8 Class Pets + 1 Squirrel ÷ 1 Dog = Chaos (5 page)

Even with my head tucked safely inside my shell, I could see well enough to tell that Twitch must be the squirrel, since the others were telling Twitch to run and it was the squirrel who ran up onto one of the tables where Mrs. Hinkle keeps her art supplies.

The dog jumped up there, too.

So much energy! It nearly wore me out to watch them!

Twitch leaped off the table and over to the bookshelves, pulling himself up by
Art in Western Civilization
, and the dog couldn't follow, because the rope that tied him to the leg of the cart wasn't long enough. The dog ran back and forth on the table, knocking over paints and brushes and a box of chalk. The paint was leaking and dripped off the edge of the table, making a puddle on the floor.

I liked the slow, thick way that paint dripped, dripped, dripped . . . Mmmmm . . .

Where was I?

Oh yes.

I recognized Twitch, since sometimes I'd seen him look into the window of the classroom. Still, because I'm shy, I'd never talked to him before. But now that he was in danger, I wanted to help. It's scary when someone wants to eat you. I called over, “Excuse me? Mr. Squirrel, sir?”

This was very abrupt of me. Turtle manners call for long and slow and proper introductions. But this was an emergency. I said, “Don't you have a hard shell you can escape into?”

“Nope,” Twitch said, springing from one book case to another. “Just fur.”

Fur is not nearly as useful as a hard shell. I asked, “Do you have a stink gland?”

“Don't I wish!” Twitch bounded from the bookcase to Mrs. Hinkle's desk, to her chair, to the floor.

My goodness!
Could he move fast!

The dog could move fast, too. But when he jumped off the art table, his fish-tank cart swung around and knocked into my table.

My case tipped. I pulled all the way into my shell again.

My case teetered. I closed my eyes.

My case tottered. Over the edge and onto the floor my case went, landing on its side. I rolled right out of it.

By the time I decided I was still alive, Twitch had already escaped into the hall. The dog, still attached to the cart, ran out of the room, with the parrot flapping her wings at him, and the hamster, the rabbit, and the rat scurrying pretty fast, too.

The dog had left a trail of painted footprints from the table to the door. It was mean of him to want to eat Twitch. But—I do have to say—he was a very talented artist.

I decided to follow.

Sassafras
.

Isn't that an absolutely delicious sounding word?

I simply love saying “SSSassssafrassss.”

Society
also has succulent syllables. As does
suspicious
.

The society I'm in is Mrs. Shaughnessey's fifth-grade classroom.

Suspicious is how outsiders sometimes react to me because I'm a snake. They say I'm sneaky and slithery and have slimy skin.

Sneaky and slithery, yes. But stroke my skin and see: I'm not the slightest bit slimy.

I have no fangs, no venom; I'm a simple orange and black and red corn snake, as long as a fifth-grader is tall.

Mrs. Shaughnessey's syllabus is history. Sassafras! History is such an interesting subject—besides being an amusing thing for a snake to say! “Hisssstory.”

After classes I'm somewhat solitary. A squirrel sometimes peeks in the window, but he slinks down again as soon as he spies me. Doesn't he know he's too substantial a mouthful for a snake my size to swallow?

Only once a week I sup—mostly on frozen mice supplied by Mrs. Shaughnessey. Six out of seven days I could be a safe associate to all the other class pets, including the albino rat who sometimes scurries past my doorway, fast, as though suspecting I would feast on him.

It must be nice to have sensitive fingers to unfasten one's cell as one wishes and explore the school's silent halls.

So I was pleased one after-school afternoon when a ruckus spilled down the hall and into Mrs. Shaughnessey's classroom.

My tongue tasted a shift in the atmosphere.

The squirrel and rat burst onto the scene, along with a hamster (another excellent word!) and a rabbit. From the hall came the sounds of a dog snarling,
“Leave me alone—this has nothing to do with you!” while a parrot squawked, “
Olé! Olé!
Keep away!”

In the classroom, the hamster saw me and squeaked, “Yikes! This is the fifth grade—where the snake lives! Snake = danger!”

The squirrel tried to skedaddle and shoved the rabbit, who stood betwixt him and the door. But the rabbit snapped, “The snake's locked up, but the dog isn't—you're safer in here.”

So the squirrel hastened for higher ground instead. Up the window blinds he scurried, though they swayed beneath his weight and smacked against the glass. From there, it was a short distance to the long narrow tube above the blackboard, where the historic maps are scrolled. The squirrel paced back and forth above “Medieval Europe” and “Renaissance Cities.”

From the hallway, we caught occasional glimpses of the dog as he sprinted from classroom to classroom, trying to escape the parrot's beak. For some reason I
could not discern, the dog was towing a fish tank on a pushcart. And from a slight distance a sociable but slow-moving voice called down the hall, “Hey, guys? Don't move so fast.”

In Mrs. Shaughnessey's classroom, the nervous hamster ran around in circles and said, “That turtle carries her shell around with her for protection. Protection against dogs. Protection against snakes. Could we make some sort of a shell for Twitch?”

The rabbit was looking at the shelves where Mrs. Shaughnessey keeps my supplies, including the large, lidless
SNAKE TRANSPORT
box. The rabbit suggested, “Or a shell to cover the dog?”

I deciphered the rabbit's scheme. I myself do not like dogs—who snip and snarl and sometimes eat a poor harmless snake who has no poison to protect himself. So I said, “I could help.”

The squirrel had misstepped and was dangling from the cord that lowers the maps. “How?” he asked. “By eating me before the dog has a chance to?”

“I've had my frozen mouse this week,” I said. “My stomach is satisfied till Tuesday.”

They all said, “Yech.”

“Set me free,” I said. “I'll distract the dog while some of you push that
SNAKE TRANSPORT
box off the shelf. Timed just right, it should tip over on top of
him and hold him safe from eating any of us. I would never be so discourteous as to snack on schoolmates. Except, perhaps, on Tuesdays. Besides, history teaches us that we are stronger with allies.”

“Allies,” the rat repeated. “Like fish in a school.”

“Trussst,” I encouraged them.

The rat—fearless, steadfast rat—scurried to my enclosure and shoved that screen aside.

Just then the dog ran in, still attached to his cart and snarling, “Where's that less-than-worthless squirrel?”

The squirrel tried to scamper back up the cord, unscrolling “Renaissance Cities” till Florence was on the floor.

The blue and gold macaw flew into the classroom and squawked:

No one told the bird her meter was off.

I slithered onto the floor. Seeing me, the dog scuttled in reverse. If he could have scaled up his fish cart, I suspect he would have. He didn't notice the
squirrel, the rat, and the hamster climb onto the shelf and begin shoving at that
SNAKE TRANSPORT
carton. The macaw saw, and went to their support.

The box moved closer and closer to the edge of the shelf.

I hissed, posing as ferocious, causing the dog to back up closer and closer to the overhang of the shelf.

The rabbit thumped her back leg, and the vibration was the last assistance that suspended receptacle needed.

Over the edge
SNAKE TRANSPORT
tipped, showering pine shavings on all. But the fit and our timing were flawless. The box landed just so, to trap that dog—but not the cart—inside.

“Sassafras!” I said.