Free The Chameleon Wore Chartreuse by Bruce Hale Page B

on a hot date. She locked the door, then made tracks toward the cafeteria.
    I slithered down the wall and tried the knob. Locked tight. Glancing up and down the hallway, I slipped the point of my tail into the keyhole and wiggled it around.
    I tried the doorknob again. This time the lock's tumblers clicked—on my tail.
Ouch!
But the doorknob turned.

    I slipped inside and eyeballed the dark classroom.
    It hadn't changed much in the years since I'd been there. It still smelled of chalk, and fear, and stale graham crackers. I looked out across the rows of pink plastic desks.
    Using my incredible powers of detection, I discovered Billy's desk. It was the one with the nametag that read BILLY.
    I slid into the seat and checked again to make sure I was alone. I had only a few minutes to search before Old Toady returned.
    So far, so good. I opened the desk.
Creeeaak!
I held my breath. Had someone heard? I glanced at the windows, but I was alone. I looked into the desk.
    Yuck! Sitting on a stack of papers was a sandwich so old even the cafeteria wouldn't serve it. It looked like a science project on The Wonders of Mold.
    I pushed it aside with a pencil. Underneath was a crayon drawing of mutant people.
    Or maybe they were broccoli. Whatever Billy was up to, it sure wasn't art lessons.
    I dug deeper into the mess. A rubber-band gun ... a box of nails ... a hangman's noose ... a photo of the Loch Ness monster ... Nothing suspicious here.
    Wait a minute! I turned back to the drawing.

    It showed a small creature with a tail, beating up a big creature. A girlish blob in the back was saying, "my hiro!" in a word balloon. The big creature was labeled "hurmn," the blob was called "Shrlee," and the small creature's name was "me."
    Hmmm.
Maybe Billy was planning to rumble with Herman. But why would he try to beat up that big lug? Picking a fight with a Gila monster was about as smart as playing hopscotch on the freeway.
    And Herman was no ordinary Gila monster. After all, he'd been booted off the football team for biting a referee's ear and throwing him into the bleachers. How many sixth graders could say that?
    I stuck my nose back into Billy's desk. I had to find out more. Shirley had a stinkbug pie with my name on it, if only I could crack this case.

    I dug deeper. I had just spotted something that looked like a map when a familiar sound sent chills down to my tail.

4 Toad Away
    "Chester? Chester Gecko!"

    I hate when teachers use my full name.
    "Old To—uh, I mean, Mrs. Toaden," I said. "What a pleasure."
    Mrs. Toaden waddled through the door and over to her desk. She sneered at me.
    "Returning to the scene of the crime, eh?"
    I perked up. "What crime?"
    "Your grades in my class, mister. You were the worst student I've ever had, and I've had quite a few."
    "Flattery won't work with me," I said. "It's been tried."
    Mrs. Toaden picked up the heavy ruler from her desk and stroked it. My knuckles got nervous, remembering old times.

    "So what are you doing back here?" she asked. "Taking William's place? Or do you want to make up some of that homework you never finished?"

    "Uh, I'm on a case." Under cover of the desktop, I slipped the map into my pocket. "Maybe you can help me."
    "Why should I?" Mrs. Toaden gave me her deadeyed stare, the one that makes first graders faint. But not me. I was a big, tough, fourth-grade private eye.
    "Why should you? Because," I said, "I could tell somebody about a certain teacher's relationship with a certain cool green dessert." I stood up beside the desk.
    Old Toady blinked. Her long tongue sneaked out of the corner of her mouth and tidied up some green blobs on her upper lip. If they weren't Jell-O, I didn't want to know what they were.
    "Okay, suppose I do want to help you," she said. "What do you want to know?"
    "When was the last time you saw Billy?"
    "Yesterday, right after school."
    "And what was he doing?"
    Mrs. Toaden used the ruler to scratch one of her many warts. Her bug eyes