Hamstersaurus Rex Gets Crushed

by Tom O'Donnell

  “This was fun,” I lied, “but we have to go investigate. We’re ace detectives who are eventually going to solve a case. Sorry about the water. Enjoy, uh, staring at the wall. Bye!”

  Hammie and I ducked out into the hallway.

  “Okay, that didn’t go very well,” I said to Hamstersaurus Rex.

  He gurgled.

  The school appeared to be deserted. We walked the halls, listening, but didn’t hear anything more. The noises were probably nothing. On the way back to my locker, I paused at the steps that led down to the basement. A strange feeling came over me, almost like the air was electrified right before a thunderstorm. The hairs on my arm were standing up. I looked at Hamstersaurus Rex. His little whiskers were vibrating.

  “Maybe we should check out the basement,” I said. “Just in case it’s a ghost, which it totally isn’t.”

  I had started toward the steps when I heard a loud rattling sound. I turned to see that a bulletin board (celebrating the fall honor roll) was shaking wildly. It started to slam itself against the wall, harder and harder. No one was moving it. It was moving it.

  “. . . Or maybe not,” I said, quietly backing away from the stairs and the board. Hammie Rex whined.

  Just then, the bulletin board swung up from the wall so that it was flat, like a table. It hung like that for a moment before it ripped itself free and spun through the air, straight at my head.

  Dodging Dylan’s balled-up napkin was good practice. This time I ducked fast enough. With an earsplitting crack, the bulletin board smashed against the wall behind me and shattered into splinters.

  After that, there was an eerie silence.

  After that, there were the distinct sounds of me running away in terror.

  CHAPTER 2

  “SO . . . I WAS looking into the matter we discussed,” I said to Dylan the next day at lunch, “and, well, I may have seen something a taaaad weird.”

  Dylan glanced around to make sure none of the other kids in the cafeteria were listening. “Like what?” she whispered.

  “Like, a bulletin board may have tried to kill me.”

  “That’s what you call a ‘taaaaad’ weird?”

  “Look, I spend most of my time feeding a mutant hamster cheese sandwiches. Everything is relative,” I said. “And anyway, I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. I just have no idea what it could possibly be.”

  “There is an explanation,” said Dylan. “He knows you’re my best friend. That’s why he’s targeting you now. To get to me.”

  “Dylan, I’m not sure bulletin boards have genders—”

  “Not the bulletin board,” said Dylan. “The ghost of Horace Hotwater.” Her words hung ominously in the air.

  “Setting aside the fact that ghosts don’t exist,” I said, “why would the ghost of the man who founded our town be haunting you specifically? Was Horace not a disc golf fan?”

  Dylan took a deep breath. “Sam, I’m going to tell you something that I don’t want you to repeat. It’s a dark and shameful family secret. A hundred years ago, my great-great-grandfather Giuseppe D’Amato killed Horace Hotwater.”

  “Whoa, that’s pretty exciting!” I said. “The most interesting Gibbs family story is the one about my uncle Burt accidentally eating a bug.”

  Dylan scowled at me.

  “Did I say ‘exciting’? I meant ‘tragic,’” I said. “So how’d it happen? Was it a sword fight? Please tell me it was a tragic sword fight.”

  “It wasn’t a sword fight,” said Dylan. “It was much, much worse. Giuseppe had a restaurant here in Maple Bluffs. Horace Hotwater came in to order lunch and my great-great-grandfather served him a bowl of soup . . . that he choked on!”

  I cocked my head. “You mean ‘drowned in’?”

  “No!” said Dylan. “Do you have any idea how much soup it would take to drown someone?”

  “Not really,” I admitted.

  “Well, it’s a lot. Anyway, this was a bowl of Giuseppe D’Amato’s famous turtle soup, but I guess he accidentally left a piece of shell in or whatever, because something got lodged in Horace Hotwater’s windpipe and, well . . .” Dylan pantomimed choking on soup.

  “Sounds like a freak accident,” I said. “Could’ve happened to anyone.”

  “Tell that to the restless soul of Horace Hotwater!” said Dylan, jabbing a finger into my chest. “Do you know what his last words were, right before he died? I will have my revenge, D’Amato.”

  “How did he say something if he was choking?”

  “Stop nitpicking!” cried Dylan.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “I’ve heard the story from my nana Rosa every Thanksgiving since I was born,” said Dylan. “She says the moral is: always chew your soup. But I think there’s a different moral, and it’s that the D’Amatos have been cursed by the ghost of Horace Hotwater!”

  “C’mon. It’s been a hundred years,” I said. “Why would this curse start now?”

  “Because it’s been a hundred years!” said Dylan. “Exactly! To the day! Look!”

  She pointed to the school plaque in the cafeteria commemorating the “pioneering spirit and visionary fashion sense of the great Horace Hotwater.” (Apparently he always wore shorts, before that was acceptable.) Sure enough, his date of death was a hundred years ago this week.

  “Er, I’ll admit that’s a little spooky,” I said. “But it’s just a coincidence.”

  “A bulletin board threw itself at your head. Was that a coincidence, too?” said Dylan. “And it’s even worse. My disc golf game has been in the toilet. My grades are slipping. My dad’s company says they might be downsizing. My mom sprained her ankle in the garden. Both my brothers have chicken pox. Oh, and that away jersey that levitated down the hall of its own accord? It was really expensive. If Coach Weekes finds out I lost it, he’s going to kill me!”

  “Hmm. Then maybe you can haunt him,” I said.

  Dylan was not amused. Normally, she was rational and cool-headed. This was very unlike her. I wanted to help.

  “Look, I don’t know what’s going on,” I said, “but strange is the new normal around here. I’m pretty sure the center of it all is down in the school basement. I got a real weird vibe from that place. After school, Hamstersaurus Rex and I will investigate, and we can prove once and for all that—”

  “Hey, everyone, look at me!” bellowed Wilbur Weber, roughly six inches from my head.

  “Sure, Wilbur,” I said, rubbing my finger in my ringing ear. “I may no longer be able to hear you, but I can definitely look.”

  Wilbur ignored my snark. “I just wanted to announce that today I’m having my birthday party and the whole sixth grade is invited!”

  The other kids in the cafeteria gave an uncertain murmur. Wilbur wasn’t exactly the coolest kid in school. All he ever talked about was his pet snails.

  “Oh, I almost forgot to mention,” yelled Wilbur, “it’s happening right after school at RaddZone!”

  The cafeteria erupted. Some kids high-fived each other. Others pumped their fists. One actually did a ridiculous little dance (okay, it was me). Even Dylan looked a tiny bit happier. That’s because RaddZone was our town’s premier indoor youth-entertainment complex: three floors of go-karts, laser tag, and video games. The place was amazing!

  “Hey, sorry about the hearing-loss crack earlier, Wilbur,” I said. “My ears are fine. Maybe even better than before! Happy birthday, buddy! Can’t wait to see you on the air hockey rink! Is it expected that guests bring a gift, or . . .”

  But Wilbur ignored me as he made his way through a crowd of congratulatory sixth graders giving him fist bumps and patting him on the back.

  “That’s odd,” said Martha Cherie, putting her tray down next to Dylan’s and mine. “Wilbur’s birthday was in June.”

  “Shhhhh,” I said. “That’s like reminding Mr. Copeland he forgot to assign us homework.”

  “Mr. Copeland forgot to assign us homework?” said Martha, suddenly panicked.

  �
��No!” I said. “My point is that if Wilbur doesn’t know when his own birthday is, so what? Who are we to judge? Don’t ruin this for us. It’s RaddZone, Martha.”

  “It is RaddZone,” added Dylan.

  Martha shrugged. “Well, put me down for a ‘Will Not Attend.’ I have hip-hop French horn lessons this afternoon. You know, I frankly never saw the appeal of RaddZone. What, the purpose is simply to have fun?”

  “Yes!” said Dylan and I, in unison.

  “Well, that’s not going to help anyone get into college,” said Martha.

  Maybe not, I thought, but it might just take everyone’s mind off evil curses and deadly soup.

  CHAPTER 3

  AFTER LUNCH, I swung by Meeting Club HQ to check on Hamstersaurus Rex. I opened the door to find that his food—a pan of lasagna and a six-pound bag of brussels sprouts—was untouched. This was unprecedented. Hammie Rex lay on his back gazing up at a water stain on the ceiling. The little guy looked shell-shocked.

  “What’s the matter?” I said. “Does the lasagna taste weird? I know my mom can get get a little trigger-happy with the oregano.”

  He made a sound like the air being let out of a bike tire.

  “Hmm. Well, you know how I said we were going to investigate the mysterious evil in the school basement this afternoon? That got bumped to tomorrow. You and I are going to RaddZone! Yaaaay!”

  He gave a very, very slow blink.

  “Not quite the reaction I was hoping for,” I said, scratching my chin. “You seem a little off today, buddy. Luckily, RaddZone is the funnest place on earth! They’ve got ball pits, and those basketball games where the ball never goes in the basket, and all the baked potatoes you can eat just sitting there under heat lamps! You’re going to love it!”

  He tried to burp but couldn’t quite manage it.

  “Something’s up,” I said. “Ever since I introduced you to Cartimandua—”

  At the name, he made another strangled chirp and scurried under an overturned copy of So You Want to Make a Sandwich, Ninth Edition.

  “Huh? Dude, you fought a killer python and a nine-foot squirrel. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of Cartimandua?”

  Another weird chirp. I had no idea what was going on. I’d never seen the little guy like this before. I looked around the room. My eyes fell on a dog-eared copy of 101 Love Poems plus 37 Bonus Poems about Lawn Care. Suddenly it all made sense.

  “Oh no,” I said. “You’ve got a crush on Cartimandua.”

  Hammie Rex peeked out from under the book. I could see it in his eyes. The little guy was smitten. I winced. There was no way around it: he’d obviously made a terrible first impression on Cartimandua.

  “Well,” I said, “you should keep in mind that there are plenty of other single hamsters out there . . .”

  Hammie Rex moaned in anguish. I tried to shush him. He kept on moaning.

  “Or maybe I could help you impress her and that would make you feel better!” I suggested.

  He stopped moaning.

  In gym class, I sidled up next to Martha near the badminton court.

  “Hey, Martha, I’d like to know a little more about Cartimandua,” I said.

  “Did you read the handouts I gave you?” said Martha.

  I hadn’t. “Absolutely,” I said. “Very informative stuff. But that was all about hamsters in general. I want to know about Cartimandua, the real Cartimandua. What are her hopes? Her dreams? What makes her tick?”

  Martha paused. “She likes lettuce . . . in moderation. And sleeping.” Martha was struggling a little. “When Cartimandua’s awake, I feel like she really enjoys staring off into middle distance.”

  I glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Well, imagine that, hypothetically, someone wanted to get to know her a little better because someone maybe has a massive crush on her.”

  Martha looked confused. Then she frowned. “I’d say someone ought to forget about it.”

  “But why?”

  “Because someone is a magnet for trouble. That’s why someone is secretly living in a broom closet, remember? And the less discreet someone is, the more trouble there will be.”

  “Martha, look in your heart,” I said. “Give love a chance!”

  “No, thank you,” said Martha. “I’d prefer to give good judgment and practicality a chance.” Then she jogged onto the court to play her match against Jimmy Choi.

  “Come on! Be less reasonable!” I said. “Ugh!”

  “What’s the matter, Gibbs?” said Coach Weekes, ambling toward me. “You sound frustrated. Like you’re not living up to one hundred percent of your potential.”

  “What?” I said. “No, no, it’s just that a friend of mine is, uh, a little out of sorts right now over a personal matter. That’s all.”

  “Sure, a ‘friend,’” said Coach Weekes, doing the slowest, most exaggerated air quotes I’d ever seen. He smiled at me with pity.

  “Coach, it’s not me! Seriously, it’s Ham—Never mind,” I said. “Look, can we just talk about something else? Hey, crystals! You’re really into crystals, right? Tell me about crystals!”

  “Nah, I’m over crystals,” said Coach Weekes. “Incense, too. I used to be searching for answers, Gibbs, but then I realized I had them all along. Right here.” He tapped the side of his head.

  “In your hat?” I said.

  He placed a hand on my shoulder. “You know, when that gigantic mutated squirrel-beast was dangling me off that scoreboard, I experienced a lot of personal growth.”

  “Personal growth?”

  “I realized that sometimes meditation and spiritual strength aren’t quite enough to win at the game of life,” said Weekes. “Occasionally, all of us need a little nudge to become a huge success. Like I am now. So from this day forward, I’m going to devote myself to helping your quote-unquote ‘friend’ achieve his personal goals by becoming his Success Coach. . . . Wow, ‘Success Coach.’ I really like the sound of that.”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “Success Coach’s first rule,” said Coach Weekes. “Get out of your comfort zone! Take a walk. Climb a mountain. Explore an undersea trench. Go to that hoity-toity restaurant you were always so intimidated by because they don’t serve chicken nuggets to adults!”

  “How would I explore an undersea trench?”

  “Believe it and achieve it and probably rent a submarine!” said Coach Weekes, cuffing me on the back. “Success Coach!”

  Taking any advice from Coach Weekes was like taking guitar lessons from a parking meter: probably not helpful. Still, I had to admit I knew nothing about romance, much less hamster romance. Success Coach’s first rule rattled around in my brain for the rest of the day. Maybe Hammie Rex could get out of his comfort zone (the school). Maybe he and Cartimandua could go somewhere together. Somewhere special. Like on a date. A hamster date, if you will. It suddenly struck me that Hammie and I were already headed somewhere special that very afternoon: RaddZone! What if I brought Cartimandua along, too? Of course, Martha didn’t want Cartimandua out of her cage. But Martha wasn’t going to be there, was she?

  By the end of the day, I’d made up my mind. Hamstersaurus Rex and Cartimandua were going on an amazing hamster date to RaddZone. I swung by Meeting Club HQ after school and collected Hammie Rex. He was by turns reluctant and ecstatic. Eventually I managed to wrangle him into my shirt pocket, where he seemed to be continuously hyperventilating.

  “Just be yourself!” I said. “But not too much like yourself.”

  School was practically empty now, eerily quiet with all the students gone. I crept back down to Mr. Copeland’s classroom and ducked inside.

  Inside her PETCATRAZ Pro™, Cartimandua was chewing on her foot. I unlocked the door.

  “Hello again, Cartimandua! We’re going on a cool adventure to a place that you’re going to love! How does that sound?”

  She drooled a little. Inside my pocket, Hammie Rex made a terrified wheezing noise.

  “Okay, neat. I’m going to
assume you’re very excited.” I scooped her up and tucked her into my other pocket.

  Just then, I heard a noise. My heart ricocheted into my throat as I remembered the awful, eerie feeling I got just before the bulletin board launched itself at my head. I spun and saw nothing.

  Then the doorknob jiggled. I swallowed. Was there actually a chance the school was haunted by some vengeful spirit from beyond the grave? No way. And yet.

  The door slowly creaked open . . .

  CHAPTER 4

  “GAAAAAH!” SHRIEKED DYLAN as she opened the door and saw me standing inside the darkened classroom.

  “Aaaaargh!” I responded, startled by her reaction.

  “Sam, why are you hiding in here in the dark?!” cried Dylan, slugging me in the arm. “You nearly scared me to death!”

  “Well, why are you sneaking around the school after hours?” I said. “I thought you were a—”

  “Ghost?” said Dylan.

  “No,” I said. “You just surprised me, okay.”

  “I only came back here because I accidentally left my workout socks in my desk,” said Dylan, grabbing them. “But now I think I need to lie down.”

  “I came to get Cartimandua because she and Hamstersaurus Rex are going on a hamster date.”

  “A hamster date?” said Dylan, cocking her head. “Sam, you make weird choices.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” I said. “Anyway, we’re all going to Wilbur’s birthday party at RaddZone.”

  “What about your plan to investigate the . . .” Dylan’s voice dropped to a whisper, and she glanced over her shoulder. “. . . the creepy haunted basement?”

  “Oh, that? Hammie and I are going to knock that out tomorrow, easy-peasy,” I said. “Look, even if it is some sort of evil undead poltergeist—which it’s certainly not—think about it this way: Horace Hotwater has been dead for a hundred years, right? The guy can be dead another day.”

  “I don’t know, Sam,” said Dylan with a shiver. “I’m getting a really bad vibe. Something very creepy is going on at this school.”