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Dinosaur Boy Saves Mars
By Cory Putman Oakes Sourcebooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2016 Cory Putman Oakes
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4926-0541-6
CHAPTER 1
The Jerk
There are lots of cool things about being part stegosaurus.
Trying to get a decent night's sleep isn't one of them.
I used to sleep on my back like a normal person. But now that my back has seventeen hard plates on it, that's no longer an option. Neither is lying on my front, since my back is so heavy that it's hard to breathe when I'm flat on my stomach. Curling up on my side sort of works, but I have to wedge myself into place with tons of pillows so I don't accidentally roll over and squash my plates. And who can sleep when they're practically drowning in pillows?
One night, I even tried to sleep standing up. They say that real stegosauruses might have done that. But real stegosauruses had four legs. I only have two, so let's just say the mechanics didn't exactly work out.
My latest attempt at a comfy sleep position came courtesy of my grandfather. He used to be part stegosaurus himself (until he took the cure). He told me that when he had dinosaur parts, he never had a good night's sleep either. Until he visited Dubai where he saw a camel kneel in the sand, tuck its legs underneath its body, and take a nap.
I figured it was worth a shot. So last night I got down on all fours in the center of my bed, tucked my knees under my chest, stretched my tail out behind me, and rested my cheek on a stack of pillows.
It must have worked. Or maybe I was just really tired. But either way, I was still in that same position when my mom came in and woke me up early the next morning.
I couldn't figure out why she was telling me I had to get up and go to school. It was a Saturday, after all. And by my count, I still had two days of winter break left.
"It's a makeup day," she explained, waving her phone in my face. I blinked and caught a blurry glimpse of her inbox. "The school is legally required to add an extra day to make up for the ones you missed because of the flooding last month."
"They can just end vacation early like that?" I asked. My dog, Fanny, made an irritated noise from her place at the end of my bed and rolled over, curling herself back into a ball. "On a weekend?"
"I guess so," my mom said. "There's a notice on the school website and they sent an email reminder late last night. We're lucky I didn't miss it!"
"Lucky" wasn't exactly what I was feeling, especially when I caught sight of the bright-yellow assignment sheet on my desk.
"Mom! The paper!"
As homework over break, Ms. Filch had assigned us to figure out what our "passion" was and write a paper about it. I had spent so long staring at the assignment sheet that I now knew the definition of "passion" by heart:
Passion (noun): a strong feeling of enthusiasm or excitement for something or about doing something
I'd spent the entire break trying to figure out a topic, but nothing had come to me. I had gone to bed last night thinking I had two more days for inspiration to strike, but that didn't seem to be true anymore.
My mom patted my tail sympathetically.
"I know you've been trying, Sawyer. I'll write Ms. Filch a note and ask if she'll give you an extension. Now hurry! You don't want to be late for the makeup day!"
* * *
As I trudged to school, I tried to put my finger on what was so complicated about figuring out my passion. It wasn't that I didn't have strong feelings about things. Of course I did. There were plenty of things I enjoyed: I liked playing fetch with Fanny; I liked going fishing with my dad; and ever since my herbivore dinosaur gene had kicked in, I really liked salad. But all of those things seemed too boring to be my "passion."
Nobody else seemed to think the assignment was hard. My best friend, Elliot, wrote his paper on basketball. Which made sense, since basketball was hands-down his favorite thing in life.
Our other friend, Sylvie, had so many passions that she outlined three different versions of the paper before she finally decided on the topic, My Hero: My Dad. Sylvie hadn't seen her dad in a while. In fact, she'd been trying to get in touch with him for months now, ever since she first came to our school at the beginning of the year. The whole thing is complicated by the fact that Sylvie's dad is a Martian. So is Sylvie. (Well, a half-Martian since her mom is an Earthling.)
I didn't play any sports. And I didn't have divorced parents who lived on separate planets. So neither of their topics really helped me.
I probably should have just lied and said that I was really passionate about something like stopping global warming. Or Italian food. Ms. Filch probably would have believed either of those. But I would have known it was a lie. And part of me thought it might actually be important to have a passion. I was really annoyed I couldn't think of one.
At least I had my note for Ms. Filch, so I probably wouldn't get in trouble. She'd give me an extension and I could put off worrying about my passion until another day.
But I still had to go to school. On a Saturday. That felt like punishment enough.
* * *
A crowd of kids was gathered on the grass in front of the entrance to our school's administration building. It was easy to spot Elliot and Sylvie in the crowd. Elliot, because he was a head taller than everybody else. Sylvie, because her traffic-cone orange sweatshirt made her stick out like a beacon.
"What's going on?" I asked them, double-checking the end of my tail to make sure that all four of my spikes still had a tennis ball skewered onto the tip. My school was fairly strict about that, and I couldn't really blame them. Each of my spikes was a foot long and razor sharp. Without the tennis balls, I was a lethal weapon.
"The school's locked," Elliot answered. "None of the teachers are here."
"That's weird," I said as Sylvie yawned hugely. Her curly brown hair looked even poufier than normal today. Only Elliot and I knew that she did that on purpose to help hide the two antennae she kept pinned tight to her head with barrettes.
"What's weird is that every fifth grader is here, but practically no one else," Sylvie said, waving her hand at the kids standing all around us. She was right. There were a couple of fourth graders and a few sixth graders floating around, but everyone else I could see was in fifth grade like us.
Things got even weirder a couple of minutes later when a car squealed into the parking lot and Principal Kline jumped out. I hardly recognized him at first, probably because he was wearing long shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. He also had a bit of a beard going on, like he hadn't shaved in a couple of weeks.
Not that I'm complaining about Principal Kline. As far as I was concerned, he could wear whatever he wanted as long as he wasn't planning to sell any of my classmates to intergalactic rare pet dealers (like our last principal). But since he almost always wore khakis and collared shirts to school, I was guessing he hadn't planned on coming in that day.
I was right.
"Everyone!" Principal Kline said, commanding our attention from the top step of the administration building. "I'm afraid there's been a mix-up. Last night, an unauthorized user gained access to the school's administrative account and sent an email to all the fifth-grade parents. Our school website was also tampered with. There's no school today. It's not a 'makeup day' or anything like that. Please sit tight while I send out a corrected email and call all of your parents. It might take a while."
"The school got hacked? Who would do that?" Sylvie asked. From all of the chatter going on around us, it was obvious that everyone was asking each other the same thing.
Elliot and I both sighed.
"Orlando must be back," I theorized.
"He's early this year," Elliot pointed out.
"Who's early?" Sylvie asked, crossing her arms. She hated not being the one who figured things out.
I pulled out my phone, but its battery was dead.
"Quick," I said to Elliot. "Check the school Wi-Fi."
Elliot dug his phone out of his pocket. Usually there was only one WiFi network available on school grounds: JACKJAMESELEMENTARY (password: JackJames). Now there was still only one. But its name was: ORLANDOTOTALLYROCKS.
"Yeah, that's usually the first thing he does," I said.
"Who's Orlando?" Sylvie asked.
"Orlando Eris," I told her. "He's in our class, but you haven't met him yet because he lives in San Diego with his dad for the first half of every year. He only comes home to Portland after winter break."
"Orlando's obsessed with practical jokes," Elliot added. "He even runs a blog. See?"
He angled his phone so Sylvie and I both had a perfect view of a website called Prankster King Orlando. Beneath the obnoxious red title and a big cartoon crown was today's blog entry: a live-stream video of the front of a school, with dozens of kids gathered on the lawn.
It was us. Orlando was live streaming a video of us.
"That jerk!"
The shout came from Allan Huxley, who was also looking down at his phone. Until recently, Allan had been my greatest enemy at school. But we had come to an understanding after Sylvie and I saved him (and a good portion of the rest of our class) from taking a one-way trip to Jupiter. It's kind of a long story, and we still weren't exactly friends, but Allan and I had managed to coexist in relative peace for quite some time now. He hadn't called me Butt Brain in three months and counting.
But hearing him yell like that still sent a chill down my plates.
As if on cue, the video feed paused and a picture of Orlando popped up in front of it. He looked exactly like I remembered him from last year: a black-haired, pasty-skinned kid in big glasses. He grinned at the camera and slowly held up a sign.
DID YOU MISS ME?
"Jerk!" Allan yelled again. Without warning, he started running toward a Dumpster on the edge of the grass, just as a small, bespectacled figure with a video camera in one hand darted out from behind it.
Principal Kline took off after them about a second later, running awkwardly in his flip-flops. Most of our class members, including Elliot and Sylvie, started cheering Allan on at the top of their lungs.
But I didn't. I was too busy thinking a rather out-of-place and very annoying thought: Orlando Eris may have been a jerk, but at least he had a passion. He probably wouldn't have any trouble writing his paper.
CHAPTER 2
The Glue Incident
Orlando's "makeup day" stunt got him suspended for three days. I'm pretty sure he spent the entire time thinking up new prank ideas, because when he finally returned to school he had a new practical joke planned for every day.
On his first day back, he deflated all the volleyballs in the gym.
The second day, he put birdseed on top of all the cars in the faculty parking lot. The picture on his blog that night was a close-up of Principal Kline's car covered in bird poop.
The day after that, he released a jar of crickets into a loose ceiling panel in the boys' bathroom. They spread all over the school. Now, whenever it gets quiet in a classroom, we can hear them chirping above our heads.
Unlike the Wi-Fi thing, there was no actual proof he did any of those things. But everybody knew it was him. It was always him. You only had to read his blog to know.
He was pretty much permanently in detention, but he didn't seem to care. And he didn't have any friends, but he didn't seem to mind that either.
I'm not sure if his lack of friends was the reason he pulled so many pranks. Or if pulling so many pranks was the reason for his lack of friends. It didn't really matter. The end result was the same. Every day, Orlando ate lunch by himself at the center of an otherwise empty cafeteria table. Like there was some kind of invisible force field between him and everybody else at school.
Most of the stuff he did was more annoying than harmful. Like rearranging all the desks in our homeroom to face backward. Or taking a selfie and setting it as the background on Ms. Filch's computer. Or gluing the caps onto all of Ms. Filch's pens. He really seemed to like tormenting Ms. Filch. She was pretty patient with him, considering. Until the day that Orlando put superglue all over her chair right before free reading period.
By the end of free reading period, Ms. Filch's jeans were permanently attached to the chair. We all had to leave the room while another female teacher came to help her get out of them. And to hold a towel around her until someone could find something else for her to wear. Orlando got a picture of the janitor hauling away Ms. Filch's ruined chair (with her jeans still attached) and put it up on his blog. And Instagram. It got three thousand likes in less than an hour.
That was when Ms. Filch kind of lost it.
At lunch that day, she made us all sit at our desks and explained that we would not be allowed to leave the room until someone confessed to being the glue perpetrator.
"Ms. Filch?" Elliot called out from the back row, waving one of his long, skinny arms in the air. "Why do we all have to sit here? Everybody knows that it was —"
Ms. Filch raised a hand to silence him.
"I don't care if you know who it was, Elliot. I don't care if everybody in this room knows. It's not just about who did it. I said I want a confession. A confession is about taking responsibility. And until someone confesses, the entire class will eat their lunch at their desks. Silently."
We all turned to glare at Orlando.
He pushed a strand of hair off his forehead, adjusted his glasses, and started unwrapping his sandwich. He looked exactly the way he always did at lunch: small, quiet, and completely unbothered. And not like someone who was about to take responsibility for anything.
We all took out our lunches. I poured dressing over my favorite salad (mixed greens, tomatoes, cucumbers, and banana peppers) and as I ate, I stared at the first page of my notebook where I had started a brainstorming list for my "passion" paper.
So far, the list consisted of the words "Possible Passions," underlined twice, with nothing underneath.
At the desk next to me, Sylvie pushed back the hood of her sweatshirt and nodded to my notebook.
"What's that for?" she whispered.
"I still have to write my paper," I whispered back. Ms. Filch had given me a two-week extension. But I still had no idea what I was going to write about.
"Oh that," Sylvie said, unwrapping a pack of Starburst. "I got an Aminus on mine."
"For a Martian, you're really good at English," I grumbled, taking a big bite of my salad.
"Oh, not especially," Sylvie said, sandwiching a pink Starburst between two yellow ones and biting them in half. "All Martians speak English."
"Really?" I asked. "That seems weird."
"Why?" Sylvie asked, lowering her voice to an even quieter, mysterious tone. "Who do you think taught it to you Earthlings?"
"Really?" I said again, louder this time.
"Shhh!" Ms. Filch hissed from the front of the room.
We were both quiet for a minute. When Ms. Filch returned to her book, Sylvie leaned toward me again.
"Actually, it's because Martians are obsessed with American TV," she confessed. "All the planets are. My dad says nothing has united the galaxy like everybody's shared love for American Idol. They speak English at all important intergalactic summits now. It's very trendy."
"Huh," I said thoughtfully.
I returned to my notebook and wrote "TV" as the first item on my list.
I crossed it off a second later, after I remembered I hardly ever watched TV. There had to be something I was more passionate about than that.
Lunch seemed to take a lot longer than usual. By the time the bell finally rang, I had eaten my entire salad and had written and crossed out three more items on my list. Sylvie had ripped her Starburst wrappers into tiny pieces and used them to spell out ORLANDO SUCKS across her desk. At the back of the room, Elliot had his legs stretched out in the aisle, his head tilted over the back of his chair, and was taking what looked like the world's most uncomfortable nap.
Ms. Filch got up from her desk and gave Orlando a pointed look.
He pushed his glasses farther up his nose and blinked at her.
Ms. Filch sighed. "It looks like we'll all be having lunch together tomorrow too."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Dinosaur Boy Saves Mars by Cory Putman Oakes. Copyright © 2016 Cory Putman Oakes. Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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