Fart Squad (2 page)

The crowd gasped in amazement as he wolfed down the burritos in record time. They were crunchier than he had expected, with an odd flavor he couldn't place. So he doused them with Tabasco sauce and cleaned off his whole plate. There was absolutely no puking involved. Lunch money exchanged hands.

“I don't believe it,” Bootsie said.

“Me either,” Andy said. “You must have been
really
hungry!”

Darren spotted a few other worried-looking kids daring to eat today's “special.” He wondered if their lunches had gone missing, too. He was gobbling down the last burrito when the bell rang. He patted his stomach, feeling full at last.

But then on the way back to his homeroom, he felt an uncomfortable pressure start to build. By the time he was back at his desk, an embarrassing eruption seemed inevitable. Half-digested burritos churned angrily, filling his gut with toxic gas. He clenched his butt to hold it in, but the pressure kept building.

This was bad. Darren squirmed uncomfortably, hoping nobody would notice.

Fat chance.

“What's wrong with you?” Bootsie asked, loud enough for everyone to hear. Her hand shot up. “Miss Priscilly, Miss Priscilly, I think something's wrong with Dar—”

Darren gave her the evil eye.

The teacher, Miss Priscilly, glanced at him. “Are you all right, Darren?”

Miss Priscilly wasn't bad as teachers went, but she had one notable pet peeve. The young ladies
and gentlemen of her classroom were expected to take control of their bodily functions or face the consequences. Mistakes were generally not allowed. Not long ago, a fellow classmate made the mistake of sneezing into his palm rather than into the crook of his elbow and wound up in the principal's office every recess for a week. Darren could only imagine where a burrito blooper from below the belt would land someone—especially if that someone was him.

“Uh-huh,” he fibbed, barely able to sit still. He was clenching hard enough to turn coal into diamonds, but the volcanic eruption kept building inside him. His bloated stomach felt like it was about to burst. A chewed-up mess of burritos, Tabasco sauce, and soda boiled and bubbled in his belly. He knew he
couldn't hold the fart in much longer.

Bootsie watched him like a hawk. Her nose twitched, anticipating trouble.

Darren had to think quickly or he was a goner. He was way past the point of asking for a bathroom pass. There was no telling what could happen on the long walk from his desk to the classroom door.

Then he had an idea.

Why not try to redirect the fart? Burps were rude, too, but probably not as smelly and embarrassing as a fart. He placed a hand over his mouth and tried to swallow backward.

But the burp came out louder than he expected. Heads turned in his direction.

“Miss Priscilly!” Bootsie piped up again.

That was hardly necessary.

“Darren!” the offended teacher said. “Kindly control yourself.”

“I'm trying,” he insisted, “but—”

A few desks away, Andy groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“Try harder,” Miss Priscilly said sternly.

But the pressure was already building up inside Darren again—and heading down below this time. Before Darren could even try to burp again, he let loose with a fart that caught the entire classroom by surprise.

To be clear, this wasn't just any fart. This was the Fart to End All Farts. A
blatt
so rude the map of the world crashed to the floor. The explosive force
of the fart knocked Darren right out of his chair and landed him on the floor at the front of the class.

The fart was loud and gross. A sulfurous stink, strong enough to make your eyes water, filled the whole classroom. Students gagged and covered their mouths and noses. Others tried to hold their breaths. Bootsie pinched her nose shut and looked at Darren in complete disgust. Darren scrambled back to his seat—and found it hot to the touch. His eyes bulged as he saw that the plastic seat had
melted
. And Miss Priscilly was so furious her face turned ten shades of crimson.

“Ooooooooooooooooout!”
she ordered.

“But—” He tried to explain that it wasn't his fault, really. “The burritos—”

“Mr. Stonkadopolis, what you eat is your business, as long as I don't have to see it, smell it, or think about it. But now you've made it my business, and the principal's business as well.”

“I swear, it wasn't on purpose . . . !”

“Fine. Then go see the nurse . . . and don't come back without a note confirming that your digestive
difficulties are under control,” she said. “Quickly. Before you go off again!”

Darren hurried out of the classroom, his butt burning. So much for staying out of trouble!

And the worst part was, he felt an even bigger fart coming on. . . .

“I
've told you before,” the janitor said, “stay out of the basement.”

As Darren trudged toward the nurse's office, clutching his bloated stomach, he spotted a disturbance in the hall. Janitor Stan, who had been cleaning up at the school for as long as anyone could remember, was escorting Harry Buttz II and the B.O. twins out the basement door.

“You can't talk to me like that,” Harry protested. “Don't you know who I am?”

Harry was the grandson of the school's namesake, a wealthy factory owner whose family had founded Buttzville generations ago. He had an expensive haircut, designer clothes, and, as usual, a hand down the back of his pants, furiously scratching at an itch that never seemed to go away, no matter what he tried. Despite his family name and all the campaign goodies he'd given away, he'd lost the last student body election because nobody would shake his hand.

“You tell him, Number Two!” Bertha said. She and Oscar hung out with Harry, mostly because he was rich and had all the newest computer games.

“Don't call me that!” Harry barked.

“Look, you three,” Stan said. “I don't care what a big cheese Harry's dad is. The basement is off-limits.
Don't let me catch you snooping around there again.”

“This is all your fault,” Harry muttered to B.O. as the scratchy, smelly trio slunk away. “If you two could just follow simple directions . . .”

“Don't blame us,” Bertha protested. “It's not our fault we were interrupted by a couple of nosy brats.”

She glanced back over her shoulder, giving Darren the evil eye. Her hulking twin did likewise.

First the lunches, now this,
Darren thought.
Those three are certainly keeping busy today.

But before he could follow that thought through, he let another one rip. A thunderous fart echoed down the hall and polluted the air. There was no way Stan could miss it.

“Whoa!” the janitor exclaimed. “What was that?”

“Just some bad burritos,” Darren explained.

“The lunchroom special?” Stan guessed. “Let me guess, Miss Priscilly sent you to the nurse's office, right?”

Nothing got past the eagle-eyed janitor, who always knew more about what was happening
at the school than the principal and teachers. He knew which kids were friends, why certain kids weren't speaking to one another, what had become of any “misplaced” school supplies, and who exactly had toilet-papered the principal's car that one time. He had also covered for Darren in the past, like when all the biology class frogs had somehow gotten loose. (It was an accident. Really!)

“Something like that,” Darren admitted. He tried to change the subject. “What was all that with Number Two and his goon squad?”

“No big deal,” Stan said. “Just caught them poking around where they didn't belong . . . again. But don't let me slow you down. Run along now,” he
said, batting away the contaminated air in front of him. “Go see what the nurse can do for that unruly gut of yours.”

Darren knew the way to the infirmary by heart, thanks to the many scrapes and sprains he had picked up playing too hard. When he got there, he found Nurse Rancid occupied with another patient: a tiny dark-haired girl in a pretty pink dress. She looked like a little princess. All that was missing was the tiara.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Miss Priscilly sent me. . . .”

“Just take a seat,” the nurse replied. “I'll be with you in a sec.”

But before Darren sat down, a foul smell filled the office. It was strong enough to make Darren hold his nose, but the effect on Nurse Rancid was even more impressive. “Oh my!” she gasped before collapsing onto the floor. She was out cold. This was not good. Darren needed a note from her if he wanted to get back to class, but as long as Nurse Rancid was passed out she wasn't going to be doing any writing of any kind.

Yikes,
Darren thought.
Did I do that?

He was pretty sure he hadn't farted this time, which left only one other suspect.

“Did
you
do that?” he asked the girl.

“Do what?” she asked innocently.

Darren furiously fanned Nurse Rancid in the hopes of reviving her. “You know . . . ,” he said. “Fart.”

“Did you hear a fart?” she asked.

“No,” he admitted.

“Then I must not have,” she said.

“Or maybe your farts are just silent but deadly.”

Just then, Nurse Rancid stirred. Darren ran to her desk to get a pen and notepad before she passed out again. Sure the nurse hadn't yet examined him, but maybe she'd be out of it enough not to realize. Because all he really needed to satisfy Miss Priscilly was a signed note.

But as soon as the nurse opened her eyes, an awful, pungent smell flooded the room and knocked her out cold again.

This time Darren
knew
he wasn't responsible. It had to be the girl again.

“Knock that off!” he said sharply.

“Knock what off?” she replied.

“You know what I mean!”

To be fair, holding a fart in was easier said than done. Before Darren could say another word, he lost control himself. A titanic
blatt
, twice as loud and hot as before, scorched the seat of his favorite jeans.

Okay,
he thought.
That one was me.

“Excuse me,” the girl said politely. “It seems your butt is smoking.”

Darren grimaced in pain. The fart didn't just smell. It burned!

“Hang on!” The girl strolled over to the infirmary's small fridge and grabbed a handful of colored medicinal Popsicles. “Maybe these will help!”

Couldn't hurt,
Darren thought. He grabbed the Popsicles, ripped off the wrappers, and jammed them down the seat of his pants. Steam rose from his backside. He was a sticky mess, but at least his butt wasn't on fire anymore.

“You're welcome,” the girl said. “My name's Tina, by the way. Tina Heiney.”

“Darren,” he introduced himself. “And thanks.”

Two more kids entered the office, clutching their stomachs.

“Say, do I detect the enticing aroma of Popsicles?” Walter Turnip asked. Darren recognized him from another fourth-grade class. As tall as he was wide, Walter was hard to miss. But today his bulging belly appeared even bigger than usual, like an overinflated balloon. He looked like a blimp in a rumpled T-shirt. And unless Darren was imagining things, Walter appeared to be floating a few inches off the floor, at least until a noisy fart released some gas and he touched down again. “Never mind. My digestive tract feels a trifle unsettled.”

As always, Juan-Carlos Finkelstein was by Walter's side. He was tall, too, but in a lanky way. “I always said he was full of hot air, but this is taking it too far!”

Juan-Carlos would have been the school's number-one class clown . . . if only his jokes were funny. He was usually trying to get a laugh, but right now he seemed to have something else gurgling inside him. He made a face and scurried across the room. A moment later, an explosively loud and smelly fart went off right where he had been standing only seconds before.

Darren was impressed and disgusted at the same time. “How did you do that?”

“I don't know,” Juan-Carlos said. “It's just been happening since lunch.”

The nurse's office smelled like Fart Central Station. Darren figured this epidemic of flatulence couldn't be a coincidence. He looked around at the other kids.

“Did all of you eat the lunchroom burritos, too?”

“I had to,” Tina said. “Somebody swiped my lunch.”

“And mine as well,” Walter said.

“Mine, too,” said Juan-Carlos. “Or should that be ‘mine, three.'”

“Make that four,” Darren said. “And I'm pretty sure it was the B.O. twins.” He explained that he and Andy had caught the twins lurking around the coat closet, right before his lunch disappeared. “I guess they grabbed yours, too . . . for some reason.”

“Er, because they were hungry?” Tina suggested. “And too cheap to spring for their own lunches?”

“But
four
lunches?” Juan-Carlos asked. “That seems a bit extreme. One is usually enough for me.”