Iggy Loomis, A Hagfish Called Shirley Page 4

  WHEN ALISTAIR CAME OVER the next morning to pick me up for school, Iggy and Dottie threw open the door to surprise him with a present: two new pets.

  “TA-DA!” Iggy and Dottie shouted. “NEW PETS FOR YOU!”

  “See, Awistair?” Iggy said. “Callie never going wun away fwum you!!”

  “Interesting.” Alistair looked at the pink flower in a pot and the motionless caterpillar in the jar. “What you have here is a Malacosoma americanum (mors) and a Gerbera jamesonii,” he said.

  It’s just like Alistair to know the Latin names for a caterpillar and a daisy, I thought.

  Iggy shook his head. “No,” he said. “Dis not a ‘mawacocofum’; dis a caterpiddar.”

  I nudged Iggy. “Remember what you wanted to tell Alistair?”

  “I sorry I flushted Haggie in da potty,” Iggy said, just like he had practiced.

  “I know you’re sorry, Iggy.”

  Alistair’s eyes looked red and puffy, and I guessed he had been crying about losing Shirley.

  “Callie can make you happy,” Iggy suggested.

  Alistair just stared at Iggy. “That’s nice of you to share your dead caterpillar with me, Iggy.”

  Iggy tapped on the glass jar. “Callie napping.”

  “But even if I took this deceased caterpillar home with me,” Alistair continued, “I would still miss Shirley, and you and Dottie would miss Callie and Miss Daisy. Think about it: There would be three sad people instead of just one.”

  Iggy thought about it. “Maybe four sad peoples becuz my caterpiddar also feeling sad.”

  “Time to go to school everyone!” Mom grabbed her purse and keys and basically bulldozed all of us out the front door.

  Mom, Iggy, and Dottie climbed into our minivan while Alistair and I walked down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

  We didn’t say much as we made our way to school, but every now and then, Alistair paused and peered down into a storm drain opening with his flashlight.

  I didn’t want to hurt Alistair’s feelings, but if you ask me, it seemed pretty unlikely that Shirley was still alive down there.

  “Alistair,” I said, “do you really think a hagfish could survive getting flushed?”

  “I was just researching that question last night,” Alistair said, “and I read about live alligators and snakes being discovered in the sewers. There was also a story about someone’s pet goldfish who survived getting flushed.”

  “That’s good news,” I said.

  Alistair sighed. “On the other hand, Shirley might be gone for good.”

  “But there’s always a reason to hope,” I said. I didn’t really believe it, but when I saw how sad Alistair looked, I couldn’t help trying to make him feel a little better.

  AT SCHOOL, Alistair had a tough time concentrating. Usually this isn’t a problem for him because Alistair is so smart, he doesn’t even need to listen to Mr. Binns in order to understand our assignments. He usually finishes his worksheets in about half a minute and then he spends his time drawing diagrams for new robots or nibbling on broccoli florets that he brings in little snack bags.

  But today was different. Today, Alistair just sat at our worktable, staring at nothing.

  It really bugged me that Alistair was acting so spacey because the two of us had signed up to work on a science presentation together, and to be honest, I had kind of been counting on Alistair to come up with a smart idea and then do most of the work.

  I glanced at Alistair’s notebook and saw that it was covered with drawings of Shirley. He had also written a sad letter to her:

  “Come on, Alistair,” I said. “We’re supposed to be working on our science presentation.”

  Alistair shook his head. “I’m too distraught to work on the presentation.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  Alistair looked at me. “Don’t you remember? We were planning to do our presentation on the topic of hagfish! I’m feeling pretty upset right now.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I forgot.”

  “And as you know,” Alistair continued, “we no longer have a hagfish.”

  “So we’ll change our topic,” I suggested.

  “That isn’t possible,” Alistair said, “because there’s nothing I’m curious about right now.”

  “Of course there is!” I said, now even more worried that I was going to get stuck doing the whole project on my own. “You’re always curious about stuff!”

  Alistair shook his head. “Something has changed,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I feel like something inside me hurts, but it’s not a body part. All I know is that I don’t want to do anything except think about Shirley.”

  “That’s probably normal,” I said. “I mean, you’re still really sad.”

  “It’s worse than ‘sad.’”

  “I mean, you really miss Shirley a lot. You’ve lost something. So it’s normal that you feel down. Right?”

  Alistair thought for a moment. “Maybe I feel a new emotion called ‘pet sad.’”

  “Then the best thing to do is to just get your mind off Shirley and try to think about something else for a while,” I suggested. “What about that slime-mold stuff you were telling me about a few days ago? Remember how excited you were when you found a real slime mold in your own yard? I bet that would make a great topic!”

  Alistair shrugged. “I used to think slime mold was interesting.”

  “And it is interesting! Slime mold would make a great topic for our presentation!”

  To be honest, I wasn’t really sure if slime mold would be a great topic, but we had a lot of work to get done, and Alistair really needed to get started.

  “The problem,” Alistair said, “is that I don’t care about slime mold like I care about Shirley.”

  “Of course you don’t,” I said. “Who would? But that doesn’t mean we can’t do a perfectly okay B-plus presentation on slime mold.”

  Alistair sighed. “I guess you’re right,” he said.

  “Of course I’m right.”

  Alistair picked up his pencil. I was happy to see him finally start writing a few notes about slime mold.

  But just my luck: right when Alistair was finally starting to work on our science presentation, Chauncey snuck up behind us and swiped Alistair’s notebook!

  Alistair and I turned to see Chauncey smirking as he read Alistair’s private letter to Shirley.

  “WHO’S SHIRLEY?” Chauncey blabbed.

  “Mind your own beeswax, Chauncey!” I tried to grab Alistair’s notebook, but Chauncey was too quick for me. He held the notebook over my head with his long, ape-like arms.

  “Hey, everybody!” Chauncey announced. “ALISTAIR HAS A GIRLFRIEND!”

  Everyone in the class turned to stare at Alistair.

  “‘Dear Shirley’” Chauncey read, faking an accent that was supposed to sound French but instead just sounded annoying: “‘I mees you zoooooo much! I feel like you are steel cloze by! Even zoe you are far away!’”

  Alistair looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car as Chauncey read his “Dear Shirley” letter aloud to the whole class.

  “Sounds like a long-distance relationship, Alistair,” Chauncey teased.

  “Well, it’s not really—” Alistair began, but Chauncey cut him off and kept reading:

  “‘I vill never ever forget you! SHIRLEY! MA DAHLING! MA PET!’”

  “I’ll take that, thank you very much!” Mr. Binns came up behind Chauncey and snatched the notebook away from him. “Back to your seat, Chauncey.”

  Mr. Binns clapped his hands to make everyone in the classroom stop giggling. “I apologize for Chauncey’s behavior, Alistair,” he said, handing the Shirley-covered notebook back to Alistair.

  “L
isten, people,” Mr. Binns continued. “There is no place for rude behavior like what Chauncey just did in this classroom. Understand?”

  Everyone got quiet. Chauncey scowled.

  “Furthermore, I don’t want any boy in this class to ever feel bad just because he likes a girl. That is Alistair’s personal business.”

  That got everyone giggling again. Didn’t Mr. Binns know when to stop?

  “Mr. Binns?” I raised my hand, feeling that I should at least try to help Alistair with this situation.

  “Yes, Daniel?”

  “I just want to say that Shirley isn’t actually Alistair’s girlfriend.” I figured that if I didn’t speak up for Alistair, the teasing would never end. “Shirley was Alistair’s pet, and he’s sad because he lost her yesterday.”

  Hearing that news, everyone stopped giggling. In Mr. Binns’s classroom, losing a girlfriend or boyfriend is a big joke, but losing a pet is serious business.

  “We had to put my dog, Lady, to sleep last summer because she was really sick,” a girl named Catherine said. “I cried for a whole week. Even my dad cried.”

  “One of my pet frogs died just a couple weeks ago,” a boy named Carlos said.

  It turned out that just about everyone in Mr. Binns’s classroom except Chauncey had either lost a pet or knew someone who did.

  “Pets are very important to us,” Mr. Binns said, after everyone shared a story. “So we can all understand how Alistair must feel right now. Right, Chauncey?”

  Chauncey shrugged. “All pets do is beg for snacks,” he said.

  “No they don’t!” said Catherine. “Lady could do lots of tricks! She could even ride a scooter!”

  Everyone wanted to hear more about Catherine’s dog Lady and the scooter, but Mr. Binns interrupted, saying that Chauncey needed to apologize to Alistair right now.

  Chauncey fidgeted but finally mumbled a not-very-sincere “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Chauncey,” Alistair said. “I’m actually glad you read my letter to the class.”

  Mr. Binns and Chauncey looked surprised.

  “Why are you glad, Alistair?” Mr. Binns asked.

  “Because I had no idea that so many people in this class have also gone through this terrible pet sadness I’m feeling.” Alistair looked around the room. “And if you all survived it, then maybe I will, too.”

  Everyone, including Mr. Binns, just stared at Alistair. Alistair doesn’t talk in class very often, and I think nobody really knows what to expect from him.

  Finally, Mr. Binns just said, “It’s hard to lose a pet, Alistair. We all hope you feel better soon.”

  Then Mr. Binns started talking about our science projects, and the day went on as usual.

  But one thing was different: now that everyone in our class knew that Alistair had lost his pet, they started doing little things to make him feel better. By the end of the school day, Alistair’s desk was covered with notes and cards—pictures of dogs, cats, fish, and reptiles from the kids in our class. Alistair hadn’t told the class what type of pet he lost, so people just drew whatever animal they liked best.

  “I feel a little better,” Alistair admitted as we walked home from school at the end of the day. “It’s strange how it helps, just knowing that so many children have also lost their pets. . . .”

  Alistair’s voice trailed off. He paused and stepped off the sidewalk and knelt next to a storm drain. “SHIRLEY?” he called, yelling down into the gutter. “SHIIIIRLEEEEY!”

  I started yelling too: “SHIRRRRRRLE-EEEEEY!”

  After a few minutes, we both got tired of yelling.

  “Let’s go, Alistair,” I said. “After I drop off my stuff at home, I’ll come over so we can work on our slime-mold project, okay?”

  “Okay.” Alistair sighed.

  “And once we finish the project we could go back to my house to build some Technoblok models.”

  “I guess so,” Alistair said. “Sure.”

  I knew Alistair didn’t really want to work on the slime-mold project or even build Technobloks. I knew he only wanted to do one thing—get Shirley back.

  IT WAS MY DAD’S work-from-home day, and when I got home, I found him lying on the couch in front of the television, napping on top of a huge pile of clean laundry. He looked pretty ridiculous because Iggy and Dottie had clipped a bunch of Dottie’s plastic barrettes in his hair, which stuck up in little pigtails all over his head. He was also covered with lots of little pants, T-shirts, and underwear that Iggy and Dottie had placed on top of him like tiny baby blankets.

  Iggy and Dottie sat under the dining table, playing a game they call Angry Kitty, which basically means that Iggy pretends to be Dottie’s grouchy pet cat.

  “Time to brush your fur, Kitty!” Dottie announced, holding a hairbrush.

  “MEOW! MEOW! HISSSSSSS!” Iggy hissed and pretended to scratch Dottie with his cat claws.

  “No, Angwy Kitty!” Dottie shook a finger at Iggy. “You need your booful fur-style! And den you need your bubble baf and your nap and go potty in your litter box!”

  Dottie pointed at Iggy’s pretend “litter box,” which was actually a bunch of pages from our local newspaper, The Daily Journal, placed on the floor next to some cereal bowls that were supposed to be Angry Kitty’s cat-food dishes.

  I was just about to wake up Dad to make fun of his hairstyle when something in the newspaper caught Iggy’s attention: “Hey!” Iggy shouted. “Dat monster look like Haggie!”

  “Dat a gwoss monster,” Dottie commented.

  I figured the two of them were just playing around, but I was curious so I walked over to Iggy and Dottie to take a look.

  “See?” Iggy said, pointing at the newspaper. “Dat Haggie!”

  There in the newspaper was a black-and-white photo of a strange creature that looked like some kind of small sea monster.

  I can’t believe it! I thought. Iggy is right!

  There, in the newspaper, was a photograph of Alistair’s pet hagfish!

  If this is really a photograph of Shirley, it means that she survived getting flushed and that she’s probably still swimming around down in the sewer, I thought.

  I tore the news article from the paper and jumped to my feet. I knew I had to tell Alistair right away.

  “HEY, ALISTAIR!” I yelled, waving the newspaper article in my hand as I ran across my front yard into Alistair’s yard. “You have to read this news article!”

  Alistair stood still as a statue in his front yard, staring down at something in the grass.

  “Look, Daniel,” Alistair said, pointing down at a yellow-green, slimy blob. “This is a Fuligo septica, also commonly known by the name dog-vomit slime mold.”

  I once saw a dog barf up some grass when I was at the park, and that’s pretty much what the slime mold looked like. “Cool!” I told Alistair, wanting him to know I was impressed. “But you really have to read this news article right now!”

  Alistair finally looked at the newspaper I was waving under his nose, and when he saw the photograph of a hagfish, a huge smile spread across his face.

  “It’s her!” Alistair looked up at me and then back down at the newspaper. “This means she’s still alive down there!”

  “I know!’ I said. “Isn’t this great news?”

  “Yes, but it means we have to find a way to get her out of there!” Alistair turned and began to pace back and forth.

  “If your parents would just give you back your watch, it would be a lot easier to solve this problem,” I complained. To be honest, I also really missed playing with the amazing flying robots Alistair and I used to make with his alien technology.

  Alistair plucked a broccoli floret from one of the plants growing in clay pots near his front porch. “Those sewer pipes are like a huge underground maze beneath the city,” he said, pausing to nibble a piece of
broccoli. “And that means that a lost hagfish could be just about anywhere.”

  But before Alistair and I could figure out how to rescue Shirley, Iggy and Dottie came running toward us.

  “HEY, AWISTAIR!” Iggy shouted. “DADDY SAY WE CAN PLAY OUTSIDE WIF YOU AND DANO NOW!”

  “Stop!” Alistair warned, pointing at the ground. “Watch out for the slime mold!”

  “YUCK!” Iggy shouted when he saw what Alistair was pointing toward. “DOTTIE, LOOK AT DESE GWASS BOOGERS!”

  “It’s called slime mold, Iggy,” Alistair said. “It’s actually one big amoeba—a blob of protoplasm.”

  “What dis poodopassum doos?” Iggy asked.

  “It can do a lot!”

  Alistair told Iggy and Dottie all about slime mold. “For example,” Alistair said, “even though it doesn’t have legs or feet, a dog-vomit slime mold can move. It can stretch itself toward food or even crawl very slowly across the ground.”

  “And here’s something really amazing: a slime mold doesn’t have a brain, but it can actually solve problems,” Alistair continued.

  “Like math problems?” I asked, suddenly curious. (I had to admit this slime-mold stuff was a lot weirder—and more interesting—than I had expected!)

  “It can’t solve math problems,” Alistair said, giving me a why-are-humans-so-dumb? look. “But I read about an experiment where a slime mold found its way through a maze to reach a cookie.”

  “Good boy, Slimy!” Iggy said, squatting down next to the slime mold as if it were a pet dog.

  “Do you think this slime mold could find its way through a maze?” I asked.

  “Maybe it could,” Alistair said, “if it’s one of the smart ones.”

  How can something that has no brain be ‘smart’? I wondered. It sure didn’t look very smart. It looked like a gooey puddle of dog puke.

  “Hey,” I said, “we should do the slime-mold maze experiment for our science project! I bet Mr. Binns would love it!” I was really curious to see whether the yellow-green glob on the ground could actually move on its own. In fact, I probably would have wanted to do the experiment even if it didn’t count for a grade!