Free Gremlins by George Gipe

Billy said. He stroked Gizmo’s head gently.
    “I should’ve told you about the light,” Rand said. “There’s a couple other rules to remember about this guy. At least that’s what the Chinese boy said. Number two is to keep him away from water. And number three is, never let him eat after midnight.”
    Lynn broke into laughter. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said. “What difference could it make when he eats?”
    “Don’t ask me,” Rand replied. “I’m just tellin’ you what was said to me.”
    Lynn stood up. “O.K., we’ll go along with that. I just hope he doesn’t have to eat filet mignon every night.”
    “No, he eats anything,” Rand said. “No restriction on that. As a matter of fact, the boy’s grandfather said he even ate cardboard, that white stuff they pack boxes with, and a rubber washer. He probably has a stomach like the town incinerator.”
    “He ate a washer?” Billy repeated.
    “That’s what the man said.”
    Billy reached into the magazine rack adjoining the sofa and found a crumpled piece of cardboard. Rolling it into a ball, he offered it to the furry creature.
    “Here, Gizmo,” he said. “Try this for a snack.”
    Gizmo sniffed at the pulpy white mass. Many years before, on a whim, he had decided to humor the Chinese man by eating a tasteless object. He had enjoyed seeing the old man’s pleasure and fortunately, it was a pleasure that was not perpetrated on him very often. That was because the Chinese gentleman had a sense of responsibility and self-control. Rapidly assessing his new situation, Gizmo doubted seriously that these people would be able to restrict themselves quite as well. If he gave in to them now, before long they would have him eating every insipid piece of junk they could find, just to have a laugh. No, clearly this was the time to train these new owners and train them right. Turning aside, he refused to have anything to do with the cardboard.
    “I guess he’s not hungry,” Billy said. “Either that or the Chinese man was pullin’ your leg.”
    Lynn returned from the kitchen holding a small slice of meat loaf in the palm of her hand. “Let’s see what he does with this,” she said.
    Gizmo sniffed, quivered with anticipation a moment, then snapped up the delicious morsel and forced himself to chew slowly so as to savor it. By the time he swallowed the mouthful, his contented hum had returned.
    The family seemed pleased. Gizmo was pleased, too. At least with this group he’d never swallow another petroleum-based product again.

C H A P T E R

EIGHT
    T he few days remaining before Christmas passed quickly, except for the youngsters of Kingston Falls Junior-Senior High School. Because of a heavy early snowfall in November, which had canceled classes for nearly a week, the pre-Christmas vacation had been shortened by two days, which meant that classes seemed to drag on interminably. If the kids didn’t like this state of affairs, Roy Hanson liked it even less. Getting their attention was difficult enough under the best of circumstances; breaking through the wall of lethargy so close to Christmas was another definition of impossible.
    Still, one had to try. That was part of the challenge of teaching, and if there was one thing Roy Hanson liked, it was a challenge. The first black instructor at an exclusive private school in the county, he had left there three years ago to become only the second black teacher in Kingston Falls. Now, at thirty-four, he was recognized as one of the best biology and natural science instructors in the area. Tall and stockily built, he was a teacher with whom few students messed. Corporal punishment in the public schools was a thing of the past, of course, but at times Hanson could be so aroused by an uncooperative student that some wondered if there might not be a one-day revival. Keeping the class members a bit nervous—particularly the potential troublemakers—was part of Hanson’s strategy, and