The Possum Always Rings Twice, 11 Brochura - 2007

The Boy Who Cried ­Wolverine
 
Let’s face it: Elementary school is a jungle. Want to survive? Know your beasts. The herds of nerds, the packs of bullies, the rich kids, the jocks—each creature in this jungle has its own identifying ­marks.
 
Take Ben Dova, ­wolverine.
 
           One look told the tale. Dagger claws, check. Furry boulders that passed for shoulders, check. B.O. strong enough to make a stinkbug cry, ­check.
 
           Ben Dova might just as well have had bully stamped across his ­forehead.
 
           He was ­big.
 
           He was ­bad.
 
           And he’d been hogging the tetherball for ten ­minutes.
 
           Wolverine or no wolverine, I wanted to ­play.
 
           “’Scuse me, bub,” I said. “You almost ­finished?”
 
           “Grrr,” he ­replied.
 
           Did I mention that Ben was also a brilliant ­conversationalist?
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           He planted a pair of hamlike fists on his hips, snorkeled some air through his nose, and scanned the ­scene.
 
           “Pee-yew,” he said. “What ­stinks?”
 
           I gazed up at Ben. “Your armpits come to mind,” I said. “As does your breath, your sister, and your grades. Pick ­one.”
 
           Ben’s lip curled, flashing fangs that a great white shark would’ve ­envied.
 
           I reached for the tetherball. “Hey, if you’re not going to play . . .”
 
           The wolverine hoisted the ball out of my reach. “Smells like barf,” he said. “Smells like a pukey little ­lizard.”
 
           This brought some girlish giggles. A weasel and a rabbit stood nearby ­watching.
 
           Sheesh. It’s always worse with an ­audience.
 
           My jaw tightened. “Look, pal. Why don’t you give someone else a turn, and get back to practicing your tough­-­guy ­talk?”
 
           Ben’s bullet­-­hole eyes burned yellow. “You gonna make me, ­punk?”
 
           Normally, I try to deal with bullies the Rodney Rodent way. (You know, the star of Rodney Rodent’s House of Cartoons?) Rodney always says: Don’t show fear; speak firmly but politely; and just walk ­away.
 
           I didn’t show fear. Speaking firmly, I said, “I don’t make beanheads, I bake ­them.”
 
           I’ve always had problems with the polite ­part.
 
           Turning to go, I nodded to the girls. A paw like a catcher’s mitt swung at my ­head.

I ­ducked.
 
           The gleam in Ben’s eyes went from yellow to red. That was my ­cue.
 
           “Yaaah!”
 
           I pelted across the blacktop, straight for the nearest portable classroom. Mere steps ahead of the wolverine, I reached ­it.
 
           Fa­-­zzup! I scuttled up the ­wall.
 
           Whether you’re a PI like me or just a fourth grader trapped in a sixth­-­grade world, it pays to have serious climbing skills. In three shakes, I made the ­roof.
 
           “Come back here, Gecko!” yelled Ben ­Dova.
 
           I laughed. “If you think I’m coming down to get creamed, you’re so dumb you put lipstick on your forehead to make up your ­mind.”
 
           A snarl below told me the joke had found its mark. I savored the ­moment.
 
           “Verrry funny,” came an oily voice from behind me. “You should try stand­-­up.”
 
           A huge brown bat hovered in ­midair.
 
           “I did,” I said, “but I kept falling ­down.”
 
           “Too bad you didn’t fall farther,” she ­crooned.
 
           Swell. Another bully. Even for Emerson Hicky, this was ­excessive.
 
           “What is this, Let’s Pick on a PI ­Week?”
 
           The bat wore a dorky pink hair ribbon and a savage sneer. Her smooshed­-­in nostrils twitched as if she smelled something ­stenchy.
 
           As if that something was ­me.
 
           She opened her mouth to ­speak.
 
           I held up a hand. “I know, I know,” I said. “I’m a smelly little lizard and blah­-­blah­-­blah.”
 
           “Verrry perceptive,” said the ­bat.
 
           “Look, Flappy, can we just skip to the part where I run away? It takes me a while to come up with new ­insults.”
 
           The bat smiled, baring fangs as yellow as a stale harvest ­moon.
 
           “But of course,” she said. Miss Flappy flexed her ­wings.
 
           I sprinted for the nearest ­treetop.
 
           Flump­-­flump­-­flump! The thrumming of bat wings grew ­louder.
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           My leafy sanctuary was only steps ­away.
 
           Some instinct said duck! The bat’s swoop trickled chills down my ­spine.
 
           I stumbled headlong—off the roof and into a ­tree.
 
           “Unh—Ooh—Ach!”
Plummeting downward, I bounced from limb to limb like a deranged pinball. Finally I landed—ka­-­whump!—in a heap on the ­grass.
 
           Dizzier than a carload of cheerleaders, I struggled to my knees. Then a large brown shape landed nearby. A massive black­-­and­-­tan figure rounded the ­corner.
 
           Bullies to the left, bullies to the ­right.
 
           I was ­doomed.
 

BRUCE HALE is the author of five picture books as well as the Chet Gecko mystery series. A popular speaker, teacher, and storyteller for children and adults, he lives in Santa Barbara, California.