After school, I collected Hammie Rex from Meeting Club HQ. Martha had cleared her entire extracurricular schedule for the afternoon and Dylan blew off disc golf practice—she was relegated to the sidelines anyway. The four of us set out across Maple Bluffs.
Our first stop was a run-down house with a shiny roof. I knocked on the door. Old Man Ohlman answered, tinfoil hat gleaming in the afternoon sun.
“Are you another sixth grader from the phone company?” he said. “I told the last one that I wasn’t interested in whatever it was he was selling and I thought that would be the end of it.”
“I’m the same sixth grader from the phone company,” I said. “And I’m not from the phone company!”
Martha and Dylan gave each other a look.
“Mr. Ohlman, we just wanted to thank you,” I said.
“For my service in the Franco-Prussian War?” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “But also, in your own, ah, unconventional way, you helped us beat the bad guy and save an innocent hamster’s life.”
“You mean that one, right there?” said Mr. Ohlman, beaming at Hamstersaurus Rex in my pocket.
“No, a different hamster,” mumbled Dylan.
“Either way,” said Old Man. “Means a lot, you kids coming here to show your appreciation. It warms an old man’s heart. Son, I want you to have this.”
He placed a smooth ceramic object in my hand and closed my fingers around it. I took a look. It was a little bald baby with huge white muttonchops.
“That’s one of my treasured Baby President figurines,” said Old Man Ohlman. “It’s Martin Van Buren. Our nation’s first president.”
“Actually, sir,” said Martha, “that’s not entirely acc—”
I waved her off. It just wasn’t worth it.
“Thanks, Mr. Ohlman,” I said. “I’ve always wanted something like . . . a small fragile figurine of an American president. But as a baby.”
“That’ll be three dollars, please,” said Old Man Ohlman. He held out his hand.
Hammie Rex snorted. I sighed and gave him three bucks, and we continued on our way.
We headed to the Ramblewood Arms apartment building. Dylan punched the buzzer for 3F and we waited.
“That’s peculiar,” said Martha. “Why are there two mailboxes on the corner? I’m going to call our congressperson.”
“No need,” I said as I approached them. “Beefer? Is that you?” I said to the one on the left.
“BOO!” yelled the trash can beside them, practically scaring me and Hamstersaurus Rex half to death.
Martha and Dylan stifled laughter. Hammie looked like he wanted to chomp someone.
“Ha! I can’t believe you were fooled by my decoy mailbox,” said Beefer from inside the trash can.
“You made a whole trash can costume just to yell ‘boo’ at me, you maniac?” I said. My heart was still pounding.
“Yep. Took me nineteen hours. But so worth it for the look on your face, which was probably pretty great. I couldn’t actually tell,” said Beefer. “Kind of limited visibility in this thing.”
“Okay, well, yeah, you ‘got’ me,” I said. “And since you can’t see, I’m doing air quotes.”
“Seriously, Sam,” said Beefer. “This is the oldest trick in the book.”
“Oh, so you’ve finally read a book?” I said.
Upstairs, we found Serena Sandoval hunched over her computer, looking nervous. But she grinned when she saw Hamstersaurus Rex.
“Heya, Spikehead!” she cried. Hammie bounded over to her and nuzzled her hand.
“So, is it ready for publication?” said Martha.
“I think so. Maybe not? It’s amazing. Could be better. Actually, it stinks,” said Serena, burying her face in her hands.
“Pregame jitters. Sometimes you’ve just got to take a swing and see what happens,” said Dylan. “Wow, I just realized how much I sound like Coach Weekes right now, so I’m gonna stop talking.”
“No need to worry, Serena,” I said. “Your article is fantastic.”
She had composed a very long blog post describing SmilesCorp’s secret Genetic Research and Development Lab, and exposing the company’s role in the recent outbreak of freaky animals all over Maple Bluffs. She’d backed it up with interviews with the Mind Mole’s victims and included scans of her great-aunt Sue’s files. The icing on the cake was a short video clip of SmilesCorp lab chief Gordon Renfro saying, “This telepathic mole is the intellectual property of SmilesCorp! In fact, so is that mutant dino-hamster!” Martha had even double-checked it for grammar.
The only thing left to do was to click “Publish,” which, after much coaxing, Serena agreed to do. She let Hammie Rex step on the mouse.
“Guess I made my journalistic debut,” said Serena. “Kind of thought it would be music criticism, but you’ve got to start somewhere.”
“SmilesCorp won’t know what hit them,” I said. “Now all we have to do is sit back and wait.”
We sat back. We waited. We all looked at one another. Hammie Rex chewed on his own foot.
“Guys, am I crazy, or are we all thinking the same thing?” said Beefer.
“RaddZone!” Dylan, Serena, Beefer, and I said in unison.
“No votes for the Antique Doll Museum?” said Martha. “Fine, okay, let’s go to RaddZone.”
And we did. And it was awesome.
BACK AD
BOOKS BY TOM O’DONNELL
CREDITS
Cover art © 2018 by HarperCollins Publishers
Cover design by Joe Merkel
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HAMSTERSAURUS REX GETS CRUSHED. Copyright © 2018 by HarperCollins Publishers. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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EPub Edition © January 2018 ISBN 9780062377593
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