“But if he has everybody fooled, what can I do?” I asked.
“I don’t know. That’s why I came to you! Aren’t you supposed to be the big genius? The big-shot problem solver? You’re not really as advertised, you know.”
“Hey, I just have to do my research, that’s all.”
“Well, if you really don’t believe me, why don’t you just ask him about me? See if you can see through his lies then. My real name is Hannah Carol. Ask him about me.”
I nodded. “Okay, we will.”
“We’ll figure it out, okay?” Vince added. “I promise. It’s like my grandma always says, ‘It ain’t over until somebody gets eaten alive by a swarm of flying lamp shades.’”
His grandma did say that, too. I had heard her say it once after we lost a baseball game that summer. Vince’s whole family had groaned because some big-city team had seriously killed us by the mercy rule, but Vince had smiled, proud of his grandma’s assessment of our recently received butt kicking.
Hannah was silent for some time. Then she exploded into the loudest laughter I’d heard in a while in detention. She laughed so loud that even Mr. Daniels couldn’t ignore it. He stood up and started shouting.
“Quiet down! This is detention! I said, quiet!”
She just kept on laughing, and Mr. Daniels’s normally pale face filled with red, as if somebody had just opened his skull and poured in a whole pitcher of tomato juice.
“Stop that!” he shouted.
But now everybody else was laughing, too, not just Hannah. Except they weren’t laughing at Vince’s line; they were laughing at Mr. Daniels. And also just because. Kids know when a situation gets out of the teacher’s control, and they will seize that opportunity every time. Especially the detention kids.
We were all laughing now, and Daniels looked like he was on the verge of a heart attack. His face was practically bleeding out of every pore, he was so red, and he was pounding on his desk.
“Quiet! Quiet! Quiet! This is detention not social hour!”
We just kept laughing, and for a moment I almost forgot about how confused I was over whether Mr. Kjelson was good or bad and whether the dark-haired girl was lying to me or not.
After detention we rushed to baseball practice as quickly as we could. We were late due to detention. We apologized, even though Mr. K. had known we’d be late, and took our spots in the lines.
That day we worked on upping the velocity on the pitchers’ fastballs and also started working on some breaking pitches. I think even in the limited bit of time that Mr. Kjelson watched Vince, Vince pretty much blew away the coach with his circle change and a knuckleball he’d been working on lately. In fact Vince blew away everybody. His catchers even had a hard time following his pitches through their sharp and seemingly random breaks. I started to realize that there may be a good chance that only one of us would make the team and it wouldn’t be me. The only thing I had going for me was that I was the only one who didn’t miss a single one of Vince’s pitches, because I was so used to catching him.
After practice ended, Kjelson called Vince and me aside. “You played well today. Definitely made up for missing some time the past few days.”
I glanced at Vince, unsure of what to say. Vince just shrugged and then mumbled a thank-you. He’s never been good at taking compliments.
“So you two are Cubs fans, right?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Hey, is the pope Gouda?” I asked. I knew that that saying is supposed to go “Is the Pope Catholic?” but I liked Vince’s grandma’s version better.
Kjelson gave me a look and then chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes. What did you guys think about their trade yesterday?”
Vince and I spoke simultaneously, “It stinks!”
Coach Kjelson laughed and nodded. “I thought so, too. How could they trade away their best prospect for an aging forty-year-old slugger with arthritis and a .213 average last season? Makes no sense.”
Vince and I shook our heads solemnly.
“The curse,” I said.
“The curse,” Kjelson agreed with a nod. “Well, you never know. Maybe it will all work out this year somehow.”
A cold silence followed, and then we all burst out laughing. We all knew there was little chance of that happening. But what was so funny was that we also knew that all three of us were still secretly hoping that the Cubs would find a way to win, just like we all did every year. It really was a painful thing being a true Cubs fan, going through a routine, slow and regular heart smashing year after year.
I decided now was as good a time as any to follow up on Hannah’s, aka Trixie’s, suggested authenticity check.
“So, Mr. Kjelson, what can you tell me about a Hannah Carol?”
He was taken aback for a moment, more so, it seemed, than if I’d asked him about some other random student. He furrowed his brow, and his smile disappeared, and for the second time I wondered if I was getting a glimpse of that other side to Mr. Kjelson that Hannah swore existed and that nobody else could see.
“Why do you ask?”
I shrugged. “Just curious, I guess. I heard some things, that’s all.”
Now his eyes narrowed into black darts that could have passed right through a sheet of stainless steel. “What do you mean? What have you heard?”
He looked truly concerned, as if some secret was in danger of getting out. I didn’t know where to go from here. Suddenly I got the impression that this line of questioning was dangerous, that I shouldn’t have asked at all. But then Vince saved me from having to get myself out of it, as was usual.
“Oh hey, my mom’s waiting for us,” he said. “We better go.”
“See ya, Coach Kjelson,” I said.
As we left the gym, I looked back and saw Kjelson still staring at me darkly.
In his mom’s car Vince and I exchanged looks that suggested he was thinking the exact same thing. I was sort of feeling pretty grateful right then that the next practice wasn’t until Tuesday.
Chapter 10
Friday—School Hallway
Friday morning at early recess Vince and I stopped by Tony Adrian’s locker to check on the traps we’d set earlier that week. Tony was there waiting for us, looking more nervous and fidgety than usual.
“There’s more in there. I can tell already,” he said. “I can feel it.”
Vince and I exchanged a glance. “Let’s have a look,” Vince said.
Tony put in his locker combination and then stepped aside. Vince opened the locker door and I peered inside.
Tony was right: there were more of the small droppings piled in the bottom of the locker. They were sitting right in the middle of our trap.
But the trap was empty.
“Is that even possible?” I said.
Vince shook his head. “I don’t see how. There’s no way an animal could get in here, take a deuce, and then leave without being caught in that trap. No way.”
“What could that mean, then? Is it an invisible rat?”
“Unless we’re dealing with the Joe Blanton of rodents here, I don’t see how it’s possible that an animal left these at all.”
“Which means someone else—a kid—is putting them here?”
We both looked at Tony. He held up his impossibly clean hands and said, “Hey, don’t look at me. I’d rather get ten cavities filled than even look at that stuff.”
“Maybe it’s a prank, like someone knows Tony is a clean freak. No offense,” Vince said.
Tony shrugged, accepting that he was in fact a neat freak.
“Maybe,” I said, “but that doesn’t explain why so many other kids have complained to us about the same problem. And they’re kids from all different grades so it seems to be totally random.”
Vince shook his head. It was hard to stump Vince, so this really was somewhat of a mystery. “What about the Beagle?”
I nodded. “Yeah, let’s do that.”
Luckily we had come prepared. Vince took out a pair of pla
stic gloves and a plastic sandwich baggie. He carefully put some of the droppings into the bag, and then we double-bagged them and threw those bags into a brown paper bag. Hey, we weren’t taking any chances. Vince disposed of his gloves and wandered off to find a bathroom to wash his hands.
“We’ll figure this out eventually,” I said. “And we’ll make sure to send the Hutt by later to finish the cleaning.”
Tony nodded his head.
At lunch that day Jonah came back to the East Wing bathroom. This time he seemed much calmer than he had on his first visit. But he still insisted on running in place while in my office. I didn’t argue. I figured there was really no point with health psychos like Jonah.
“So I guess I probably don’t need your help anymore,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, Dr. George apparently, you know, he was, like, brought in to clean up our school since it’s been, like, falling apart, and one of the first things he did was to get our school a proper menu. I went to see him, and he was horrified at what we were being served. He called it a tragedy and said that America was tubby enough already or something like that. Anyway, thanks, Mac, but yesterday the lunch was great. We had boiled chicken, steamed broccoli, and plain brown rice.”
I thought that lunch sounded way worse than what they had been serving, but even beyond that was the fact that George had now stolen a customer from me. I didn’t like this at all. He was going to bleed me dry of my paying customers if he kept this up.
“So can I, like, get a refund, then?” Jonah asked while still jogging in place.
“Definitely,” I said as I put the Tom Petty cashbox on my desk. I hated giving out refunds, but it was the right thing to do. I mean, technically someone else had solved his problem before I could.
I counted out his money and then made some notes in my Books before handing the cash to him.
“Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” I said.
He shrugged. “It’s all the same to me. I’m just happy I’m not going to be fed Type Two on a plate anymore.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by that, but if he was happy with everything, then I guess I had to be, too. Except I wasn’t. At this rate we were going to lose money this month instead of making record profits like it had looked like we would at the beginning of the week.
Near the end of lunch we closed the office so Vince and I could take the sample from Tony’s locker to the Beagle for analysis. The Beagle still owed me a favor for when I’d helped him obtain uranium for some science project he was doing earlier in the year. Don’t even ask how I got that uranium. If I told you, I might have to kill you.
The Beagle was this fifth grader who was obsessed with science and especially animal science. He loved animals so much that he was that kid who, back in second grade, would bring in a different pet every week for show-and-tell. He never even had to repeat, he owned so many. And basically in any conversation you ever had with him or to anything at all you could say to him, he’d respond with some crazy pet story. It’s like the only way he knew to communicate—with stories about his pets. Also, one time in third grade I saw him outside walking his pet hamster on a custom miniature leash. I figured if anybody could lead us to the origins of the locker poop, it was the Beagle.
We found him in one of the science labs. I’d heard from Ears, my go-to informant, that the Beagle spent his lunch and recess time in there. He was hunched over one of the black lab tables working furiously on something and saying stuff like, “Yes! Perfect! That’s just what this needed! Ha. Haha. Hahahaha!” and on and on like that.
We approached where he was sitting with his back to us. Then suddenly, without turning around, he said, “I’ve been expecting you.”
Vince and I stopped and looked at each other,
“How did you know we were here?” I asked.
The Beagle spun on his stool and faced us. He was still blocking whatever it was he was working on from our view, and I figured that was probably for the better. Part of me didn’t really even want to know.
“First I heard you come in,” he said. “Then I smelled who you were when you approached.”
He twitched his long nose. He wore thin small glasses, and he had pretty big ears and an oblong head with just a small tuft of hair on top, as if he had problems growing any more hair than that.
“Why were you expecting us?” Vince asked.
“Well, I’ve been hearing things about feces being found in several kids’ lockers, and I figured it would be only a matter of time before you came to me for help. I still owe you a favor after all, do I not?”
I tilted my head toward him. I had to hand it to this kid—he was pretty sharp. I just hoped he knew animals as well as we all thought he did.
“Well, then, have you brought me a sample?” he asked.
“Actually, we did,” I said.
Vince handed him the brown paper bag. The Beagle smiled and opened it and motioned for us to join him at a different lab table across the room. I tried to sneak a peek at whatever it was he had been working on, but he tossed a white sheet over it before joining us at the new lab table.
The Beagle removed the plastic bags and then carefully opened them. He removed the droppings by pouring them gently into a shallow plastic cylinder. Then he removed a pair of tweezers from his pocket and started prodding at the samples.
“Hmm,” he said. “I see. Yes, very interesting.”
“What is it?” I asked.
He didn’t answer me directly but instead kept poking and muttering things to himself like, “Yes, indeed,” and “How about that,” and “Just as I suspected.” Then he turned to face us.
“Well, you’ve definitely got feces from a Cricetus cricetus here. Also some from a Meriones unguiculatus, and even a Cavia porcellus. It’s a veritable pantheon of common captive critter crap you’ve brought me.”
“One more time in words I can understand,” I said. Experts: you have to love how they use their own jargon and technical terms as if we normal people would understand them. It’s like if I understood any of that, then why would I be coming to you for your expertise?
“Well, these originated from three different animals: a hamster, a gerbil, and a guinea pig.”
Now that just didn’t make any sense at all.
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“Definitely. Here, let me show you. . . .” He picked up a sample with his tweezers.
“No, no, that’s okay. I’m sure you know what you’re doing. Thanks a bunch. Consider that favor repaid.”
“Great. Thanks, Mac,” he said.
As Vince and I walked back to our office, we didn’t have much to say for the first several minutes. It was hard to wrap our heads around what the Beagle’s information meant exactly.
“So this is like that one time Joe Blanton struck out twenty-eight batters in six innings while he was still driving to the stadium because he was running late,” Vince finally said.
Normally I’d have laughed right then, but at the moment I was still too confused to offer much more than a nod.
“I guess this means that someone has to be planting the poop in kids’ lockers,” I said. “There’s no way that all three of those animals are just roaming around together and pooping in a pack like some sort of odd gang of misfit lab animals.”
“I know, but who could it be? And why?”
“Well, we did see Mr. Kjelson sneaking around suspiciously after hours with cages of rodents,” I said.
Vince tilted his head and said, “Yeah, that’s true, plus he has access to all of the science lab animals. But what could his motive possibly be?”
We both shook our heads just then, frustrated with the inexplicable nature of our recent discovery.
Chapter 11
Monday—Gymnasium
Monday and Wednesday mornings are when my regular class goes to the gymnasium for physical edu-cation class. On that particular Monday I saw firsthand what those jocks
had come to me complaining about the week before.
We got there, changed clothes in the locker room, and then headed out to the gym, where we found our gym teacher, Mr. Fields. He was short and very muscular. But he was almost too muscular for how short he was because, instead of looking like a normal tough guy or an action-movie star, he mostly just looked like a troll on steroids. He always wore these really short gym shorts that you’d have had to pay me a ton of money to wear in public. And he always had his whistle either hanging from his thick neck or tucked into his mouth somewhere under his huge mustache. His mustache was so huge that it seemed to have a life of its own. All the students called it “The ’Stache.” One kid even swore that it talked to him once. He said it made fun of his own measly attempt at a mustache. But what did the ’Stache expect? The kid was only an eighth grader.
Mr. Fields was a typical gym teacher, which meant basically all you could ever count on him for was yelling at kids to take showers, screaming the word “hustle” repeatedly, and blowing his whistle at random moments. I sometimes wondered if gym teachers became gym teachers because a school gym was really the only place where they could just be themselves without being thought of as complete weirdos.
On that Monday Mr. Fields was standing next to another gym teacher, Mrs. Dumas. She was known around school for always wearing these bright orange-and-pink psychedelic spandex pants with ugly, fluorescent track jackets. It was hilarious how much she loved neon colors and spandex.
But it wasn’t funny now because with her was a class of older kids. Not just older kids: older girls. I didn’t like at all where this was headed.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Fields yelled—he always called us gentlemen—“today, you are going to learn how to dance!”
I wasn’t sure why that was worth shouting about, but he was a gym teacher: they were always shouting about something. I wondered if gym teachers were like that at home, too. I could just see Mr. Fields at the dinner table with his family. He’d blow his shrill whistle and then scream, “Pass me the peas!” Then as his wife’s shaking hands passed the bowl of peas, he’d blow his whistle again and scream, “Hustle, hustle, hustle!” and cause her to drop the bowl. Then he’d get really mad and shout, “Okay, no slacking allowed here! Drop and give me fifteen push-ups, Mrs. Fields!” She’d probably do the push-ups, too, after which Mr. Fields would blow his whistle yet again and say, “Okay, hit the showers!”
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