by Bruce Hale
“Tyler?” said Mr. Chu. “Was it you?”
“Wasn’t me,” Tyler gasped. “Why don’t you ask Benny and Carlos?”
“Yeah,” said AJ, with a glare. “They’re up to lots of suspicious stuff.” And this coming from the kid we rescued from mutant mantises two weeks earlier. Where’s the gratitude?
Our teacher turned my way. “How about it, Carlos?”
“I promise you,” said Benny before I could speak, “we would never choose something as gross as stink bombs for our project.”
And that was true—technically speaking.
As they spoke, the smell thickened, then thickened again, like a killer fog in a horror movie. My eyes were actually watering.
Jackson said, “I think—ugh—it’s coming from the heater vents.”
Amrita raised her hand. “Permission to toss my cookies?” she asked Mr. Chu.
“Okay, that’s it!” he cried. “Time to abandon ship. Everyone, form a line now.”
You’d have thought they were handing out free As at the door, our class lined up so fast. We trotted down the hallway and out onto the grass, joining what looked like every other classroom in the school.
“Those things are strong,” I muttered to Benny.
“Like I said—strongest known to man,” he replied.
Outside, the air was cool and fresh—and more importantly, stench-free. I gulped it gratefully.
Benny nudged me. “If that doesn’t drive ’em out, I don’t know what will.”
At that, an unhappy thought struck me. “But if we do drive them out…”
“Yeah?” said Benny.
“Where will they go next? They could be anywhere.” I glanced around, chills crawling up my shoulders. “The playground, the park, the cafeteria…”
“Don’t worry,” said Benny. “They love dark, underground places, right?”
“Right.”
“So they must have gotten here through tunnels, and they’ll probably leave the same way.”
I cocked my head, not totally convinced. “Maybe, but—”
Just then, Tyler Spork swaggered down the line to us, trailed by Big Pete. “So, losers, ready to admit you’re totally chicken?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, still eyeing the bushes for monsters.
Tyler shared a smirk with Pete. “Last night,” he said. “No way did you guys spend an hour in there with the ghost.”
Benny handed him an answering smirk and fished out his phone. Displaying the first photo from the night before, he said, “Watch it and weep, sucka!”
Frowning, Tyler and Pete checked out our mechanical room selfie.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Pete said. “You could’ve shot it and left.”
“Oh, yeah?” Benny advanced to the scorp-lion photo. “Then how do you explain…this?”
But before he could show them, a shadow fell over us. “And just what,” said Principal Johnson, “do we have here?”
I KNEW WE’D done nothing wrong—well, almost nothing. (It was for the highest good, after all.) But my heart still climbed into my throat when Mrs. Johnson pulled Benny and me out of line for a private conversation. “Well?” she said. “You’ve been investigating this…situation for a full day. What do you have to report?”
I offered up a sickly smile. “Um, there’s good news and bad news.”
“Isn’t there always?” Her eyebrow arched. “Go on.”
“The good news is, we found what was putting people into comas,” I said.
“And the bad?” asked Mrs. Johnson.
Benny showed her the photo. “This. Their sting knocks people out.”
“That’s the best you can do?” she said. “Photoshopped monsters?”
“It’s not Photoshopped,” said Benny.
“He’s telling the truth,” I added. “We don’t even know how to use the program.”
“No kidding?” Our principal grimaced at the image. “Then what in the Wide World of Sports is that?”
“We call them scorp-lions,” said Benny.
“That’s awful!” she said.
I jammed my hands into my pockets. “Well, it was the best name we could think of.”
Mrs. Johnson cut her eyes at me. “Not the name, the creature.”
“Oh.”
Her gaze flicked down at the photo, then up at the restless students all around us. “I should close down the school right now,” she said. “All these kids. The danger…”
“Well, sure,” said Benny. “You could shut things down, but we may have just taken care of the problem.”
“Explain yourself,” said Mrs. Johnson.
Benny’s chest swelled. “We left something in the mechanical room that the scorp-lions really hate. In fact, I bet they’re already running away on their furry little feet.”
She stared at him for a moment, and then her eyes widened. “That was you two? That nasty smell?”
“Um…” I said. Suddenly the air around us felt frostier than an igloo with a moonroof.
“Well,” said Benny, oblivious. “I don’t like to brag, but—”
“You disrupted classes throughout this school and drove everyone from their rooms?” The principal’s eyes narrowed like a gunslinger’s at high noon. “Not knowing if those creatures would be roaming around outside?”
“Uh, yeah?” said Benny. He seemed less certain.
“And you deliberately ignored my instructions by trying to deal with things yourself instead of calling me?”
I jumped in. “Technically yes, but we—”
Mrs. Johnson’s expression looked meaner than a mama wasp. “I should lock you up in detention and throw away the key.”
“But you said we’d each get two free passes,” Benny protested.
Her nostrils flared. “Consider this your first one.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Principal Johnson planted her fists on her hips, looked up at the sky, and blew out some air. “I’d just as soon bite a bug as work with you two again.”
“Thanks,” said Benny. “We try.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.” She took a moment to collect herself. “Now, I’ll say this in a way that not even you can misinterpret, Mr. Brackman.”
I grimaced. When principals call you Mister, it’s never a good sign.
“First,” said Mrs. Johnson, “text me that photo so I can send it to Pest Control. And second: Stay. Out. Of. That. Room. ¿Comprende?”
“Yes, ma’am,” we said together.
“But we can still take a quick peek inside, right?” said Benny. “Just to be sure they’ve gone?”
The principal’s gaze was a slow burn. “Not a peek, not a sniff, not a glimmer. And just to make sure…”
“Yes?” I asked.
“Key, please.”
With a wistful look, Benny handed her the universal key. She made a shooing gesture with both hands. “Now git! Go join your class.”
You can always tell when Mrs. Johnson is upset—her Texas twang gets strong enough to raise a blood blister on a boot. When that happens, the smart move is to follow orders. We’re not that smart, but still, we went and joined our class.
“Geez,” said Benny. “Would it have killed her to say thanks?”
Like the other teachers, Mr. Chu ended up conducting our lessons on the playground until jumbo-sized electric fans could air out the classrooms. Amrita and Cheyenne complained bitterly about not being able to work on their science-fair projects. But I didn’t mind.
Hopefully, our project was taking care of itself right that moment. With a little luck, the monsters had fled back into whatever underground tunnels they’d come from, and all that remained was to learn the chemical content of Benny’s stink bombs for our write-up. Easy-peasy, sweet and greasy.
When the all-clear bell rang, everyone fell into lines and trudged back to class.
“Hey,” Benny said as we walked down the hall, “how do we tell if th
e you-know-whats are gone, if we can’t go check out the room?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Nobody else gets stung, and the moaning stops?”
“Works for me.”
Tina pulled up beside us. “So what did the principal want?”
“To congratulate us on our excellent grades,” said Benny.
She snorted. “In your dreams, Brackman. What did she really want?”
“We’re doing a little project for her,” I said.
“You mean busting up the haunting?” said Tina.
My mouth fell open. “How did you know?”
One corner of her mouth tugged upward. “That’s your only talent, aside from buying comic books and making wisecracks.”
She laughed at my expression. “Nah, Tyler’s been blabbing about his dare, and I connected the dots. So, what’s the latest on our spook situation?”
We gave her the lowdown, and before we’d finished, discovered that we had an eavesdropper: Esme. Benny noticed her first.
“How much did you hear, Nosy McSnoopersteen?” he asked.
Tossing back her long black hair, Esme said, “You’ve got a monster problem and you’re in way over your head. Just as I predicted.”
“Predicted?” I said. “You told everyone it was a ghost.”
Esme flapped her hand. “Ghost, monster, whatever. Shout when you need my expert help.”
“Don’t you worry.” Benny’s grin oozed smugness. “The real experts have already handled it.”
But then, only ten minutes after we’d settled back into our lessons, that creepy moaning echoed once again through the vents. The “real experts” hadn’t handled anything. Those scorp-lions were dug in deeper than a deer tick in a hound dog’s ear.
I met Benny’s exasperated gaze. We both knew what this meant. Come lunchtime, we’d have to work on Plan C.
And we didn’t have a Plan C. Fact is, we were running out of both plans and resourcefulness. And the clock was ticking.
AS WE LEFT the lunchroom after a hurried meal, Benny and I came across an argument in the hall. Not so strange, maybe. Kids get into beefs every day. But this time, it was Principal Johnson and two guys in tan overalls mixing it up.
“You said you had scorpions,” said the first man, whose potbelly was so big he seemed to be smuggling a basketball under his outfit.
“I do,” said Mrs. Johnson, her voice flatter than month-old roadkill.
“Those ain’t scorpions,” whined the second guy, a short dude with forearms like Thor. “They’re f-freaks of nature.” The whites of his eyes showed all around. The man was clearly spooked.
“Keep your voice down.” Our principal crossed her arms. “Either way, they’re pests. You say you get rid of pests.”
Basketball Belly scoffed. “Sure, little bitty ones.”
“Are you big, tough hombres afraid of varmints?” she said.
“We’re not afraid of anything,” the potbellied man growled.
“Doesn’t look like it to me.”
Shorty held up his palms. “Lady, we handle bedbugs, spiders, rats, roaches, and termites. I ain’t never tackled anything big enough to eat my poodle. Did you see that thing?”
Glancing around for eavesdroppers, she shushed the pest guy.
“Did you see it?” he repeated, in a hoarse whisper. “That’s way out of our league.”
“You’re saying you won’t even try?” Icicles formed on Mrs. Johnson’s words.
“We’re saying this is a job for Animal Control,” said Basketball Belly, hoisting his sprayer onto his shoulder. “Why don’t you give them a call?”
“Oh, I will,” she said. “And don’t expect a positive review on Yelp.”
After exchanging a final round of glares, the men collected their equipment and slouched off down the hall. Mrs. Johnson wheeled on us.
“Don’t even dream of sticking your noses into it,” she said.
“Who, us?” said Benny, with his best Little Angel expression.
“Animal Control will handle this.”
“Of course,” I said. “But if anyone gets stung, tell them to pour soda over the wound. It stops the coma.”
Mrs. Johnson sent me a dubious look, which was about the same response the hospital had given us when we called with that same message. Then she sniffed, spun on her heel, and headed for the office.
“Think Animal Control can handle it?” I asked Benny.
He grunted. “Yeah, right.”
As we paced the playground brainstorming Plan C, I spotted Esme sitting on a low wall by the basketball courts. A thought struck me. “Maybe there’s another way to approach this.”
“How do you mean?” asked Benny.
“We’ve been treating the monsters like cats, and it hasn’t helped.”
“True,” said Benny. “So now we treat ’em like scorpions and break out the bug spray?”
“Not exactly. I think if we knew more about them, we could try a different approach—something that works.”
Benny brightened. “I’m all ears,” he said. “Except for the parts of me that are eyes, nose, neck, and so forth.”
I pointed at Miss Mini-Goth. “Maybe she’s got the key.”
“Esme?” he said. “Off-key, maybe.”
“Just follow my lead.” I strolled over and sat beside her on the wall. Benny took her other side.
“How’s it going?” I said.
Esme glanced at me sidelong. “You need my help. The big bad monster experts need my help.”
I sighed. “Much as I hate to admit it. Benny, show her the picture.”
He pulled out his phone and scrolled to the scorp-lion photo.
“This is what we’re dealing with,” I said.
Esme’s face softened. “Aww, cute! Look at their little tails.”
Benny and I traded a look over her head. “Uh, yeah,” I said. “We’re wondering whether these…cuties might have been created by your mom’s old boss?”
She squinted at the image, then wagged her head. “Mmm, maybe. Whoever it was did a good job. It’s not easy splicing insects and mammals.”
“Like mixing peanut butter and garlic,” said Benny.
“Uh, yeah, but only a million times harder,” said Esme, with an eye roll. “I bet the DNA isn’t even compatible, and—”
“Fascinating,” I said. “And we’d love to talk to your mom’s old boss about it.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know his name. Mom had to sign some agreement that she couldn’t discuss her job, even with me.”
I sagged. So much for that bright idea.
“Bummer,” said Benny. He made to stand. “Well, we—”
“Hang on,” I said to Esme, grasping at straws. “You must know something about him. A clue to where he lives? Anything?”
Esme caught a strand of her hair between her lips and chewed it thoughtfully. “Well,” she said after a pause, “he’s really rich.”
“Go on,” I said.
“When my mom worked for him, a long black limo took her to and from work every day. And I think it’s somewhere in Monterrosa.”
“That narrows it down,” said Benny. “Barely.”
Esme’s gaze tracked the basketball players as she continued to gnaw on her hair. “Oh, and he’s old, I think, and he might be from another country.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“When things got really bad between them, she once said, ‘I wish that chuckleheaded old poop would go back where he came from.’ That’s all I can remember.”
Chuckleheaded old poop? An idea itched at the back of my mind.
Standing, I said, “Thanks, that’s a big help.”
“It is?” said Esme. “Then do me a favor.”
“What’s that?” asked Benny.
A smile drifted across her pale face like a wispy cloud. “Introduce me to that redheaded guy playing basketball.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He’s dreamy.” Esme’s heavily mascaraed eyelashes fl
uttered like a pair of dirty moths trying to take flight.
I grimaced. “Eew!”
“What?” said Esme. “He’s cute!”
“Eeeww!” cried Benny and I together. As we hustled off before the cooties could catch us, I called back to her, “Connor’s a fifth grader, anyway.”
“Connor,” she breathed.
Pausing in a quiet corner of the playground, I told Benny, “See? We really learned something there.”
“That girls are nothing but googly-eyed cootie magnets?” he said.
“Besides that,” I said. “She said the monster-making guy was old, rich, and not from around here. Who do we know like that?”
Benny frowned. “Arnold Schwarzenegger?”
“In Monterrosa,” I said.
Cocking his head, Benny said, “Well, there’s Mr. Chen, who owns all those supermarkets.”
“Yeah, but he’s real old,” I said. “I can’t see him making anything stronger than tea. Ooh, what about Mr. Papadakis?”
“The finance guy? I heard he was so afraid of trick-or-treaters he locked his front gate and hid behind the curtains.”
I rubbed my jaw. “Hmm…”
Then, in a flash, the answer hit us both.
“The science dude,” said Benny.
“Hanzomon,” I said. “The guy who wanted new heroes.”
A strange expression crossed Benny’s face. He placed his fingers on his temples and shut his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Headache?”
“I…I’m having a psychic moment.”
“You can see the future?” Had he caught ESP from Miss Freshley? I wondered.
“My vision is clearing. I see…I see Mr. Hanzomon’s office getting a couple of late-night visitors.”
I smirked. “You’re some psychic, all right. The Great Benzini strikes again.”
OUR PLAN, LIKE most plans Benny and I hatched, was a simple one. (Rocket scientists we weren’t.) Step One: learn where Mr. Hanzomon worked. Step Two: slip out at night and go visit his office. Step Three: snoop around until we learned something about the monsters.
Steps One and Two were simple enough. When we said we wanted to write the scientist a thank-you letter for the iPads, Mrs. Johnson shared his business address.
