Class Pet Catastrophe
Bruce Coville
FOR GARY DELFINER
FRIEND, BELIEVER, MACHER
CHAPTER 1 [Tim]
THE FLYING HAMSTER
The whole mess with Pleskit’s Veeblax got started because of Percy the Mad Poet.
Pleskit, of course, is the son of the ambassador from the planet Hevi-Hevi, and the first alien kid to go to school on Earth. Or maybe not; though Pleskit is the first alien kid that everyone knows about, from what he tells me, there may have been others here in secret. Anyway, he’s the only purple kid I ever met, and the only kid in our school who comes to class with a bodyguard.
He’s also my best friend.
And Percy? His full name is Percy Mortimer Canterfield, and he’s this poet who comes to our school every year to do a writing workshop with us. Why the school has to bring in someone special to teach us about writing, I’m not sure, since our teachers have us write all year anyway. But Percy has published a couple of books, and as far as I can tell, all he ever thinks about is writing, so I suppose he has some useful tips. Besides, he’s pretty cool. So I don’t mind when he visits. In fact, I kind of like it. He makes poetry more interesting than you would have thought possible.
When Jordan Lynch got put in our class two years ago and heard that a poet named Percy was coming to teach us writing for a week, the first words out of his mouth were, “Great. Five days with some skinny sissy spouting off about flowers and bunnies and crap like that.”
So it was pretty amusing to see Jordan’s face when Percy actually showed up. “Sissy” is not a word you could safely use about this guy. He’s tall, about six feet, and definitely looks like he works out on a regular basis. He reminds me a little of Captain Lance Driscoll from Tarbox Moon Warriors, except that his nose is slightly bent from where it was broken in a fight.
Linnsy Vanderhof, my upstairs neighbor and former best friend (until she outgrew me), says she likes Percy’s broken nose because it keeps him from being a pretty boy. This brings up the only thing I don’t like about having Percy visit, namely that some of the girls get all goopy over him—including Linnsy, who really ought to know better.
Anyway, when Percy came this year, he decided we should write poems about pets—which meant that first we had to have a discussion about our pets. I sighed. Pets are a topic I personally find quite distressing, mostly because I don’t have one.
“That’s all right,” said Percy when I pointed this out to him. “You can write about one of the class pets instead.”
He was referring to our hamsters. We have three of the little beasts: Ronald Roundbutt, Doris the Delightful, and Hubert Hugecheeks. Hubert got his name the day we all watched in horrified fascination as he crammed so much food into his cheeks that we thought his head might explode. You should have seen him! Anyway, I like the hamsters, but I don’t have what you would call a close personal relationship with any of them.
“I bet I’ve got the most unusual pet in the class,” said Larrabe Hicks proudly.
I doubted this was true; it was far more likely that Pleskit’s pet Veeblax was more unusual, since it was the only one on the planet. Even so, I was interested to hear what Larrabe had.
So was Percy. “Why don’t you tell us about it?” he said.
Larrabe beamed. “I have a woodchuck. His name is Harold.”
“A woodchuck?” cried Jordan. “That’s the craziest thing I ever heard!” He would have said more, but he got laughing so hard that Brad Kent—who could be Jordan’s personal pet, since he seems to look at Jordan the way most dogs look at their masters—had to pound him on the back to stop him from choking.
“Sounds pretty cool to me,” said Percy. “Any chance you could bring him in?”
This was a typical Percy thing to do. He was always suggesting something that made our teachers groan and roll their eyes. Only Ms. Weintraub didn’t, because she is very cool, definitely the coolest teacher we’ve ever had. She actually agreed that if it was okay with Larrabe’s mother, Harold could spend the week with us.
* * *
The next morning I got to school a little early, something that doesn’t happen all that often. Pleskit and I were talking about plans for the weekend (even though it was only Tuesday). His bodyguard, McNally, who is sort of my hero, was standing a few feet away.
(My mother doesn’t like me to call adults by their last names, since she thinks it’s rude, but that’s what McNally prefers. “The name’s McNally—just McNally” is the way he introduces himself. This has led Shhh-foop, the embassy cook, to believe that his proper name is “Just McNally.”)
As Pleskit and I talked, McNally’s eyes were roving the classroom, checking everything out. At least, that’s my theory. I have no idea what his eyes were really doing, since I’ve never seen them. McNally always wears dark sunglasses, even inside.
Suddenly he began to smile. “Well, I’ll be danged,” he muttered.
I turned toward where he was looking.
Larrabe had just come through the door. He was holding a leash. At the other end of the leash, strapped into a leather harness, was a woodchuck!
Larrabe’s mom walked in behind him, carrying a big metal cage.
“Told you I had a woodchuck,” said Larrabe happily. He reached down and lifted the creature onto his desk. “Meet Harold!”
Harold turned out to be pretty cute, in an oversize, rodenty sort of way. He was almost two feet long, with short legs, thick fur, big black eyes, and a lot of blubber. (“Harold loves to eat,” explained Larrabe. “It’s one of his favorite things in life.”)
Harold was amazingly tame for something you usually consider to be a wild animal, and he sat on Larrabe’s desk without moving, even while the whole class clustered around to get a good look at him.
“I thought that kind of critter was called a groundhog,” said Chris Mellblom.
“ ‘Woodchucks’ and ‘groundhogs’ are just different names for the same animal,” said Larrabe, rummaging in his backpack.
“How much ground would a groundhog hog if a groundhog could hog ground?” muttered Jordan.
“They’re also called whistle-pigs in some places,” added Larrabe, continuing to rummage in his pack and ignoring Jordan’s comment. “Ah, here we go.”
He pulled a carrot out of his pack and held it over Harold’s head. Immediately the woodchuck lurched onto his hindquarters and began reaching for it.
“Ooooh, that’s so-o-o-o cute!” cried about eight girls in unison.
Given how mellow the woodchuck was, who would have figured it would be such a disaster when he met Hubert Hugecheeks? Actually, the problem was mostly on Hubert’s side, since he was the one who seemed to have a psychological meltdown when Misty Longacres brought him over to meet Harold.
Now, this was a typical dippy Misty idea. I mean, a girl who has three cats ought to know that just because something looks sweet and cuddly doesn’t mean it won’t have a vicious streak.
On the other hand, it’s not like hamsters are normally cold-blooded killers or anything.
Anyway, Misty—who was probably getting annoyed because Harold was getting more attention than she was—came running over to Larrabe’s desk with Hubert cupped in her hands and said, “Look, Hubie, here’s a big brother for you!” Dumping him onto the desk, she said, “Aren’t they cute together?”
Hubert did not seem to think so. In fact, when Misty put him on the desk, he totally wigged out.
It was the first time I had ever seen a hamster hiss.
Harold reared back on his hind legs and made a shrill whistling sound.
People began to shout. Misty, realizing she had made a big mistake, reached down to grab Hubert.
Hubert, still gripped by his psychotic breakdown, sank his teeth into Misty’s fi
ngertip.
He must have bit in pretty deep, because when Misty screamed and yanked her hand into the air, Hubert came with it.
He made it to about shoulder level before his teeth unhooked.
All the girls began to scream—well, I let out a little yelp, too—as Hubert hurtled toward the front wall of the classroom and what looked to be a truly ugly death.
CHAPTER 2 [LINNSY]
PERCY THE MAD POET
When I saw Hubert go flying through the air, I let out a little scream. When I remembered this later, I was a little annoyed at myself, because I don’t want to be the kind of girl who makes those little screamy noises. But really, the sight of that poor hamster heading for a collision that would splatter his guts across the wall just dragged the sound out of me.
Then I saw that Percy the Mad Poet had climbed onto Ms. Weintraub’s chair. He had on Jordan’s baseball glove, which he had confiscated the day before because Jordan kept putting it on Tim’s head. Thrusting his hand into the air, Percy snatched the hurtling Hubert in midflight, then swung his arm down gracefully so that he was cradling the hamster in front of him.
We all applauded. Well, all of us except Misty, who suddenly started to scream, “Rabies! I’m gonna get rabies!”
Ms. Weintraub put an arm around her shoulder and said firmly, “Let’s go to the nurse, dear. And no, you are not going to get rabies.”
The rest of us, who were used to this kind of thing from Misty, continued applauding.
“Thank you,” said Percy, stepping down from the chair and taking a bow. “Thank you very much.”
Holding out the glove, he walked around showing us Hubert so that we could see he was all right. The little guy sat there, blinking and looking groggy, but otherwise none the worse for his adventure.
Is it any wonder we girls all thought Percy was so… well, wonderful? Plus, I wish you could hear the way that man could use words! “The night sky’s velvet curtain” and “Captured by spring’s wild rapture” and “The cold caress of death’s icy fingers.” All I can say is, I wish the boys in our class could talk half that well every once in a while.
After Ms. Weintraub got back from taking Misty to the nurse, she called the class to order, which wasn’t easy under the circumstances. “Misty is fine,” she said. “There was a lot more blood than there was cut.”
“Is she gonna get rabies?” asked Rafaella Martinez.
Ms. Weintraub sighed. “No, she is not going to get rabies. Think for a second, Rafaella. If Misty could get rabies from Hubert, then all of us would have been in danger of that every day. It’s simply not a problem with domestic pets that are kept indoors, or properly vaccinated.”
“What about Harold?” asked Michael Wu. “Woodchucks aren’t domestic. At least, not normally.”
“We got him when he was just a pup,” said Larrabe, putting a protective arm around Harold. “That’s what they call baby woodchucks, pups. And he’s had his shots, just like a dog or cat. He’s plenty safe. Besides, he’s not the one who bit Misty. It was that vicious hamster.”
“Now listen,” said Ms. Weintraub. “After what we’ve just seen, I’m certain you all realize that you have to be careful when putting animals that aren’t used to one another in the same place. Even so, I have a suggestion that I think will be fun. Why don’t we organize a pet show to go along with the collection of poetry Mr. Canterfield is helping us put together? We could do it in the gym—that would give us plenty of room to keep the pets apart. I think it would be a fun way to celebrate publishing our anthology!”
Everyone thought this was a wonderful idea. Well, almost everyone; Jordan, of course, thought it “sucked”—though he didn’t say that too loudly.
“I wonder if the Fatherly One will allow me to bring my Veeblax,” said Pleskit.
“What’s a Veeblax?” asked Larrabe.
“My pet shape-shifter,” said Pleskit.
“Yeah, right,” snorted Jordan.
“Pleskit’s serious,” said Tim.
“A serious nutcase,” sneered Jordan.
“I’ve seen the Veeblax!” said Tim hotly. “It’s totally cool. It can turn itself into all kinds of things. I even taught it to do the Frankenstein walk.”
“Can it imitate a nerd?” asked Jordan.
This burst of wit sent Brad Kent into gales of laughter.
“Look, Pleskit,” continued Jordan. “You can say you’ve got anything you want in that flying saucer where you live, and how would we know if it’s true or not? The only person you ever let into the place is nerdbutt here.” (By “nerdbutt” he meant Tim, of course.) “I’ll believe you’ve got a pet that can change shape when I see it with my own eyes.”
Pleskit didn’t say anything. But he got a stubborn look on his face, and I had a feeling he was going to do everything he could to bring the Veeblax to school, pet show or no pet show.
CHAPTER 3 [PLESKIT]
WAKKAM AKKIM
When McNally and I got back to the embassy that afternoon, I found most of the staff gathered around the kitchen table.
“Where is the Fatherly One?” I asked, dumping my bookbag beside the door and climbing into my chair. “I want to talk to him about taking the Veeblax to school.”
“He’s rather distracted right now,” said Beezle Whompis.
Beezle Whompis is the Fatherly One’s secretary. He only comes to the kitchen for companionship, since he is an energy being and does not eat regular food.
“Distracted?” I asked nervously. “Is there some new problem?”
“No problem,” said Beezle Whompis, flickering briefly out of sight. (It’s difficult for him to maintain a physical form, and he only does it to make it easier for the rest of us to talk to him.) “Just an important visitor expected.”
“An off-worlder?” I asked excitedly.
“His new wakkam,” said Ms. Buttsman, our protocol officer, and the only Earthling on the staff besides McNally. “Whatever that is.”
“A wakkam is what you Earthlings might call a ‘guru,’ ” put in Barvgis, the Fatherly One’s slimeball assistant. (I don’t mean “slimeball” in the negative way that Earthlings use the word. I just mean that Barvgis is nearly round and quite slimy. But he’s also a very pleasant being.) He belched contentedly, then added, “Actually, the more precise translation would probably be ‘spiritual massagemaster.’ ”
“Care for a snack, my little Pleskit-pie?” crooned Shhh-foop, sliding over to the table and twirling her orange tentacles in excitement. “I have some pak-skwardles made fresh just for you.”
“I’d love some!” I said.
“And some coffee for the handsome Just McNally?” sang Shhh-foop.
“Uh, sure, why not,” said McNally. He sighed as Shhh-foop slid happily back to the counter. Though she offers coffee to McNally on a daily basis, our Queen of the Kitchen has not yet mastered the art of making this Earthly beverage.
Barvgis picked a squirmer out of the bowl in front of him. Ignoring its tiny screams, he bit off its head. Then he turned to me. Using full Hevi-Hevian speech, he said, “The wakkam’s complete and proper name is Wakkam Akkim
I was anxious to meet the wakkam myself, since I knew she would be a very important person in the Fatherly One’s life. Besides, it was quite possible she would be my own wakkam when I reached the age of vershniffle. It also occurred to me that I might get some advice from her about dealing with Jordan, or at least the feelings Jordan so easily provokes in me.
“Just why is this, uh, wakkam considered a great adviser?” asked Ms. Buttsman.
“Wakkam Akkim trained with a long line of wakkami,” said Barvgis, pulling the tail of a squirmer from between his teeth.
Ms. Buttsman turned her head, looking as if she had just smelled something bad. But then, she almost always looks that way. I do not think the world meets with Ms.
Buttsman’s approval.
Barvgis continued as if he had not noticed. “Wakkam Akkim’s immediate trainer was Wakkam Garboola, who was the greatest peacemaker of his time. Wakkam Akkim herself gained prominence when—”
Barvgis stopped, looking uncomfortable. The Fatherly One had just entered the room. This was relatively unusual; he did not often sit in the kitchen with us.
“A snack for the high and lordly Meenom?” sang Shhh-foop, sliding eagerly to the table.
“Not now, thank you, Shhh-foop,” said the Fatherly One. “Go on, all of you—don’t let me interrupt you. I just thought I would wait here until the wakkam arrived.”
Despite his attempts to appear casual, I noticed the Fatherly One was making small farts of nervousness, which is unusual for him.
It did not seem to be a good time to approach him about taking the Veeblax to school. Even so, I was getting up my nerve to discuss the idea when the speaker above the door belched for our attention, then said, “Transport pod approaching! Docking time will be three minutes and twenty-two seconds.”
“Zgribnick!” cried the Fatherly One. “The wakkam is almost here.” He glanced around the table. “Do I look all right?”
Ms. Buttsman reached out and straightened his collar, a gesture I thought was highly inappropriate.
“You look fine, sir,” she said, in a nicer tone of voice than she has ever used with me.
“All right, everyone,” said the Fatherly One. “Let us greet our visitor.”
* * *
Wakkam Akkim entered the embassy via a transport tube. She smiled when she saw us all standing there. “Greetings!” she chirped. “I wish you love and understanding.”
She walked to the Fatherly One. “Meenom Ventrah?” she asked, putting out a three-fingered hand.
“Your new plissinga,” responded the Fatherly One, bowing his head in respect.
The wakkam was fairly short, only about a head taller than me. She had a beakish nose and tufts of blue feathers for eyebrows and hair. Her three-fingered hands were scaly and ended in sharp claws. Her skin was yellow, her eyes round and dark black. She wore a feathered robe, and a cape that was kept from the floor by tiny flying creatures.
