Creature from the 7th Grade : Boy or Beast (9781101591833) (8 page)

I refill my glass, go back to my table, and try not to think about Amy Armstrong as Lucille attempts to explain the space-time continuum to me and Sam for the ten millionth time.

“You guys . . .” This is what she always calls us when she is frustrated. “You guys, it's really simple: just think of time and space like they're all mixed up together in this one ten-layer coconut cake and you can't separate them. Okay?”

I don't understand what Lucille is saying but I'm getting extremely hungry for coconut cake. “So now imagine your knife represents time, and you slice a perpendicular cross section through the cake faster than the speed of light. The resulting coordinates formed where the knife meets the cake provide a continuous sampling of everything that is going on in the universe at any one exact moment. Are you following me so far?”

Nope. I'm thinking about Amy Armstrong. I wonder why I never noticed the dimple on her cheek before? I wonder whether she'll ever speak to me again. I wonder if there is a coordinate that represents lunch period and the precise moment in time Amy Armstrong smiled at me. I start to doodle on my paper napkin. I draw a graph. The horizontal lines represent the minutes in fourth period. The vertical lines represent Amy Armstrong. The intersecting coordinates represent . . .

“You're not even listening to me, are you, Charlie?” Lucille watches me coloring in my graph. “You're a million miles away.”

I certainly am. I am on a planet in a distant galaxy where the most popular girl in the middle school and possibly the universe has just smiled at me. I like this planet.

NEWS AND CLUES

"TELL ME MORE,"
Larry Wykoff says, his pencil poised over his notepad. He adjusts the small portable microphone so it's closer to my jaws. “Tell me about the little boy inside the creature. How he feels. What he thinks about. His hopes. His fears. His dreams. I want to know everything.”

Sixth period has just ended, and for the last several minutes I have been sitting on my crate doing my interview with Larry Wykoff for the school paper. Larry Wykoff is a Bandito. I don't want Craig Dieterly to catch me talking to him, so I asked to do my interview in the one place Craig Dieterly never ever goes: the school library. I don't think he even knows where it is.

Rachel “I'm pretending I like you but don't believe it for a second” Klempner sits across from me, next to Larry “I know more about humor than you ever will” Wykoff, and she hangs on my every word like she's actually interested in what I have to say.

“Awkward,” I reply to Larry. “I feel really awkward. I'm always banging my head. And knocking stuff over with my tail. And tripping over my big, stupid flippers. Nothing fits me anymore. My bed. My desk. My clothes. The chair. You name it.”

“I know the feeling,” Larry says. “Believe me.”

“You do?” It's hard for me to believe the popular “Mr. Funny” has ever had an awkward moment for one single nanosecond of his charmed existence.

“Sure. Who doesn't? Only the rest of us just
feel
like we're carrying around a big green scaly tail behind us. And you actually have one. That's some outfit, by the way.”

“Yeah. My mother made it from this fabric she had left over from when she reupholstered all the furniture in the living room. It was supposed to be matching drapes. When I sit on the couch you can barely see me.”

“You have excellent comic timing,” Larry Wykoff says, chuckling. “I never noticed it before. You remind me of Steve Martin in some of his early appearances on
Saturday Night Live
. Did anybody ever tell you that?”

All of a sudden Craig Dieterly's face appears in the doorway to the library. I never thought he'd find me in here. I get that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach I always get when the mummy burns his tana leaves in
Revenge of the Mummy
right before he stalks his victims. I stand up and start backing away from Larry Wykoff.

“Not in those exact words,” I say quietly.

“Well, you do.” He gets up and walks over to me, holding out his microphone. “Who or what would you say have had the biggest influence on your performing style?”

“My brother's tropical fish.” Craig Dieterly enters the library, leans against a bookshelf, crosses his arms, and smiles at me. Which is even more frightening than when he glares at me. If you've ever seen Jack Nicholson attack Shelley Duvall in
The Shining
, you'll understand what I mean. “You'd better stay away from me,” I say, and try to distance myself from Larry Wykoff.

“How come?” Larry Wykoff asks.

“I carry salmonella. It's highly contagious. I might sneeze on you.” I'll say anything to get Larry Wykoff to stop talking to me because I would really like to avoid Craig Dieterly turning my life into a world of hurt. “It could be fatal. You never know.”

“I really like your delivery,” he says. “Who's your favorite stand-up comic?”

“My mother,” I answer. I am too distraught to think straight. “Please go. I'm about to eat raw eels. I don't want witnesses.”

“You're like a cross between Lenny Bruce and Robin Williams,” Larry Wykoff says. “Very dark. Very edgy. Very free-form. Don't you think so, Craig?”

“I sure do, Lair,” Craig Dieterly says. “I told him at lunch today just how much I enjoy his special brand of humor. Didn't I, Charlie?”

“Yes,” I reply, shifting nervously from one flipper to the other. “You certainly did.”

“We'd better get out of here, honey; I promised Amy I'd help her do her nails.” Rachel drags Larry Wykoff out the door, leaving me and Craig Dieterly alone in the room.

“I thought I told you to stay away from Banditoes and One-Upsters, Turtle Breath,” Craig hisses as soon as the door closes. He takes a step closer to me.

“I tried,” I say meekly. “They wouldn't stay away from
me
.” I take a step backward.

“You think just because you're suddenly taller than a goalpost you don't have to listen to everything I say?”

“No.”

“I can't hear you,” Craig taunts, taking another step closer.

“
NO!
” I shout. I try to back up and can't because I have hit the wall and have nowhere to go.

“That's better. Now give me your backpack.” Craig Dieterly takes another step toward me and holds his hand out. He is so close I can feel his breath on my neck.

“Oh, come on, Dieterly, my parents gave it to me for my birthday. What are you going to do with it, anyway?”

“Duh . . . make you buy it back from me, Stinky Fish Boy.” Craig Dieterly reaches over and snatches it out of my claws with his big stupid hands. “What'll you give me for it?” He dangles it in front of me.

“Uh . . .” I try to think of what I have that Craig might want. “I'll give you one week's allowance if you return it in good condition and promise to leave me alone for the rest of the week.”

“Two weeks' allowance and it's a deal,” Craig Dieterly says. “But you can forget about the ‘leaving you alone' part.”

“Oh all right.” I sigh. I reach into my pocket and pull out two crisp new five-dollar bills. It's useless arguing with him. Craig Dieterly grabs the money out of my claws and turns to leave.

“Hey, wait!” I protest. “Give me my backpack, Dieterly. We had a deal.”

“I'll give it back when I'm good and ready,” Craig Dieterly says. “Next time I catch you hanging out with my friends you're not getting off so easy.” He doesn't even bother to look at me as he slams the door in my face.

I am so mad I feel like reporting him to Principal Muchnick and getting him put on detention for the rest of his life. Except last week when I reported Craig Dieterly for dropping water bombs on me, Principal Muchnick told me I was acting like a big baby and it was high time I grew up and learned to fight my own battles.

The bell for the end of seventh period rings. I hurry upstairs to Mr. Arkady's office in the science department and give the door a few quick raps with my claw. “Come in, Mr. Drinkvater,” Mr. Arkady says. “I am expectink you. Door is open.”

The tidy little room has cheery yellow curtains on the window. The bookshelves are filled with skeletons of lizards and frogs and bats and a few carefully preserved tarantulas in glass jars. The occasional freeze-dried snake is artfully arranged as if were about to pounce on its victim. Mr. Arkady sits at his desk humming and fondling a replica of a human skull. He gestures for me to sit down on my crate.

“You have transformed into my favorite extinct animal, Mr. Drinkvater. Congratulations! I luff dinosaurs. They are so resourceful. And powerful. I hope you vill learn to enjoy your new body. Remember: sudden change can be frightenink. But also excitink.” He puts down the skull. He studies me closely. “You look like a cross betveen a Diplodocus and an Apatosaurus vit a little salamander thrown in for good measure.”

“My grandmother came from a long line of mutant dinosaurs.”

“Very interestink, Drinkvater. Your ancestors evolved durink the Devonian period, as you know. Many of your relatives ver viped out durink the Permian-Triassic extinction. My deepest sympathies to your femily, Drinkvater.”

“Thanks, Mr. Arkady,” I reply. “But wasn't there something else you wanted to say to me? Something important?”

“I vas so excited to see you I almost forgot. I haff two pices of advice for you, Drinkvater,” Mr. Arkady begins. “First: you must be the subject of your science report. You vill get high marks for originality, I promise. And you vill discover many vunderful and amazink tinks about yourself along the vay.”

What I think is:
What's so wonderful and amazing about turning into a big, smelly lizard?
What I say is: “Good advice, sir.”

And then Mr. Arkady stares at me so hard it's like his eyes are boring a hole through me, and for a second I wonder if he is going to bite me in my incredibly long neck and turn me into an undead mutant dinosaur.

“Second: alvays keep your eyes out for udders of your kind as you travel through life or you vill be vun lonely little mutant dinosaur.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Mr. Arkady?”

“I am tryink to tell you many thinks, Mr. Drinkvater. But like all good titchers sometimes I don't giff my students the answers. I giff them the qvestions.”

Mr. Arkady prefers the Socratic method of teaching. That means that he doesn't give information to his students. He draws it out of them. Now he gets up from his desk and swoops over to me. He raises his eyebrows and stands so close that I can feel his oddly cool breath on my scales.

“The important qvestion of today is: vat do you really know about your family, young man? If you learn more about vair you come from, you vill learn more about vair you are goink.”

“I really
would
like to know more about where I'm going, Mr. Arkady,” I say. “Only how am I supposed to learn more about where I came from?”

Before he can answer my question, the bell rings and he shoos me away. “School is over for the day. Get goink, Mr. Drinkvater! Hurry before I giff you more homevurk.”

I know he is trying to tell me something very important. But what?

PICTURE THIS

"YOU'VE GOT TO
stop letting Craig Dieterly walk all over you, pal,” Sam says. “He's out of control.” Sam, Lucille, and I are on our way to the bus stop. We are going to my house this afternoon to eat Halloween cookies, carve our pumpkin, and do homework together. I have just explained to my friends why I'm not wearing my backpack.

“It's so unfair. What did you ever do to him?” Lucille asks. “At some point you're going to have to learn to face your fear of Craig Dieterly and just, you know, deal with it.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “It's right up there at the top of my list of things to do right after ‘flap my wings and fly to the moon.'”

“Anyway, what did Mr. Arkady have to say?” Lucille asks.

“I'm not sure,” I reply. “But I'll tell you this: he knows something and he's not telling me. I think he wants me to guess. It's pretty frustrating.”

“Typical Arkady,” Sam says.

The wind whips up the leaves around us as we walk. The sky is an ominous, dull gray. It looks like it's going to start to pour any minute. A perfect afternoon to have your favorite backpack stolen by the person you hate most in the entire world.

As we arrive at the bus stop, I put down my crate for a second and reach for my all-semester student pass—and suddenly realize it's in my backpack. Mrs. Denby, the driver on our route, is so strict she wouldn't let her own mother get on board without one of those things.

“You guys wait here,” I say. “The bus'll come any second. I'll hurry on ahead and meet you at my house. My mom will let you in if you get there before me.”

“What are you talking about?” Lucille exclaims. “We're not letting you walk home alone from your first day back at school as a creature. Who do you think we are, One-Upsters or something?”

“Yeah. Or Banditoes?” Sam chimes in. “We're Mainframes all the way, and we stick together. If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not keel over and croak?”

We give each other the official Mainframe handshake. I have to be extremely careful not to injure anybody with my claws as we slap our palms together twice, wiggle our shoulders, twirl around, and shout our Mainframe motto, “All for one and one for all.” I get so tangled up in my tail I nearly fall flat on my large mutant dinosaur butt.

I wouldn't trade in my Mainframe friends for three million One-Upsters and Banditoes, but as we do our handshake I can't help thinking how much I enjoyed talking to Larry Wykoff. And how surprised I was to discover the good side of Amy Armstrong. Sometimes I wish Lucille and Sam would give the cool kids a break. It's not their fault they're cool. They were born that way.

When we get to my house, Mom opens the door to let us in. “How was your reentry assembly, Charlie?” she asks.

“Charlie rocked, Mrs. D.,” Sam answers.

“That's wonderful!” Mom exclaims.

“I did okay,” I say.

“He's just being modest, Mrs. Drinkwater. He was seriously funny,” Lucille says. “You would have been proud of him.”

“I'm always proud of him,” Mom says. “Finish hanging up your coats, everybody, and come on in. Mr. Drinkwater is upstairs getting out of his suit, and the pumpkin is sitting on the table just begging to be carved. I hope you brought your appetites. I've got a fresh batch of ‘witches on broomsticks' flying out of the oven any second.”

“That's great, Mrs. Drinkwater,” Lucille says. “It's not officially Halloween until I eat at least five of those things.”

“Make that ten,” Sam says. “And boy do they smell delicious.” We all follow our noses into the kitchen. I try not to drool on the rug.

“Where's Dave?” I ask. We all sit down at the kitchen table.

“He went over to Janie's house, honey.” Mom brings over a plate of her famous cookies. “Careful, they're hot.” We all take one. “Who wants milk?”

“That's not like Dave,” I say, picking off chocolate sprinkles from mine with the tip of my enormous tongue. “He always helps us carve the pumpkin. It's a tradition. Do you think he's still mad at me for trying to eat his fish?”

“Of course not, sweetie. Your brother's just getting a little old for carving pumpkins,” Mom says. “Don't you think? And anyway, with the big game only two days away he's got to be really careful with his wrist. It's still pretty sore.”

“These witch on a broomstick cookies are even better than last year, Mrs. Drinkwater,” Lucille says, licking the crumbs off her lips. “What's your secret?”

“You added a little ‘eye of newt' to your cauldron when you stirred the batter, didn't you, Mrs. D.?” Sam polishes off a cookie and reaches for another.

“I sure did. How'd you ever guess, Sam?” Mom says. “And just a pinch of ‘toe of frog.' Works like a charm.” The front doorbell rings. “I wonder who that could be?” Mom asks, wiping her hands on her apron. She hurries out of the room to get the door. Balthazar wanders in and sniffs around to check the floor for crumbs. He looks at me suspiciously and then trots back to his favorite hiding place behind the living room couch next to the radiator. “Hang up your coat and c'mon on in, Janie.” I can hear Mom from the other room.

Why is Janie here? I thought Dave just went to her house.

“I'm dying to see Charlie. Everyone in upper school is talking about him. Do you think he'd mind?” Janie Belzer whispers urgently to my mom.

“Not at all, Janie,” Mom says. “Follow me. We're about to start carving the pumpkin.”

Janie enters the kitchen and stares at me. “Wow,” she says softly.

“Sit down and enjoy yourself,” Mom says, pulling up an extra chair.

“I think I'll just stand over here for now and watch, Mrs. Drinkwater,” she says, hovering between the table and the kitchen counter. I can't tell if she's scared or just excited to see me. She can't take her eyes off me. It's making me pretty self-conscious. Usually Janie Belzer doesn't even notice me. None of Dave's girlfriends does. I'm the invisible little brother. Or at least I was.

“Suit yourself, honey,” Mom replies. She lays out spoons for scooping and a set of special pumpkin-carving knives. Sam selects one and carefully carves a jagged line around the top of the pumpkin. When he's done Lucille slowly lifts it off by the stem and rests it on the table. I reach in and scoop out pumpkin seeds with my claws. Janie pulls out a small sketch pad from her bag as I start carefully poking out two big triangles in the pumpkin for eyes.

“Do you think Charlie would mind if I sketched him while he carves the pumpkin, Mrs. Drinkwater?”

“Do us all a favor and don't ask him for his autograph, okay?” Sam groans. He reaches for another cookie. “He already thinks he pretty hot stuff.”

“I do not,” I protest.

“Why don't you ask him yourself, Janie?” Mom says, pouring milk into frosty mugs for everyone. “He doesn't bite. Do you, Charlie?”

“Don't say stuff like that, Mom,” I mutter. “It's embarrassing.”

“Would it be okay if I sketched you, Charlie?” Janie asks.

“Yeah. Sure. I guess,” I say.

Janie watches me intently as her charcoal pencil flies across the paper. She is making me so nervous that my claw slips as I cut out the big smiling mouth on the pumpkin, and I almost cut myself.

“Look at that, Mrs. D.,” Sam says. “Charlie doesn't even need a knife.”

“I'm home!” Dave hollers as he opens the front door. “Where is everybody?”

“We're in the kitchen carving the pumpkin, sweetie,” Mom calls back. “There's a cookie in here with your name on it. Come and get it while it's hot.”

Dave hurries into the room. When he sees Janie sketching me, he stops dead in his tracks. “I just went to your house to pick you up,” he says to her after an awkward silence. “What's going on? I thought we were going out for pizza.” He doesn't look happy.

“I came here instead,” Janie says, squinting at me and holding up her pencil. “We can go out for pizza later. It's not a big deal.”

“What're you doing?” he asks.

“I'm sketching your little brother, silly,” Janie says. “What's it look like I'm doing?”

“I thought you just did portraits of dogs,” Dave says.

“I draw what interests me.” Janie shrugs. “I'm interested in lots of things.”

“How come you never drew my portrait?” Dave says.

“I don't know,” Janie answers.

“Aren't I interesting?” Dave asks as Mom offers him a cookie. “Not now, Mom, okay?” Dave says. “I'm really not in the mood.”

Lucille and Sam and I look around nervously. You can feel the tension in the room. Mom goes over to the counter and quietly rolls out some more cookie dough.

“Honestly, Dave, I don't see why you have to be so grouchy,” Janie says.

“I'm not being grouchy!” Dave practically shouts. “I'm being inquisitive!” Balthazar trots back in to see what's up. “I'd just really like to know how come you suddenly find my little brother so interesting. That's all.”

“I can't help it if I'm interesting.” I get up from the table and bring my plate and mug to the sink. “I didn't do it on purpose.”

“Guess that's all the drawing for today.” Janie puts away her pad and pencil and heads for the coat closet.

“Aw, c'mon, Janie. Don't leave.” Dave follows her into the hallway. “We have a date.”

“Had,”
Janie says as she puts on her coat and hurries out the door. “Nice seeing you, Mrs. Drinkwater.”

“Now look what you've done, Charlie,” Dave mutters.

“I didn't do anything,” I reply.

“Hey, slow down! Wait for me!” Dave runs out of the house, yelling at Janie.

I know Mom and Dad said Dave isn't mad at me anymore. But he sure
seems
mad.

Later that night, after Sam, Lucille, and I have finished our homework and they have gone home, I brush my fangs and put on the shiny green satin pajamas my mom has thoughtfully left hanging in the bathroom. I squeeze myself into bed, exhausted, turn on my nightlight, and stare at the ceiling.

I can't stop thinking about what Mr. Arkady said. “If you learn more about where you come from, you will learn more about where you are going.” Where does he think I'm going? What does he mean?

At this rate I'll never get to sleep. I amuse myself by making dangerous-looking shadow puppets on the ceiling with my claws until Dave finally tiptoes in around eleven.

“Are you awake?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” I reply.

“I'm sorry I got so upset before.” Dave hangs up his clothes and goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

“It's okay.”

“No, it isn't. I'm a little jumpy,” he says. “About the game and all.”

“I bet.”

“It'll be different after Thursday . . . the play-offs . . . you know . . .” He gargles and rinses and then comes back in and slips into bed.

“Yeah. How's Janie?” I ask.

“She told me I was acting like an idiot and I told her I was sorry. I think she's planning on forgiving me.”

“I wish I didn't try to eat your fish, Dave.”

“I know.”

“I won't do it again.”

“Yeah,” Dave says quietly.

“You're still mad at me, aren't you?” I ask.

“I'll get over it eventually,” Dave answers.

“I hope so. I was wondering. . . . When a girl tells you you're interesting, what does that mean exactly?”

“Did someone tell you that you were interesting?” Dave asks.

“Yeah. At lunch period. Does that mean she likes you?”

“Who told you that you were interesting?”

“Amy Armstrong,” I reply.

“The most popular girl in middle school told you that you were interesting?”

“Yeah. What do you think that means?”