Cheesie Mack Is Not a Genius or Anything (8 page)

These points are really important to me. I’ve mentioned the Point Battle before. It’s my secret way of keeping track of the war between me and my sister.
She knows nothing about it. Neither does anyone else. I started it at the beginning of fourth grade, even though Goon had been mean to me for years before that. When fifth grade started, I was behind by 97 points. But by paying attention and really working at winning, I was now down by only 23 points. Remember I said that the score was 615 to 592? Giving her 32 more points for the Mouse Plot disaster would be really terrible, and I’d have to award her that many if she found out that I’d been punished.

Here’s how the Point Battle is scored:

If one of us insults the other—

• When we’re alone: 1 point
  
• When other people can hear: 2 points
  
• Points are doubled for a REALLY excellent insult.
  

If one of us causes the other to do something embarrassing—

• When we’re alone: 2 points
  
• When other people are around: 4 points
  
• Points are doubled for a REALLY excellent embarrassment.
  

If one of us gets punished—

• By parents: 4 points
  
• By school: 8 points
  
• By police: You lose—GAME OVER
  

Points are doubled when …

• it’s a REALLY BIG punishment.
  
• you’re caught lying.
  
• the other kid tattles.
  
• the other kid is actually at fault but gets away unpunished.
  

Sometimes figuring out the points can be very complicated.

Try this one. What if I smash Goon with a really excellent insult when no one is around, and she gets so mad that she throws a book at me and breaks a window, and then when Mom finds out, Goon claims that I broke the glass, and Mom believes her and punishes me?

That would be 1 point for me for the insult, doubled to 2 because of excellence, 4 for Goon because I got punished, doubled to 8 because she tattled, and doubled again to 16 because it was really her fault. Total: 14 points for Goon.

No one gets any points if the other kid doesn’t know that anything happened.

So, because holding Mrs. Crespo’s hand was really embarrassing, Goon was certainly going to get 8 points. That was bad enough. But if she found out I was actually being punished by being kept out of the fifth-grade party, I would have to add 8 more, making 16. And because she was the one who ratted on our Mouse Plot, I’d have to double it to 32 points.

(I think “ratted on our Mouse Plot” is funny. If you know any other excellent rodent jokes, please go to my website and tell me. I’m building a collection of them, and maybe I can add yours.)

Since I’m the only one who decides what points to give, I could, if I wanted to, give myself points all the time. Goon looked at me weird: 3 points. Goon was
mean to me: 9 points. Goon whatever: 88 points! But why would I bother to keep track of the Point Battle score if I could win whenever I wanted? I keep a fair and accurate score. I’m very serious about it.

My goal is to be ahead of Goon when she finally stops picking on me. I don’t know when that will be … if ever. So the Point Battle could go on forever. No matter how long it lasts, I intend to win.

The graduation ceremony finally started. When we marched into the room, I could see Gumpy and Meemo sitting with my parents and Granpa. Mom, Gumpy, and Meemo were smiling. Dad and Granpa were giving me the squinty-evil-eye. I was too miserable to squinty-evil-eye back.

Mrs. Crespo made Georgie and me change from our assigned seats and sit right in the very first row where
she could keep an eye on us. “If you behave,” she said, “I will not mention this to your parents.”

The class and everyone else recited the Pledge of Allegiance. Georgie did not cross his eyes.

Boring.

We sang “This Land Is Your Land.” Georgie did not hold his breath and did not turn bright red.

Boring.

Mrs. Crespo gave her speech. Georgie did not pretend to throw up on Lana Shen, who because we had changed seats wasn’t sitting anywhere near us. But even if she had been next to Georgie … no way.

Boring.

We listened to Francine Binki recite her poem. Georgie did not slide slowly out of his chair.

Boring.

We got our diplomas. And finally, when Alex Welch walked past, grinning at us and humming “Three Blind Mice,” Georgie did not trip him. He really wanted to. I saw his leg start to move. But he stopped himself.

Boring.

It was almost noon. All I could think about was our fifth-grade party. The grassy field behind the school was going to be converted into a huge water park with sprinklers, Slip ’N Slides, water balloon games, and all kinds of desserts. We were supposed to go home, have lunch, then change into our swimsuits and come back to school at three o’clock.

Georgie, his face super mad, whispered to me, “If Mrs. Crespo doesn’t let us have fun at the party, this is going to be the worst day of my life.”

I nodded, looking at Mrs. Crespo to make sure she hadn’t seen Georgie whispering.

“And it’s all your sister’s fault.” His angry voice got a little bit louder.

Mrs. Crespo, who was at the microphone making a final announcement about the party, turned toward us. I coughed very loudly, masking Georgie’s final comment.

“We abso … (COUGH-COUGH-COUGH) … revenge.”

Finally it was over, and my parents and grandparents swarmed over me with hugs and kisses.

“A buck for each grade,” Gumpy said as he slipped a five-dollar bill into my pocket.

I mumbled a thank-you.

“Why were you in the front row out of alphabetical order?” Dad asked.

Mrs. Crespo overheard him.

“Hello, Caldwell,” she said with a big grin. That’s my dad’s real name, but almost everyone calls him Cal. He told me that when he was in Mrs. Crespo’s fourth-grade class, everyone called him Dweller, which I think is a very cool nickname. When I was in fourth grade, I called my father Dweller instead of Dad for almost the whole year. He kind of liked it, but after a while I quit. I guess I liked having a Dad better than a Dweller.

“Ronald and George were quite cooperative just before the ceremony,” she said, patting me on the head, “so I rewarded them with a front-row seat.” She looked right at me and Georgie. “I know you’re going to have fun at the party.” Then—
I swear this is true
—she gave my father a squinty-evil-eye, and he gave one back!

Just then Goon walked by with Kevin Welch. “Your teacher has asked us to be in charge of games at your party,” she said with a smirky look. Normally the thought that Goon was going to be at
my
party would have really made me mad. But not this time. I grinned at her. My boring graduation was over. Mrs. Crespo, the used-to-be-youngest, squinty-evil-eyed-funniest, maybe-still-shortest, definitely-not-strictest principal, had not PARTIALLY EXPELLED us. Therefore, Goon was getting only 8 points instead of 32.

The score was now 623 to 592.

“H
ow—howdy-how—howdy-how-how did we NOT get punished?” Georgie yelled to me as we biked toward home.

“Me neither!” I shouted.

“Me neither” may sound like a goofy answer, but it’s really not. Because if Georgie knew the answer, he wouldn’t have asked the question, and since I didn’t know the answer either, saying “Me neither” was actually a good shortcut.

Georgie and I have a lot of shortcuts. It’s one of the things I like about having a best friend.

“Race you home!” I yelled. I waited for him to get even with me, then began pedaling full blast. You
might think that Georgie, who is bigger and stronger than I am, could ride faster. Well, he can’t. When he pedals fast, his weight shifts from side to side, and his handlebars wobble, so he loses speed. But I am fast and steady.

I am also an excellent breather. When you are doing something like running or fast bicycling, you will do much, much better if you take really deep breaths instead of lots of short ones. My dad says it’s because deep breaths open your lungs wider and more oxygen gets into your blood and muscles. When you’re racing, it’s hard to take deep breaths because your body really wants to do the short ones. But if you force yourself to fill your lungs up, you won’t get tired as quickly. You should try it. It works.

So I usually win our bike races, except when, because my bike needs a tune-up, I shift too fast and my chain falls off. And this time I was leading big when I turned onto Eureka Avenue.

I skidded to a stop, breathing hard. Graduation and the Mouse Plot had made me forget all about The Haunted Toad.

About two hours later (I’m kidding … I wasn’t
that
far ahead), Georgie skidded next to me. We both stared up at the curtained windows.

“What (pant)?” Georgie panted.

“We (pant) have to knock (pant) on the door (pant),” I panted back.

Georgie shook his head. “Why (pant)?”

When my breathing had gone back to normal, I reminded him about the heart necklace and the coin. “Eureka. Remember? The phone book says G. J. Prott lives here. We should tell him what we found.”

“You said ‘him,’ ” Georgie said. “What if G. J. Prott isn’t a man? G. J. Prott might be”—his voice got all whispery—“a vampire.”

Then I went “ow-hooo-eeeee” in a long, scary way, and both of us grinned at each other. Of course I do not really believe in vampires. Here’s why:

1. If vampires were real, some lady—in movies it’s mostly women who get bitten by vampires—would maybe have lived to tell about being attacked, and she would have
   bite marks on her neck, and she would make lots of money being on TV and showing her bite scars and telling the whole scary story.
   
2. I have never seen a vampire.
   
3. No one I know has ever seen a vampire.
   
4. No one I know knows anyone who knows anyone who has ever seen a vampire. (If you have seen a vampire or, even better, been bitten by one, please go to my website and tell me. You might become famous!)
   

“We can write a note to G. J. Prott,” I decided, “and leave it here on our way back to the party.”

“Good idea,” Georgie said, and zoomed off on his bike. When he was two houses away, he shouted, “Race you home!”

“Cheater!” I yelled, and took off after him.

As we rode away, there was a flutter of curtains across The Haunted Toad’s upstairs windows, as if something large had flown from room to room. Then one of the curtains parted and a hideous face, dripping blood from its monstrous fangs, peered out as we disappeared down the block. It was Geejape Rott, the
most evil, most dangerous, most bloodthirsty vampire in Massachusetts.