by Sheila Grau
“Someone attacked us,” I heard a kid say. “Probably another minion school.”
“Minion schools can’t attack each other,” a red-jacketed sixth-year replied. “It’s in the Code. The overlords want as many minion providers as possible. It keeps prices down. No, this was probably Evil Overlord Dark Wendix, paying us back for training those defective ogre-men.”
“Nobody’s gonna come here for school,” a fourth-year werewolf said. “We’re done for.”
My hunger vanished as worry took over my stomach.
With great power comes the responsibility to have great minions.
—DR. CRITCHLORE
I’d lost my appetite, but I grabbed a tray and headed for my usual table, a six-seater crammed in the corner, near the sealed-off teachers’ room. Syke left to sit with the girls. I passed some upperclassmen who were comparing this explosion to ones in the past. The consensus seemed to be that it was bigger than Dr. Frankenhammer’s failed “explosive minions” experiment (once one blew, they all did), but not as bad as when Professor Vodum taught Using Care Around Explosives and blew up the gymnasium.
I sat down next to Frankie. Across from us were a couple of other D-Hummers, Eloni and Boris, who were staring at the ogre-man table, where the cool kids sat.
Eloni Tatupu was an islander, brown from the sun, with close-cropped black hair. He was as big as a refrigerator and a fierce fighter when he was serious, which he never was. I had a feeling most of the crazy rumors around school started with Eloni. He could hear someone say “Higgins got a flat tire on his bike,” and he’d turn it into “Higgins ran over a nest of snakes, was bitten seventy-three times, and barely escaped with his life.”
And Boris would believe him.
Boris Tumblewrecker was an ogre-man, but he’d gotten the weaker brew of that genetic mixture: He looked like a human, was weak like a human, but had the intelligence of an ogre. I’m not saying ogres are stupid, but scrawny little Boris didn’t realize he was any different from the other ogre-men, who were bigger than Eloni.
Actually, Boris and I looked so much alike that we could almost pass for twins. Same build (I was still waiting for that growth spurt), same brown hair, hazel eyes, pale skin. Looking at us from behind, the only way someone could tell us apart was that I had my pants on the right way.
Propped up in the seat next to Eloni was a giant club. I nodded at it and Eloni said, “That’s Little Eloni.” He patted it on the top. “Little Eloni, meet Higgins,” he said.
“Nice to meet you,” I said to his club.
Most of the ogre-men carried clubs. Eloni wouldn’t admit it, but he really wanted to hang out with them. I couldn’t blame him. The ogre-men had a sort of confidence that drew everyone’s attention, even now, post–“Epic Minion Fail” video.
“Crazy explosion, huh?” I said.
“I heard someone say they thought a propane line blew,” Frankie said.
“I heard that the disbursement of debris was contradictive of that suppository.” The guys looked at me funny, so I added, “Vodum thinks not.”
“Vodum,” Frankie said, shaking his head. “What does he know? Did you see the plume of fire? Definitely a gas explosion.”
“Nope,” Eloni said. “It was Explosive Eric, the dude who died last year. He wanted to be buried with his explosives so he could go out with a bang. But his partner messed up the timer. By a year.”
I didn’t think that was true, but then, who knew?
Frankie shrugged. “As long as it’s over, who cares? I’ve got bigger things to worry about.”
“Did you get some replacement blood?” I asked him.
“Not yet,” he said. “I had to stay after Biology class because …” He sniffed. “Because Daddy, er, Dr. Frankenhammer, said he wanted to do something about my lisp.” His voice cracked a little when he said that. “I didn’t even know I had a lithp.” He blinked fast, like he was trying not to cry.
“You don’t,” I said. “Er, you didn’t.”
Darn that Dr. Frankenhammer! No matter how hard Frankie worked, Dr. Frankenhammer always seemed disappointed in him. If Frankie ran a mile in three minutes, Dr. Frankenhammer would sigh and shake his head, saying, “I was hoping for two minutes.”
“He said I shouldn’t call him ‘Daddy,’ either,” Frankie continued. “It’s unprofessional.”
“Frankie, don’t worry about him,” I said. “You’re amazing. I mean, look at you. First of your kind—”
“Twenty-fifth,” he corrected.
“First of your kind to make it past infancy. And look what you’ve accomplished. You breeze through all your classes, you’re our best third bagman/offensive tackle in tackle three-ball, and I think Bianca’s been checking you out.”
“She asked me if my arms detach.” He sniffed. “Then she giggled and asked if I’d lend her a hand.”
Eloni spit out some of his milk, and then pretended to cough. Boris looked confused, so Eloni leaned toward him to explain the joke. “Because his head pops off, see—”
“You’ve got a lot going for you,” I said to Frankie. “Don’t let that nitpicky scientist or one snooty girl make you feel bad.”
He shrugged. He couldn’t help but feel bad; he was a sensitive guy.
Darthin squeezed his way through the tables and sat next to me. His dirty-blond hair had puffed up a bit from its earlier flatness, and he had a huge smile on his face.
“Wow, Darthin,” I said, “you look happy.” Lunch was usually kind of stressful for him, because of the monsters.
“I just had Biology,” he said. “It … was … awesome.”
“Who do you have?” I asked.
“Frankenhammer,” Darthin said.
“Me too,” Boris said. “I was late, and he made me the Test Subject of the Day.” He scratched his head. “We’re studying head lice. I have to go back after school.” He leaned forward and whispered, “I don’t want to go back.”
“Sorry, guys,” I said, leaning away from Boris. “Frankenhammer is scary.”
“Are you kidding?” Darthin smiled. “Frankenhammer’s awesome. He’s a genius. And he likes me. Me!”
I shushed him, because that was the sort of thing that would send Frankie’s head flying. Fortunately, Frankie had fallen asleep, his head propped against the wall.
“Sorry,” Darthin said. “I bet it’s because of my horns.” He stroked a fake horn, like he was thanking it. “I’m thinking of adding a bony hump. Young gargoyles have them. Eventually, they sprout wings. But listen. I’m helping him in his lab during my free period, and I’m learning so much. Did you know he invented the Slime-Spewing Lizards?”
“No,” I said. “That was Dr. Critchlore. It’s in his autobiography.”
“No, Critchlore just took the credit,” Darthin said. “Frankenhammer showed me his lab books on them. How he sketched them out and plotted different spewing methods and everything.”
“Why did he let Dr. Critchlore take his idea?”
Darthin shrugged. “He said it’s in his contract. Anything he invents while working here becomes the property of Dr. Critchlore. He’s inventing something new now, but he’s very hush-hush about it. I think he doesn’t want it to get stolen too. How’s the junior henchman thing going?”
“I probably won’t last long,” I said. “Dr. Critchlore posted twenty-seven kids to the program and there are only five slots. Plus I’m cursed.”
“Bummer.”
I saw Pismo eating with some first-years. I almost waved at him until I remembered that I was still mad about his prank. He nodded at me. His hair looked a little singed. I wondered if he was near the cemetery when it exploded, since he’d run off in that direction.
The bell rang three times, signaling an announcement. The teachers’ room unshuttered and the door opened as everyone looked to the flat screen mounted high on the wall at the end of the cafeteria. Dr. Critchlore’s face filled it, his beaky nose seeming to stab at us with its sharp point.
“Good af
ternoon, students, faculty, and staff. I know you must all be concerned about the explosion, and I want to assure you that the school is in no further danger. Our security team is investigating, and Mrs. Gomes tells me that it was an isolated incident.
“Due to the explosion, we are canceling classes for the rest of the day. Students will report to their halls to review safety drills. We had quite a few mix-ups this morning, and this vital area needs to be addressed first. Please be assured that the safety of our minions is a priority for us. Maybe not the highest priority, but it’s definitely in the top five.
“What else?” He looked up, as if the answer was floating in the air above him. “Oh yes. Students in the Junior Henchman Training Program will report to the base of Mount Curiosity for their first test tomorrow morning at seven.”
The screen went black, but we could still hear Dr. Critchlore’s voice. “That’s it, right? I’m a very busy man. Now, where’s my remote? My soap opera comes on at one.”
There were a few giggles from the students. The teachers frowned. A few of them muttered something about the board of directors hearing about this.
I felt ill. Junior henchman test tomorrow morning? Outside? What could they be testing us on? What if it was fighting skills? I tried to imagine something else, but nothing came to mind. I was doomed.
Just as you cannot teach a crab to walk straight, you cannot teach a Critchlore minion to be unfaithful.
—DR. CRITCHLORE, IN AN ADVERTISEMENT
The afternoon crawled by like an explosive minion. (Did I mention they were slow?)
Professor Twilk, the weapons teacher in charge of the third-year students, showed us where to report during safety drills and emergencies. Our meeting spot was the ballroom located at the end of one arm of the castle. Decorated with mirrors and chandeliers, the huge room was where we had Dance class once a week. Evil overlords liked to party, and they liked to fill their parties with excellent dancers. Our bad luck.
Detention was in the dungeon, so I headed there after school. The dungeon’s central hub, located beneath the castle foyer, was a busy place. Phones rang, printers hummed, people darted between cubicles. Brownies (the small, hairy creatures, not the delectable dessert) dashed about, cleaning up spills and delivering coffee. There were doors leading off the chamber on every wall of the room. The dungeon spread out in all directions.
I signed in at the sign-in desk (they kept track of who came and went because people tended to get lost in the dungeon). Then it was off to the fifth-years’ practice laboratory, located on the main dungeon level, past the blood bank (for the vampires), the spare-parts freezer room (for the biological engineers), and the day-care center (for the children of school employees). Mr. Griphold, the dean of Class 3 minions (human-size), stood at the door with his tablet computer, having downloaded his list of detainees.
“Higgins,” he said, “go on in and take a seat. When everyone’s here, I’ll hand out assignments.”
The room was brightly lit with fluorescent lights. Out of four rows of lab tables, only three chairs were occupied: Hector, a hobgoblin wearing the blue jacket of a seventh-year; Drangulus, a fourth-year lizard-boy (light blue jacket); and Fiona, a third-year siren. I tried not to stare, but she was really cute. Her blond hair looked so silky that I wanted to run my fingers through it. She was drawing a picture of a unicorn on her binder. Drangulus tried to show her his picture of a two-headed swamp cat, but she just shivered and looked away. We had quite a few two-headed swamp cats on the school grounds, but not one unicorn.
I sat down and pulled out a brochure I’d picked up at the library: What to Do if You’re Cursed. I read:
Section One: Who Gets Cursed?
Those who wish ill on others, either consciously or unconsciously, make themselves vulnerable to curses, because they fill themselves with negative cursing energy.
Hmm. Had I wished someone ill? I didn’t think so. Maybe I had unconsciously cursed Pismo. Or the imps.
The first step to remove a curse is to cleanse oneself of the resonant energy of cursing. Think happy thoughts about the people you would curse.
Okay. I closed my eyes and thought, Pismo is a nice kid. He was just trying to be funny. Same with the imps. I do not wish them harm. Pismo is a friendly, funny guy.
“Boo!” Someone yelled in my ear.
I jumped, knocking over my chair. Half the contents of my backpack jumbled out onto the floor. I turned, ready for attack, and saw Pismo’s smiling face.
“Hey,” he said.
Most people know you should never, ever sneak up on a werewolf. I straightened my chair and stuffed everything back into my backpack. I opened my curse brochure again. There had to be another way to get rid of curses, because I couldn’t stop my negative thoughts about Pismo.
The little pest sat down behind me and leaned forward, whispering in my ear, “You’re not mad, are you?”
I decided to let him figure out the answer to that question.
“C’mon, it was a great prank. Don’t be a poor sport.”
“It may come as a surprise to you,” I said, turning around, “but some of us don’t think it’s cool to get detention.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to be here alone, okay?” He flipped his long bangs out of his eyes. “This place gives me the creeps.”
Mr. Griphold came in and shut the door. “Five students who couldn’t make it one day into the new term without getting into trouble.” He shook his head and tsked us. Then he smiled. “Well, more workers for me. Let’s see.” He tapped the screen of his tablet. “Tootles needs someone to pull weeds in the gar—”
“I’ll take it,” Hector said. He got up to leave and muttered, “Too slow, suckers,” as he went.
Of course, that was a good job—outside with Tootles, who was a pushover.
“Next,” Griphold went on. “Mistress Moira—”
“I’ll take it,” the lizard-boy said. I smacked my head. Any job with Moira would be easy. She was the school seamstress and chocolatier. Everyone said she was crazy because she claimed to be the Fourth Fate from mythology, but she was really nice.
“Okay,” Griphold said. “Next, I have a job in the kitchen.”
“I’ll take it,” I said. It was a job I’d probably do anyway, when I went to check in with Cook like I always did after school. She’d give me a hug and a snack, ask me how my day went, and then put me to work.
“Aw, I wanted to work in the kitchen,” Fiona said. She pouted her lips and blinked at me.
“Oh, you can have it,” I said. She smiled, smacked her gum, and skipped out of the room.
“That leaves you two,” Griphold said. “Dr. Frankenhammer had an accident in his lab. Report there for cleanup.”
Of course. Hey, I was cursed, what did I expect? A job testing Professor Dunkirk’s off-road vehicles?
We turned to leave, but Griphold grabbed my arm. “You might want to pick up a hazardous materials suit in the Supply Station first. Just to be safe.”
“Yes, Mr. Griphold,” I said. Then, in a whisper, I added, “What’s Pismo in for?”
“Tried to swipe a book from Dr. Critchlore’s office,” he said.
I looked at Pismo, who had dumped his books out of his backpack and was looking for something at the bottom.
“He doesn’t strike me as the reading type,” I muttered.
“It was the Top Secret Book of Minions,” Griphold said. “He was probably after the jewels.”
Leash laws! Pismo had tried to steal the most valuable book in the whole school. But how? It was locked in a display case. The Top Secret Book of Minions was an ancient, leather-bound book with pages edged in gold. Inlaid with jewels, the cover was held closed by metal gears attached to a wide band. It had taken Dr. Critchlore months to figure out how to open it.
It was supposed to hold the secret of creating an undefeatable minion, but it was written in some ancient code.
And Pismo had just tried to steal it. What was that boy up t
o?
Discipline, Duty, Determination, and On-Time Delivery.
—DR. CRITCHLORE’S FOUR PILLARS OF BUSINESS SUCCESS
Frankenhammer,” Pismo said. “That’s the creepy dude, right?”
“Yep.”
I led Pismo to a stone staircase that descended to a lower dungeon level. Mr. Griphold had given Pismo a DPS (Dungeon Positioning System), so I pulled out mine and showed him how to plug in the Supply Station as our destination. Something told me he’d be back in detention again, and I wasn’t planning on joining him. The least I could do was make sure he didn’t get lost.
We watched the route light up on the device. “Please proceed straight down the amber hall until you reach the Column of On-Time Delivery,” it said.
“ ‘Column of On-Time Delivery’?” Pismo asked.
“Dr. Critchlore inscribed his four pillars of business success onto the four columns that support the school,” I explained. “The four Ds.”
“What are they?”
“Discipline, Duty, Determination, and On-Time Delivery.”
Pismo looked back to his DPS.
“I hardly ever use the DPS,” I told him. “The routes are always longer than they need to be. Plus I know the shortcuts.” I probably knew the school better than anybody, but I didn’t want to brag.
“Still, always check one out,” I cautioned, “because, as it says above the Strategy Room, ‘A Minion Prepared Is a Minion Not Snared.’ You’ll get your own when you’re a third-year.”
“Right,” Pismo said. “Does this have any weapons capabilities?”
“No, it’s just a map,” I said.
We walked to the Column of On-Time Delivery, which was as wide around as an old-growth redwood tree. Each column stood in its own circular room, the column in the center like a tent pole. The curving walls were decorated with tapestries, photographs, and testimonials to honor the great minion battles of the past.
