Fuzzy Takes Charge Read online

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Stranger Danger

  Chapter 2: What Do You Do with a Dud Sub?

  Chapter 3: Send In the Splash Squad

  Chapter 4: Operation Wet Robot

  Chapter 5: Piggy Prison

  Chapter 6: Flake Out

  Chapter 7: Hide and Go “Eek!”

  Chapter 8: Rock the Note

  Chapter 9: Stowaway Piggy

  Chapter 10: Fuzzy the Spy

  Chapter 11: A Bobo No-No

  Chapter 12: Fuzzy Takes Flight

  Chapter 13: Idol Threats

  Chapter 14: The “Ick” Factor

  Chapter 15: Brittle Go Peep

  Chapter 16: Cloudy with a Dance of Meatballs

  Chapter 17: A Whiter Shade of Fail

  Teaser to Class Pets #3: Fuzzy Freaks Out

  About the Author

  Copyright

  It was a Monday mystery. When Fuzzy returned to Room 5-B after a weekend with student-of-the-week Maya, he just knew that something was wrong. True, his sniffer was still in shock from the tropical mango shampoo Maya had used on him that morning.

  Even so, Fuzzy smelled danger.

  As Maya gently lifted him from the pet carrier into his cage, his senses went on high alert. Fuzzy scampered over the pine shavings to check out his home. Had someone kidnapped his favorite blue ball? Nope. There it was in the corner, same as he’d left it.

  Was a hungry cat stalking through the classroom? Fuzzy rose onto his hind legs and did a quick scan. Nothing but sleepy fifth graders preparing for their lessons, same as usual.

  Sitting back down, he scratched himself. Could he have been imagining things? It was true, Fuzzy had a terrific imagination. That was, after all, what had won him his post as the Class Pets Club’s director of adventure. (Well, that and his sense of adventure.)

  But the prickly feeling down his spine wasn’t mange mites, and it wouldn’t go away. Closing his eyes, Fuzzy took a deep, deep whiff. Beyond the usual odors of freshly sharpened pencils, chalk dust, and peanut butter sandwiches lurked an odd new smell.

  A stranger.

  And just then, Fuzzy realized that a familiar scent was missing: the sweet, fresh-baked bread aroma of Miss Wills, Room 5-B’s teacher. His eyes popped open, searching for her.

  She was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a man stood by Miss Wills’s desk with his arms crossed. Scowling, he surveyed the room.

  “Holy haystacks!” chirped Fuzzy.

  Of medium height for a human, the man was stiffer than a stale breadstick and just as skinny. His close-cropped hair was dull brown, his clothes were the color of mud, and he looked like he’d been sucking on a lemon so long, the pucker had stuck.

  “Who the heck is that?” Fuzzy wondered.

  The bell rang. The mysterious man glared at the students until their conversations faltered and died off. Waiting until the room was completely silent, he then cleared his throat.

  “My name,” he said in a tight tenor voice, “is …”

  Gripping a piece of chalk, he pivoted and scratched his name onto the board with a grating squeak.

  “Mr. Brittle,” the stiff man concluded. He whipped back around, eyeing the fifth graders as if they’d tried to steal his wallet while his back was turned. “And I do not tolerate any nonsense in my classroom.”

  His classroom? The students traded puzzled looks.

  Fuzzy frowned. Where was Miss Wills? Had this stranger done something to her? His hackles rose. Fuzzy considered himself a guinea pig of peace, but if the situation demanded, he could bite with the best of them.

  Loud Brandon raised his hand. It stayed up for a long time as Mr. Brittle finished giving everyone the evil eye. Finally, the stiff man nodded, granting permission for the student to speak.

  “Where’s Miss Wills?” asked Brandon.

  “In court,” said Mr. Brittle.

  Several kids gasped. Fuzzy cocked his head. He’d heard of basketball courts and tennis courts, but he had no idea why Miss Wills would be playing sports instead of teaching class.

  “Is she being sued?” Zoey-with-the-braces burst out.

  Mr. Brittle snapped, “Children who wish to speak in my class raise their hands first.”

  Zoey rolled her eyes, but she lifted her hand as directed. The man pointed a finger at her.

  “Is Miss Wills being sued?” she repeated.

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then, why—?”

  “Miss Wills has been called in for jury duty.”

  Maya’s forehead crinkled. “What’s that?” At the teacher’s meaningful glare, she hoisted her arm into the air and repeated the question.

  Scanning the room, Mr. Brittle asked, “Does anyone know the answer?”

  The students shrugged. Raising his hand, Loud Brandon asked, “Is jury duty what happens when a jury has to go to the bathroom?”

  A few kids giggled, until the teacher’s scowl shut them up.

  “Wrong and rude,” said the man. “Anyone else? No? Not a very bright bunch, are we, hmm?”

  Fuzzy’s eyes widened. How mean! Miss Wills would never speak to her class like that.

  “Jury duty is when citizens serve on the jury for a trial,” said Mr. Brittle. “Your teacher will be gone all week, maybe longer. I am her substitute.”

  Miss Wills, gone?

  “No!” squeaked Fuzzy. “No, no, no!”

  The substitute’s close-cropped head swiveled in his direction like a tank turret zeroing in on a target. “And what,” he said, “is that?”

  Once more, he ignored the students’ answers until they had raised their hands. Finally, he called on Spiky Diego, one of Fuzzy’s favorites.

  “Fuzzy is a guinea pig,” said the boy.

  Mr. Brittle’s eyes narrowed. “I am not as dim as you are. I know what a guinea pig looks like. I want to know why that pig is in my classroom.”

  Fuzzy bristled. “I’m no pig—I’m a rodent!”

  “Noisy little thing,” the teacher sneered.

  “He’s our class pet,” said Diego. “Kind of a mascot.”

  The substitute’s nostrils twitched as if he’d smelled something funky. “They carry disease. They are the same filthy creatures that caused the bubonic plague.”

  “Wasn’t that rats?” asked Maya, ever the history buff.

  “Same difference,” said Mr. Brittle.

  Connor lifted his hand. “Actually, I think it was the fleas on the rats that—”

  Whap! The substitute thwacked a ruler onto the desktop. The kids jumped, startled.

  “If I want history, I will watch PBS!” he said. “That pig is a distraction, and I want it gone.”

  An oooh! swelled in the classroom. Nearly everyone’s hands shot up.

  “Yes, the fat boy.” Mr. Brittle pointed his ruler at Heavy-Handed Jake.

  Fuzzy gaped. Nobody in 5-B talked like that. This man had already broken the classroom’s no-bullying policy, and he hadn’t even been around for fifteen minutes!

  Jake blushed furiously. “Um, Fuzzy is Miss Wills’s personal pet. I don’t think she’d like you getting rid of him.”

  The substitute’s knuckles tightened around the ruler. He glowered at Jake for a moment, then turned and stalked up to Fuzzy’s cage. Wielding the straightedge like a sword, Mr. Brittle growled, “You had better mind your manners, mister. I hear that in Peru, they eat guinea pigs.”

  Suffering mange mites! Shocked to the core, Fuzzy shrank behind his igloo. He heard students gasp.

  Mr. Brittle wheeled on the class. “Enough time-wasting. We will begin our lessons, and I warn you”—again, he brandished the ruler—“you had better not try any tricks with me, you little snots. Because I. Hate. Tricks.” On each of his
last three words, the sub smacked the straightedge on Fuzzy’s table. Whack-whack-whack!

  Nerves frazzled, Fuzzy huddled behind one of his blocks and watched the substitute sneer and bully his way through the morning. One whole week of this? Fuzzy didn’t think he could stand it. More important, he didn’t think his students could stand it.

  Somebody had to do something. The kids were powerless, so that meant he had to do something.

  But what?

  Fuzzy didn’t know. Still, as he brooded, gnawing on the corner of his block, one thing became crystal clear.

  Whatever the method, whatever it took, this sub must go.

  Some things you just have to see to believe. Miss Wills always told her students that when people first heard of the giraffe, they laughed and thought it was a myth. Likewise, Fuzzy wouldn’t have believed Mr. Brittle if he hadn’t seen him with his own eyes.

  The sub didn’t crack jokes. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t eat. He didn’t drink. He just droned on and on in that flat, tight voice, like some kind of lean, mean teaching machine. (With emphasis on the mean.)

  By the end of the day, the man had wilted Spiky Diego’s hair with his insults, made the whole front row jumpy, and brought Nervous Lily to tears. The fifth graders who left the room after the last bell seemed completely different from the kids who’d entered that morning. They slunk out like beaten dogs: downcast, dispirited, and depressed.

  Watching this pitiful parade, Fuzzy growled deep in his throat. He focused all his attention on the enemy, searching for weaknesses.

  Fuzzy noticed that Mr. Brittle’s rigid behavior didn’t change when the students had gone. He lined up all his papers just so, stowing them meticulously in his messenger bag. He aligned his pens to be perfectly parallel with the desk’s edge.

  When the sub glanced up and caught Fuzzy observing him, he stalked over to the cage. “Three words for you, hairball: piggy pot pie.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” chirped Fuzzy, acting tougher than he felt. He knew the man couldn’t understand him, but he had to say something.

  Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! In a flash, Mr. Brittle whipped out his ruler and smacked it on the cage.

  Wheek! Fuzzy jumped straight up and scurried to hide in his igloo. All this whacking played havoc with his nerves. Someone should steal that man’s ruler.

  The sub snorted. Collecting his messenger bag and jacket, he marched out the door as stiffly as if someone had starched his shorts. The lock turned. Then, tok tok tok, his hard heels clicked down the hallway, steady as a metronome.

  Fuzzy blew out a sigh. He had met a fair number of people for your average rodent, but he’d never met anyone like Mr. Brittle. How could any human be so, so … inhuman? Maybe the other pets knew something about the man. Maybe he’d substituted for one of their teachers before. Fuzzy couldn’t wait to ask them.

  But, of course, he had to wait.

  Fifteen minutes later, the door opened again, this time admitting Darius Poole, Leo Gumpus Elementary’s ace custodian. A smiling beanpole in tan coveralls, Mr. Darius enjoyed rockstar status with the students, and he sure knew how to treat a pet. Week in, week out, the pockets of his jumpsuit produced an astonishing array of grapes, carrots, and other tasty treats.

  “Hey, little buddy,” he greeted Fuzzy as he strolled over to the cage. “Another perfect day in paradise?”

  “Not really,” said Fuzzy.

  His expression must have said it all, because the custodian reached into the open-topped cage and picked him up for a snuggle. The big man wasn’t as cuddly, or as sweet smelling, as Miss Wills. (Her fresh-baked bread aroma beat his sweat and lemony cleansers anytime.) Still, Fuzzy found that the cuddling calmed him.

  “Aw, you miss your teacher?” said Mr. Darius.

  “You have no idea,” said Fuzzy.

  The custodian stroked him, slipping him a wilted parsley sprig from his pocket. “Sorry about the soggy greens, amigo. Lunch leftovers.”

  Fuzzy accepted his treat without complaint—hey, even droopy parsley is still parsley—and the custodian returned him to his cage. With calm efficiency, Mr. Darius swept the room, emptied the wastebaskets, and cleaned the chalkboard. Then, with a cheery “Later, dude,” he was gone.

  As soon as the door clicked shut, Fuzzy sprang into action. First, he shoved his plastic platform up against the cage wall. Then he nosed his ball over beside it and braced the ball with two wooden blocks.

  When he was certain that all was secure, he scrambled up, up, up—from block to ball to platform—and over the cage wall. Whoomf! Fuzzy landed, a little breathless, on the table that held his home.

  He smiled to himself. Maybe guinea pigs weren’t the world’s best climbers, but thanks to the advice of his old friend Geronimo the rat, Fuzzy could stage a breakout with the best of them.

  As he made his way across the room and up the cubbyholes, Fuzzy couldn’t help but recall Geronimo, Room 6-C’s pet. The old rat had retired last summer to a farm, and Fuzzy missed his craftiness. Geronimo could have evicted an evil substitute in no time flat. Fuzzy hoped that he and the other class pets could match the rat’s cunning.

  After scaling the bookshelf to the very top, Fuzzy stood on tiptoe and shoved aside a loose ceiling tile. Then, with a heave-ho and an oof, he pulled himself up into the crawl space. There, he paused to catch his breath. One of these days, he was going to have to do more pull-ups and push-ups. One of these days, he was going to really get in shape.

  But not today.

  Bristling with purpose, Fuzzy trotted along between the ducts, pipes, and struts that cluttered the drop ceiling, trying to ignore its slightly spooky vibe. He was headed for the forgotten nook above Room 2-B’s closet that had become the Class Pets’ clubhouse.

  Geronimo had started their club so the pets would have something to do after hours, but it had become so much more than that. It was a support group, a gossip clearinghouse, and, ever since Fuzzy had led them on a field trip, an adventure club.

  Fuzzy clasped his paws as he peered down into the clubhouse. He felt his heart lift. By the light of some borrowed votive candles, the other six pets sprawled about their cozy, pillow-strewn hideaway, chatting and catching up with one another. Fuzzy scampered down the ramp to join them.

  Yes, he’d had a tough day. Yes, he faced a challenging situation, but he was sure that his fellow pets would have his back. After all, they were a resourceful, serious-minded bunch.

  “Brother Fuzzy!” Cinnabun, the flop-eared bunny, greeted him. “Bless your heart, you’re just in time to sing the club song with us.”

  Fuzzy skidded to a halt at the foot of the ramp. “Not now,” he said. “There’s an important—”

  “Pish-posh,” said Cinnabun. “As club president, I do declare that there’s nothing more important at this moment than singing our theme song.”

  “But—” Fuzzy began.

  “Are all of y’all ready?” asked the bunny. “Then we’ll begin. A-one, two, three, and …”

  In several different keys, the pets belted out:

  “Ohhh, a classroom pet is loyal

  And faithful through and through

  We’ll snuggle when you’re happy

  We’ll cheer you when you’re blue

  To help our kids and teachers,

  There’s nothing we won’t do

  Hey, riddle-dee-dee and riddle-dee-dum

  A class pet’s always true!”

  About halfway through, Fuzzy gave up trying to interrupt and joined in. Once Cinnabun got started on a song, there was no stopping her. After a final couple rounds of riddle-dee-dums, the music finally lurched to a halt, and Fuzzy was able to get a word in.

  “You’ve got to help me,” he said. “There’s big trouble.”

  “Fiddle-faddle,” said Cinnabun. “Everyone knows that singing scares your troubles away.”

  “Not this time,” said Fuzzy.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Mistletoe the mouse. Her whiskers twitched anxiously. “They took
away the vending machines, didn’t they? Holy cheeseballs! Where will we get our snacks from?”

  Fuzzy shook his head. “It’s not the vending machines. It’s a teacher. An awful, horrible, no-good substitute teacher.”

  “Awww, you got a mean sub,” said Igor the green iguana. “Boo-flippin’-hoo.”

  “Now, Brother Igor,” Cinnabun chided. “Is that any way to support a fellow pet in need?” Their bunny president believed in fairness and team spirit (also in unicorns, but that was another story).

  “Fuzzy needs to toughen up,” said Igor, shifting on his pillow for comfort. “Everyone’s had a dud sub. So what?”

  “He’s worse than a dud,” said Fuzzy. “Mr. Brittle’s a menace. He’s already driven some of the students to tears, and it’s just his first day.”

  Igor flapped a long-fingered hand. “Bah. Bad subs come and go, but class pets remain. Grow a thicker skin.”

  Mistletoe furrowed her brow. “I don’t see what skin has to do with anything. Even if Fuzzy’s hide was as thick as a rhino’s, the substitute would still be mean.”

  “Figure of speech,” said Igor, rolling his eyes.

  “I’m not sure toughening up is the answer,” said Marta. As the oldest class pet, the Russian tortoise had seen many seasons come and go at Leo Gumpus. “An unkind teacher can do permanent damage to a student.”

  “That’s right,” said Fuzzy. “We’ve got to protect the kids.”

  Cinnabun nodded. “Well, that is our sacred duty, after all.”

  “This sub is like nothing I’ve ever seen,” said Fuzzy. “Has anyone had Mr. Brittle before?” The other pets shook their heads.

  “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” Sassafras the parakeet groomed her wing calmly. “They let him teach—how bad could he be?”

  “He called a student fat,” said Fuzzy.

  Mistletoe made a face. “That’s rude.”

  “He whacks desks with a ruler if someone annoys him.”

  “That’s uncalled for,” said Marta.

  “And … he wants to get rid of me,” said Fuzzy.

  The side chatter stopped. Every pet gave him their full attention.

  “Get rid of a class pet?” Cinnabun chewed on a knuckle. “My stars, that sets a bad example. Subs can’t do that, can they?”