Free The Big Nap by Bruce Hale Page A

again. "I was about to ask you. The mysteries in this school are about as fresh as Herman's armpits."
    "That bad?" asked Natalie.
    "Well, maybe not as stinky," I said.
    We munched in silence for a while. If the detective biz got any slower, I'd have to mow lawns for candy money. And Chet Gecko is no lawn mower.
    "Hey," said Natalie. "I know: That kid Popper is missing from school—maybe she's been kidnapped!"

    I picked a scorpion stinger out of my stir-fry. "Nope. Home with the chicken pox. I checked."
    "Hmmm..." Natalie pointed toward the lunch counter, where a huge possum in sunglasses was loading up his tray. "What about him? That guy looks mighty suspicious."
    I glanced over. "I think he's the new librarian. Stop trying to cheer me up."
    Natalie shrugged. "Suit yourself, señor."
    I scanned the lunchroom. Nothing but food and foolishness. Bo Newt was giving an atomic wedgie to some kid in the corner. Another classmate, Waldo the furball, was stupefying three second graders with his magic tricks.
    I looked the other way. Two mice practiced their karate moves on a tabletop. No mysteries there.
    In fact, nothing shaking but the Jell-O on the trays.
    "I just wish something would happen," I said. "Anything. I'm so bored, I'm baiting sixth graders for fun."
    I didn't know it, but before another day passed, I'd have to eat my words. And they wouldn't be as tasty as the doodlebug pudding.
    But then, not much is.

2. Trouble Is My Beeswax
    After lunch, I dragged my tail out onto the playground. Natalie followed. A pack of rats played King of the Hill on a jungle gym. One of them shoved his last rival aside and stood alone on the top.
    "Rat king—now there's a great job," I said. "Looks like it's livelier than detective work."
    Natalie practiced ignoring me.
    A knot of kids had gathered near a broad oak tree. We walked closer. Over a ring of shoulders, I glimpsed their entertainment: A bully circling his prey.
    No mystery there, either. Just the everyday law of the playground jungle.
    From what I could see, the bully was a beefy muskrat named Fred-o. This fifth-grade Attila the
Hun could squeeze lunch money from a victim quicker than foul wind from a hop-toad's heinie. I figured his victim was a goner.
    But by the time we arrived, the group was breaking up. Fred-o grinned at his prey, a skinny stoat (or weasel—I can't tell them apart).
    "Gee, thanks," said Fred-o. He patted the little guy's shoulder and trundled off.
    The weasel (or stoat) smoothed his whiskers and strolled the opposite way.
    He looked familiar.
    "Isn't that the new kid in your class?" Natalie asked. "Sammy something?"
    "Oh yeah, that's him."
    It made sense. New kids were usually bully bait. But this one seemed to have something on the ball.
    He eased across the grass like syrup on a pancake, with a cut in his strut and a glide in his stride. I wished I felt half as chipper.
    Natalie and I flopped down under the scrofulous tree, my favorite thinking spot. She cleaned her feathers while I thought long thoughts—mostly about how to buy my afternoon snack. My wallet was as empty as a newborn kitten's threat.
    My eyes hadn't been closed for more than three seconds when I heard a small sound like a seasick gopher.
    Heh-hyewm.
    Eyes shut, I said, "I didn't know mockingbirds got hair balls."
    The sound repeated itself.
Heh-hyewm.
    I looked up.
    There she stood, a thick slab of nothing special: A plump guinea pig in a pearly pink sweater. Her eyes glistened like big brown pools of chocolate sauce. She twisted the strap on her book bag.
    "If you're gonna ralph, sister," I said, "use the bushes."
    The guinea pig's lips clamped down until her mouth was as tight as the PTA's purse. "I was clearing my throat," she said primly. She plucked an invisible speck of lint from her sleeve. "I'm looking for a gecko named Chet."
    I told her that I was a gecko named Chet. And that my partner was a mockingbird named Natalie. But for the right money, we'd be a Ukrainian