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

“Before I turned into a creature it's not like my face was so great or anything,” I continue. “But at least I had one. Now all I've got is these two bulging eyes and jaws like a crocodile. With fangs like these, who needs teeth? My mother picked up one of my flippers this morning and tried to play tennis with it. I said, ‘Mom, you're pulling my leg.' She said, ‘Not hard enough!'”

Will you think less of me if I tell you I had them rolling in the aisles? Well, I did.

“So in conclusion, I would just like to say, the next time you see a big scaly green lizard creeping across your front lawn . . . say hello. It could be me. Thanks, everybody. You've been great!” I wave to the crowd, bow, and head for the wings.

Larry Wykoff puts down his pad and pen and applauds. A bunch of eighth-graders join in, whistling and stomping enthusiastically. A number of One-Upsters yell, “More, more!” Even Dr. Craverly stops pulling at his mustache hairs and joins in. Pretty much everyone except Craig Dieterly is clapping. He just stands by himself in the back and stares at all the people enjoying me and looks like he's about to throw up.

“Remember you're still ‘provisional,' Drinkwater. I'll be watching you like a hawk. Step out of line and you'll be out on your tail so fast you won't know what hit you. I'm having Dr. Craverly draw up a special psychological evaluation of your recent behavior. We are keeping you on a very tight leash.” Principal Muchnick leads me off the stage and back the way we came. “Don't let all that applause go to your head, Drinkwater. You were funny. But you weren't that funny.”

I don't care what Principal Muchnick says. I rocked in there. Lucille is right. It's not what others think, it's what you think about yourself that's important. And I think I brought down the house.

As we exit through the stage door, Principal Muchnick scowls at me one last time and then hurries off to look for somebody to put in detention. Mr. Arkady glides over to me, smiling. “You are a good comedian, Mr. Drinkvater, I laughed like crazy. Beink a lizard brinks out your funny side. Don't forget to come and see me in my office today. I have sometink to say to you.” He raises his bushy eyebrows and slinks gracefully away.

A couple of eager fifth-graders rush up to me. One of them gets up the courage to hand me a piece of paper and a pen. “Autograph please, sir?” he asks nervously.

“Don't worry, I won't hurt you,” I say. “I just look dangerous.” I sign my autograph with my right claw while trying not to rip the piece of paper with my left.

“I'd like to ask you a question,” the boy asks. “If you don't mind, sir.” He speaks so quietly I can barely hear him. His friends draw closer, anxious to hear what I have to say.

“Fire away,” I reply.

“My friends and I would like to know if you enjoy being a creature,” he asks.

I have to stop and think for a moment. On the one hand I like the attention. And being taller than everybody else is cool. And it really seems to upset Craig Dieterly, which is pretty awesome.

On the other hand for the rest of my life I will be the only one of my kind walking the planet. A mutant dinosaur could get lonely.

“I wouldn't say I enjoy it, exactly,” I slowly reply. “But I wouldn't say it's the worst thing that ever happened to me, either.” I hand the boy back my autograph, careful not to scratch him with my claw.

The boy looks down reverently at the little piece of paper. He utters a barely audible “Thank you, sir.” The bell rings and he and his companions race up the stairs, to share the exciting news of their Close Encounter of the Amphibious Kind.

Sam and Lucille come running over to me. “You were great, Charlie,” Lucille says. “We're really proud of you.”

“Yeah,” Sam adds. “You killed.”

“I did?” I say, worried.

“In a funny way,” Sam explains. “Not in a Tyrannosaurus rex kind of way.”

Sam, Lucille, and I hurry up the stairs toward English class. A bunch of middle-schoolers follow close behind, whispering excitedly and pointing at me. Alice Pincus pushes her way through the crowd to let me know she thinks my tail is “way cool.” “Great,” I reply. “Be sure to tell your mom.” Go figure. Rachel Klempner practically steps on Alice Pincus to get closer to me, says I'm a “gifted public speaker,” and asks if I have ever thought about having my own talk show. “It was an honor and a privilege to be in the same room with you, Charlie Drinkwater.” When Rachel Klempner gives you a compliment it's like getting licked by a cat. At first it feels good, and then you can't wait for it to be over.

“C'mon, Charlie,” Lucille says, nudging me. “Let's go. We're late.”

One of the Schlissel twins (they're not wearing their baseball caps today so it's impossible to tell which one is which) stops me to ask if I'd like to go toss a football around with him sometime. This is not exactly my idea of a great time. But when Dirk or Dack Schlissel asks you to do something, you don't say no. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” I reply. Evidently being a big hit at your own assembly can do wonders for your popularity scorecard.

Everyone wants to talk to me. And tells me how great I am. And asks me to hang out with them. A creature could get used to this kind of attention.

“Move your tail, Charlie,” Sam says.

“It must be a terrible strain on you, Charlie,” Lucille says. “All those adoring fans clamoring for your attention.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Better watch out or you'll get a swelled head, pal.”

“You really think it could get any bigger?” Lucille jokes.

“Very funny, guys,” I say. “Nothing's happening to the size of this head. These flippers are staying firmly planted on the ground.”

“Good,” Sam says. A smile flashes over his face and then disappears when Larry Wykoff approaches and asks if I'd be willing to do an interview with him this afternoon after sixth period for the front page of tomorrow's edition of
The Sentinel
. “Maybe,” I say casually. “I'll have to check my schedule and get back to you after lunch.” Translation:

“
ARE YOU KIDDING!?!?!?!?
”

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

THE LUNCH BELL
is going to ring any minute. But I get a “special permission slip” to leave math class early so I can make it through the lunch line without creating a disturbance. Principal Muchnick says I'd better do everything I can to avoid any more “incidents.”

Two Banditoes have already received demerits for spying on me during class and trying to take my picture through a crack in the door with their cell phones. In between third and fourth period, several eager sixth-graders approached me and offered to give me their lunch if I promised to sit next to them in the cafeteria. (I was so hungry I was tempted. You'll be proud of me, though. I didn't give in.) One of my fifth-grade fans tells me that he just sold my autograph to an upper-schooler for a dollar.

Even Norm Swerling asks if I want to go to the movies with him Saturday night. He never asked me to do anything before except help him clean all the blackboards once when he got punished for playing with his Game Boy during math. Norm Swerling wouldn't agree to be a Mainframe if his life depended on it. He is on the waiting list to be a Bandito. You have to be at least five feet four inches tall to be considered. If he grows another two inches he's a shoo-in.

I politely decline. Sam and I always go to Lucille's house on Saturday night and help her with her fruit fly experiments. It's really fun. Plus it's a tradition. Just like how every Wednesday night Lucille and I go to Sam's house for an early dinner. Sam's mom makes a wicked tuna noodle casserole and chocolate sundaes with rainbow sprinkles while we watch one of our favorite scary movies. And then we do our homework together. I wouldn't miss it for anything.

I know that I'm getting all this attention just because I am the new mutant dinosaur on the block, but after a lifetime of being invisible, it feels good to be fussed over.

I hurry down the empty stairs to the lunchroom.

The cafeteria is nearly deserted. Mr. Arkady waves at me from the teacher's table on the side. “Seventh period, Mr. Drinkvater. Don't forget.”

“I won't, sir,” I reply. He sure seems anxious to talk to me. I wonder if he has some insight into my condition that I don't. He knows a lot about reptiles and amphibians.

A few lunchroom ladies stand proudly behind a row of delicious-smelling steam tables. I grab a tray and make my way over to the food line, where the aroma of freshly roasting wild Norwegian salmon hits me in the face like a brick wall. My pupils dilate. My jaws begin to quiver in anticipation. I haven't had a thing to eat since breakfast. I am
starving
.

Amy Armstrong runs in, grabs a tray, and lines up behind me.

“So like how strange was Dr. Craverly in that assembly today?” she asks. “Do you think he's losing it or what?”

This may not seem like a big deal to you, but it is the first and only direct question Amy Armstrong has ever asked me since pre-K when she asked if I would move my tricycle because it was getting in her way. I am so astonished I nearly fall off my flippers.

It's one thing when a lowly fifth-grader asks for your autograph. But when the most popular girl in middle school and possibly the universe suddenly decides you are worth talking to, it is a
VERY BIG DEAL!!!!!
You have advanced at least five notches up the popularity scorecard.

The lunchroom lady asks me if I want the wild Norwegian salmon, the soup and sandwich, the chicken salad special, or the vegetarian entrée. “Um . . . I'll have the . . . um . . .” I am so flustered from Amy Armstrong talking to me I can't think straight.

“I don't have all day, kid,” she reminds me, pushing her white paper lunchroom lady hat back on her forehead. The bell for lunch period rings. I hear the sound of thundering feet on the stairs. “What'll you have, honey?” the lunchroom lady asks Amy Armstrong. “Your finny friend over here can't seem to make up his mind.”

“I'd like the chicken salad special,” she says briskly. “Two scoops. No soup. Hold the roll, extra crackers on the side. Oh, and I don't do celery, so remove every single trace of it from my plate. I can't deal with stringy vegetables.”

The lunchroom lady gives her a look and then very slowly starts picking bits of celery from the chicken salad with a tiny fork. I am getting hungrier by the second.

“I believe Dr. Craverly suffers from an obsessive-compulsive disorder, which is pretty strange, in my opinion,” I say, wiping drool from my jaws with the green satin handkerchief my mother has thoughtfully placed in my pocket. “Because how can you be a school psychologist when you can't even cure yourself?”

“You're so right, Charlie Drinkwater. I never really thought about it that way before.” And then Amy Armstrong suddenly looks right into my eyes like she is seeing me for the very first time. “You have an awfully interesting way of looking at things, did you know that?” Before I have a chance to respond she turns back to the lunchroom lady. “Do you think you could you pick faster, miss?” she asks. “I don't have all day.”

The lunchroom lady rolls her eyes and picks even slower. If I don't get something to eat pretty soon I will keel over.

Lucille and Sam get into line behind us. “Hey there, Charlie,” Sam says.

“Hey, guys,” I reply faintly. On the one hand I am happy to see my friends. On the other hand I wish they would leave me alone so I could have a chance to talk to Amy Armstrong some more.

“I changed my mind,” Amy Armstrong says. “I'll have the vegetarian entrée and a cup of soup.” The lunchroom lady looks at her like she is about to dump the chicken salad over her head. “And could you hurry it up?” Amy Armstrong barks. “I have a special permission slip to eat early. I'm late for an extremely important appointment.”

“What a coincidence,” Lucille says sweetly. “Charlie and Sam and I have special permission slips to eat early because we're late for an extremely important appointment, too.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Amy Armstrong says coolly.

“And I find you rude, obnoxious, and arrogant,” Lucille replies, equally coolly. Lucille has never liked Amy Armstrong, but she seems especially annoyed at her today. It occurs to me that my sudden rise in popularity may be making Lucille a little uneasy.

“Ex
cuse
me?” Amy Armstrong snorts.

“Oh, ma'am?” Lucille says to the lunchroom lady. “This girl's extremely important appointment just got canceled. The big scaly green guy goes first. He'll have a double portion of the wild Norwegian salmon, please.” By now the lunch crowd is beginning to pour into the room.

Amy Armstrong fumes while the lunchroom lady prepares me a heaping plate of salmon. “That's okay, ma'am,” I tell her. “I can wait. I really don't mind. I'm not that hungry.”

“Well,
we
sure are,” Sam says, pushing ahead of Amy Armstrong. “C'mon, Lucille.”

“What's the matter, Tubby?” Amy Armstrong says. “Afraid there won't be enough food left over for you and your creepy girlfriend?”

“You take that back or else,” Lucille snaps.

“No way.” Amy Armstrong grabs her tray and hurries off to join Rachel Klempner at her usual table in the back.

“Or else what?” Craig Dieterly has evidently overheard the tail end of our conversation. He storms over to our little group, puffs out his chest, and gets all red in the face. “You and Geico here don't scare me one bit, in case you didn't already know. Or else what, Metal Mouth?”

I would get right in Craig Dieterly's face and give him a piece of my mind if the very sound of his voice didn't make me want to run and hide. I can still hear him calling me “fraidy cat, fraidy cat” when he buried me up to my neck in sand and I started screaming on our excursion to Crater Lake in fourth grade. He threatened to leave me there overnight unless I promised to give him the Mexican jumping beans my uncle Marvin brought me back from Acapulco.

“Aren't you going to say something to him, Charlie?” Lucille asks.

“I sure am,” I say nervously. “I say we all calm down, and go get something to eat.”

Craig Dieterly looks at me like I am crazy. “And I say you'd better stick to your own kind or you won't know what hit you, Flipper, and I'm not kidding.”

“What did I do?” I ask.

“Listen up, Newt Nose, and listen well,” Craig Dieterly snarls. “You think you're such a big deal now that you have gill slits and a tail, but you're just a big green nothing. And if I ever catch you sucking up to, or talking with, or even looking at a One-Upster or a Bandito again, I will bring you a world of hurt. Don't think you can hide from me. I'll going to be all over you like white on rice.” He lowers his voice. “Is your middle name Humperdink?” he asks.

“It's not,” I reply. Craig Dieterly storms past me and knocks my tray of salmon onto the floor. “Oops. Clumsy me.”

“You did that on purpose, Dieterly.” I wipe salmon stains off my new green satin outfit.

“I sure did,” he replies. “Want to do something about it?” Just then Principal Muchnick pokes his head into the cafeteria and stares at me with his beady little black eyes. “You try anything funny with me and I'll tell Principal Muchnick you hit me with your tail. You're on provisional reentry, Lobster Boy, and don't you forget it.”

“C'mon, guys,” Lucille says. “Let's go grab sandwiches from the vending machine and try to forget about these hopeless cretins.”

Sam, Lucille, and I head over to the vending machine area and buy sandwiches, pretzels, Devil Dogs, and three big glasses of lemonade. Principal Muchnick stands in the front of the cafeteria tapping his foot and staring at me like I did something wrong.

We sit at our usual table in the back and talk about how unnecessary the Craig Dieterlys of the world are. And how unfair Principal Muchnick can be. And how much we admire José de San Martín.

“He was an officer in the infantry and fought against the Moors when he was only thirteen,” Lucille says. “He must have been really brave.”

“Yeah,” I reply. “I bet
he
wouldn't have been afraid to stand up to Craig Dieterly.”

“And you shouldn't be, either, pal,” Sam says. “You're a mutant dinosaur. You're three times bigger than he is. You could rip him to shreds and eat him for breakfast if you wanted to.”

“Fear isn't logical, Sam,” Lucille explains. “My dog Fluffy weighs six pounds and fits into my mom's purse. And Balthazar is terrified of her.”

“Yeah, but Balthazar is terrified of everybody,” I remind her.

“I hate to say it, Charlie,” Sam says, gulping down his third Devil Dog, “but so are you.”

“True. And I'm not ashamed to admit it,” I quickly reply. “Because fear is sometimes a sign of superior intelligence.”

“And sometimes it's just a sign that you're a coward,” Sam says, burping loudly. “Excuse me.”

“You're not excused,” Lucille says. “That was gross. You just wolfed down your lunch faster than a mutant dinosaur.”

“Well, excuse
me
,” I say, picking up my empty lemonade glass and getting up. “I'm going for a refill.”

As I walk over to the vending machine area, Amy Armstrong strolls by in the other direction. “Psst,” she goes, and motions for me to lower my head. I look around for Craig to make sure he doesn't catch me breaking his stupid rules. Amy whispers into my ear, “You're way too interesting to spend your life hanging out with your Mainframe loser friends all the time. They're dragging you down with them into a bottomless pit of dorkitude and you know it, Charlie. Wake up and smell the coffee.” She smiles mysteriously at me for a moment and then vanishes into the crowd.

My head feels lighter. My heart beats faster. I can hardly catch my breath. I guess that's what happens when the Amy Armstrongs of the world aim their smiles at you. It's like a secret weapon designed to make you forget how badly they have always treated you and your friends.