Creature from the 7th Grade : Boy or Beast (9781101591833) (10 page)

“It's a note, silly,” Amy whispers. “You take it. You read it. You pass it back with a response. It's not such a big deal.”

“Settle down, everyone,” Mrs. Adams says. “No whispering in the classroom.” And then she starts droning on about Charles Dickens and social reform in the nineteenth century.

A note? Be still, my heart. I take the precious scrap of paper in my claws and hold it tightly, savoring the smell of Amy Armstrong's signature lilac perfume clinging to it. This small but significant act is immediately noted with more than a little interest by Lucille, Sam, and, unfortunately, Craig Dieterly.

I wonder if Amy Armstrong is sending me a note to tell me I have bad halitosis and ask me to breathe in the other direction. I carefully unfold the paper and slowly read it. Then I read it again to make sure I am not hallucinating. This is what the note says:

 

To C.D. from A.A.—Having a party at my house today after school. B there or B
²
(square). What do you say?

 

I say HOORAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!! I say I am light-headed at the very thought.
Breathe. Relax. Get a grip, Charlie.
I don't even like Amy Armstrong and her stupid friends. Why would I ever want to belong to their unnecessary and ridiculous clique?

Simple: because I want to be popular so badly I would sell my soul to the devil if I thought it would do any good.

And that is exactly what I am about to do.

Without even thinking, I scribble “Sure” on the bottom of the note and pass it back to Amy Armstrong. And then instantly realize that if Craig Dieterly ever finds out I have set foot into Amy Armstrong's house, my goose will be so cooked you won't be able to scrape it off the bottom of the pot.

I start writing a new note for Amy Armstrong about how I have too much homework to go to her house this afternoon, but letting her know how grateful I am. And asking her for a rain check. I want to be popular. But I also want to survive seventh grade.

Before I have a chance to pass my polite rejection note to her, Amy Armstrong writes something on the little scrap of paper and passes it back to me. “So glad you're coming. Can't wait to see you. It's a secret. Don't tell anyone. Okay?”

“Okay,” I write, and quickly pass the note back. The die is cast. At which point both Sam and Lucille pass me their own notes. I open Lucille's: “What does Amy Armstrong want?” I open Sam's: “What does Amy Armstrong want?”

Uh-oh. I don't know how to reply because (A) it's a secret. (B) if I tell Sam and Lucille, it might hurt their feelings because I was invited and they weren't, and I don't want to be insensitive. And then of course there's always (C) I really, really want to go to Amy Armstrong's house and I am afraid that if I tell Sam and Lucille they will talk me out of going.

So I do what any chicken-livered yellow-bellied coward would do: I lie. “She asked if I would help with her science project and I told her I couldn't. She was pretty upset about it.” I write on both notes, and then pass them back. I have “made my own bed,” as my father would say, and now I am just going to have to lie in it. No pun intended.

GUILT BY ASSOCIATION

SAM, LUCILLE, AND I
are sitting together, slurping down the boring Wednesday lunch special at our usual table in the back of the lunchroom. I'm feeling pretty bad about the way I'm treating my two best friends. Correction. I feel like I have a giant neon sign on top of my green scaly head screaming
LIAR, LIAR PANTS ON FIRE
in big red letters.

“Hey, check it out, guys!” Sam exclaims. “I found an actual piece of beef in my beef stew.”

“Uh-oh. Don't look now,” Lucille warns. “Guess who's coming over to our table?”

Craig Dieterly approaches, even madder than usual. “Losers like you aren't allowed to pass notes to One-Upsters, Froggy McSlime. Losers like you aren't even allowed to breathe on them. If I ever catch you within ten feet of Amy Armstrong again I will go immediately to Principal Muchnick and tell him you hit me with your tail. And don't think I won't, because if I could get you suspended it would be the happiest day of my life. Understand?”

“Yes,” I say meekly as Amy Armstrong glides by, carrying her tray. She nods sweetly at Craig Dieterly, winks at me (I really wish she wouldn't do that), and then goes to sit next to Rachel Klempner at the One-Upsters' table. Craig Dieterly scoops up a fingerful of mashed turnips and flicks them into my face.

“Why are you always picking on Charlie?” Sam asks. I dip my napkin in water and wipe myself off. “What did he ever do to you, Dieterly?”

“He got born. That was enough,” Craig Dieterly says, and skulks away.

“It's funny,” Lucille observes, sipping a spoonful of her meat-free beef stew, “Amy Armstrong doesn't seem very upset about you not helping her with her science project.”

“Yeah,” Sam adds, wiping his chin. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“She probably doesn't even remember she asked me in the first place. You know how popular people are. I bet she's already got five other people lining up to help her with it.” Once you get started with this lying business, it's really hard to stop.

“Probably,” Sam says. He doesn't look very convinced. Neither does Lucille.

For the rest of the day I try to avoid seeing (A) Amy Armstrong because Craig Dieterly will kill me if he catches us together. (B) Sam and Lucille because I still haven't come up with a good excuse for not walking home with them after school this afternoon, and at some point the subject is bound to come up. And (C) Craig Dieterly. Because I feel like living to see thirteen.

While I wait for the end-of-the-day bell to ring, I sit quietly in language lab, listening to new vocab words on my earphones and wondering what happens if Amy Armstrong serves rare or unusual food at her party and I can't figure out what utensil to pick it up with. Or if I spill something on the rug. Or blank on somebody's name. What if somebody asks me a difficult sports question? What if there is dancing? What if . . . please, God, don't let this happen . . . we have to play volleyball? Or Ping-Pong?

When the bell finally rings I grab my books and hurry out of the building, hoping I don't run into anybody I don't want to run into.

“Where are you going?” Sam and Lucille are standing right outside. If I were trying to run into them I couldn't have planned it any better.

“Want to walk home with us?” Lucille asks.

“I wish I could. My mom's picking me up today in her truck. She's taking me to the dentist. I've got a cavity in my front left fang. It kills.”

“We'll wait with you, pal,” Sam says.

“She'll be here any minute. I'll be okay.”

“Are you sure, Charlie? We really don't mind waiting,” Lucille adds. “Is your fang going to be all right?”

“Sure. Don't wait for me. I'll be fine.”

“Well . . . okay,” Lucille says, as she reluctantly turns to leave. “As long as you're sure you're sure.”

“I'm sure.”

“You're still coming over later, right?” Sam says.

“What?” I ask. I'm not paying attention. I'm too worried I won't get to Amy Armstrong's house on time.

“You didn't forget, did you?” Lucille asks. “It's Wednesday, Charlie. Remember? Wednesday?”

“Of course I remember.” Sam and Lucille and I have watched a movie and had dinner together every Wednesday night for the last ten billion years. “I'll meet you guys at Sam's later,” I say. “If the dentist says it's okay to go out after my procedure.”

“You don't look so hot, Charlie,” Lucille says. My two friends shake their heads and leave.

I stay put until they are well out of sight, and then wait around for an extra couple of minutes, in case they change their minds and come back to see how I'm doing and catch me leaving for Amy Armstrong's house. Because my left front fang feels perfectly fine. My mother isn't really coming to pick me up in her truck to take me to the dentist. And I am nothing but a big, fat liar. I call home and tell the answering machine I'm going to a party at Amy's after school.

I am sick to my stomach with guilt. But when I think about how much I have always wanted to get invited to Amy Armstrong's house, and how now that I'm more than five feet four inches tall I'm finally potential Bandito material, the guilt lets up a little and I head for the party.

Before I know it I have walked the ten long blocks to Amy Armstrong's house, and I find myself standing in front of a shiny blue door with the number 16 on it in brass letters. I shift from one flipper to the other and try to remain calm. I feel the traditional “what if I can't think of anything to say” anxiety bubble rising in my chest, so I take out my social security factoid cards and quickly review them for interesting and informative talking points.

“Cow gives birth to two-headed offspring at Schwenks' Dairy Farm Tuesday”—that's not going to fly. “Mixed-use container recycling center opens behind the railroad station in Southern Decatur”—I don't think so. I quickly retire the cards to my back pocket and decide to concentrate instead on telling the joke Dad told last week at breakfast about the Three Wise Men and the camel with the bladder control problem. It's pretty funny. I just hope I can remember the punch line.

Feeling somewhat less anxious, I ring the bell. I always imagined Amy Armstrong's doorbell would sound like enchanted fairies playing on harps or flutes or something. But it just goes
briiing
, like everybody else's doorbell.

No one answers. It's awfully quiet in there. Did I get the day wrong? Wait a minute. I think I hear someone. As I press my earflaps to the door it suddenly flies open and I stumble into the room, nearly falling into the arms of Mrs. Armstrong, who stands there, horrified, looking like she can't decide whether to scream or run in the other direction.

“You . . . you . . . you must be . . . Charlie,” Mrs. Armstrong pants. She seems so scared that she can hardly breathe. “I'm . . . Amy's mom. I've heard . . . so much . . . about you.”

I know just what you've heard about me, Mrs. Armstrong. I'm surprised you're not calling the police on your jewel-encrusted cell phone right now. Or animal control.

She takes a deep breath and then bravely holds out her hand to shake mine. I hold out my razor-sharp three-pronged slimy claw in return. She quickly reconsiders and tucks her hand into her skirt pocket. We stand there and stare at each other. I am so uncomfortable I nearly tell my dad's Three Wise Men joke before Mrs. Armstrong breaks the silence. “What are you planning to be for Halloween, young man?” she asks.

“A human,” I reply.

“Oh,” she says. And the conversation grinds to halt again, as Mrs. Armstrong's gaze travels to my tail and remains there, transfixed. She bites her lip. She shakes her head. She sighs. “The party's in the den,” she says finally, pointing to the door at the end of the living room. “Everybody's waiting for you. If you need anything, let me know. I'll be upstairs.” She disappears quicker than you can say “mutant dinosaurs in my living room give me the creeps.”

I walk slowly through the living room, careful not to bump into the expensive-looking gold urn sitting precariously on the dainty pedestal next to the couch. Or the collection of finely carved Japanese figurines lined up in neat rows on the coffee table. It's like “the museum of things you could break with your tail” in here.

I look around the room and try to memorize every lamp. Every candy dish. Every picture on the wall. I cannot believe I'm in the actual place where Amy Armstrong opens her Christmas presents. And has her amazing birthday parties. Whoa. There's the piano she practiced on when she rehearsed for the award-winning lower-school production of
Cats
. The sheet music for “Memory” is still resting on it.

I approach the legendary den I have been wanting to see ever since Amy Armstrong's Valentine's Day party back in second grade. I didn't get invited. Neither did Sam and Lucille. The people who
were
invited weren't supposed to talk about it. Guess what? They did. Dirk and Dack Schlissel told everyone there was a flat-screen high-def TV in there with surround sound and three-dimensional capabilities. Plus a soda fountain with icy- cold root beer on tap. And seventeen flavors of ice cream. Rachel Klempner told Alice Pincus, who told Sam, that there was a Ms. Pacman game and a professional karaoke machine in there, too. But I think the rumors about the indoor lap pool were just that. Rumors.

A little sign hangs over the doorknob. It says
BEWARE: PARTY ANIMALS INSIDE
. I decide to take my chances. I smooth down the rumples in my green satin shirt, check out my fangs for signs of stray spinach, remind myself to breathe deeply, and open the door.