Farewell, My Lunchbag

by Bruce Hale

  And I thought I knew how to get it.

  Natalie joined me at a sticky table in the corner. Somebody had forgotten to clean up after the kinder-gartners.

  "So, what's our move?" she asked. "Do we stake out the kitchen tonight?"

  "I stake out the kitchen," I said. I flicked some crab-applesauce off the table. "It's a one-gecko job."

  Natalie ruffled her feathers. "But what if Rocky brings her friends? What if they catch you? You need backup."

  I bit into my burrito. "They could beat up both of us, easy as one. No, we've got to use brains instead of brawn."

  "So how are you going to stop them—by talking them out of it?"

  I smiled. "A picture is worth a thousand words. Tell me, Natalie, does your brother still shoot photos for the school newspaper?"

  When the bell rang at the end of the day, I jumped out of my seat and whistled down the hallway like gas from a stink-toad. The fewer kids who saw me sneak into the cafeteria, the better.

  I rapped twice on the kitchen door. Mrs. Bagoong was waiting just inside. She looked as nervous as a hedgehog in a hang glider.

  "The, uh—the trap is set," she said. "I sprinkled flour on the storeroom floor and locked the door." Mrs. Bagoong gnawed on a knuckle. "Are you sure this will work?"

  "Sure as sugar," I said.

  She pointed at the serving counters. "You can hide under there, and the robbers won't see you. You'll be all right?"

  "Right as rain, sister. With their footprints in flour, and their mugs on film, these food thieves are as good as caught."

  Just then, Natalie poked her head through the doorway. "Here's the camera, Chet. My brother says if we break it, he'll pound both of us into pudding."

  I took the instamatic camera. "That's my second-favorite dessert."

  Natalie cocked her head. "Are you sure you don't want me to fly home and get my walkie-talkies? I'd feel better if I could reach you."

  "No worries, partner." I flipped up my coat collar. "I'll call my mom and tell her I'm sleeping over at your house. See you later tonight."

  I turned to Mrs. Bagoong and gave her the thumbs-up. "We'll meet tomorrow morning. What time do you get here?"

  "Six o'clock."

  I shuddered. "We'll be here at seven-thirty. When you see me next, I'll have the proof we need to put those food thieves in hot water and throw away the key."

  Mrs. Bagoong frowned.

  "Or something like that," I said.

  She and Natalie stepped outside. As the big iguana pulled the door closed, the last thing I saw was Natalie's worried face.

  "Be careful, partner," she whispered.

  The door locked with a click.

  "No pro-blem-o," I replied.

  Sure, no problem. I was only sticking my neck out farther than a giraffe with a brand-new scarf—just setting a trap for some dangerous, cold-blooded food thieves.

  And hoping the trap didn't land on my tail instead.

  8. Muffins of Love

  With the door closed, a dim light painted the kitchen like a third-rate copy of a fourth-rate artist. The walls were drab and dingy. The metal counters gleamed coldly. All the vittles were under lock and key.

  It was no place I'd want to spend my summer vacation.

  I left the camera on the counter and settled onto a stool to wait.

  The after-school noises swelled. Children laughing, screaming. Buses honking and pulling away. Teachers having nervous breakdowns. Slowly the sounds faded.

  In the quiet, I heard the whoosh-whoosh of someone sweeping the hall. It drew closer and closer.

  Rattle-clik.

  A key slipped into the doorknob. I ducked behind the counter and held my breath.

  The door opened. Somebody walked into the room, waited for a few seconds, then returned to the door. It shut with a clack.

  A pause, then the footsteps and the whooshing broom faded like the ink on a soggy homework assignment.

  Funny, Mrs. Bagoong had said that the janitors never came into the kitchen after school. Maybe someone was just checking up.

  I heard the teachers' cars leaving the nearby parking lot. After that, the school fell really quiet, like a graveyard waiting for fresh stiffs. The kitchen clock ticked.

  I climbed back onto a stool and looked around. The tile floors showed a modern-art gallery's worth of weird stains and splotches. The pots hung in a row, like kids waiting for detention.

  I thought about the case, about Rocky. How hate had twisted her to seek revenge. But Rocky was being careless. Didn't she know we'd figure things out?

  Rrrrr.

  My stomach growled. Four o'clock: time for an afternoon snack. I felt in my pockets. Drat. I'd given my last candy bar to that turtle. And who knew how long it would take the food thieves to show up?

  Hmm. Maybe Mrs. Bagoong had left some snacks behind. Wouldn't hurt to look.

  I walked around the kitchen. Nothing on the stove ... nothing by the racks ... hey! There, on the end of the counter near the door, sat a big, fluffy pillbug muffin on a plate.

  Yum, yum. How could I have overlooked that?

  A note was pinned under the plate. How thoughtful. It read: For the hardworking private eye. No signature.

  None needed. That Mrs. Bagoong had a heart as big and sweet as a chocolate water buffalo.

  I tucked the note into my pocket and toasted my favorite cafeteria lady with the tasty treat. "Here's looking at you, brown eyes."

  I chomped down. The crunchy pill bugs set off the texture of the fluffy muffin wonderfully. It burst with strange flavors, like my tongue's own private Fourth of July.

  The muffin vanished in a minute. Too bad she hadn't left two.

  I sat back down and fiddled with the camera. Had to make sure that the flash was working—it would blind Rocky and her friends while I made my escape.

  Pah!

  The flash went off in my face. Yup, it was working, all right. I blinked to clear my vision. Bright swirls jumped and swam before my eyes like a family of eels doing the cha-cha.

  I shook my head and blinked some more, but the swirls kept on boogying.

  Just then, I began to feel dizzy. The camera fell from my hand.

  I felt like a spider going down the drain in a bathtub. My world spun round and round, and something dragged me down, down, down—into a pool of blackness.

  The floor jumped up and hit my cheek. How rude! I thought. What had I ever done to the floor? As my eyes closed, I thought I saw the kitchen door fold open. An impossibly long worm slithered through it.

  Words dribbled from his mouth like a run-down tape recorder. He drawled, "Welllcommme to dreeeeamlannnd."

  And the world took a nap.

  9. Wake Up, Little Snoozy

  It was the gentle clatter of pots and pans that awakened me. That, and the hand punching my shoulder.

  "Chet, wake up!"

  My head felt like a sweat sock full of mud. My tongue tasted like the inside of a warthog's nostril. And to top it off, my eyelids were stuck together like stamps in a soggy pocket.

  If only I could peel them apart....

  A foot nudged my belly. "Wake up, you traitor!" said another voice.

  That did it. Chet Gecko is no traitor. I opened my eyes to retort and found myself face-to-face with a banana peel. A talking banana peel?

  Two leathery hands reached down from the skies and grabbed my coat. They pulled me up to a sitting position. I shook my head to clear it.

  Mrs. Bagoong and Natalie stood before me. Their faces looked as cheerful and friendly as a get-well card from the Grim Reaper.

  "Why did you do it?" said Mrs. Bagoong. "Chet, I trusted you, and this is how you repay me?"

  Natalie gave me icicle eyes. "How could you? My own partner."

  I could see their lips moving, but they might as well have been singing "Waltzing Matilda" backward. Their words made no sense.

  Come on, Chet, get it together. Say something witty.

  "Huh?" I grunted.

 
; "Don't play dumb with me," said Mrs. Bagoong. "You're in serious trouble, mister. We're going straight to Principal Zero."

  Her words still didn't make sense. She was supposed to be calling me a genius for solving the case.

  I had solved it, hadn't I?

  My blurry eyes scoped out the scene. I was propped against the kitchen wall, surrounded by the litter of half-eaten food. Candied butterflies, deep-fried termites, leftover burritos, banana peels, and eggshells...

  Mmm. Someone had had quite a midnight snack.

  And they thought it was me.

  "Hang on," I said. "You don't think I—"

  "Then who did?" said Mrs. Bagoong. She crossed her tree-trunk arms, looking like a linebacker in an apron. A very angry linebacker.

  "I—uh, that is..." My memory was as blank as a cheerleader's eyes. "I don't know."

  Natalie hopped around the mess of food. "You left enough evidence to convince a blind detective of your guilt," she said. Natalie pointed behind me.

  The storeroom door gaped wide. On the floor inside was a dusting of flour, crisscrossed with ... gecko footprints!

  "No way!" I rolled over onto my hands and knees, and crawled to the doorsill. Yup. My footprints, all right. And long, snaky lines dragged through the flour, just like my tail would've made.

  "I didn't!" I said.

  "You did," said Mrs. Bagoong. "You're the food thief!"

  I blinked stupidly. My brain felt like a spaceship made of cream cheese. And it was working about as well.

  "Stand up," said Mrs. Bagoong. "It's time to face the music."

  I planted a foot and tried to stand. It was hard. But I'm a tough guy. I did it, anyway. Then I leaned against the wall.

  Natalie stepped forward with her brother's camera. She glared. "We found this in the bushes outside. My brother's going to kill you."

  "Natalie, Mrs. Bagoong, listen to me. I didn't do it." I shook my head. "Honest, the last thing I remember was eating a muffin."

  "You ate a lot more than that, Mr. Food Thief," growled Mrs. Bagoong.

  "But you left me the muffin yourself," I said.

  "I left you a muffin?"

  "Sure," I said. I scrabbled in my pockets. "And you even wrote me a note. Here, don't you remember?"

  Mrs. Bagoong looked at it and sniffed. "I didn't write that." Her neck spines bristled. "No more excuses. It's off to the principal with you. You've been a very bad gecko."

  She grabbed my arm and tugged me past a scowling Minnie Stroney out the kitchen door. "March, you muffin snatcher," snarled Mrs. Bagoong.

  The walk to Principal Zero's office seemed to take longer than the last day of school before vacation. Natalie sulked off to the playground. Mrs. Bagoong ignored my explanations.

  We entered the office, and the principal's secretary, Maggie Crow, gave me the evil eye as I passed. Jeez, did the whole school know about it already?

  Principal Zero sat behind his desk. His tail twitched, and his sharp claws kneaded the desktop like they were itching to sink into something. And that something was me.

  "This time you've gone too far, Gecko," he purred. Somehow, his smile was scarier than his frown. "And this time I'm going to throw the book at you."

  I gulped. "Mr. Zero, it's not what it looks like. I didn't really eat all that food."

  "Oh, no?" he said.

  "No. You see, I was working on a case, and the suspect got the drop on me. I was framed."

  Mr. Zero's eyes narrowed to slits. "You always have a smooth answer ready, don't you?"

  "What do you want me to do?" I said. "Learn to stutter?"

  "Your wisecracks won't help you now, Gecko. You can't talk your way out of this."

  He tossed an envelope across his desk. I slipped a note and two photos from it.

  "Someone left that under my door this morning," said Principal Zero.

  The note read, Chett Gekko did it! and it was signed, N. Igma.

  Sweat popped out on my forehead. Or it would have, if geckos could sweat.

  I looked at the first photo and laughed in relief. It was the shot I accidentally took when testing the flash. "I can explain. It was an accident."

  "I'll bet," said the principal dryly. "It takes a pretty dumb thief to photograph himself."

  "But this doesn't—"

  I scanned the second shot, and my breath stuck in my throat like a stale doughnut. There I was, in living color, with my feet in the flour and a feast on the floor.

  "Say your prayers, Gecko," said Principal Zero. "You're going down."

  10. Photo Finished

  I sank to my knees on the thick carpet. Not possible! my brain kept shouting. And yet, there I was in a color photo, caught in the act of robbing the storeroom.

  "It's a fake," I whispered.

  I gulped. Someone had framed me better than the priciest Picasso in the national museum. Was it Rocky? I had to find out.

  "Chet Gecko," said Mr. Zero, "I should suspend you from school for stealing food." He smoothed the fur on his jowls. "But I'm not going to do that."

  I looked up in surprise. "You're not?"

  "No, it wouldn't be right."

  Principal Zero smiled broadly. A white fang twinkled. "Instead of suspending you, I'm going to give you detention ... for life."

  I felt as bouncy as a dodgeball after it meets a rusty nail. "De-detention...," I stuttered.

  "'For life,'" said Mrs. Bagoong. "Principal Zero, that's the perfect punishment. You've been most fair. Although..."

  She looked up at the ceiling, considering something. Would the queen of the cafeteria grant me some mercy?

  Principal Zero leaned forward. "Yes?"

  "Maybe you could add on a few years of dishwashing duty at lunchtime?"

  "Done," he said. My principal scribbled something on a pink slip, then tore it off the pad. "Take this to your teacher," he told me. "I want everyone to know of your shame."

  I took the slip with a shaky hand and stood up with even shakier legs. This was a tight spot, no mistake. Tighter than a tapeworm's T-shirt.

  It would take some topflight detective work to get me off the hook and get the goods on Rocky, or whoever the real thief was. I hoped I was up to it.

  I hoped I could convince Natalie to help me.

  Mrs. Bagoong opened the door and I sleepwalked through the office into the hall. As I stumbled to my classroom, I found only one cheering thought (other than picturing an asteroid hitting the planet before my mom found out).

  I thought, Maybe this frame-up will make Mr. Ratnose drop me from our stupid open-house project.

  I should have known better.

  "Are you kidding?" said Mr. Ratnose. He crumpled the pink slip. His ears flattened against his head. "You think a lousy excuse like this will get you out of doing your Nations of the World project? Think again, mister."

  "But—"

  He tossed the note into his wastebasket. "I don't care if you stole the Mona Lisa and painted hootchy mama! on it. Open house is on Monday, and you're playing Mr. India. Now, sit down and study, sahib. "

  This was shaping up to be one of those days when I wished I'd joined the French Foreign Legion instead of coming to school.

  I trudged back to my seat. Word had got around. My classmates were whispering and pointing at me.

  More than they usually do, I mean.

  Shirley Chameleon leaned over. "Oh, Chet," she whispered, "it's so tragic that you've turned to a life of crime. What drove you to it—unrequited love?"

  She batted her eyes. Actually, she batted one eye while the other one watched the teacher. Chameleons are creepy that way.

  Her face drew closer to mine. "If there's anything I can do to help ... anything at all," she said. If Shirley got any nearer, she'd be wearing my T-shirt.

  "Yeah, there's one thing you can do," I said. "Take your cooties back into your own seat and give them a rest."

  Dames. Whether they think you are a good boy or a bad boy, they always spell trouble.

  And just
then, I had enough trouble to last until high school.

  11. The Frame Game

  After math class, our study groups met to work on the Nations of the World fiasco. At the open house next Monday, we were supposed to dress in dorky costumes and talk about our assigned countries.

  Before then, we had to learn something about the country. And that meant studying—my favorite activity, next to watching a mole's nose hairs grow. All I knew about India was that it had people with flutes who charmed snakes.

  And right then, the only person I wanted to charm was my partner—into working with me to solve the case.

  But we read our books, and blathered on about our presentation. Until, finally, I heard the sweet sound of freedom.

  Rrring! went the recess bell.

  I was up and out the door quicker than a cheetah on a coffee break. First thing, I had to find Natalie and get her to help me.

  My stomach growled.

  Okay, second thing. Being knocked out all night and missing meals sure gives a private eye an appetite.

  Luckily, I had some spare change in my pockets. A box of Sugar Frosted Ladybugs from the vending machine would take the edge off my hunger.

  I plugged my coins into the machine. As I bent to pick up the candy, a voice behind me said, "Oh, it's you."

  I turned. Natalie had already begun to leave.

  "Natalie, wait."

  She stopped, her back to me. "Yeah?"

  "Partner, I didn't do it," I said. "You've got to believe me."

  Natalie ruffled her tail feathers. "Why should I?" she said. "All the evidence points to you."

  I walked around to face her. "What are you going to believe? The evidence or your partner?"