The Incredibly Dead Pets of Rex Dexter Page 5

  The rhino was simply waiting in my bedroom when we arrived. Diabolical.

  “Why is it so cold in here?” asks Darvish. “I can almost see my breath.”

  Darvish is also in my room. He sits and pants heavily. Our recent sprint has winded him.

  “It always gets cold when they first appear,” I say. I resist the urge to shiver. I refuse to give this rhino the satisfaction.

  “And what’s that black stuff all over your carpet?” asks Darvish.

  “Those are ashes,” I explain. “From the charbroiled rhino.”

  “Whoa. Ghost soot.” He bends down to examine it. “He’s in here right now? You’re talking to a dead rhino right now?”

  “Did he just call me a he?” says the rhino. “Wow. Just wow.”

  “What’s the problem?” I ask the rhino.

  “Hello? I’m a girl-rhino. Obviously.” She snaps her girl-rhino fingers at Darvish.

  “He’s a she,” I tell Darvish. “And yes. She is standing right there.” I point at the rhino. “Tapping her foot.”

  “You better believe I’m tapping my foot,” says the rhino. “I’m telling you, that fire was no accident.” She flounces heavily into my beanbag chair.

  Great. Now that has to be washed, too.

  “She’s going on about some fire,” I tell Darvish. Drumstick flutters up to perch by my side.

  “Fire?” asks Darvish. He grabs me and shakes. “Holly Creskin!”

  “Focus, man,” I say. “This is no time to be daydreaming about girls.”

  “No!” he cries. “Holly read a story in current events today.”

  “I wasn’t really listening,” I say. “I have no interest in the babblings of a double cat owner who dislikes animals.”

  He slaps his forehead in frustration. Clearly, he feels similarly about Holly Creskin. “Her article was about a rhino at the zoo. A rhino that was killed in a fire!”

  “Oh, yeah!” I say. The pieces are all coming together. “So, you’re saying…”

  “Yes!” cries Darvish.

  “… that the burnt rhino that’s in my room right now…”

  “Yes!” exclaims Darvish.

  “… probably knows the rhino that was killed in the fire!”

  “No!” cries Darvish. “I’m saying she IS the rhino that was killed in the fire.”

  “If that’s true, why would Tater Tot be here?” I ask.

  “Who’s Tater Tot?”

  “It’s what I’m calling her now.” I turn to Tater Tot. “Why are you here?”

  “Because you can hear me. Duh,” she says. “I just knew you could. Don’t know how. Don’t know why. But I’ve got unfinished business and I need somebody who can listen. And that’s you.”

  “Unfinished business?” I ask. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Something!” she yells. “Look, I heard somebody in my cage before the fire started. Next thing I know, I’m the only crispified citizen of Blazeytown. Don’t you care that there’s a rhino killer on the loose? Sheesh!”

  “Sure, I guess I care about rhino killers,” I say. “But you’re dead now! Can’t you just move on to rhino heaven and leave me alone?”

  “Yeah!” squawks Drumstick. “Move on to rhino heaven!”

  “You too!” I shout at him.

  The chicken looks hurt. “Why would I move on to rhino heaven? I’m a chicken. If I move on to anywhere, shouldn’t it be chicken heaven?”

  “Whatever!” I say. “Why involve me in any of this?”

  Darvish stands up and starts pacing. The kid paces when he gets excited. It is a nervous habit.

  “The rhino wants something, doesn’t she?” asks Darvish.

  “She says the fire wasn’t an accident,” I tell Darvish. “Like I’m supposed to do something about it.”

  “I knew it. There’s a reason they’re coming to you.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Because they’re annoying!”

  “Don’t you see?” he says. “She needs something from you.” His pacing has picked up speed. “I’ve been giving this some thought. Remember what the curse said:

  Animals of every size

  Will pass away, then open eyes!

  When death leaves questions of mystique

  Their spirits linger, eyelids peek

  To find their answers… YOU they’ll seek!”

  I grab the Grim Reaper card from my dresser. He’s right. Word for word. Darvish really needs to get some hobbies. “How in the world did you remember that?”

  “It’s called reading.”

  “It’s called strange,” I say. “Seek help.”

  “Seek help,” repeats Darvish. “That’s exactly what they’re doing! Seeking your help! I think you’re supposed to help them.”

  “Help them do what?”

  “Right some wrong. They’re still tethered to this world.”

  “Yeah!” the rhino chimes in. “I’m tethered!”

  “They need your help to finish something important before they can move on.”

  “You should listen to your little buddy,” says Tater Tot. “Come on. Help me out. Just this last piece of unfinished business. Then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Drumstick died without a name,” Darvish says. “The rhino was murdered. They’re coming to you because they need something. They need you to help them.”

  “But I gave the chicken a name,” I say. “Why is he still here?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s here to help you. Maybe he’s too dumb to know he’s dead. Maybe he just really likes you.”

  Drumstick nods. “Those are all excellent theories. Ooh, look! A chocolate chip!” He starts pecking at the folds of my bedsheets.

  Give me a big fat break. It’s not my fault somebody put a neon sign over my head that only the recently deceased members of the animal kingdom can see. Now I’m supposed to play camp counselor with every dead critter that limps into my room?

  Even in death, animals find me irresistible.

  Being popular is a burden.

  15

  Another Wednesday has dawned.

  Which means, in addition to my many other troubles, I will go hungry today.

  Because nothing, and I mean nothing, can compel me to put Beefarooni into my body.

  Beefarooni is the mixed-breed mutt of school lunches. It is a travesty of colossal proportions wrapped in a veil of tomato sauce and guile.

  Plus, I’m unclear on the rules of what dead animals are going to show up next. But until I am, I’m on a strict diet of items that were not formerly alive. Mostly Doritos and Mountain Dew. The last thing I need is some Beefarooni cow showing up and getting its ghost-gunk on my bed sheets.

  Apparently, my dead chicken and dead rhino compatriots do not care about such matters. Because they are scarfing the Beefarooni from my lunch tray with verve.

  “Please quit touching stuff,” I hiss at them. “You’re going to attract unwanted attention.”

  But they don’t. It is possible I’m the only one that can see them scarfing my lunch in plain sight. Even Darvish does not seem to notice.

  Darvish shakes his brown paper bag at me and smiles. “Why don’t you just bring your lunch from home on Wednesdays?” he asks me.

  “Because that’s what they want,” I reply. “I’m not a stooge of the system.”

  He is eating crackers with some type of beige goo. Hummus, I believe. I’m not sure. I am not versed in the goo-shaped food products our generation so relishes.

  “If you say so,” he says. “Any new ideas about the dead rhino mystery?”

  “That’s a fair question,” says Tater Tot between mouthfuls. “You making any progress on my case or what?”

  I ignore the rhino and roll my eyes at Darvish. “Me?” I scold. “As my loyal sidekick, it is your job to brainstorm solutions while I am otherwise engaged.”

  “I’m not your sidekick,” he says.

  My sidekick gets mouthy sometimes. It is adorable.

  He looks at my hal
f-eaten entrée. “I thought you hated Beefarooni.”

  I am about to explain how Beefarooni is a black mark on the nutritional standards of our nation. How this blight on our health and taste buds may well be grounds for legal action against the Department of Education. And how my ghostly companions do not seem to care.

  But before I can explain the mystery of the vanishing Beefarooni, I am interrupted. By Edwin Willoughby.

  As you probably already know, Edwin Willoughby is the kid in my class who can touch his elbow with his tongue. He is pretty much world famous for this skill. That and his pit bull named Alfred make him A-OK in my book.

  “Hey, Darvish,” he says. “Can I borrow your math notes?”

  Darvish shrugs and eats another cracker. “I no longer take notes.”

  “Um… what?” says Edwin Willoughby.

  “Instead of taking notes,” explains Darvish, “I use this.” He extracts something long and thin from his shirt pocket.

  “That’s a pen,” says Edwin Willoughby.

  “No, it’s not,” says Darvish.

  “Oh man, give me a break.” Edwin sighs and looks to the heavens. Which is distressing, because he has clearly eaten the Beefarooni. The early symptoms of gastric distress are making themselves known.

  “It’s not a pen?” asks Edwin. I admire his persistence in the face of Beefarooni-induced anguish.

  “No,” insists Darvish. “It is a spy pen. With built-in ultrasonic recording capability.”

  “Oh,” says Edwin Willoughby.

  “I now record Ms. Yardley’s lessons for future playback. Instead of taking notes.”

  “Why do you do that?” asks Edwin Willoughby.

  Darvish pulls a banana from his lunch sack. He begins peeling it. “Because there is a student who sits near me who talks too much. A student who gets me in trouble with constant chattering. A student who makes it impossible for me to take notes.”

  I nod my head in understanding. It is kind of him not to name names in mixed company. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know he’s talking about Sami Mulpepper. That girl is quite the chatterbox.

  Edwin rubs his face with his palm in frustration. Uh-oh. The Beefarooni sweats have begun.

  “Okay, then,” he says, gritting his teeth. “Can I borrow your spy pen? With built-in ultrasonic recording capability?”

  Darvish reluctantly surrenders the device to Edwin Willoughby. “Fine,” he says. “Just give it back by the end of the day.”

  Edwin Willoughby snatches the contraption and walks away. Darvish looks at me.

  “Did you figure out which student I was talking about?” he asks.

  I give him a knowing smile. “I’m way ahead of you, buddy.”

  He chews his banana. His eyes fall to my lunch tray.

  “Hey, good for you,” he says. “You finished your lunch.”

  I look to my now-empty tray. “I didn’t eat it.”

  “Okay,” says Darvish.

  It’s pointless to argue. I look to my right, where Drumstick and Tater Tot sit.

  “That’s some of the best rhino chow I’ve had in ages!” Tater Tot licks her mouth.

  “Me too!” squawks the chicken. He rubs his stomach with his flattened flipperlike wings.

  They clearly don’t know what they’re saying. It’s obvious Beefarooni delirium has started to set in.

  Even the dead are not immune.

  16

  I feel quite certain that, if I could find a moment’s peace, I could figure out Tater Tot’s ghostly afterlife dilemma lickety-split. But there are a multitude of interruptions continually vying for my attention:

  1. My teacher’s ongoing attempts to educate me. She never seems to tire of it.

  2. An oral research report that looms over me like a specter.

  3. Constantly fending off hugs from an overly affectionate dead chicken.

  4. Cleaning up soot stains left behind by a crispy rhinoceros.

  5. Spoon-feeding suggestions for improved sidekicking techniques to Darvish.

  The demands on my time are endless. I can’t concentrate. I can’t get a moment to myself. I fear there is no lickety-split to be found. Which means no solution for my newly deceased animal companions. Which would be a bummer. For them and for me.

  Luckily for me, I have a secret hideout that nobody can infiltrate.

  It is called the shower.

  Nobody dares disturb me here. Because they recognize the sanctity of this space. Because they acknowledge the privacy and respect that is due this watery fortress of solitude.

  Also, because I am naked.

  This Grim Reaper character has done a number on me. He has cursed me into being a conduit for recently deceased animals with unfinished business. It seems these spirits know right where to find me. I wonder if there are others with this ability. And if so, do they also use the shower as a retreat from the undead? And if so, what kind of madness is this wreaking on their water bill?

  So many unanswered questions.

  I try to clear my head as the steam rises around me. According to Darvish’s theory, Tater Tot has come to me for a reason. She claims that the fire was set on purpose. She postulates that she heard somebody in the rhino enclosure right before the fire began. Somebody with foul intent. Apparently, if I simply solve the rhino’s murder, her unfinished business in the mortal world will be resolved and she will move on to a better place. Like heaven. Or Valhalla. Or Cleveland. Anywhere but here.

  It is time to get organized. It is time to put my agile brain to the task.

  Perhaps if I list all the clues, the solution will make itself known.

  Clue #1: A rhino is dead.

  Clue #2: I have no clues beyond this.

  It is possible there are forces at work that are stopping my agile brain from functioning at its best. I blame the Beefarooni. Even though I didn’t eat it, perhaps just being around it has had a vicarious dumbing-down effect on me. From now on, I shall call this effect Beefarooni Brain. It is unclear if Beefarooni Brain is a real thing or a figment of my overworked imagination.

  What is clear is that I am no closer to a solution than when I started this shower. My fingers have pruned up and I have nothing to show for it. It is possible that this rhino will never get to Cleveland now.

  In the middle of these depressing thoughts, I feel it. A cold tingle that starts at the base of my spine and moves up from there. In spite of the warm water, the hairs on my arms stand on end. I feel unknown eyes watching me. I am not alone.

  I turn and see it. A sinister shadow looms against my shower curtain. A hairy black hand reaches out and yanks the curtain aside.

  “AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” I scream and shield my eyes from what I feel is certain doom.

  “You’ve been in there for weeks!” says a deep voice. “Are you planning to emerge sometime this century? I need a little help out here, if you don’t mind.”

  I open my eyes. And I see it.

  It is not certain doom. It is a gorilla. It looks like this:

  As you can see, it is completely soaked from head to toe.

  It has a large shark clamped on to its butt.

  Green mist swirls at its feet.

  It is looking expectantly at me.

  And while live gorillas with live sharks chewing on their butts and green mist swirling at their feet may be commonplace in more savvy and cultured parts of the country like Cleveland, in the bathrooms of Middling Falls, they are rare.

  Which can mean only one thing. This gorilla is dead. And so is the shark.

  It also means one other thing. They have no regard for the sanctity of this space. For the privacy and respect that is due this watery fortress of solitude. Or for the fact that I am naked.

  17

  We are at the zoo.

  Eating snow cones.

  “This is yummy!” says Drumstick, scarfing his blue raspberry snow cone enthusiastically.

  The rhino nods. “It is quite the tasty treat.”

  �
�You think this tastes good?” snorts the gorilla. “I once climbed for three solid months to eat snow from the frost-shrouded peaks of Mount Karisimbi. It tasted like world peace drizzled with honey and sprinkles. This is nothing!”

  The snow-cone guy looked at me funny when I ordered four snow cones, but if I cared what people thought of me, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

  Which is at the zoo. Dad dropped me off. He seemed pleased that I had taken an interest in learning about animals. If he only knew. Plus, the gorilla left a puddle of water on the bathroom floor and I got the blame for it. So I think my dad was happy to have me out of the house.

  The gorilla. He tried to explain his predicament to me. The shark did, too, but it was hard to understand him with a mouthful of gorilla butt. So their story was a bit confusing. That’s when I called Darvish, because he speaks Confusing quite fluently. But he didn’t answer his phone. Which is rude, if you ask me. When a dead gorilla interrupts your best friend’s shower, you pick up the phone.

  I decided I needed visual inspiration. And what better inspiration than where it all happened?

  Which is at the zoo.

  I suspect that the antidote to my Beefarooni Brain™ is kiwi-lime snow cone. Because I am clearheaded at last. Clearheaded enough to remember that I am a man of big, bold moves. Clearheaded enough to realize that staking out the scene of the crime is my next big, bold move.

  “Let’s take a closer look at that Gorilla House,” I say.

  Only, there is a problem at the scene of the crime. Part of the zoo has been roped off. The rhinoceros exhibit is closed. And the Gorilla House is closed. And the Oceanarium is closed. The universe is conspiring against my big, bold moves.

  But I’m here on semiofficial business. So I ignore the ropes.

  “Hey, kid! You can’t be back here!”

  It is a big, bold security guard. He is big in girth rather than height, likely owing to a steady diet of corn dogs and funnel cakes. He is bold because he is standing in the way of my semiofficial authority.

  “Back behind the rope, kid,” he says, pointing.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “None of your beeswax,” he says. “That’s what.”