There are exactly three things you should never underestimate:
The gravitational pull of a pudding cup. The emotional instability of unsupervised kindergartners. Muffin the squirrel.
Especially Muffin.
But let's rewind.
The morning began innocently enough. Jenkins dropped me off in our usual fashion: the sleek black car humming like a Bond gadget, disapproval radiating from his eyebrows like Wi-Fi.
"Master Arthur," he said, handing me a thermos labeled Definitely Not Containing Liquid Stardust. "Try to go one day without rewriting the laws of physics."
"I'll try," I said, sipping. "But no promises. Today's the big one."
He blinked. "Big what?"
"Operation Quantum Yo-Yo."
His grip tightened on the steering wheel. "I'll be parked nearby."
As I floated toward the entrance, I caught sight of Mindy—the class conspiracy theorist—scribbling in her ever-present notebook while glaring at me like I'd eaten the moon.
Which, for the record, I hadn't. Yet.
In class, Ms. Benson greeted us with a face that suggested she'd barely survived yesterday.
"Today," she said, mustering the fragile will of an exhausted adult, "we're going to learn about animals. Specifically, squirrels."
I sat upright.
This was fate.
"Muffin," she continued, "is a trained squirrel from the city wildlife center. She'll be joining us for observation. Please do not feed her. Do not startle her. Do not attempt to ride her."
I looked directly at Jimmy, the class daredevil, who had already taped two juice boxes to his elbows like armor.
Muffin arrived in a tiny carrier the size of a toaster, escorted by a zookeeper who looked like he'd seen war. The squirrel emerged with all the poise of a ninja assassin—fluffy tail raised, eyes glinting with suppressed violence. She immediately made eye contact with me.
I nodded.
She nodded back.
Alliance pending.
The lesson began. Muffin sat peacefully on a perch while Ms. Benson lectured on habitats. I focused on my yo-yo. Not just any yo-yo—this one was quantum-calibrated, laced with neutron string, and theoretically capable of bending light.
I gave it a test spin.
It glowed.
Jimmy gasped. "Cool trick!"
"Just physics," I said.
That was mistake #1.
Mistake #2 happened when Muffin, for reasons known only to squirrelkind, launched off her perch and made a direct dive for the glowing yo-yo like it was the acorn of destiny.
There was a flash.
Then a pop.
Then we were gone.
Specifically, we were... not in Room 103 anymore.
The world shimmered, pixelated, and suddenly, I found myself and Muffin standing in a warped version of the school playground—except it was floating in space-time like a half-finished Minecraft mod. Banana peels orbited the jungle gym. The sky flickered between Tuesday and last Thursday.
Muffin stood on two legs and saluted.
"Finally," she said.
Yes. She spoke.
"Squirrels have waited long for this day," she continued. "The humans grew careless. They fed us. Trained us. Gave us names. Now, we rise."
I blinked. "Am I hallucinating?"
"No," said Muffin. "You opened the portal."
I looked at the yo-yo, now humming ominously in my hand. "Huh. Good to know."
Suddenly, a dozen squirrels in tactical gear parachuted in from what I assume was the Astral Plane. They somersaulted across the monkey bars and set up a perimeter using sharpened popsicle sticks.
Muffin turned to me. "We need your help."
"With what? Global domination?"
"No," she said. "The chipmunks are building an interdimensional acorn cannon. It must be stopped."
I sighed, brushing glitter off my hoodie. "Fine. But I want a cape."
Muffin tossed me one. It was shiny. It sparkled. It smelled faintly of peanut butter.
Team S.Q.U.I.R.R.E.L. (Strategic Quantum Unit for Infiltration, Reconnaissance, and Rodent-Led Liberation) was go.
We launched through the space-time rift using the quantum yo-yo as a grappling tether. The chipmunk base was inside a hollow tree made of old math homework and Legos. There were guards—tiny, aggressive, armed with sharpened crayons.
I telekinetically lobbed erasers at them while Muffin initiated the Nutritional Distraction Protocol—aka, throwing granola bars with military precision.
We breached the core. The acorn cannon stood ready, aimed directly at the Moon.
"That's excessive," I said.
"Chipmunks are petty," Muffin replied.
I rewired the cannon to fire pudding instead.
The result? A low-orbit dessert explosion. Sticky. Dramatic. Delicious.
Mission success.
The quantum yo-yo flared again, and suddenly, we were back in Room 103. Muffin landed silently on her perch. Ms. Benson, blinking, held a diagram of squirrel habitats and said, "…and that's why they bury their food."
No one noticed we'd been gone for ten interdimensional minutes.
Except Mindy.
She leaned over, whispering, "Did your squirrel just wink at you?"
I wiped acorn sap off my sleeve. "Squirrels are very expressive."
Recess came. Muffin vanished into the trees, her mission complete. Jimmy tried to ride a lunch tray down the slide and got stuck sideways. I shared a juice box with a third grader who believed I was Loki in disguise.
At pickup, Jenkins waited in the sleek black car.
"Good day, Master?" he asked.
I nodded solemnly. "Prevented lunar destruction by rogue rodents. Acquired cape. Learned about animal habitats."
He didn't flinch. "I'll prep the squirrel-safe perimeter tonight."
"Good man."
As we drove off, I looked at the quantum yo-yo still pulsing in my pocket and whispered, "Tomorrow's plan: the great crayon jailbreak. And maybe… snack diplomacy."
Because even gods-in-training need pudding and chaos.