The Incredibly Dead Pets of Rex Dexter Page 4

  “Whoa!” Darvish goes pale. “Did you see that?”

  “I know.” I nod. “He’s terrible at grabbing stuff. It’s the flattened wings. Plus, you’re upsetting him.”

  And then it hits me. “WAIT! YOU SAW THAT?”

  Darvish’s hands are shaking. “My phone was just knocked right out of my hand! I felt something hit it!” He bends down and picks it up off the floor.

  I turn to Drumstick. “How did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “You just knocked Darvish’s phone out of his hand!”

  “Okay.”

  “How did you do it?”

  The chicken shrugs. “I dunno. I just got excited. I wanted to show this guy how to make it work.” He reaches out, but his wing passes right through the phone. He shrugs again and nuzzles into the crook of my arm.

  “How did he do it?” asks Darvish.

  “Don’t know,” I tell him. “He got excited.”

  “Interesting,” says Darvish. “Emotional kinetic discharge. I’ve read about this.”

  “English, Darvish.”

  He’s pacing around mumbling to himself. It’s nice to see him taking an interest.

  “He can only touch stuff when he’s excited or upset,” he says. “Have him do it again.”

  “Nope,” mutters Drumstick. “Not while he’s here.”

  “He doesn’t want to,” I say, shaking my head at Darvish. “I don’t think he likes you.”

  “Doesn’t like me?” Darvish exclaims. “What’s not to like? I’m incredibly likable!”

  My best friend’s likability aside, his scientific approach has borne fruit. Because we now know I’m not imagining things.

  Which means my deepest darkest fear has come true. Next to falling into a pit of snakes. And global takeover by evil robots. And paper cuts. These are the things that haunt my nightmares.

  My fourth deepest darkest fear has come true.

  I have been cursed by a rogue carnival game. Just me. Since it was Darvish’s quarter, I had really hoped we would be in this together. That would only be fair, right?

  But no. Clearly, Darvish cannot see the dead. I’m all alone.

  “I guess it’s official,” I say. “I’ve got the Reaper’s Curse.”

  “I warned you to leave that game alone,” Darvish says. “You should have listened to the wisdom of my people.”

  “We’re talking about the fraidy-cats again?”

  “It’s scaredy-cats,” he corrects me. “Don’t mock us, dude. Our lore is rich with stories about avoiding skeletons, zombies, rusty nails, plastic dry-cleaner bags, and pretty much everything else that’s creepy or slightly dangerous. How do you think we’ve survived as a people for so long?”

  Darvish pauses for a minute and chomps thoughtfully on a pizza crust. “So, you’re being haunted by your dead chicken.” He taps his chin and looks at me. “I guess that only leaves one query unanswered.”

  “Why you eat such weird snacks?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “What happened to the rest of your pizza?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where did I get such a stylish beanbag chair?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve brought it up several times. I know you like it.”

  “I do,” he says, eyeing the chair jealously. “But that’s not what we should be worrying about.”

  “What then?”

  “What’s the next ghost that’s going to come for you?”

  This is one query I wish we hadn’t asked. Now I have a glitter allergy and acute anxiety syndrome.

  This whole Scientific Method thing is a real downer. I think I prefer the Water Cycle.

  12

  Grown-ups get so confused about what’s really important.

  Here I am, grappling with the mysteries of the universe.

  Here I am, unraveling the great veil that separates life and death.

  Here I am, in an arm-wrestling match with the Grim Reaper himself.

  And all Ms. Yardley wants to talk about is research reports. It is an upsetting situation.

  “Your research must be thorough,” she says, roaming the room like a fraction-loving jaguar. “Dynamic delivery is a great thing, but it must be supported by facts! Half of your grade will be on presentation, but the other fifty percent will be on your research.”

  “Yes!” cheers Sami Mulpepper. “Oral reports!”

  An oral report in front of the class. While I’m stressing over the supernatural. It is a slap in the face of the vast and unfathomable cosmos.

  “I’m excited too, Sami,” says Ms. Yardley. “We will do four presentations per day starting next week. So be thinking about your topics! You can sign up for presentation time slots on the door later this week.”

  “Yay!” cheers Drumstick. “Oral reports!” He turns to me. “Rexxie, do we like oral reports?”

  “We do not,” I whisper.

  “Boo!” cries Drumstick. “Oral reports!”

  Thankfully, I have people in my life that appreciate my predicament. And one of those people is a dead chicken. That’s right. He’s started coming to school with me.

  “Don’t call me Rexxie,” I whisper.

  “It’s okay,” says Drumstick. “It’s like a best-buddy nickname.”

  “You’re not my best buddy.”

  “I’m not? Who is?”

  “Darvish.”

  “That kid who was intruding on our you-and-me time yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “I never liked that kid,” says Drumstick. “I pecked him from the moment I met him.”

  “Well, he’s my best friend.”

  “Oh. Okay. That’s cool. Then it’s like a second-best-buddy nickname.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you have a best-buddy handshake with that kid?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I think we should come up with a second-best-buddy secret handshake that only you and I know.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “That’s cool. That’s cool.”

  Ms. Yardley locks on to me with her heat-seeking hawk eyes. “Rex, you seem awfully chatty back there. Do you have a question or comment about our oral reports?”

  It’s like she is reading my mind. “As a matter of fact, I do. It seems to me that an oral report is kind of a waste of time.”

  Ms. Yardley sighs. “This assignment is a valuable study on the power of research, Rex.”

  “I’m a man of action,” I tell her. “I prefer to experience life rather than read about it.”

  “Well, if you’d like a good grade on your report, you’ll be a man of research.”

  “Perhaps I can simply tell the class about something that I’ve experienced in my everyday life,” I suggest. “You can rest assured they’ll be mesmerized.”

  “No, Rex,” she says. “You may not.”

  I stand up on my desk to make myself appear bigger. It is a technique that many dog breeds employ to establish dominance. “I didn’t want to do this, but I’ll need to take your Teacher Identification Number.”

  She goes slack-jawed. This technique can have that effect. “I’m sorry. My what?”

  “Your TIN,” I state. “I feel that you may be stifling my creative expression. I’ll need to report this incident to the appropriate authorities.”

  My classmates wear stunned expressions. They are clearly hypnotized by my charisma. Plus, watching me haggle with our teacher is probably more fun than discussing research reports. So they say nothing.

  “Please sit down, Rex,” she says through gritted teeth.

  I sense her anger is rising. For her sake, I do not want a scene. I sit.

  My teacher takes a deep breath and continues to address the class. “To help us appreciate the power of research, we will be studying current events over the next several weeks. You were told that you could bring a current event from the newspaper or the Internet to read to the class for extra credit.” She takes her seat. “Who h
as one they would like to share?”

  Edwin Willoughby reads an article about a new video-game release.

  Holly Creskin shares an article about a fire at the zoo. Apparently, a rare Sumatran rhinoceros was killed in the blaze. It is a tragic affair.

  Sami Mulpepper quotes some article from the Middling Falls Daily Spew.

  But my mind is wandering. Partly because it is difficult to stay invested in events, whether current or otherwise, that are not directly about me.

  Partly because I do not care what Sami Mulpepper has to say in general. Despite her charismatic delivery.

  And partly because Edwin’s video-game article has given me a flash of inspiration.

  “The Reaper’s Curse,” I hiss to Darvish. “That’s it.”

  “What’s it?” asks Darvish.

  “What’s it?” asks Drumstick.

  “We’ll go back to the game,” I whisper. “I’ll beat the game and wish to be uncursed.”

  Drumstick shakes his steamrolled head nervously. “Ooh, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I died last time I went near that game. I don’t want that to happen again.”

  Darvish also looks dubious. He is widely known for his dubiousness. It is his third most common facial expression, right behind quizzical and hungry. “I don’t know, Rex. What if you lose again and get double cursed?”

  “You underestimate my cunning.”

  “Well, you’re right about that,” he confirms.

  “My cunning is its own kind of curse,” I remind him.

  “If you say so.”

  “But it’s a valid point,” I concede. “New plan. You can play and wish me uncursed. That way, if you lose, you’ll only get cursed once.”

  “No way, dude.” He shakes his head firmly. “No way.”

  I’m not sure who is the bigger chicken. Darvish or Drumstick.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it myself.”

  “This is going to end badly,” Darvish mumbles.

  “Clear your calendars,” I tell my two compatriots.

  “I don’t use a calendar,” says Darvish. “I’m a kid. I mostly just play and do homework in an unscheduled fashion.”

  “Nothing to clear, pal!” says Drumstick. “I have us scheduled for a tickle-fight tomorrow afternoon. Other than that, I’m wide open for the rest of eternity. I mostly just follow you around.”

  “Clear them anyway,” I say. I lean back in my chair confidently and smile. “After school today, we’re going back to beat the Reaper’s Curse.”

  Apparently, I lean a little too confidently. My chair tips backward and I clatter confidently to the floor.

  Ms. Yardley looks at me. Then she thumps her head slowly and repeatedly against her desk.

  “I was wrong to underestimate your cunning,” says Darvish. “We clearly have nothing to worry about.”

  13

  I am surrounded by skeptics.

  But I have the boldness that comes with surviving a near-death experience at the hands of faulty school furniture. The stride of a mature and responsible person taking control of his destiny. The doubters trail me, adrift in the wake of my moxie.

  “Slow down, buddy,” complains Drumstick. “Your confident strides are making me tired. I have little legs.”

  “Why are you even here?” I ask him.

  “You asked me to come!” says Darvish. “You called me your backup!”

  “I’m not talking to you,” I clarify. “I’m talking to the chicken.”

  “I can’t hear the chicken!” says Darvish.

  That’s right. This is going to take some getting used to. “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “I want to see what happens,” says Drumstick. “Plus, I love you!”

  I have to confess, this bird is starting to melt through my hard candy shell. Soon, my nougaty soft center will be exposed to the heartbreaks and disappointments of this cruel world. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Once the Reaper’s Curse is lifted, he will be on his way. Perhaps that is for the best. I stiffen my resolve and march on.

  The air smells of purpose and strawberries. Darvish is eating the strawberries. I do not know where he got them. All I know is that strawberries are a lighthearted fruit. Far too lighthearted for the serious mission at hand. He should be snacking on kiwi, if anything. That’s a fruit that says I mean business.

  All the usual suspects are hanging out at Buy-Buy Plaza.

  “Wanna buy Pixie Scout cookies, mister?” squawk the Pixie Scout girls.

  “Hey, sign up for PUPAE, fellas,” says the PUPAE guy, waving his clipboard. “Only fifty-nine ninety-nine! We’re one hundred members strong! Our animal rights campaign is getting really aggressive.”

  “Give to our clothes drive!” screeches the old guy from the Loyal Order of the Wombat.

  “Tickets for Taco Tuesday!” shrieks the fireman.

  I ignore them all. I’m a man with a plan.

  My plan is simple, but brilliant. I will challenge the Grim Reaper at his own game. I will wish to be freed from his curse. I will emerge triumphant. It’s the perfect strategy. Nothing can go wrong.

  But as we approach the metal-and-glass box of the game console, I realize I have been foiled by forces larger than myself. The one diabolical snag that nobody, and I mean nobody, could have possibly predicted.

  There’s an OUT OF ORDER sign on The Reaper’s Curse.

  Well played, Grim Reaper. Well played.

  But I am not so easily daunted. I toss the sign to the ground and stare at the skeletal visage of my adversary. He stares back from within his glass case, empty eye sockets mocking me.

  I’m glad I brought backup. I turn to Darvish. “Loan me another quarter.”

  “Another one?” He reaches into his pocket. “You need to start carrying cash.”

  I pop the quarter into the coin slot. Nothing happens.

  I kick the game cabinet. Nothing.

  I rock it back and forth. It barely budges. Nothing lights up. Nothing moves. The Reaper just sits there defiantly.

  Drumstick tugs on my pants leg. “I think somebody needs to go to the bathroom on it,” he suggests. “That’s what worked before.”

  I am loath to admit it, but, of course, the bird is right. I turn to my best friend. “Darvish, being my backup is a two-pronged position. Financing our mission is only the first prong.”

  “What’s the second prong?”

  “You’re going to have to pee on the plug.”

  “What???” He screeches higher than I realized was possible. “Forget it!”

  “Pee is the only way to summon the magic, Darvish.”

  “I told you, chickens don’t pee,” he cries. “It’s basic science. Birds poop and pee together. They peep!”

  “Well,” I reason, “unless you have peeping skills I don’t know about, we’re going to have to make do with you peeing on it.”

  “Make the chicken do it!” he says. “That’s what worked last time!”

  I look to Drumstick, but he just shrugs. “I haven’t gone since I died,” he says. “I don’t think dead things have to go to the bathroom.”

  I grab Darvish by the shoulders. “Ghosts don’t pee, Darvish. It’s got to be you.”

  “Come on!”

  “Do you want me to be cursed forever?”

  Darvish sulks. “No.”

  “Do you want me to be haunted to the end of my days?”

  Darvish sighs. “No.”

  “Please, Darvish. You’re my best friend. Can you think of anyone else more qualified to take a leak on an electrical cord in my time of need?”

  Darvish places his bag of strawberries on the ground. “I guess not.”

  He looks around to ensure there are no bystanders to witness his shame. “If this gets out, I’m never getting into the college of my choice. These things haunt your transcript forever.” My best friend sidles up to the cord and makes the ultimate sacrifice.

  “Is it working?” he yells.

  I push buttons. I jiggle th
e joystick. I kick the game again.

  Nothing.

  “Nothing is happening,” I tell Darvish. “Pee harder.”

  “I’m peeing as hard as I can!” he cries.

  “Nothing.”

  “What?” he yells. “Are you telling me that I’m urinating in public for nothing?”

  “It’s not technically my fault, Darvish. Blame the Reaper.”

  The Grim Reaper is playing hard to get. It’s a classic move. This robotic replica of Death is shrewder than I have given him credit for.

  And that’s when it happens.

  “Oh my gosh. That is so gross.” A voice startles me.

  I freeze in terror. A chill ripples through me. It’s the fuzz. The po-po. The long arm of the law. We’re caught with our pants down. Actually, nobody’s pants are down. Only Darvish’s zipper.

  “Tell your friend to stop peeing in public,” the voice cries. “Show some respect for yourself! Sheesh!”

  I turn toward the voice.

  But it’s not the fuzz. It’s not the po-po. It’s not the long arm of the law.

  It’s a rhinoceros.

  A charred rhinoceros.

  A blackened rhinoceros.

  A burnt-to-a-crisp rhinoceros.

  This is one dead rhino. Green ghost-goo pools at its feet. And its dead eyes are staring right at me.

  “AAAGGGHHH!” I screech in terror. I stumble backward. With catlike reflexes, I try to catch myself. But this sidewalk must be faulty, because I slam into the pavement, falling face-first into a bag of strawberries.

  The most lighthearted of all the fruits.

  14

  Despite all our advancements as a civilization, many facts about the natural world remain shrouded in secrecy.

  For example, rhinos have absolutely no regard for the amount of soot that they track into other people’s homes.

  I know this because I have a dead rhino in my bedroom right now. Also, the rhino looks like a giant burnt Tater Tot.

  Upon seeing the dead rhino at Buy-Buy Plaza, I decided to adopt a new and inspired strategy. I ran away. Fast. Like, scared-little-bunny-rabbit fast.

  This perfectly formed strategy was foiled by forces beyond my comprehension. A maneuver so devious that nobody, and I mean nobody, could have predicted it.