Gets Crushed

by Tom O'Donnell

  DEDICATION

  For Kieran, Ronan, Amelia, and Duke

  —T.O.D.

  For Morgan and McKenzie

  —T.M.

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  BACK AD

  BOOKS BY TOM O’DONNELL

  CREDITS

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  CHAPTER 1

  “. . . AND BY FINISHING that quintuple cheeseburger, he impressed all the other Founding Fathers,” said Mr. Copeland. “And John Adams would ever after be known as John ‘Quintuple Cheeseburger’ Adams—or John ‘Quincy’ Adams for short!”

  We stared back at him in silence. He sighed.

  “Okay, that was a test,” said Mr. Copeland. “None of you are listening to me, are you?”

  I knew I wasn’t. Instead I was drawing a picture of Hamstersaurus Rex competing in the Cyber Pole Vault at the 3016 Olympics. Unfortunately, his left eye was looking a bit wonky. I erased it and glanced toward the hamster cage in the back of the room for reference. Of course, the cage was empty. I kept forgetting Hamstersaurus Rex wasn’t there.

  “I just talked for five minutes about how everyone in the 1700s had gills!” said Mr. Copeland. “C’mon, Martha. I expect this from the other kids, but you?”

  “Apologies, Mr. Copeland,” said Martha Cherie, sixth-grade Hamster Monitor and Horace Hotwater Middle School’s all-time GPA leader. “I’m a bit distracted. You see, I’m ever so excited for the big announcement I’m about to make! Speaking of which: May I address the class?”

  Mr. Copeland gritted his teeth. “How would you feel if I came down to one of your clubs or dance lessons or extracurricular activities and just started randomly teaching history?!”

  “That would be amazing,” said Martha.

  “Okay, fine, you called my bluff,” said Mr. Copeland. “Just get on with it.” He plopped down in his chair and cracked open one of his spy novels.

  “Thank you, Arnold.” Martha stood and smiled. “Greetings, dear classmates!”

  “Greetings, Martha,” we mumbled in unison. I turned to Dylan D’Amato, my best friend, to exchange an eye roll. But Dylan was staring at the floor, biting her nails. Weird.

  “For one month,” said Martha, “our class has languished, hamsterless. Our PETCATRAZ Pro™ has stood empty, but perhaps not as empty as our hearts. I am proud to announce that all of that changes today.” Martha took a small mesh carrying case from under her desk. “Allow me to introduce your collective new best friend: Cartimandua!”

  Martha unzipped the case and pulled out a splotchy brown hamster. There were a few claps scattered around the room. The hamster stared at the wall. It didn’t blink.

  Martha continued: “In the past, having a class pet has been marked by unfortunate escapes, kidnappings, and hamster-related property damage. But in Cartimandua we finally have a safe and appropriate animal companion. Her care will be an easy task for our seasoned Hamster Monitor team. In fact, let’s hear it for the Hamster Monitors! Sam, Dylan, why don’t we all take a bow?”

  “Huh?” said Dylan, startled.

  “You mean literally?” I said.

  Martha nodded.

  “Nah, I think I’m okay,” I said. I stayed seated.

  “Suit yourselves.” Martha shrugged, then bowed alone. “At this time, I will open the floor for a brief Q and A about Cartimandua. Does anyone have any questions?”

  “Yeah—how do you say the new hamster’s name?” said Omar Powell. “I’m not getting it. Car . . . Carbonara?”

  “Cartographia?” said Tina Gomez.

  “Carpet-tarantula!” said Jared Kopernik.

  “Car-tuh-MAN-doo-uh,” said Martha, drawing out the syllables. “Like the ancient Celtic queen.”

  “Ah. Of course. Like the ancient Celtic queen,” said Omar, shaking his head.

  “Question,” said Julie Bailey. “Is it too late to give this hamster a new name? Like a better one than the one you gave her?”

  “Yes, it’s too late,” said Martha, scowling a little.

  “Follow-up,” said Julie. “Is it too late to get a new hamster?”

  “Yes,” said Martha, scowling more. “Anyone else?”

  “Carbohydrate looks kind of zoned out,” said Jimmy Choi. “Why doesn’t she do anything?”

  There was a chorus of general agreement from the other kids.

  “Well, I’m glad you asked, Jimmy,” said Martha. “In addition to zoning out and sometimes twitching, she also poops every three hours—like clockwork—exactly what a normal, healthy hamster is supposed to!”

  “But Hamstersaurus Rex did all kinds of awesome stuff,” said Jimmy. “He could smash things!”

  “Right,” said Martha, “but that was—”

  “And he could walk around on his hind legs!” cried Caroline Moody. “And he ate sometimes foods, all the time!”

  “Sure,” said Martha. “It obviously goes without saying: we all love Ham—”

  “And occasionally,” said Tina, “we thought maybe he was evil and then he turned out not to be evil and that was very exciting!”

  “Okay,” said Martha, “but when you think about it, was that really such a good—”

  “He was almost better than snails,” said Wilbur Weber.

  “I agree, but—”

  “Hamstersaurus Rex was a lovable rogue who taught us all the value of friendship!” cried Jared, pounding his fist on his desk.

  The classroom broke out into applause. I had to smile a little. It felt good that everybody loved Hammie again.

  “Well, Hamstersaurus Rex is gone and now we have Cartimandua!” snapped Martha. “And for the record, all that ‘awesome stuff’ he did—it nearly got him killed on multiple occasions. That’s why our new hamster isn’t going to eat junk food or break anything or even leave her cage, because we know from experience that it’s far, far too dangerous. So, in conclusion, I hope we can all come to appreciate Cartimandua for who she is, and not constantly compare her to any former classroom hamsters.”

  “Eh,” said Tina, “I hope you’re not offended, but I just kind of feel like this new hamster, Capoeira, is maybe just a little, teensy bit . . . wildly disappointing.”

  Martha was at a loss for words. She looked deflated. The big introduction had not gone as planned. I felt like I had to say something.

  “Hey, you know, I happen to think Cartimandua’s pretty cool,” I said. “And you did an awesome job picking her out, Martha. Right, Dylan?”

  “Oh,” said Dylan, fidgeting with a piece of loose-leaf paper. “Yep. Uh-huh.”

  “Thank you, Sam. Thank you, Dylan,” said Martha. She bowed again.

  The bell for lunch rang and we all stood up from our desks. I beelined for the door, hoping to beat the crowd, but Tina Gomez flung herself in my path. I swallowed.

  “Any updates on my missing pencil eraser?” asked Tina.

  “Oooh. Well, we’re, ah, pursuing various leads,” I said, tapping my notebook.

  Three days before, Ti
na Gomez had lost an eraser, and she was looking to me to find it for her. Honestly, I had no idea where the eraser was. My case notes (pink, rubbery, black market for erasers???, erasers and pencils . . . natural enemies? Hmmm, and soooo hungry) didn’t make a ton of sense.

  “Sam, that eraser had extreme sentimental value,” said Tina. “I just can’t handle the stress of not knowing where it is.”

  “I almost hate to suggest this,” I said, “but erasers do cost, like, twenty-five cents. What if you, um, bought a new one?”

  “No! It was irreplaceable!” said Tina, grabbing me by the collar. “Irreplaceable!”

  “Right, sure, of course,” I said.

  “’Sup, Sam,” said Drew McCoy, butting in, “have you figured out who stole my Legend of Max Stomper #338 gold-foil variant cover right out of my locker?”

  “We’re working on it,” I said. “Making a lot of progress.”

  “Sam, did you solve my case yet?” said Dwight Feinberg, elbowing in. “The Case of Dwight Feinberg’s Missing Instant Camera!”

  “We have leads!” I cried. “Awesome leads! Just the best leads!” A crowd was starting to form around me. It was entirely composed of kids whose “cases” I’d taken on but hadn’t yet solved. After recent (giant-squirrel-related) events, I had become known around school as a kid who could solve problems. But the thing about problems is that everybody’s got them. It’s possible that I had stretched myself a little thin. I was an ace detective, but full disclosure: I had yet to solve a single case.

  “Sam, my eraser?” said Tina, nudging back to the front.

  “Maybe the ghost took it,” said Jared, before I could reply.

  Tina looked horrified. “Is that one of your leads, Sam?”

  “What? No! What? Ghost?” I said. “Jared, ghosts aren’t real. And if they were, they wouldn’t steal erasers, would they?”

  “I know most ghosts aren’t real,” said Jared, “but this one totally is. It’s the ghost of Horace Hotwater himself. He haunts these halls looking for revenge. I’ve seen some pretty weird stuff.”

  “You are some pretty weird stuff,” I said.

  “Come to think of it, I saw something strange, too,” said Julie. “The other day I was alone in the library and suddenly a door slammed all on its own.”

  “That was the wind,” I said.

  “Or was it?” said Jared.

  “How could it be the ghost of Horace Hotwater?” I said. “The man died a hundred years ago and this school was built in 2002.”

  “Or was it?” said Jared.

  “You can’t just keep saying ‘Or was it?’ as a response to everything!” I said.

  “Or was it?” said Jared.

  “Look, your pencil eraser will be found,” I said, ignoring Jared. “All your cases will be solved. We promise.”

  Tina grinned. “You keep saying ‘we.’ You’re talking about you and Hamstersaurus Rex, right? You know where he is!”

  “Hey, come on,” I said. “We all know Hamstersaurus Rex is gone. Martha got us a new hamster and everything.”

  Drew grinned. “Sure he’s gone.”

  “When you don’t see him,” said Dwight, “don’t tell him we all miss him.”

  “Won’t do,” I said, grinning despite myself.

  My crowd of unsolved cases started to disperse, leaving one person remaining.

  “Um, Sam, can I talk to you for a second?” said Dylan quietly. Normally confident and outspoken, she looked jittery. “Er, in private.”

  “Sure thing, Dylan,” I said. “Hit me up at lunch. I just need to make a quick detour first.”

  She gave me a knowing nod. I headed up the stairs to the second floor. The hallway was lined with homemade posters that said things like, “We Miss You, Hamstersaurus Rex!” and “Come Back Soon, Hamster Hero of Horace Hotwater!” I opened the door to Room 223b—better known as Meeting Club Headquarters—and nearly got knocked down by the hero himself.

  “Oof! Okay! I’m—oof!—happy to see—oof!—you, too!” I said as Hammie Rex repeatedly head-butted me in the stomach. Affectionately.

  I shut the door behind me. The little guy was secretly living in this converted broom closet that held the library’s least-checked-out books, such as Europe’s Greatest Sneezes and The Complete User’s Guide to Manila Folders. I felt kind of guilty cooping him up all day with nothing to do. But considering all the weirdos and mutants and evil corporations out to get him, he was ultimately safer here. It was sort of like the Hamster Monitor Witness Relocation Program (or something).

  “Got your lunch.” I unzipped my backpack and pulled out nine pimento cheese sandwiches. Hamstersaurus Rex took a flying leap at his helpless pimento prey. I nearly lost an arm. “While you eat, maybe we can review our caseload,” I said. Every good gumshoe needs a partner, and mine was three inches of pure dino-rodent crime-stopping power. As a joke, I called us Rex & Gibbs Detective Agency.

  “R&G has got so many open cases I have no idea which one we should focus on. Tina’s missing eraser?” I asked, flipping through my notebook. “Or Dwight’s camera? I’m thinking maybe he left it on the bus. Dwight seems like a real bus-leaver to me . . .”

  I trailed off when something wet dripped on my head. It was drool. I looked up to see that Hamstersaurus Rex was now hanging upside down by his dino-tail from the light fixture. The little guy looked loopy.

  “Wow, you’re going stir-crazy in here, aren’t you?” I said. “Hey, I’ve got an idea! After school, I’ll take you to meet Martha’s new hamster. That’ll be fun, right? A new friend! Just hang tight for a couple more hours. No pun intended.”

  I left him dangling and made my way to the cafeteria for lunch. I found Dylan sitting by herself, staring off into space and gnawing on her fingers.

  “Want a little salt for those nails?” I said.

  “Gah!” screamed Dylan, startled. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you, pal.”

  “Sorry,” said Dylan. “It’s just—I think I maybe need your help with something.”

  “Ah,” I said, “so you have a case for me?”

  “Do not call it a ‘case,’” said Dylan, sounding a bit more like her normal self.

  “Well, Hammie and I are pretty slammed right now,” I said, “but I want you to know I consider you a friend, so maybe I could get you on the waiting list. Talk to our assista—”

  I ducked too slowly and a wadded-up napkin hit me in the face. This was the Dylan who’d been my best friend since preschool.

  “Sam, this is serious,” said Dylan. “The other day, after school, I was grabbing my duffel bag for disc golf practice and something super weird happened.”

  “Go on.”

  “So the Hotwater Discwhippers have these awesome new away jerseys that are metallic mauve with maroon piping.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I said, taking out my notebook and scribbling notes. “Mauve and maroon. Got it.”

  “And when I opened my bag, I saw my jersey, like . . . float right out of my locker and down the hall toward the basement stairs,” said Dylan.

  “Okay,” I said, still writing, “and after that, something ‘weird’ happened, you say?”

  “Sam, it really freaked me out!” said Dylan. “I just want to know what’s going on around here.” She clearly didn’t see anything funny about levitating athletic wear.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “Flying jersey. Hammie and I will look into it. Hey, maybe it was the ghost of Horace Hotwater?”

  I expected Dylan to laugh. Instead she scowled at me.

  “You smell like pimento cheese,” she said.

  “You think I don’t know that?” I asked.

  The rest of the day was a blur: badminton, hexagons, homonyms, and a new case from Jared Kopernik. He wanted me to prove that Bigfoot was real but that the yeti wasn’t. Fantastic. After the final bell rang, I ran back up to Meeting Club HQ. I opened the door and Hamstersaurus Rex flew at my face. />
  “Agh! Okay!” I said as he jumped up and down on top of my head. “Save some of that charm for your new hamster pal.” I wrangled him into my shirt pocket.

  Downstairs, I jiggled the doorknob to Mr. Copeland’s room. The lock was still broken. I pulled out my copy PETCATRAZ Pro™ key and unlocked Cartimandua’s hamster cage. She stared at me indifferently.

  “Hi, Cartimandua, my name is Sam Gibbs,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  Cartimandua twitched a whisker.

  “Well, enough small talk. There’s someone I’d really like you to meet,” I said. “You’re a hamster. He’s a hamster . . . mostly. And frankly, he really needs to get out more. Between you and me, he’s kind of going bonkers, stuck in that tiny broom closet all day. Maybe you two could, like, play together?”

  I reached into my pocket and plopped Hammie down in the cage beside her.

  “Cartimandua, Hamstersaurus Rex,” I said. “Hamstersaurus Rex, Cartimandua.”

  Hamstersaurus Rex didn’t move. He had frozen still like a statue. Cartimandua glanced at him and then turned to stare at the wall with slightly more interest. They weren’t exactly playing.

  “C’mon, Hammie, don’t be rude,” I said as I shoved him toward her. He made a weird chirping noise. Nothing I’d ever heard before.

  “Uh, he’s normally lots of fun,” I said. “The life of the party.”

  Cartimandua yawned.

  “Go on, Hammie,” I said. “Do something cool!”

  Hamstersaurus Rex looked at me. He looked at Cartimandua. He looked at me. He took a single hesitant step in her direction and—FLUMP!—the little guy tripped over her water dish and fell flat on his face. The dish flipped onto Cartimandua, completely soaking her. She started loudly squeaking in dismay. Hamstersaurus Rex looked mortified.

  “Whoops!” I said. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and began to blot her fur dry. “No need to panic! Just water!”

  WHAM! Somewhere down the hall I heard a door slam shut. I paused my blotting.

  “That’s weird,” I said. Mr. Grogan, the custodian, didn’t usually slam doors. In fact, I’d heard him yell at more than one kid for doing it.

  WHAM! I heard another slam. It sounded like a different door. Something didn’t feel right. I collected Hammie Rex, who had gone virtually catatonic at this point.