Creature from the 7th Grade : Boy or Beast (9781101591833) (9 page)

Dave gives a big sigh. “You know exactly what that means.” He punches his pillow really hard, puts it over his head, and gets really quiet.

Now what did I do? Big brothers can be so confusing. I was about to ask Dave what he thought Mr. Arkady meant, but now he's way too upset to answer any more questions.

I watch the moon hide behind a big white cloud. I listen to the steady hum of the motor in my brother's fish tank and the bubbles that gurgle as they flow through the aerator. “Do you think you're going to stop being mad at me any point in the near future, Dave?”

Oh, c'mon. Say something. It's not going to kill you.
I wait. But he doesn't reply.

“Night, Dave. Pleasant dreams.” I wait some more. Soon he is fast asleep and snoring peacefully. And I am not.

ADD THREE BILLION POINTS TO MY POPULARITY SCORECARD

"WELL IF IT
isn't Snow White's other little-known dwarf, Swamp Thing.” Craig Dieterly is lying in wait for me on the third-floor landing as I climb the stairs to Mrs. Adams's English class. Second period is about to begin.

“That's so funny I forgot to laugh.” I try to make it past him so I can get to the next floor, but he blocks my way. “Let me through, Dieterly, okay?”

“You didn't say please, Drinkwater.” He puts his arm up to stop me as I try to go around him.

“Would you
please
let me through, Dieterly?” I am waiting patiently for him to put his arm down when I smell Principal Muchnick approaching. He turns the corner and strides over to see what's going on. He's been following me around all morning.

“Second period starts in approximately—” he looks down and checks his watch—“seventy-five seconds, Drinkwater. I wouldn't be late for any classes if I were in your . . . uhhh . . . flippers. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply.

“And Dieterly, if this character gives you any trouble I expect you to report it to me immediately.” Principal Muchnick looks at me sternly. “He's on provisional reentry, in case you didn't already know it.”

“Yes, sir,” Craig Dieterly replies. “He was being a little disrespectful to me on the stairs just now, but I think I have the situation under control.” Craig Dieterly couldn't tell the truth is his life depended on it.

“Watch your step, Drinkwater,” Principal Muchnick warns. “The ice upon which you are skating could not get any thinner if it tried. I'm going upstairs now to peruse your psychological evaluation. I trust you can keep your animal instincts in check in the meantime.”

“Yes, sir,” I say again, looking down at my tail.

The second Principal Muchnick is out of sight Craig Dieterly pulls the little clay vase I made for my parents' anniversary out of his knapsack. It was drying in the arts and crafts room the last time I saw it. “Look what I found, Monstro.”

“Give it back, Dieterly. I've been working on that thing forever.” But he just smirks and starts tossing it from one hand to the other. “C'mon. You'll break it. Put it down. Please.”

Craig Dieterly finally gets tired of throwing my vase around and carries it to the storage room next to the stairs. He walks in and places it on a shelf—right next to my backpack and the missing library book I took out last month.

I was wondering what happened to that book. I should have known.

Craig emerges with a big smile on his face. “Go and get it, it Snaggletooth. This is your lucky day.”

“You're up to something, Dieterly. I can tell. What else did you put in there? Sneezing powder?” Last year Craig Dieterly sprinkled that stuff all over my desk and every time I removed one of my books I nearly sneezed my head off.

“I didn't put sneezing powder in there, Drinkwater,” he says. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

I do not believe Craig Dieterly for a second. I poke my long neck into the storage room and look around for booby traps. When I don't see any I walk in gingerly, put my vase and my book neatly into my backpack, throw it over my shoulder, and turn to leave.

Something's wrong. This was way too easy.

“Is your middle name Shirley?” Craig Dieterly asks.

“Nope,” I say. “Wrong again.”

“You think you're so great because you get straight As and score above the ninety-ninth percentile on standardized testing. Well, think again, Beetlejuice. There's more to being smart than just intelligence!” He slams the door tightly shut before I have a chance to even think of escaping. I can hear the lock on the outside of the door click into place and Craig Dieterly chortling.

I'm trapped. I can't afford to be late for Mrs. Adams's English class again. I was late last week when Craig Dieterly buried my Charles Dickens paper under the compost heap out by the soccer field, and I had to go dig it up. Two “lates” in one month means automatic detention. It's a school rule. And I can't break any school rules because I'm on provisional reentry and Principal Muchnick is dying to suspend me. I could never even
dream
about getting into Harvard with a suspension on my record.

Okay. Think, Drinkwater. You were stupid enough to walk into another one of Craig Dieterly's traps, but you'd sure as heck better find a way to get out of it.

I push against the heavy metal door with all my might. It strains and groans under my weight but refuses to give way. I look around the storage room.

The window. Of course. If I can pry it open, I will squeeze through and creep up the side of the building to the fifth floor where I will slip unnoticed into the back of Mrs. Adams's classroom. We herps are famous for our ability to creep. Ask Mr. Arkady if you don't believe me.

I tug at the window as hard as I can with both claws, but it has been painted shut for so long it won't budge. I try again. And again. At last it starts inching up slowly. And then it flies open the rest of the way with a resounding crash. I stick my neck out and gaze down three floors to the concrete pavement below. Not a tree or a bush or a shrub in sight to break my fall if I slip.

Did I mention that I am terrified of heights?

A wave of nausea is already spreading from my belly up through my neck and into the back of my throat.
C'mon. Pull yourself together, Drinkwater. If King Kong can climb a hundred stories up the Empire State Building with Fay Wray wriggling in his arms, you can creep a couple of floors up Stevenson Middle School with a backpack over your shoulder.

The bell for second period rings. Okay. Here goes nothing. I'm probably too massive to make it through the window.

I huff and I puff as I try to force my enormous torso through the window. It's like threading a needle with a baseball bat. I get stuck halfway through. I hold on to the window frame with both claws and try to squeeze back in. Nothing moves. I can't go out. I can't go in. I am trapped. I remind myself not to look down. I've got to do something fast before I panic.

Did I mention that I am claustrophobic, too?

I clamp my jaws down on the flagpole that is embedded in the brick wall outside the window and drag myself slowly out the window, leaving a trail of greasy residue along the ledge. Now all I have to do is shinny fifteen feet up a sheer brick wall without crashing onto the pavement below and turning into a big mutant dinosaur pancake.

I dig one claw into the bricks and plant my other one firmly into the window frame above my head, nearly pulling it out of the wall as I drag myself upward. I manage to get a flipper-hold on the decorative ledge that runs along the fourth floor. If I can stay calm and make it to the fifth floor in one piece, there is a small chance I can get to Mrs. Adams's class before she reports me for being late.

It is then that I notice Dr. Craverly staring at me. He sits at his desk in front of the window that I am clinging to. His mouth is open wide in a frozen, silent mask of terror. Principal Muchnick, Mr. Arkady, and Miss Benson, my social studies teacher, all sit at his side going over my psychological evaluation. They look up and see me hanging onto the window ledge for dear life. I wonder if climbing on school property is against the rules?

I am so distracted that I lose my grip on the window ledge and start slipping back down the wall. I drag my nails along the bricks in an attempt to slow my descent. Finally, in desperation, I hurl my weight sideways and crash through the fourth-floor window, landing on a pile of splintered wood and broken glass at Principal Muchnick's feet. “Don't suspend me, Principal Muchnick,” I beg. “I can explain.”

Principal Muchnick growls, “You are to stand in the hallway and wait while we discuss your case. Do not move an inch. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” I wait outside the door to Dr. Craverly's office for what feels like hours. When I press my ear to the door I can hear Principal Muchnick telling everyone that I am out of control and that he wants to make an example out of me. Miss Benson agrees. Dr. Craverly talks about my antisocial tendencies and the sharpness of my fangs. Mr. Arkady finally takes the floor.

“Charlie Drinkvater is vun uff the smartest kids in Stevenson Middle School and vun uff the nicest, most decent, most responsible children I have effer known. He has been through a traumatic experience, and he deserves our help and compassion, nut our scorn and fear. Do nut suspend this boy. I am beggink you. Honor him.”

I cannot tell you how great it feels to have someone else beside your parents stand up for you when the chips are down.

And then everyone whispers furiously. This goes on for quite a while. At last Mr. Arkady glides from the room, wiping his brow with his crimson red silk handkerchief, and swirling his cape. I have to jump back from the door to avoid getting bashed in the snout.

“You have nut been suspended, Mr. Drinkvater,” he explains. “At least for the time beink. But you are on ‘final and last vornink.' I'm sorry. It's the best I could do. Stay out uff trouble, please. You are nut a cat. You do nut have nine lifes.”

“Thanks, Mr. Arkady.”

“Be careful nut to get a svelled head, Mr. Drinkvater. The vun you have is already big enough.” Mr. Arkady slinks back up to the science lab, quietly humming the theme to
The Addams Family
, and I make a mad dash for my third period class. I'm not planning to be late for anything ever again if it kills me.

Larry Wykoff and Rachel Klempner hurry by, hand in hand, gazing into each other's eyes. Larry manages to tear away from his beloved long enough to stuff a copy of today's
Sentinel
into the back pocket of my green satin pants. “Check it out,” he says. “A beautifully crafted and highly entertaining piece, if I do say so myself. But, then, you give great interview.”

“It's just the best newspaper article in the history of newspaper articles,” Rachel says. “You are a phenomenon, Charlie Drinkwater. They should name an entire constellation after you. See you later, Mr. Big Deal Celebrity!”

“Great profile, Charlie,” Norm Swerling says to me as he runs down the hall. “If you change your mind about going to that movie Saturday night, let me know.”

“Way to go, creature guy,” Dirk and Dack Schlissel call as they rush by, hurling lateral passes at each other.

Craig Dieterly spots me walking down the hall and looks like he is going to bust a gut. “Next time I lock you into a closet you better stay locked, Smelly Boy,” he whispers. “If you think I'm kidding, just try me.” He reaches for my backpack, but Mr. Arkady turns the corner just in time, and Craig Dieterly pretends he is wiping some lint off my jacket.

Just as I arrive at class, a number of my fifth-grade fans surround me, blocking the door, and waving their copies of
The Sentinel
in my face. They hold out pens and scream, “Me, me, me!”

“Better get in there now, Charlie,” Sam says as he pushes his way through the crowd. “Class is about to begin.”

“I've just got to sign a few more of these things,” I say. “Hey! Stop pushing or nobody gets an autograph. And I mean it!”

“Leave him be, Sam,” Lucille says as she hurries into the classroom. “Pretty soon we'll have to take a number and get in line like everybody else.” The final bell sends us all scattering to our seats.

If anyone ever asks to write an article about you for your school paper, say yes. Don't even hesitate. It will immediately add seven points to your popularity scorecard. Add three more if the most popular girl in the middle school and possibly the universe sits down next to you.

“Psst,” Amy Armstrong says, poking me in my left flank with a pencil. She has moved her desk so close to mine they're practically touching. Sam and Lucille sit in the row ahead of me. They don't look happy.

Amy Armstrong appears to be handing me a small piece of crumpled paper. I look at her blankly.