Pop Goes the Ferret

By Rachel Dib

“Mom, do you know how to make a burrito?”

“Old Earth foods are under heading six on the Nutritionator,” I muttered as I held up my hand massager to the light. Yep. Little tooth marks lined the pinky finger. I shook my head in confusion. While I’d noticed scrapes on my hair-styler that morning, I’d thought they were scuff marks. Were they actually chew marks? But what from? Rats? They’re not supposed to exist in our quadrant.

“No. Like an actual burrito.” Xander strode to my side and leaned against the counter. A lock of black hair fell across his eyes. He quickly brushed it aside, but it refused to stay put.

If you’d get a haircut like I suggested, you wouldn’t have that problem.

He shoved his microcomputer screen to within an inch of my face. “So, do you know how to make one?”

Stepping backward, I examined the image of a meaty bean mixture wrapped in a flat bread. According to the description, the messy Old Earth concoction tasted amazing. And maybe it did. Regardless, I’d take my Nutritionator’s version any day. Why would I want to spend hours over a heating contraption trying to cook the meal myself when I could press a button and have an altered, but more nutritious, substitute without the hassle? It still tasted basically the same—usually.

My gaze flicked to the top cabinet where my cookie stash lay hidden. For some reason, the Nutritionator couldn’t replicate a simple chocolate chip cookie. I had to bug my sister for a fresh batch every month.

“Mom?”

My gaze returned to the burrito. “I could probably figure it out. Why?”

Xander tilted his head, attempting to tame his stray lock. A curl on the opposite side swept across his eyes.

I fought an eye roll.

“We’re studying Old Earth holidays. I got April. National Burrito Day was on the first Thursday of April every year.” His mouth quirked. “Can’t go wrong bringing in food, chippy?”

Right, I inwardly corrected. Teenagers and their slang. How did “chippy” have anything to do with the word “right” or “awesome” or anything else it attempted to replace?

“If that’s what you want to do, I’m sure we can make it work. When is the project due?”

“Tomorrow.”

My jaw clenched at his flippant tone.

He shifted his feet. The new stance finally settled his rogue hair into place. “I swear I didn’t wait until the last minute,” he assured me.

I lifted a brow.

“At first, I was going to bring in a ferret, you know, for Ferret Appreciation Day—that’s on April 2. Grandpa helped me reanimate one and everything. We went to his lab and used the Lazarus Generator. Anway, it was a totally chippy replica, but then I sort of…”

My eyes narrowed at his sudden shifty gaze. “You sort of what?”

“Lost… it.”

“Lost your project?”

Xander rubbed the back of his neck.

“In the house?”

“I looked everywhere for it!” Xander insisted. “But ferrets must be really good at hiding, because I can’t find it anywhere. So, I need something new before tomorrow. I figured a burrito would be an easy plan B. Chippy?”

No. Not chippy. Because something called a ferret is running around my house! I glanced at the teeth marks marring my hand massager and clicked my tongue. And it’s trying to eat my stuff!

“If you think a burrito is too difficult to make before tomorrow, Caramel Day and Peanut Butter and Jelly Day are also in April. Would one of those work?” Xander asked, misinterpreting my concern. “Aunt Jannis has that food thing she uses for her fancy themed parties. Maybe she’d let us borrow it.”

“What is a ferret?” I demanded.

Xander blinked. “What?”

“A ferret. You said you lost one in the house. What is it?”

“Oh.” Xander clicked a few buttons on his microcomputer and showed me a picture.

The elongated sable creature with its beady, masked eyes, curved fangs, and clawed paws made me shudder. Old Earthians might have considered the little beast cute, but all I saw was an unsanitary pest that had decided my muscle-relaxing instruments made good chew toys.

“You let a rodent loose in the house!”

Xander crossed his arms. “Ferrets aren’t rodents. They’re part of the Mustelidae family, like weasels.”

“Weasels!” A fragment of an old nursery rhyme flashed across my brain—something about a monkey chasing a weasel—the extent of my knowledge on the creature.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I released a slow breath. “Okay. New plan.”

Xander perked up.

“You’re not making a burrito. Or caramel, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or anything else that’s sticky. What you are going to do is find that ferret.” I pointed to the teeth marks on my hand massager. “Preferably before it destroys anything.”

“What’s the big deal?” Xander groaned. “It’s not like it’ll be around forever. Grandpa set it to disintegrate a week after my presentation.”

“Disintegrate?”

“That’s how reanimation works. There’s a timer.” Xander shrugged. “Next week, it’ll be goop.”

I lowered my chin, eyebrows raised in my best “you better be kidding me” expression. “So, there will be a pile of goop hidden somewhere in my house?”

Xander cleared his throat and spun around, hopefully to start his search.

I rolled my shoulders, finding myself in great need of a total body massage—or a cookie. My gaze drifted back to the top cabinet.

After a quick glance to ensure no one lingered nearby, I retrieved the ceramic jar and lifted the top. A pointed face met my eye. Screaming, I flung out my arms. The jar smashed on the floor, splattering shards and cookies everywhere.

The rest of the old nursery rhyme popped into my mind as the ferret skittered around the counter. While the monkey may have enjoyed chasing the weasel, I doubted I would. Then again, it wasn’t my grade on the line.

“Xander!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachel Dib is a stay-at-home mom of three small children. After marrying a soldier, she left her home state of South Carolina to live in random places across the United States. Her short fiction appears in anthologies published by Havok, Ye Olde Dragon Books, Iron Faerie Publishing, Brigids Gate Press, and The Last Line literary journal.

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