Creature from the 7th Grade : Boy or Beast (9781101591833) (6 page)

Wait a minute. Feet? I have feet? Yes, I do. Two of them. Will you look at that! They're very small. And very white. Welcome back, toes! It's great to see you again. I look down at my claws, only they're back to being hands. Hooraaaaaaaaay!!!!!!!!! I race into the bathroom. I have to stand on my tiptoes to get a good look at myself in the mirror above the sink. Good-bye, fangs. Hello, teeth! Whoa. I have turned back into plain old, regular, ordinary . . .

Me.

I never thought I'd ever be so happy to see my funny little face again.

Boy, am I short. And skinny. My ears are even bigger than I remembered. Not for nothing did Uncle Marvin call me Dumbo until my mom threatened to stop inviting him for Thanksgiving unless he quit. For a second I actually miss being the biggest kid in my school and possibly the world. Which is when my alarm rings again.

Only this time it is my real alarm clock. Not the alarm clock in my dream. And this time I really do wake up. And this time when I run to the bathroom to get a good look at myself, I hit my head on the door frame because I am taller than Bigfoot. And this time when I look into the mirror, I have to duck way down to see my enormous, green, scaly head and almond-shaped, heavily hooded eyes staring back and me.

I am still the exact same creature I was last night. Only a little more rested. And a whole lot hungrier.

OH, BROTHER!

"DO YOU WANT
bacon or sausage with those eggs, Charlie?” my mom asks, as she races around the kitchen making breakfast.

“Can I have both?” I ask.

“Why not?” she answers. “I must say, honey, your new outfit fits you to a tee.”

“It's great. Thanks, Mom. I don't know how you did it.” I'm wearing the clothes my mom made for me last night out of the fabric she was saving for new living room drapes. If you tried to design one outfit to make sure your son would be the laughingstock of his entire school, this would be it.

I'm wearing shiny green satin pants, a matching green satin cap, a green satin polo shirt (there's even a little green satin alligator sewn onto the pocket. I'm not kidding), giant green satin slippers, and a matching bright-green satin cape. It was supposed to be an overcoat, but Mom didn't have enough time to sew in the arms and put on the buttons.

I look like a cross between an Irish matador, the Jolly Green Giant, and the Incredible Hulk. But I know how hard my mom worked on my outfit. And I don't want to seem ungrateful. So I keep it to myself.

“How about you, Dave?” Mom asks.

“Bacon, please, and can I have some more milk, Mom?” Dave asks. “Coach Grubman says to eat lots of protein. The big play-off is only two days away.”

“Coming right up.” My mom wipes her hands on her apron.

Dave is still wearing his ice pack. He hasn't mentioned his strained wrist since he got up. I hope he's feeling better, but I'm not bringing it up if he doesn't. I don't feel like getting snapped at this morning. I'm already nervous enough as it is about “provisional reentry” and my welcome-back assembly.

“Anybody see my keys?” my dad asks as he hurries into the kitchen. “I know they're around here somewhere.” It wouldn't be breakfast if my father didn't lose his keys.

“Your eggs are almost done, Fred,” Mom says, heading for the stove.

“No time, Doris. I've got to catch the eight fifteen express to Champaign/Urbana. Big meeting with the head of national sales at ten. Can't be late. Now, if you were keys where would you be?”

“I would be sitting on the counter where you always put me.” Mom sighs. “Not even a cup of coffee, Fred?”

Dad just points to his watch, grabs his keys, puts them in his pocket, and studies his reflection in the glass doors of the kitchen cabinets.

“How are you feeling this morning, Charlie?” Dad straightens his tie and adjusts his collar.

“Big,” I say. “Really, really big.”

“That's nice,” he says. When my dad's in rush mode, you could tell him there was a purple aardvark sitting on top of his head and he wouldn't bat an eyelash.

“Bye, everybody.” He gives Mom a peck on the cheek, flies out the door, and comes flying back instantly. “Oops. Forgot my briefcase.” Mom just picks it up off the floor where he always leaves it and hands it to him silently, and off he goes again.

“You got a little bacon grease on your new shirt, Charlie,” Mom says. “Hold still.” She licks her napkin and starts dabbing away at the spot. “Did you get enough sleep last night?”

“Not really. Maybe I should stay home today. I'm not feeling very well.”

“Really?” She puts the back of her hand on my sloping upper cranial ridge to see if I have a fever. “You do look a little green around the gills to me.”

“He
is
green around the gills, Mom,” Dave says. “Get used to it.” He throws down his napkin and storms over to the refrigerator.

“Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed today.” Mom goes over to Dave. “What's the matter, honey?”

Dave pours himself more milk and gulps it down before he speaks. “Dad didn't even ask me how my wrist was doing before he left.”

“He meant to,” Mom says, putting her arm around Dave's shoulder. “Your father has a lot on his mind, sweetheart.”

“Well, so do I,” Dave says, pulling away.
“
You can't believe the pressure I'm under. And nobody's asking me if
I
had a good night's sleep last night. Or sewing
me
special new green clothes, or telling me how great I look in them. Everything is ‘Charlie this' and ‘Charlie that.' ‘How did Charlie sleep?' ‘Does Charlie have a fever?' I don't know how much more of this I can take.” He slams his empty glass down onto the counter. I have never seen my brother this upset.

“Honey, we're all under a lot of stress,” Mom says. “I have to cater a luncheon for fifty crabby diabetics tomorrow, and Friday morning I'm doing breakfast for Mrs. Pagliuso's cousin's club and every last one of them inherited a gluten allergy. No French toast . . . no pancakes . . . don't even think about Belgian waffles. It's a nightmare.”

“I'm really sorry, Mom. But what am I going to do if my wrist doesn't heal in time for the big game? We play the Barrington Bears on Thursday. I've been looking forward to being in the play-offs all year. It's just not fair.”

“Honey, sometimes life gives us lemons,” my mom says, putting her arm around Dave's shoulder again. “And you know what? You've just got to get out your best pitcher and start makin' that lemonade.”

Dave doesn't say anything. He just stands there looking lonely. And sad. And, although I never thought I'd be saying this, very little.

“Here, take my cape, Dave,” I say. “Go ahead. It doesn't look that good on me, anyway. No offense, Mom.” I lean over and place it on his big, broad shoulders, which are nowhere near as big and broad as mine. Mom gives me a grateful smile. I'm worried about Dave. I wonder how he feels about being shorter than his little brother.

“I know you want to make everything all right, Charlie,” Dave says quietly. “But you can't. Thought you might want to know I injured my wrist again last night prying your jaws open.” He hands the cape back to me. It's the first thing he's said to me all morning.

WAITER, THERE'S A DINOSAUR IN MY SOUP .  .  .

I AM FIVE
minutes late for school. It wasn't my fault. My mother insisted on taking my temperature before she would let me out of the house, and when she discovered it was hovering at 73 degrees (well below the normal human average of 98.6), she panicked. It took several visits to YourPet.com and a personal phone call to our family veterinarian, Dr. Herbert Melville, before she could be convinced that I'm ectothermic (as are all fish, amphibians, and reptiles). So if the temperature in my house was 73 degrees, then mine should be, too.

I reach into my backpack to make sure I haven't forgotten my social security blanket cards, remind myself to look as harmless as possible, and walk up the stairs to Stevenson Middle School. I carry my milk crate in my claws, since none of the chairs at school could possibly fit me anymore.

I push open the front door with my powerful tail. Mr. Arkady floats smoothly across the deserted lobby. He waves his bony hand at me. “How about seventh period, sir?” I ask.

“I look forvard to seeink you then, Mr. Drinkvater!” He disappears into the assembly. There isn't a student in sight. I guess everybody's already in their seats.

Well, nearly everybody. Sam and Lucille come racing around the corner. “Everybody's terrified of you!” Lucille exclaims when she sees me. “Rachel Klempner told the entire class you bit Alice Pincus yesterday and then went on a rampage after Mrs. Adams told you no eating people on school property.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Why else do you think they had to call a special assembly?” Sam replies. “You're the biggest thing to happen to Stevenson Middle School in years.” Sam is so excited he tugs at his nose ring and it falls to the floor. Lucille and I pretend we don't notice him picking it up, like we always do when he drops it.

“What's that thing on your head, Charlie?” Lucille asks.

“It's a cap,” I reply. “My mom made it for me last night. What do you think?”

“I think you should take it off,” Sam tells me. He hides his nose with his left hand and clips the ring back into place with his right. “Fast.”

“That bad, huh?” I ask.

“Worse,” Lucille replies.

I remove my cap and put it in my backpack just as Principal Muchnick hurries down the center hall stairs looking unhappy. He has two main expressions: “stern” and “sterner.” Right now he's way past “sterner” and approaching “if looks could kill.”

“You're five and a half minutes late, Drinkwater,” he says, looking at his watch. “I've been looking all over for you. This is not a very promising way to begin ‘provisional reentry.'” I bet he just can't wait for me to goof up so he can send me home again. “Lucille and Sam: go right inside and find a seat. The place is packed to the gills. No offense, Drinkwater.”

“No offense taken, sir.”

“Come with me,” Principal Muchnick orders. “Assembly is about to begin. You will be asked to say a few words. Keep your remarks succinct and to the point.”

What remarks? Why didn't anybody tell me I would be called upon to speak? I would have prepared a few pertinent remarks. It's not bad enough I have to go stand in front of a crowd of people who hate my guts, now I have to say something to them?

“Move it, buster.” Principal Muchnick leads me through the hallway that takes us to the auditorium's backstage entrance. We walk up a small flight of stairs, step onto the side of the stage, and pause behind the big red curtains. I can hear a low rumble of eager voices from the audience. The assembly is about to begin.

Speaking extemporaneously in front of large groups of people is not high on my list of favorite things to do.
Don't panic, Charlie. You'll be all right.
I take deep breaths and remind myself that we touched on public speaking briefly in Mrs. Adams's English class last fall. Mrs. Adams always told us to keep our speeches “informative, entertaining, and brief.” I begin to sweat profusely.

I notice Dr. Craverly, the school psychologist, standing in the middle of the stage, anxiously tapping the mic with his finger. “Testing, one two three. Testing, one two three.” The audience gets very quiet. “Before we start, I'd just like to say a heartfelt thank-you to . . .” Dr. Craverly stares at some notes he holds in his trembling hand. “To . . . to . . . to . . . I'm afraid I've lost my place.” He tugs at his mustache with his free hand and begins again. “I'd just like to say a heartfelt thank-you to everyone who donated so generously to last week's winter coat drive.”

Dr. Craverly hates speaking in public even more than I do. When he addresses large groups of people he gets so nervous he loses his place and starts pulling out his mustache hairs one at a time. He uses tweezers when it gets really bad. He puts the little hairs in a matchbox that he keeps in his desk drawer along with his car keys and a small bottle of something called Xanax, which Lucille says is for “anxiety disorder.” Guess what? It's not working.

Lucille and I discovered his “hair in a box” collection last week in his office when we were rummaging around in his desk drawer for rubber bands for our perpetual motion machine. We almost barfed when we opened it. What's he planning to do with all that mustache hair, anyway? Make it into facial wigs for people who don't have enough time to grow their own mustaches? My father says that having Dr. Craverly be the school psychologist is like letting the inmates run the asylum.

“A number of you kids have expressed your apprehensions about Charlie Drinkwater to me,” he says, peering down at his notes. “I applaud your candor. I'd be lying if I told you I didn't share some of those very same concerns with you myself. Believe me, standing on a stage next to a mutant dinosaur is not my idea of a day at the beach.” Dr. Craverly glances over at me. I wave my tail at him. He loses his place again. “But . . . but . . . but . . .”

At last he finds it. “But I can assure you the probability of Charlie Drinkwater going berserk and knocking us unconscious with one blow of his mighty tail and dragging us off to his lair in his powerful talons is slight. Although not entirely out of the question.” He mops his glistening forehead with the handkerchief he keeps in his coat pocket. He looks at me again. If you listen closely you can hear his knees knocking together.

He continues reading. “As our thirty-second president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, said so beautifully over seventy years ago, ‘we have nothing to fear but . . .'” Dr. Craverly turns his notes upside down. He squints. He rubs his forehead. “I can't seem to read my handwriting . . . ‘We have nothing to fear but . . . but . . . but . . .'”

As I listen to Dr. Craverly speak, here's what I think:
I couldn't do any worse than he's doing.
And I feel strangely reassured.

Just as Dr. Craverly reaches into his pocket for his tweezers and starts to pluck out his few remaining mustache hairs, Principal Muchnick strides over to center stage, pushes him to one side, and takes the microphone into his own hands.

“‘We have nothing to fear but fear itself,'” Principal Muchnick says. “My sentiments precisely, Dr. Craverly. Now listen up, everybody. There have been a lot of rumors and innuendo flying around this place in the last twenty-four hours. Don't believe everything you hear. He may be big and green and scary looking, but Charlie Drinkwater is not dangerous. You can take it from me. He wouldn't hurt a fly.”

A buzz of excited whispering runs through the crowd like an electric current. Principal Muchnick waits for the noise to die down. “He didn't try to bite Alice Pincus yesterday morning in the hallway during second-period English, either. And any stories you may have heard about his vicious attack on Mrs. Adams are just that. Stories.” More whispering.

I am so happy to hear Principal Muchnick tell everyone the truth about me that I would be smiling a great big smile if I had lips.

“I'll tell you what, kids. Charlie's going to come out right now and tell us how he's doing in his own words.” Principal Muchnick motions to me in the wings. “And you all can see for yourselves just what kind of a terrific kid he really is . . . I mean ‘creature' . . . I mean . . . you know what I mean.”

I feel strangely calm. And uncharacteristically confident. After all, how much can you expect from a mutant dinosaur, anyway? If I don't roar and eat a couple of people, I'm already ahead of the game. I leave the security of my red velvet curtains and walk slowly onto the stage.

There is a huge collective gasp the second everyone sees me. And then a hush falls over the room. Six hundred and forty-two pairs of eyes stare at me in rapt attention. It's so quiet you could hear a pin drop. And then Craig Dieterly's voice breaks the silence. “Quick. Somebody tell that kid it isn't Halloween yet.”

“Quiet,” Principal Muchnick commands in a steely voice. Craig Dieterly shuts up immediately. A few Banditoes snicker nervously.

The spotlight from the balcony suddenly hits me squarely in the eyes, practically blinding me. I shield my eyes with my claws. Mom warned me I was going to have to get used to being the center of attention.

Principal Muchnick motions for me to come to the center of the stage.
Don't be nervous, Charlie, you can do it. Relax your shoulders. Drop the tail tension. Remember to breathe.

“Let's go, Drinkwater,” Mr. Muchnick says firmly. “Now. We don't have all day.”

I approach the microphone and carefully grasp it with my claws, raising it higher by several feet. Still, it barely comes up to whatever passes for my chin.
Remember, Charlie: Informative. Entertaining. Brief.
Here goes:

“First I want to thank Principal Muchnick and the whole school board for allowing me back on ‘provisional reentry.' I promise I will do my best to live up to the confidence you have all shown in me.” There is a smattering of polite applause. I informed. Now I will attempt to entertain.

“Thanks. I'm really happy to be here today. And a little . . . uh . . . surprised. Considering the pet show isn't for another three weeks.” A few kids in the second row chuckle. It's not exactly a standing ovation. But it's encouraging. I continue.

“You know what? I am definitely going to enter that show. And if I don't win for biggest tail, I'm going to demand a recount.” I wave my tail around to drive my point home. A few of the littler kids start to cry and have to be taken out of the room by their teachers. Although the rest of the audience does seem to be enjoying itself.

“Yesterday morning . . . boy, talk about your worst days ever. Somewhere between first-period science and second-period English, I turned into the enormous green scaly creature you see standing before you, complete with flippers, claws, a tail, five-inch gill slits in my neck, behavior problems, and an out-of-control appetite. Just think of me as your typical teenager. Only instead of acne, I get inflamed scales.” I have to wait a full five seconds for the laughter to stop. This is fun.

“And when
I
get uncontrollable urges, I don't stay out past my curfew and party hard.
I
stay in my room and try to eat my brother's tropical fish. Ever feel like you're having a bad hair day? Try having a bad
tail
day. Sometimes I can't get that sucker to do a thing I tell it to. I turn left. It turns right.

“On my way to school today, I had to yell at it. My own tail. I said, ‘Tail, you're not the boss of me!' I grabbed it in my claws and forcibly restrained it and I still couldn't get it to listen to me. I tried to sit down when I got here today, and my tail stood up. Boy, was that embarrassing.”

I'm getting used to the glare of the spotlight in my eyes. I can make out Sam and Lucille in the back row, smiling and giving me thumbs-ups. And what do you know—Amy Armstrong has actually stopped doing her nails for once in her life and is paying attention to me. And giggling. There's Larry Wykoff grinning as he scribbles notes on his pad. Rachel Klempner looks at him enjoying my speech and decides it's okay to enjoy it, too. A bunch of Banditoes gathered in the third row laugh and poke each other in the ribs. Even the Schlissel twins seem to be having a good time. Craig Dieterly isn't laughing. He looks extremely unhappy. This is really going well.