by Kara LaReau
“Maybe we’ve had enough cleaning for one morning,” Mrs. Witt said, checking her watch. “Why don’t you come in the house and pick out some candy for you and your friend? You said he likes our Witt Fizzles?”
“We both like them. They’re better than YummCo Fizzers,” I said. “Way better.”
“We’d make so much more progress if you just applied yourself,” I told Bert that afternoon. This was what my old piano teacher, Mr. Mathers, used to tell me. Unfortunately, it worked just as well on Bert as it had on me.
“He’s just a cat,” Danny reminded me through a mouthful of Witt Fizzle.
“He’s not just a cat,” I said. “He’s Bert.”
But even Danny wasn’t really paying attention; he was filming Bert at all kinds of angles.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“If I edit these together the right way, it’s going to look super creepy,” Danny explained. “I wish you could train him to run with all his teeth showing. Return of ZomBert needs a good chase scene.”
Return of ZomBert was the second in what Danny was calling his ZomBert Trilogy. The first story got him a lot of hits on Hurlvision and showed up on Twizzle and Faceplace, which are social media sites I only know about from Danny because my parents say I’m too young to visit them. Danny says the second story in a trilogy is always the hardest to make, so I couldn’t be too annoyed that he wasn’t helping me.
I just wanted to show the world that Bert was more than a horror movie monster; he was an amazing pet. At today’s training session, he’d finally mastered touching the YummCo sticker on my hand. And he was doing pretty well at jumping over Emmett and Ezra’s toy YummCo truck. It was opening the drawer of my jewelry box and pulling out the YummCo keychain that was the problem. He seemed to get it right the first couple of times, then he’d lose interest.
“Well, if it isn’t the Weirdo Twins,” a voice behind us said. I looked at Danny and sighed because I knew exactly who it was: Carl Weems. Carl lived in my neighborhood, and he was in fourth grade with me and Danny. We used to call him our archnemesis; sometimes he seemed like a bully, but most times I just felt sorry for him.
“Hey, Carl,” I said.
“Hey,” Danny said, with even less enthusiasm.
Carl was wearing a NASA T-shirt and baggy bright-green sweatpants. He was smiling until he saw Bert.
“Uh, is that the zombie cat?” he asked as Bert retreated under the rhododendron bush.
“His name is Bert, and he’s not a zombie,” I reminded him.
“He just plays one on Hurlvision,” Danny added.
“What are you doing?” Carl asked. When I didn’t say anything, I saw him look over at Clickety-Clack on the picnic table. “Wait. Are you actually trying to train that thing?”
“Maybe,” I said.
Carl laughed, showing his gray tooth, which he got from flipping over his handlebars while trying to pop a wheelie on his bike last summer.
“I hope you’re not thinking you’re going to win the Best Pet Contest at the festival next weekend. Because I’ve got that one locked up,” Carl said. “You’ve got one lazy, freaky cat. I have four amazing rats, so I have four chances to win.”
“Sure, Carl. We’ll see who’s really amazing,” I said.
“Okay, see you weirdos at school. Unless . . . you feel like going to the park or something,” Carl said.
“Bert and I have more training to do,” I said.
“And I’m filming,” said Danny. “You actually walked right onto a live set.”
“Yeah, well, whatever,” said Carl. “Enjoy losing next weekend!”
“I’m sick of being called weird, like it’s a bad thing,” I said once Carl had gotten on his bike and pedaled off. “It should be cool that I like science and experiments and learning stuff, and that you like horror movies.”
“Carl should talk,” Danny said. “He’s weird, too. Remember you found out he’s obsessed with outer space? And he seems super into those rats. Everyone is a little bit weird.”
“Well, we should celebrate it, not make fun of it,” I said.
I leaned down to Bert, who had fallen asleep under the rhododendron bush.
“Did you hear that?” I said. “We’ve got to win one for the weirdos! Are you with me?”
Bert opened one eye.
“Good,” I said, holding up my clicker and Mr. Peepers’s head. “Break time is over.”
It’s official,” Greg said. “Mellie Gore has registered the cat for the contest.”
“Perfect,” said the Big Boss. “You’ve certainly redeemed yourself on this project.”
“Thank you,” said Greg. Behind him, Kari wrinkled her nose. Greg’s job was so easy compared to hers. She was stuck planning the entire Harvest Festival while he was going out on dates — on YummCo’s dime, no less! — and hanging out with kids.
“And our plans for the festival,” the Big Boss said, looking at Kari. “How are those proceeding?”
Kari was annoyed that the Big Boss kept referring to it as “our plans for the festival” when she was doing all of the work and making none of the decisions. “I can only trust you with this special event,” the Big Boss had said at the beginning. “You have the best head for details.”
Of course, that part was true. And if this is what it took to get that promotion to senior lab assistant, she was willing to put up with just about anything. As senior lab assistant, she would be Greg’s boss; that perk was almost better than the new title and the pay raise and pleasing her parents.
“We have everything in place. The parade floats, the games, the music. And the food,” Kari said, showing the Big Boss her plans on her YummPad.
“We can’t afford any mistakes,” the Big Boss said. “If anything goes wrong, heads will roll.”
“Nothing will go wrong. Unless someone else messes up,” Kari said. She made sure to look at Greg.
As they left the executive suite and went back to the lab, Greg chuckled.
“You know, this project wasn’t all that hard,” he admitted. “I actually like Roxanne and Danny Hurley and Mellie Gore.”
Kari glared at him.
“Never admit that to anyone else, especially the Big Boss,” Kari said. “That was a project. It’s like the tests we do in the lab. You never let your feelings get in the way of your work.”
“So I can’t keep seeing Roxanne?” Greg asked.
Kari rolled her eyes.
The Big Boss watched Kari and Greg go back to the lab and waited for them to leave for the night. It was time to put the most important piece of the plan into motion.
When the Big Boss stepped into the lab, the animals immediately backed into the farthest corners of their cages. Except for the one in the cage marked Y-92. After a seemingly endless feeding session, that creature had finally fallen asleep. Now it opened one eye.
“Good evening, my pet,” the Big Boss whispered. “Tomorrow’s a big day for you and me. All of our delicious plans are about to fall into place.”
The other animals shifted in their cages as the Big Boss put the finishing touches on the most recent batch of Yummconium, then headed to the factory floor with a case of the formula. Y-92 closed its eyes and settled in for the night. When it woke the next morning, it was ravenous again . . . and everything was ready.
Everything is ready, Bert thought, polishing off the head of his third field mouse. Each one was delicious: crunchy at first, then chewy and succulent. And then the most delicious part: the rush that came over him, the sensation of his brain exploding with thoughts and memories and connections, and the feeling that he could do anything. He ran through the moonlit woods, his paws hardly touching the ground. He jumped over rocks and fallen trees with little effort. When he finally arrived at his destination, he was barely panting, and it seemed as if only a few moments had gone by.
He was in the field with all the stones in it now, where the humans came, usually dressed in dark colors. The stones had words on them tha
t he could now read; the humans put flowers on the stones, sometimes with tears in their eyes. Someday, he would understand all of their ways. He wasn’t sure if this was a good thing.
He preferred the woods, where there were so many warm, living things to eat. But the field with the stones gave him a view of the Cold Place. There was a fence around the Cold Place that pulsed with energy, so he knew he couldn’t climb over it. But recently he’d thought of a better way.
Mellie wouldn’t like it, he was sure. But he hoped she would understand.
Aren’t you going to eat?” my dad asked. “You’ve got a big day ahead of you. I even made you extra bacon.”
He was right. I did my best to eat my breakfast, even with the twins’ sneezing.
“Could you two cover your mouths?” I said. I tried to show Emmett and Ezra how to “Dracula sneeze” into their elbows, but all they did was giggle.
“Poor kiddos,” my mom said, taking both their temperatures. “Their fevers have come down since last night, but I think we need to keep them home from the Harvest Festival today.”
“Does that mean . . . you’re not coming to see Bert and me compete?” I said. “After all our training?”
“I’m sure one of us will be able to go,” my dad said.
“I need both of you there,” I insisted. “For moral support.”
“Maybe I can see if Mrs. Witt can watch the boys,” my mom said, dialing her phone.
While my mom talked to Mrs. Witt, I finished what was on my plate, even though my stomach felt like one big knot. Bert and I just couldn’t lose today — the weirdos of the world were depending on us.
My mom hung up the phone. “She said she’d be happy to watch the boys. She’ll be here in an hour.”
“May I be excused?” I asked.
“You may,” my father said.
I scraped the crumbs off my plate and put it in the sink. “I’m going to check on Bert,” I announced.
He was still curled up in his favorite spot at the foot of my bed. “It’s good that you’re sleeping,” I said, running a hand over his newly grown-in fur. “You’re going to need a lot of energy today. And a lot of focus. We both are.”
Then I had a thought.
“I just realized I haven’t thought about what I’m going to wear today,” I said. “I need to make a good impression on the judges.”
I wished I could be like Bert and have fur all over my body so I’d never have to worry about clothes. I tried on everything in my closet and nothing seemed to cut it, not even my favorite coveralls.
“Knock-knock,” a voice said. “Your mom said you’d be up here.”
I realized it was Mrs. Witt. “Come in,” I said.
“I just wanted to wish you good luck in the contest,” Mrs. Witt said, surveying my room. “I like your Marie Curie poster.”
“Thanks,” I said. “She’s one of my heroes.”
“‘I was taught that the way of progress was neither swift nor easy,’” Mrs. Witt said, reading the quote on the poster. “Madame Curie wasn’t kidding.”
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“Is this the star of today’s show?” she asked, tiptoeing up to Bert. “Looks like he’s sleeping pretty soundly.”
“Yep. He has a big day ahead of him,” I said.
“You both do,” Mrs. Witt said. “Uh, it looks like . . . your closet exploded.”
“I’m trying to find something to wear. You know, to impress the judges,” I said.
“I might be able to help you with that,” Mrs. Witt said. She held out a shopping bag.
I took it from her and opened it. Inside were Mr. Witt’s lab coat and goggles.
“For me?” I said. “Really? I thought you were going to give these to your son.”
“Wally is a businessman now; he doesn’t have a head for chemistry, or anything sentimental,” Mrs. Witt said. “I want you to have them, to thank you for all your help in Walter’s workshop. I think he would like knowing they’ve gone to someone who loves science as much as he did.”
As she handed me the coat and goggles, I thought about how glad I was that I’d done all that work for Mrs. Witt, even if it was messy and dirty and cobwebby. If I hadn’t gotten to know her, I’d still be like the other kids in the neighborhood who called her the Candy Witch. I could have missed out on knowing an interesting person.
I put the coat on. “It’s a little big for me, but I think I can still wear it,” I said.
Mrs. Witt smiled, but there were tears in her eyes.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll grow into it.”
He was dreaming of his mother.
He couldn’t see her face in the dream, but he could feel her warmth curled against him, her tongue washing over his fur. He could smell her, milky and sweet.
He was purring, extending his forelegs and kneading his paws into her. He felt safe, and warm, and loved.
“Don’t go,” he told her, when he felt her pulling away. “Don’t ever go. I need you.”
“You don’t need me anymore,” she said. “You’re not a kitten.”
“Sometimes I think I am. Sometimes I’m afraid,” he confessed.
“Being afraid is part of being alive. But still, we keep going,” his mother said, her voice growing fainter. “You’re already on your way.”
“Bert?” another voice said. It sounded familiar.
He opened his eyes. Mellie was standing over him, her hand stroking his fur. She was dressed like the people in the Cold Place, with something long and white over her body, and something over her eyes shaped like another set of eyes. He growled.
“What? You don’t like my lab coat? Or is it my goggles?” she asked.
Lab coat. Goggles. He felt the words click in his brain.
The girl pushed the goggles up, so they rested on top of her head.
“It’s our big day,” she said. “Are you ready?”
He stood up on his hind legs. “I understand you!” he shouted.
How he wished the words in his head translated. But all that came out was “Mrow! Mrow-ow!”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Mellie said, scratching him behind his good ear. “Relax, Bert. Let’s save our energy for the contest.”
Whoa. It’s like one big advertisement for YummCo,” Danny said.
He wasn’t wrong. Everything in the Green, the town square, was green and brown and plastered with the YummCo logo. The YummCo jingle was blaring from the sound system.
YummCo brings the fun-co!
The fun has just begun-co!
Be smart, not dumb-dumb-dumb-co!
And fill your day with YummCo!
There were games and rides and food stands everywhere, offering every kind of food you could imagine — and best of all, it was all free. For that reason alone, it looked like just about everyone in the town was there.
“I can’t believe YummCo is paying for all this,” I said. “This is generous, even for them.”
“My mom and I watched an interview with Stuart Yumm this morning,” Danny said. “He said the Harvest Festival is YummCo’s way of giving something special to the town.”
“Care for a YummCo Yummy Pizza Pouch?” one of the workers asked us. Standing behind the counter of her food stand, she held out a tray. She was smiling like she was offering us a million dollars.
“Sure,” Danny said, reaching for one. But I swatted his hand away.
“Sorry,” I told the worker. “We’re busy.”
She frowned for a moment, then quickly regained her smile and focused on the next group of people. Danny was still frowning.
“What did you do that for?” he asked. “Those pizza pouches looked pretty good.”
“We’re supposed to be working, not eating,” I said. “I thought we agreed we’d both have big breakfasts so we wouldn’t need to stop and eat.”
“Okay, okay,” Danny said. “What do you need me to do?”
“Help me find a quiet place where Bert and I can do so
me last-minute practicing,” I said.
After a bit of walking around, we found a spot away from the crowds. I took Bert out of his carrier and snapped a leash on him, another expense that I had to take out of my savings. Immediately, Bert started to growl.
“I don’t like it, either, but all animals are supposed to be leashed or caged at the festival,” I said. I looked him in the eye. “Now, let’s do this.”
I went through the three tricks with him. First, touching the YummCo sticker on my hand. Then jumping over the toy YummCo truck. Then opening the drawer and pulling out the YummCo keychain.
Click. Gnaw. Click. Gnaw. Click. Gnaw.
“Wow,” Danny said from behind his camera. “That was pretty much perfect.”
“It was,” I said. I let Bert chew on Mr. Peepers’s head for an extra few moments as I scratched him behind his good ear. “I think we’re actually going to win this.”
“You’re going to win what?” a familiar voice said. It was Carl. He was holding a plate of pigs in blankets from the Yummy Widdle Piggies stand. And he was wearing a suit with a green-and-brown striped tie, just like Stuart Yumm.
“Mind your own business, Carl,” I said.
“Maybe next year they’ll have an Ugliest Pet Contest,” he said. “Then you’d have a chance.”
“Speaking of ugly, where are your rats?” Danny asked.
Carl patted the front pocket of his suit jacket, and a tiny rat head popped out. “Zoomer’s with me. My dad has Chunk, Rizzo, and Ratatouille,” he explained. Just as he was about to bite into one of his Widdle Piggies, his mom appeared and snatched the plate away.
“I told you, honey, no eating on the day of a performance,” Mrs. Weems said. “I learned that in community theater. And the Lambert Gazette said I was the best Blanche DuBois they’d seen in at least a decade.”
