Creature from the 7th Grade : Boy or Beast (9781101591833) (13 page)

TRICK OR TREAT

FOUR SLEEPY DRINKWATERS
sit quietly around the kitchen table playing with our food. We're still recovering from last night. “Who wants more scrambled eggs?” Mom asks. Dead silence. “Well, don't everybody answer all at once.” She shuffles over to the stove to pour herself another cup of coffee. My stomach is feeling better today. But that's about it for good news on the home front.

Dave chugs the rest of his orange juice, and when he gets up from the table, Dad stops him. “Where are you headed, son?” he asks.

“I have to pick up Melanie Lindstrom, Dad.” Girlfriend number two—rock climbing, snow globes, and a ponytail, in case you didn't remember. “I walk her to school every Friday. You know that.”

“Mind if I walk with you to Melanie's, Dave?” Dad asks.

“I'm not really in the mood for company, Dad,” he replies.

“It wasn't really a question, son,” Dad says. “I'm walking with you to Melanie's. It's about time you and I had a little chat.” Dad puts his arm around Dave's shoulder and they head for the kitchen door. Dad looks over meaningfully at Mom, who just sighs and clears the breakfast dishes.

“Oh great,” Dave says, and slams the kitchen door behind them.

I was beginning to think that I was the only one in the family who had to have family chats.

I go upstairs and lay out my human costume: one of Dad's beat-up hats, the polka-dot tie Aunt Harriet gave Dave for his last birthday, and an old briefcase I found at the bottom of the front hall closet.

I put the hat on top of my pointy green head, knot the tie around my scaly neck, grasp the briefcase tightly in my claws, and start for the front door.

“You look very nice, honey,” Mom says. “Your tie's a little crooked.” I lean down and she adjusts the knot. “Happy Halloween.” She kisses me on the top of my snout. “May your day be frightening and your night even worse.” Then she hands me my traditional bag of “witch on a broomstick” cookies, and I am out the door.

I have to walk to school by myself because Sam and Lucille and I still aren't speaking to each other. I'd better make Bandito today, or there won't be anybody left to go trick-or-treating with this afternoon. I had a better Halloween the time I had my tonsils removed and Mom put me to bed and made me eat ice cream all day.

There are realistic plastic bats glued all over the front door of Stevenson Middle School today. The lobby is decorated to look like a pumpkin patch, with rows of cornstalks on stands and cloth crows hanging from the ceiling on white thread. The recorded sounds of moaning ghosts and clanking chains play over the loudspeaker. This year's decorations committee has outdone itself. Kids are milling around showing off their costumes, waiting for the first-period bell to ring.

Larry Wykoff comes running up to me. He is dressed like an enormous fly. “I need advice, Drinkwater.”

“What's the problem?” I ask.

“Rachel's mad at him and he's falling apart,” Dirk Schlissel says as he ambles over, balancing a volleyball on his nose. He and Dack are dressed like twin gondoliers.

“I am not falling apart,” Larry protests. “I'm just a little concerned, that's all. I took your advice, Drinkwater. It's not working.”

“What do you mean?” I say, trying desperately to remember exactly what advice I gave him.

“I haven't e-mailed or texted Rachel for a day and a half,” he says. “And then yesterday I didn't walk her home after school. But I don't think it's making her insecure. I think it's making her mad.”

“Yeah. Last night she told him she hated him more than bad breath,” Dack says, grabbing the volleyball from his brother and trying to balance it on his own nose. “I'm never going to get the hang of this.” His gondolier's hat falls off.

“You're driving me crazy with that thing.” Larry grabs the volleyball out of Dack's hands.

Rachel Klempner approaches us. She is dressed like a giant spider. She looks really angry. “Quick. What do I do?” Larry asks.

“Ignore her,” I reply.

“Really? Are you sure this is what you did with your old girlfriend when you wanted her to shape up?” Larry looks confused.

“Oh yeah. Absolutely,” I reply confidently. I don't have an old girlfriend and I never did. I have hopped on board the lying train again. “It drove Jessica Goldfrank crazy. And it's working with Rachel. I can see it in her eyes.” I lower my voice. “Whatever you do, keep her on the defensive.”

“Keep who on the defensive?” Rachel snaps at me.

“We were just saying how much we like your Halloween costume,” I say.

“No you weren't,” she says. “You were talking about me. I'm not stupid. What are you supposed to be, anyway?”

“A human,” I reply.

“It's not working,” she says.

“Hi, Rache,” Larry says.

“Don't ‘hi, Rache' me, Laurence Wykoff. I'm not speaking to you.” She storms off angrily, flapping all of her eight legs as she goes.

“Come back, Rache! I miss you!” He runs off and tries to catch up to her.

I trudge upstairs to Miss Benson's social studies class on the third floor, past a sea of angels and devils and pirates and hobbits. When the bell rings I take my seat and try to look interested, but all I can think of is
Did I make Bandito?
And
Will I ever have any friends again for the rest of my life
?

Amy Armstrong sits in the row next to me. She wears a long black dress, a fake fur dalmatian coat, and a black wig with a big white stripe running through it. Of course. She's Cruella de Vil. I look over at her hopefully, but she just stares back at me blankly.

Lucille sits on my other side. Sam stands next to her. He can't sit down in his Humpty Dumpty costume. They both pretend they don't see me. I pretend I don't see them. I stew about how unfair they are being for the entire period, and when the bell finally rings, I get up to leave, whack Sam with my tail by mistake, and nearly crack his egg open. I would apologize except I'm not speaking to him.

His nose ring goes flying off and lands on my hat. It's really embarrassing. Lucille and I pretend we don't notice. I lean way down and Lucille has to fish around for it. When she finds it she hands it back to him. Sam turns bright red, turns away, puts it back in his nose, and then walks away like nothing happened.

I head downstairs to Mrs. Adams's English class. Mr. Arkady sees me coming and glides across the hallway. He is dressed as Count Dracula. I guess he doesn't realize he already looks exactly like him. He wears plastic vampire fangs, fake eyebrows, and large plastic bat wings on his shoulders. It's like wearing a costume on top of a costume. “How are you doink today, young man?” he asks.

“Great, Mr. Arkady,” I say.

“Really?” he asks. He fixes me intently in his penetrating Transylvanian gaze. “You don't look so hot. You look like you could use anudder Tums.”

“I'm okay. Sort of. No, I'm not,” I admit. “Actually I'm feeling really stressed.”

“Sometink is boddering you?” As strange as he is, Mr. Arkady is a really good listener.

“Yeah. Something is bothering me. A lot. I find out if I made Banditoes today, and I can't take the pressure any longer. Plus basically everybody I know hates my guts.”

He adjusts his plastic fangs before he speaks. “Listen close, Charlie: ven I vas a little kid in Transylvania I vasn't so popular myself. I vas short. And very shy. I didn't play sports like all the udder boys in my class. I just loved science. And doink experiments. I vas a big old, how you say, ‘nurt.'”

“You were a nerd? Wow. I had no idea.”

“I vas big nurt. No-buddy liked me. I had big parties but no-buddy is commink. I vas unhappy all the time. My mudder vas smart. She told me, ‘Little Bela, you vurry too much about vut udder pipple think about you. It is loosink battle.'”

“I know what you mean, Mr. Arkady. Lucille always says I care way too much about what other people think of me.”

“Lucille, she is vun smart cookie. Vy do you care vut those Banditoes think, anyvay? If you get a bunch of fools to like you, vut have you really gotten? You must like yourself. That is vut is important. Do you understand vut I am sayink?”

“I think so, Mr. Arkady.”

“Good. Now beat it. You are on provisional reentry. You must not be late for your classes. Shoo.”

“Tanks for taking the time to talk to me, Mr. Arkady,” I say. “I mean thanks.”

“You're velcome, Charlie. Good-bye.” He swirls his cape dramatically around his shoulders and glides up the stairs, back to his lair.

I turn to go and nearly crash into Amy Armstrong.

“I bet you're wondering if you made Bandito, aren't you?” she asks.

“It crossed my mind.” Translation: I am so fixated on making Bandito I can barely see straight. Ever since I got voted “least likely to get invited on a playdate” in second grade in an informal but nonetheless devastating lower-school poll, I have craved the acceptance of any group of people that doesn't want me in it. Which is basically my entire class except Sam and Lucille. And my teachers. For a multidimensional character, I can sometimes be incredibly shallow.

“We're sworn to secrecy,” Amy Armstrong continues. “But I'll give you a hint: you didn't make it. Somebody blackballed you. We vote by secret ballot so I can't tell you who did it. But here's a clue: Craig Dieterly.”

“I thought two people had to blackball you,” I say quietly.

“They did,” Amy Armstrong replies. “Wykoff just flipped.”

Whoa. I thought Larry Wykoff and I were friends. We enjoy hanging out together and we share common interests. Like stand-up comics and
Star Trek
and a fear of domineering women.

“Does that mean I'm never going to get to be . . .” I can't bring myself to finish my sentence. I wanted to be a Bandito so badly. My throat gets all tight and I feel like crying.

“It's not over,” Amy Armstrong explains. “Any candidate who is blackballed can undo the blackball by demonstrating, quote, exceptional interest in becoming a member. End quote. You will be given one chance to redeem yourself and become a Bandito.”

“What do I have to do?”

“It's simple.” Amy Armstrong chuckles. “As proof of your undying loyalty to the brotherhood of Bandito you must bring us Sam's nose ring and Lucille's training bra. Such proof of loyalty will be displayed to all members, and then burned in Rachel Klempner's mother's pizza oven at the stroke of midnight.”

“But . . . but . . .” I stammer.

“But what?” Amy Armstrong asks.

“Sam doesn't want anyone to know it's removable. He pretends it's real.”

“Like everybody doesn't already know.” Amy Armstrong taps her foot impatiently.

“And Lucille hates her training bra. I'm not even supposed to know she
wears
one.” I only heard about it because her mom told my mom how she hates gym on account of everybody always teases her about it. “What you're asking me is . . . I just can't . . . I mean . . . you're asking me to . . .”

“We're asking you to do something incredibly difficult. Yes. We know.” Amy Armstrong casually smooths down a wisp of stray hair. “If it was easy it wouldn't be much of a loyalty test, would it? I mean if we told you to bring us a Ritz cracker and your dog's used toothbrush, what would that prove?”

“Nothing, I guess. I just didn't expect . . .”

“You just didn't expect you'd have to work so hard to become a member. Tough toenails. What do you say, Charlie?” Amy Armstrong tilts her head to one side. “Do you have what it takes to become a Bandito?” She looks up at me through her big black lashes and smiles innocently.

Once again I have been Tasered in the head by the secret weapon that is Amy Armstrong's smile. Without even thinking about what I am getting myself into, I exclaim, “YES!!!!!!!!!!”