Timon folded his arms over his chest and slumped against the log. "He was supposed to be here for the maggot-munching contest."
"He's probably running late," Pumbaa said with a shrug. "Didn't he say he had a class at 7?"
Timon blew a raspberry. "Yeah, in what subject? Eating bugs and belching at the sky? This is Simba we're talkin' about. There's not supposed to be a lot between his ears—not that there ever was."
Simba's claws graced the nylon guitar strings, bringing the melancholy song to a cheery conclusion.
"That last chord is called a Picardy third," he said to the jungle cats. "To make it really expressive, keep your claws halfway out, let 'em drop across the strings—and hey, Cheetato?"
The cheetah was crouched over his guitar and staring glassy-eyed at his smartphone. "So sorry...what?"
"Lose the phone. It's kinda hard to play and text at the same time."
The cheetah glowered at him as the class giggled.
"One more time from the top," Simba said. The lion laid his digits on the frets, and the jungle cats' eyes sparkled with excitement as the song began anew.
