Romance of the Snob Squad by Julie Anne Peters Page A

set the siren. Battery acid was burning up my stomach lining. “Does anyone have a Tums?” I said.
    Everyone felt in their pockets. No Tums.
    “Jenny, you don’t look well,” the Beak Man said. “If you have to… you know. The restroom’s…” He pointed.
    “I’m okay,” I lied. “But thanks.”
    As Max placed Harley in the Extreme Rat-o-rama, a group gathered. Lydia finished her explanation about rat psychology, positive reinforcement versus negative, something about tough love and therapeutic touch. Who knew what she was babbling about? “He’s trained to begin on voice command,” she ended. “So, whenever you’re ready.” Her eyes met the judges’.
    The head judge yawned. “We’re ready.”
    “One, two, three…”
    All together we shouted, “Go!”
    Everyone sucked in their breath. Harley just stood there. Or rather, he leaned there. Human heads tilted to the left, to mimic his.
    “What’s wrong with him?” Hugh asked behind me.
    “Nothing,” I snarled.
    Max said, “Come on, Har. Get up, boy. This is it. The big one.” She lifted him up and plopped him down.
    We tried again. “Go!” we barked.
    He leaned and flopped.
    “Maybe he’s nervous. Maybe he needs a practice run,” Lydia said.
    “Maybe he needs his head examined,” Ashley muttered behind her. “Like his trainers.”
    Ooh, I wanted so bad to accidentally on purpose stomp her foot and break a toe. Think anyone would notice? The screaming might draw attention. I reached in the greasy bag and pulled out a coconut doughnut. I crumbled a hunk of it in front of the first milk carton. Harley’s whiskers twitched. He rose to his feet. He snarfed up the doughnut and scrabbled ahead.
    “He’s off,” Max announced.
    Everyone bent forward to watch as Harley squeezed through the milk jug, into the oatmeal carton, and around the steering wheel. He manuevered through a Saltines box, over a halogen headlight, up a tower of toilet paper holders, and down the other side. He stopped and leaned. Then he picked up an old trail of crumbs at a tire rim and circled inside. He wiggled through a rusty coil and weaved around a maze of plastic pudding cups. At the CD speaker, the last hurdle, right before the siren, Harley stopped. He leaned left once, twice, three times. His whiskers twitched. Max whispered, “One more, baby.”
    Harley looked up at her. He looked at the siren. Then he wobbled unsteadily on his legs and keeled over.
    Everyone gasped. No one moved.
    Max said, “Harley?” She reached down and touched his tummy. “Har?”
    Nothing. Wait, something. Babies, I thought. What a time to give birth.
    Harley didn’t have babies. He shuddered all over, closed his eyes, and died.

Chapter 20
    P oor Harley. Poor me. His death just brought everything to a head. A fat head. Mine. Because I had no doubt in my mind that I had killed Harley. He wasn’t a she. And he never was pregnant. Harley died of obesity. He ate like a pig. He didn’t know when to stop. Sound like someone you know?
    At home I threw myself on the bed and prayed death would come quick. Harley’s death was horrid enough, but what happened afterward was hideous. I had a nervous breakdown. Right there in front of a hundred thousand people, I burst into tears. Right there in front of Kevin Rooney. And the flood wouldn’t stop flowing. Not through the wheezing or hiccuping or nonstop runny nose. The Beak Man had the gall to offer me his hankie. Choke me with a licorice rope.
    Needless to say, we didn’t win any science prize. We did bring notoriety to Montrose Middle School, however. From now on we’d be known as Home of the Dead Rats.
    Through my soggy pillow, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. Dad said, “Jenny, you have a call.”
    “I’m busy,” I blubbered.
    “You okay?”
    “Yeah, swell.” I curled up like a caterpillar.
    Dad’s footsteps creaked down the hall. A few minutes later, they creaked back and I heard a note slip under my door.
    With what little life I