Attack of the Vampire Weenies (14 page)

“About what?”

“About my reward.” Dale waited for Kirby to say they should share the reward, but Kirby didn't complain. Dale grabbed the handkerchief from the kitchen counter and set out toward Bowie Street.

“Here we go,” he said when they got there. “Number one eight three six.” Dale paused at the edge of the lawn, wondering if he'd made a mistake. The house looked abandoned.

“I don't think anybody's there,” Kirby said.

“Let's knock.” Dale went up and tapped on the door.

Before he was ready for it, the door flew open. Dale jumped back.

A man looked out. “Yes?” He was old and small and very wrinkled.

“Mr. Xantini?” Dale asked.

“That's me,” the man said.

“Did you lose this?” Dale asked, holding out the handkerchief.

“Oh my!” the man gasped, his face breaking into a grin of delight. “I thought I'd never see it again. It means so much that you brought it to me. Thank you. Thank you.”

Dale handed the handkerchief to the man.

“Please, tell me how you found me,” the man said. “It must be a miracle.” He stepped back and opened the door wider. “A true miracle.”

“No big deal,” Dale said, shaking his head. “It was easy.”

“Yeah,” Kirby added. “No problem at all.”

“But how?” the man asked.

“I used the phone book,” Dale said. “You were the only one in it with those initials.”

“Did anyone help you? A parent or a teacher, perhaps?”

“No,” Dale said. “I figured it out all by myself.”

“So clever. So very clever. You certainly shall be rewarded. The man reached into his pocket. Then he frowned and walked across the room. “I must have left my wallet over here.”

Dale followed him into the house. “Well, it's not really necessary,” he said, though he didn't say it very loudly. He wondered what his reward might be. The man had mentioned a wallet—so it would probably be cash.

“We both brought it back,” Kirby said.

Dale shot him an angry look.

“And you'll both be rewarded,” the man said as he opened a drawer under a small table in the living room. “Such clever boys.”

“So, what does
YFFI
stand for?” Dale asked “That's the only part I couldn't figure out.”

“You fell for it,” the man said, reaching into the drawer.

“What?” Dale asked, not understanding.

“You,” the man said, “fell,” he added, removing his hand from the drawer, “for,” he raised the knife, “it,” he finished, leaping forward.

The knife fell. Dale fell. Kirby fell. A drop of blood fell on the handkerchief, ruining it. But the man didn't mind. He had plenty more.

 

COOTIES

We always passed around
cooties in the playground, running, chasing, tagging each other on the shoulder or back and shouting, “Cooties! No returns.”

Then the victim would have to find someone else. And so it would go until the bell rang and we hauled ourselves inside to learn more about General Washington and the severe winter at Valley Forge, or how to determine the area of a rectangle. We did other stuff when we went outside, too—kickball, the slide, the seesaws with the really big splinters—but somewhere on that playground, some kid was always looking to pass along the cooties.

I never paid much attention to how it ended until one day when my friend Cecil said, “Who had the cooties last?”

“Huh?” I wasn't sure what he was talking about.

“You know. The cooties. I always pass them on, and I'd bet that you pass them on, 'cause you're a pretty good runner. But someone has to end up with them. Who is it?”

“You're crazy,” I said. “It's your parents' fault, too. They should have given you a normal name. But they stuck you with Cecil, and it has driven you over the edge and off the wall.”

“Sure, tell me more, Eugene.”

I punched him and he shut up. But it got me thinking. What happened to the cooties? I never ended up with them.
Never.
And I guess Cecil never did either or he wouldn't have asked about it. Somebody must have ended up with them. But who?

I thought about it all day long. It was a silly, stupid, unimportant question, but it stuck in my mind like a nail hammered into a coconut. I thought about it so much that I have no idea what my teachers talked about in any of my classes. I carried it home with me and carried it to bed. I probably carried it into my dreams, but I don't remember them.

The next day, when I ran into Cecil on the way to school, I said, “Let's find out what happens to the cooties.”

“What?”

“You know. Let's watch, and see who ends up with them.”

Cecil shrugged. “Sounds like great fun, Eugene. Then maybe we can watch the flag wave in the breeze for the rest of the afternoon.”

I punched him again and we walked along without talking. The morning crept by, inch by inch around the face of the clock. Finally, it was time for recess. As I was walking into the yard, Ricky Moses ran up to me, slapped me on the back, and said, “Cooties. No returns.”

I stood for a moment, aware that I had two choices. I could pass them on and watch where they went, or I could keep them. Either way, I would know who had them last. But the second choice seemed like cheating. Somehow, I knew I had to pass the cooties to someone else. It was part of the unwritten rules. I looked around for an easy target. Ishmael Knight was just coming out of the building.

“Cooties,” I said, tagging him on the arm.

He reached back toward me. “No returns,” I added.

Ishmael said something he shouldn't have, and then raced away to pass the cooties on to the next victim.

I backed up into the covered area by the entrance, where I was unlikely to be tagged, and watched.

Ishmael passed the cooties to Brendan.

Brendan passed them to Carlos, who passed them to Billy, who passed them to Jordel. And so the cooties passed from kid to kid as they ran and played.

“Hey, want to kick it around?” Cecil asked, walking up to me with one of those stupid red balls.

“No, not today.” I looked back. Walter was the last one I'd seen get the cooties. But he was just standing there now, talking to Dennis. He must have passed them on.

I said something I shouldn't have.

“What's wrong?” Cecil asked.

I punched him.

The bell rang.

Everyone went back inside.

I did even worse at paying attention that afternoon. Luckily, it wasn't so different from my normal behavior that any of the teachers really noticed.

Where did the cooties go?

The next afternoon, I tried again. But some of the kids went running around the side of the building, fleeing the cootie bearer, and by the time I got there, there was no sign of who had them.

The afternoon after that, I decided I would just hold on to them myself. Somehow, the thought of this made my stomach twitch like I was planning to tell a lie or break a rule.

I tried.

I really tried.

For fifteen minutes, I held off. I was sure I could do it. But then, just minutes before the bell, Cecil ran into me. Without thinking, I tagged him and said, “Cooties. No returns.”

I was so angry with myself, I punched him.

He ran off.

The bell rang.

“Do you still have the cooties?” I asked him during our silent-reading period.

“You gonna punch me?”

“Maybe later. Do you still have the cooties?”

“No, I passed them to Joey.” Cecil sort of tensed up, as if he expected me to punch him. So I did.

I went looking for Joey. “Hey, do you still have the cooties?” I asked.

He stared at me like I was crazy. “What?”

I repeated the question.

“I passed them on to Mike,” he said. “Or maybe it was Dennis. Or Carlos. I don't know. Who cares? It's not important.”

Yes, it is.
I'd lost the trail again.

There was only one way to find out. The next day, at recess, I climbed up to the third floor. I found an empty classroom and watched the playground.

It was pretty easy to tell what was going on. The kid with the cooties would always stop and look around right after he got tagged. Then he would either sneak up on the next victim or make a quick dash for someone slower.

I checked the clock. Just five minutes to go until the bell. Far across the playground, right where the school property ends, I saw a kid walking in from the woods. I barely caught him out of the corner of my eye, and didn't dare stare directly at him. There was no way I was losing track of the cooties this time.

They went around. They came around. They passed around. With two minutes left, just about every kid had gotten the cooties at least once or twice. “No returns” was only protection against the person you gave it to. It could always come back to you by way of someone else.

The kid from the woods had almost reached the edge the playground. He was wearing a plain brown T-shirt and black jeans.

One minute to go. Cecil had them again. He was looking around. He caught Billy.

Thirty seconds before the bell, Billy passed them to John. John looked all around. There was nobody near him.

Then someone walked up to him.

It was the kid from the woods. John tagged him. I could see John's mouth move, even from way up here. “Cooties. No returns.”

The bell rang.

I watched the kid. His head was down. I couldn't see his face.

Everyone streamed back into the school. Everyone but the kid. He turned and headed toward the woods.

I didn't think. I just ran down the stairs so fast, the railing almost burned my hand. I dashed out of the building and ran toward the woods.

I spotted him at the edge of the field.

He was walking.

I was running.

He headed into the woods.

I got to the edge of the woods just in time to see him slip between the trees. I followed.

I tracked him as fast as I could without making too much noise. Ahead, after ten or fifteen minutes, the sounds of his movement suddenly stopped. A moment later, I heard the thunk of a door closing.

I kept going until I saw the shack. The wood was so old, the shack looked like it had grown from the ground.

I raised my hand to knock on the door, but somehow I knew it wasn't required. The door was unlocked. I stepped inside.

The room was almost empty. There was a bed and a small bookcase. That was just about all.

The kid was sitting on the bed, his head down, his hands resting on his legs.

“Tell me,” I said.

He looked up. I shivered for a moment. He was a kid, a kid just like me or Cecil or Billy, but unlike any kid I had ever met. He was old. I don't mean old like my grandpa, or like that house on the end of the block that's falling down. I mean old like those statues you see in the history books, or like the pyramids. He was a kid, but I knew he'd been a kid for ages.

“Tell me,” I said again.

He shook his head.

“Please?”

He looked away from me. Suddenly, as if he'd been lifted by an invisible force, he stood. Then he dropped to his knees. He held his hands out in front of him, palms facing each other, fingers slightly curled. His whole body started shaking.

I wanted to reach toward him. I wanted to help. I was frozen. His head jerked back. He was screaming, but no sound came from his throat.

Something else came out.

Something dark and small crawled from his mouth. Something thick and wet, like black mucus with a dozen tiny, rippling legs. It slithered down his chin to his chest and lap, then moved across the floor. It ran into a corner, where I lost it in the shadows.

Cooties. No returns.

“Why?” I asked him.

I didn't think he was going to answer. But just as I was about to leave, he spoke. “For you. For all of you.”

“Why?” I asked again.

“Because someone has to.”

“Does it hurt?”

“I'm used to it.” He closed his eyes.

As I reached for the doorknob, the words
no returns
echoed through my mind. I feared the door would be locked. I imagined myself doomed to share in his task or take his place.

The knob turned. The door opened easily. I looked back. He hadn't moved from the floor.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

He shook his head. It was just the barest movement from side to side.

I closed the door and walked back to school.

I never told anyone about him, even though I got in big trouble for cutting class. I never told a soul. Not even Cecil. But I hardly ever punch him anymore.

 

MY SCIENCE PROJECT

I
always get good
grades with my science projects. And this one was the best of all. I'd left it on the porch last night, in a cardboard box. It wouldn't have to stay in the box for long. I'd built a really cool display case out of Plexiglas and wood in shop class. As soon as I got to school, I'd put my project in the case, and it would look just like an exhibit in a museum. My art teacher, Mr. Duchamp, said he'd help me make a sign.

I was so excited, I headed out early. I'd gotten third place last year with my working model of a medieval drawbridge. I was hoping to do way better this time. But my dreams of first place didn't last long. I was only a block from home when I ran into Barton Musker and his gang.

“Hey, what's in the box?” Barton asked as he stepped in front of me. He was so big, I could feel a change in the gravitational field when he approached.

I shivered, not just from the chill in the morning air, but also from the nearness of a kid who got his kicks from hurting people. “Nothing,” I said. Even before the words reached his ears, I flinched at the realization of how he would respond.

“Nothing?” Barton asked. “That's a pretty stupid thing to carry. Let's see what ‘nothing' looks like.” He reached for the box.