by Bruce Hale
Shock froze me. “I . . . was, um . . . looking for you, and—”
I turned. Natalie Attired leaned against the wall, grooming her feathers.
“You found me,” she said.
“Funny, birdie. But I liked your Mrs. Crow imitation even better.”
She shrugged. “The first part was the real Mrs. Crow,” she said. “I just tacked on that ‘move your tail’ bit for chuckles.”
“What’s going on at the office?”
“Who cares? Ready to do some sleuthing?”
Natalie and I hustled to the playground, eyes peeled. But before we could pin down Ben or Rocky, Fate threw us a curveball.
Just past the krangleberry trees, a pinched voice hissed, “Chet Gecko!”
Since it was coming from the shrubbery, I guessed it might belong to . . .
“Viola Fuss?” I said.
“It’s me,” she said.
I never get tired of being right.
“Come out, Viola,” said Natalie. “We’ve got an update on your case.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said the sandpiper’s voice from behind the trees.
Not quite the eager reception I’d expected.
“Sure it does,” I said. “We’re closing in on the culprit, so you’ll be free to go out there and win the race.”
“No, I won’t,” said our client.
“Why not?”
“Because,” said Viola, “I just quit.”
10
Bare and Square
The world took a corkscrew spin, like a lopsided merry-go-round. I couldn’t believe my ears. (Or the holes in my head, which is what we geckos have for ears.)
“What do you mean, you quit?” I said. “We’re going to prove Ben threatened you, so we can get these punks off your back.”
“You don’t understand,” Viola said. “I’ve gotten too much off my back already.”
Natalie and I exchanged a puzzled glance.
“Stop the riddles,” she said, “and come on out of the trees.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to come in,” said the sandpiper.
I parted the low-hanging branches, and Natalie and I slipped between them. What I saw made my jaw drop faster than a kingfisher into a sushi bar.
“Viola?!” said Natalie.
“What happened?” I asked.
Viola Fuss looked less like a sandpiper and more like a cross between a pipe cleaner and a plucked goose. She had, in fact, been plucked. All her feathers were gone; only goose bumps (sandpiper bumps?) covered her body.
Viola tried to hide behind her spindly wings. “This is what happened,” she said. “This is what I get for trusting you to solve my case in time.”
“But who?” I said. “How?”
“And ow!” said Natalie with a sympathetic wince.
“They jumped me just behind the cafeteria,” said the sandpiper. “All I saw was a furry paw pulling a sack over my head.”
“Furry paw?” I repeated. “Ben.”
Viola shivered. “Then they carried me off somewhere and . . . and . . . plucked all my beautiful feathers.”
This didn’t seem like the best time to ask for our fee.
“What did they say?” asked Natalie.
“That I would pay for my stubbornness. And that a stupid bird would never be president.”
“Did you recognize Ben’s voice?” I asked. “Or anybody’s?”
Viola sniffed. “No. They left me with the sack over my head and said to count to one hundred before removing it, or I’d really be in trouble.”
“What then?” asked Natalie.
“I went to Cool Beans and told him I quit,” squeaked Viola. “Then I ran all the way here, with everyone laughing and pointing.”
Natalie patted her shoulder.
“I’m ruined,” she sobbed. “Father said politics was a dirty business. If only I’d listened . . .”
The sandpiper’s words faded in my ears. My jaw clenched and my tail curled. The bad guys had been pulling the strings, making us dance.
But I was done with dancing. I wanted the dish that is best served cold (with a side of june bugs in cream sauce).
I wanted revenge.
“Natalie,” I said, “you take our client—”
“Ex-client,” said Viola.
“—to the nurse’s office.” I plucked some leafy branches. “Cover her up.”
Natalie took the foliage. “Where are you going?”
“Me? To see a possum about a race.”
The library at lunch is a lonely place. Ours smelled of ink, moldy books, triple-strength espresso, and a kindergartner who’d gotten a bit too scared during spooky story time and gone wee, wee, wee all the way home—if you know what I mean.
I stopped just inside the heavy oak doors and surveyed the room. A few kids picked through the bookshelves.
But the librarian was nowhere to be seen.
I headed back to his desk. “Cool Beans?” I called softly.
No answer.
The passage behind the desk bore a sign above it: RESTRICTED. STAFF ONLY.
That had never stopped me before.
Three doors lined the short hallway. Two were closed; one was ajar. (Although how a door can be a jar is one of the eternal mysteries of English.)
I eased up to it. Voices murmured indistinctly.
Through the crack, I glimpsed a hairy back and a table corner.
“Anything interesting?” a deep voice rumbled.
I whirled. Before me stood a possum as wide and tall as King Kong’s refrigerator, sporting a blue beret and wraparound shades.
He was cooler than a refrigerator, too. He was Cool Beans, the librarian.
“Cool Beans,” I said. “It’s you.”
“Last time I checked.” He nodded at the room I’d been eavesdropping on. “Wanna hook up with my latest book club?”
I shook my head. “Snooping again. I was actually looking for you.”
“Just catching a quick nod,” said Cool Beans. “C’mon, let’s go flap our jaws.”
He turned and led the way back to his desk. (Actually, I ended up leading the way. Possums move slower than the last day of school at the North Pole.)
“So, what’s the action, Jackson?” The librarian lowered his bulk into the chair, which squeaked in protest.
I began pacing. “It’s like this,” I said. “My client just dropped out of the race for president.”
“Viola? Man, that bird was full-out frantic when I saw her—peeled like a grape, and no mistake.”
“And I don’t wanna let those bird pluckers get away with it. Natalie and I suspect Ben Dova and maybe Rocky Rhode.”
“Ben?” said Cool Beans. “Word from the bird is he’s one rude dude.”
“I need—”
Just then, a younger possum poked his nose through the hallway door.
“Uncle C,” he said, “can we—hey, who’s the dweeb?”
I bristled. You couldn’t see much of the kid, but what I saw I didn’t like.
“Chet Gecko, PI,” said Cool Beans. “Chet, my nephew, Bubba Ganoosh. Bubba’s crashin’ with me till he straightens out and flies right.”
“Aw, Uncle C, why’d you have to tell the dweeb?”
Cool Beans leveled a frosty gaze at Bubba. “What’s up?”
“Oh, uh, can my book club meet after school tomorrow?”
“All reet by me,” said the librarian. “You got the key.”
The punk possum withdrew.
“His book club?” I said.
“Keeps him off the streets. Anywho, what jazz were we blowin’?”
“This case is kicking my keister,” I said, “and the election’s tomorrow. I need a quick way to flush out Ben or whoever plucked Viola.”
The librarian smiled slowly (the way he did everything). “Well, bop my skull bone and call me a conga drum. I just had a brainstorm.”
“Spill,” I said.
“These cats were wiggin’ ’cause Viola was run
ning for prez, yes?”
“Yeah . . .”
“So it stands to reason, if you wanna bring ’em into the open, you oughta . . .”
In a flash, I saw it. “Run for president myself?”
“Exactomundo,” said Cool Beans.
My mouth fell open at the simple beauty of it.
“Cool Beans,” I said, “you’re a possum genius.”
“I hate to brag,” he said. “But when a gecko’s right, he’s right.”
11
Campaign and Caviar
As it turned out, running for student council president was so easy, even a moron could’ve done it. (And many have.)
With Cool Beans’s help, I filled out a form and snagged a petition. All I needed were ten students’ signatures, and I’d be in the race.
I scored seven of them on the soccer field. It was a snap. I just promised the kids whatever they wanted most.
Then, my salamander buddy Bo Newt staggered up, dripping water.
“Ah, just the bozo I was looking for,” I said.
Bo stumbled and fell toward me. I caught his shoulders, and then I caught his scent: Eau de Bus Station Bathroom.
“Whew!” I winced. “What happened to you?”
He coughed and collapsed on the grass. “These three squirrels,” he said. “They cornered me in the bathroom—pushing and making rude cracks about reptiles. So I started giving ’em some back.”
“But you’re an amphibian,” I said.
“Oh, yeah,” said Bo. “I forgot.”
I indicated his drenched body. “So what’d they do?”
“Flushed me down the toilet,” he said.
“Eew.” I stepped back.
Bo pointed to the parking lot. “I came up through the manhole over there.”
I shook my head. “I’ve heard of being flushed with victory, but this is ridiculous. Who were the squirrels?”
“Dunno,” said the salamander. “But they kept talking about hug or glug or something.”
“Well, which was it?”
Bo frowned. “Couldn’t tell. Kinda hard to hear over the flushing.”
With that, the class bell clang-a-langed. Lunchtime was history.
I suddenly recalled my mission. “Hey, Bo, sign this?”
My classmate scrawled his name. “What is it?” he asked.
“I’m running for president,” I said. “If I win, I’ll take care of those bullies.”
“Gee, thanks, Chet.”
“Don’t mention it. Now would you do me a favor?”
“You got it.”
“Hit the showers before coming back to class.” I fanned the air. “Nothing personal, ace, but you stink.”
Class was the usual bundle of laughs. But when recess rolled around, I perked up. Like the aftereffects of a fire-ant bran muffin, things were heating up.
It was a breeze getting my ninth autograph. Shirley Chameleon has always had a crush on me, so I used that to get her to sign on the dotted line.
Shameless, I know. I blame politics.
Natalie provided the last signature. As we marched to the office to hand the petition to Principal Zero, I filled her in on my scheme.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“Well, it’s simple, like my uncle Brad. But unlike Brad, it just might work.”
“So you’re in?”
“In?” she said. “I’m your new campaign manager.”
Mr. Zero wasn’t quite so keen. “It’s the day before the election,” he said.
“We’ve got the signatures,” I said. “Cool Beans says that’s all we need.”
“But you?” he snarled, digging his claws into his wide black desk. “In student government? What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” I said.
“Or maybe one,” said Natalie. “He caught some of the ol’ school spirit!”
The tomcat looked from one of us to the other. “Uh-huh,” he said.
“What’s wrong, boss man?” I said.
“Gecko, the school rules say I have to let you run. But they don’t say I have to like it. I think you’re up to something.”
I gave him my poker face. “I wonder if I know what you mean?”
“I wonder if you wonder.”
We made tracks before Mr. Zero could grill me further. When your principal can literally sniff out a lie, you keep the chat to a minimum.
“So how do we spread the word that I’m running?” I asked Natalie.
“Leave that to me,” she said. We hit the playground.
“Ah-OOOO-GAH!” bellowed Natalie, sounding exactly like an obnoxious car horn. Heads turned.
Those mockingbirds sure can mock.
“Attention, students!” cried Natalie. “You’ve heard the best, now try the rest. Chet Gecko for president!”
Kids gathered around. Of course, they would have assembled for a train wreck, or a four-alarm fire, or any break in their routines.
“What do you have in mind?” I muttered.
“Trust me,” Natalie whispered back.
She cupped her wings around her beak and shouted, “Come one, come all, for a thrilling speech. Ladies and germs, please welcome . . . Chet Gecko!”
“A speech?!” I hissed at her. “What will I—”
Natalie made a grand bow and backed away.
Two or three kids clapped halfheartedly. The rest waited to see someone embarrass himself. They wouldn’t have long to wait.
I hate public speaking.
“Uh . . . hey, Emerson Hicky-ites,” I began. “I’m, uh, Chet Gecko . . . and, uh . . .”
“We know who ya are,” shouted a burly mole, “Cheap Geek-o!”
His friends chuckled.
Sweat trickled down my face. “I’m, uh . . . running for president,” I said.
“No duh!” someone else yelled.
The crowd laughed.
“Come on!” Natalie whispered.
The kids were getting restless. It was now or never.
“Okay,” I said. “Though my name is Chet, let me be frank. Sometimes, school munches the big muffin. Schoolwork can be cheesy and greasy as an inchworm enchilada. True?”
Some kids nodded. “Yeah,” said a seagull. “So?”
I waved my hands. “So if I’m elected president, I’ll do something about it. No more boring subjects. History, gone! Math, gone!”
The students cheered.
“But I like math,” whined a ferret. Her neighbors shushed her.
“We’ll get back to the basics,” I said, “like comic book reading, and ultimate Frisbee, and bungee jumping.”
“Yeah!” shouted Bo Newt from the back of the mob.
I was on a roll, pumping my fist in the air. “All recesses will last an hour, and the fountains will run with soda and chocolate milk. Pizza day, every day!”
Several lizards up front started chanting, “Ge-cko, Ge-cko!”
My plan was working. A rush of power swept through me. So this was what the politics racket was all about.
I smiled and raised my arms. Victory was in the air.
Just then, a wedge of furry bodies came slamming into the crowd, and everything went to heck in a handbasket.
12
Bright Fights, Big Kitty
The playground erupted into a melee of shoving, shouting, and screaming. Fur and feathers flew. Kids tussled like the final round of a grudge match between Baker the Undertaker and Antone “The Stone” Jones.
The mob jostled me this way and that. Miss Flappy swooped past, onto a third-grade skink. Then, from out of the brawl, a black-and-tan shape plowed toward me like a spiteful torpedo.
It was Ben Dova the wolverine—rude and ripe and ready to rumble.
He pushed past Dum-Dum, who was wrestling an iguana. “Drop out of the race, bright boy,” said Ben. “Or I’m gonna drop you.”
“And did you make Viola drop out, too?”
The wolverine frowned. “Don’t change the subject. Stop running for president—that’s w
hat I want.”
“Bucko, there are two kinds of people in this world,” I said, circling. “Those who care and those who don’t. Me? I don’t care.”
He swung a massive paw. It wasn’t witty repartee, but I got his point.
I ducked.
“What’s the matter?” I said. “Don’t trust the voters to pick you over me?”
“Whaddaya mean?” he said. “I dropped out today.”
My mouth fell open. “You what?”
He drew himself up proudly. “I’m givin’ my votes to Perry Winkel.”
“Then what’s it to you whether I’m president of Emerson Hicky or Queen of the Arkansas Avocado Festival?”
The wolverine lunged. I jumped back.
“You’re a filthy lizard—not fit to lead.” Ben edged closer.
“Says who?” I asked.
“Says Glog,” he growled, feinting at my head.
I ducked again.
But the wolverine anticipated my move. His other paw swooped in and grabbed my throat, lifting me high into the air.
Natalie’s face popped up over Ben’s shoulder. “Chet, what can I do?”
“Groak!” I croaked.
“Yes, I know he’s choking you, but what do you want me to do?”
I pried at my attacker’s fingers, but I might as well have been trying to bend iron bars. My face turned redder than a bullfighter’s undies.
“Dnff traktn,” I grunted.
“The tractor?” Natalie guessed. “Bring a tractor?”
I rolled my eyes and pointed my free hand at the wolverine.
“Never mind,” said Natalie. “I’ll think of something.” She flapped off.
My eyes were beginning to bug out of my skull. My head felt like twenty pounds of concrete packed into a five-pound bag.
Suddenly—FWEET-FWEEET!—a piercing whistle cut through the hubbub.
“Everybody freeze!” bellowed Principal Zero’s unmistakable voice.
The wolverine dropped me like a girlfriend with bad breath. He slipped into the knot of confused kids, who were looking around for the principal.
Shakily, I got to my feet and scanned the area, but I couldn’t spot him.
Natalie appeared beside me. “Okey-dokey,” she said. “Now, what did you learn from your wolverine playmate?”
