words penetrated. The sound of my name.
"Chet Gecko?" said Mr. Ratnose. "That's the twelfth time you've checked the clock in the last minute. Is there somewhere else you'd rather be?"
Such an easy straight line.
I muttered, "Um, at the dentist, running from rhinos, shopping for underwear ... Did you want the full list?"
Mr. Ratnose scowled. His response felt like an old line from an even older movie. "Go to the attitude adjustment corner," he said wearily. "Maybe that will teach you some manners."
"Maybe," muttered my friend Bo Newt, "but I doubt it."
"How's that?" said Mr. Ratnose.
I sighed. "Uh, I said I'm on it." Past the desks of stupefied students I shuffled, back to the dusty corner and its pink plastic chair.
"You'd better be, mister," said Mr. Ratnose. "Parents Night is Friday, and I'm telling
your
parents everything." But even his warning had a kind of been-there, done-that feel to it.
I slumped into the chair, facing a poster of Rodney Rodent in a rocket that read YOUR ATTITUDE DETERMINES YOUR ALTITUDE.
If Rodney was right, I was on the fast track to Lower Nowheresville. I hadn't had a new case in weeks, my wallet was flatter than a tapeworm's tummyâheck, I even had time to do all my homework. (Not that I actually
did
it.)
If this kept up, I'd turn from Chet Gecko, Private Eye, to Chet Gecko, Regular Guy. I was hungry for something, anything, to break the boredom.
But I wasn't ready for the Big Stink.
I sat quietly, practicing my thumb twiddlingâforward twiddle, reverse twiddle, fast, medium, and slowâwhen the whiff of a funky stench tickled my nose. Craning my neck, I searched for a culprit in the back row.
No shifting in seats. No telltale fake innocence. All my classmates looked like bored little angels.
The stench grew stronger. I fanned the air in front of my face. "Whew."
A giggle erupted from somewhere close at hand.
"He who smelt it, dealt it," whispered Rick Shaw, a nerdy hedgehog.
The giggling grew louder. Now several of the back-row kids had turned around to stare and point.
I shook my head. "Wasn't me."
"Sure," said Rick. "
We
believe you."
Then the funky stench cranked up another couple of notches, from cheese-cutting to paint-peeling. It seemed like it was coming from the direction of the wall. Poor wall.
"Oh, man." I stood and backed away.
Mr. Ratnose's lecture droned on. But by this time, the odor had tiptoed on its little stink-footed feet throughout the class. More and more kids were turning and searching for its source.
Finally, even Mr. Ratnose noticed me. "Chet Gecko, why did you leave your seat?"
"Smells like he blasted himself out of it," said Waldo the furball. "Hur, hur."
"It wasn't
me!
" I repeated.
Now the class laughed uncontrollably. Some of the nearer kids got up and scooted back.
Mr. Ratnose put a fist on his hip. "Settle down, class."
I covered my nose. "I think it's coming from over near the vent."
"What is?" Mr. Ratnose asked. Then the stench wave hit him. "Oh. Sweet Norwegian pie! What
is
that?"
Somewhere along in here, the class finally realized this stench was way beyond anything one kid could have caused. More and more of my classmates were on their feet, moving back from the heating vent.
I joined them.
"Oh,
baby,
" cried Bo Newt.
"That
stinks!
" said Shirley Chameleon.
"Hoo-
eee!
" said Waldo.
How can I describe the intense odor? It was the pharaoh of funkiness, the sheik of stenchiness, the grand high pooh-bah of putrid. In the ranks of rank smells, it would be head honcho of the whole dang enchilada.
And all I wanted was to leave it behind. (No pun intended.) Luckily, Mr. Ratnose agreed.
"Class!" He coughed and waved his hand. "Outâ
kaff kaff!
âside!"
We were way ahead of him. By the time he finished speaking, everyone had jammed into line and was pushing through the doorway. Out in the hall, other classes milled around, eyes watering, noses covered.
It wasn't just our stink. Every classroom in the school was
"Chet Gecko?" said Mr. Ratnose. "That's the twelfth time you've checked the clock in the last minute. Is there somewhere else you'd rather be?"
Such an easy straight line.
I muttered, "Um, at the dentist, running from rhinos, shopping for underwear ... Did you want the full list?"
Mr. Ratnose scowled. His response felt like an old line from an even older movie. "Go to the attitude adjustment corner," he said wearily. "Maybe that will teach you some manners."
"Maybe," muttered my friend Bo Newt, "but I doubt it."
"How's that?" said Mr. Ratnose.
I sighed. "Uh, I said I'm on it." Past the desks of stupefied students I shuffled, back to the dusty corner and its pink plastic chair.
"You'd better be, mister," said Mr. Ratnose. "Parents Night is Friday, and I'm telling
your
parents everything." But even his warning had a kind of been-there, done-that feel to it.
I slumped into the chair, facing a poster of Rodney Rodent in a rocket that read YOUR ATTITUDE DETERMINES YOUR ALTITUDE.
If Rodney was right, I was on the fast track to Lower Nowheresville. I hadn't had a new case in weeks, my wallet was flatter than a tapeworm's tummyâheck, I even had time to do all my homework. (Not that I actually
did
it.)
If this kept up, I'd turn from Chet Gecko, Private Eye, to Chet Gecko, Regular Guy. I was hungry for something, anything, to break the boredom.
But I wasn't ready for the Big Stink.
I sat quietly, practicing my thumb twiddlingâforward twiddle, reverse twiddle, fast, medium, and slowâwhen the whiff of a funky stench tickled my nose. Craning my neck, I searched for a culprit in the back row.
No shifting in seats. No telltale fake innocence. All my classmates looked like bored little angels.
The stench grew stronger. I fanned the air in front of my face. "Whew."
A giggle erupted from somewhere close at hand.
"He who smelt it, dealt it," whispered Rick Shaw, a nerdy hedgehog.
The giggling grew louder. Now several of the back-row kids had turned around to stare and point.
I shook my head. "Wasn't me."
"Sure," said Rick. "
We
believe you."
Then the funky stench cranked up another couple of notches, from cheese-cutting to paint-peeling. It seemed like it was coming from the direction of the wall. Poor wall.
"Oh, man." I stood and backed away.
Mr. Ratnose's lecture droned on. But by this time, the odor had tiptoed on its little stink-footed feet throughout the class. More and more kids were turning and searching for its source.
Finally, even Mr. Ratnose noticed me. "Chet Gecko, why did you leave your seat?"
"Smells like he blasted himself out of it," said Waldo the furball. "Hur, hur."
"It wasn't
me!
" I repeated.
Now the class laughed uncontrollably. Some of the nearer kids got up and scooted back.
Mr. Ratnose put a fist on his hip. "Settle down, class."
I covered my nose. "I think it's coming from over near the vent."
"What is?" Mr. Ratnose asked. Then the stench wave hit him. "Oh. Sweet Norwegian pie! What
is
that?"
Somewhere along in here, the class finally realized this stench was way beyond anything one kid could have caused. More and more of my classmates were on their feet, moving back from the heating vent.
I joined them.
"Oh,
baby,
" cried Bo Newt.
"That
stinks!
" said Shirley Chameleon.
"Hoo-
eee!
" said Waldo.
How can I describe the intense odor? It was the pharaoh of funkiness, the sheik of stenchiness, the grand high pooh-bah of putrid. In the ranks of rank smells, it would be head honcho of the whole dang enchilada.
And all I wanted was to leave it behind. (No pun intended.) Luckily, Mr. Ratnose agreed.
"Class!" He coughed and waved his hand. "Outâ
kaff kaff!
âside!"
We were way ahead of him. By the time he finished speaking, everyone had jammed into line and was pushing through the doorway. Out in the hall, other classes milled around, eyes watering, noses covered.
It wasn't just our stink. Every classroom in the school was
Similar Books
