Dumb Clucks (4 page)

Did Mrs. H. believe my story?

Hel-lo. If she had, would I be scrubbing the walls and mopping the floors like this?

Is this a job for a Hall of Famer? I don't think so.

Things were not going well. I was losing money fast. I had spent fifteen dollars for the smashed eggs.

Wasted. All wasted.

I had to beg Mrs. Heinie not to tell Headmaster Upchuck about the egg fight. I was supposed to keep things calm and quiet. So far, I was a failure at that, too.

I needed to start raising money right away. I needed the money for the Parents' Day refreshments.

And
for a private charity I call the Bernie Bridges Private Charity Fund.

I needed some new ideas. I needed to talk to someone brainy.

And who could be brainier than Billy the Brain?

Billy is so smart, he does crossword puzzles without even looking at the clues! He's so smart, he can tell whether it's day or night just by checking the position of the sun.

I knocked on his door and stepped inside. I saw Billy standing on his head in the middle of the room. “Whoa. Why are you doing that?” I asked.

“Doing what?” he asked.

“Standing on your head,” I said.

“It's an ancient thing,” Billy replied. “People used to do it before they figured out they were upside-down.”

“That's interesting,” I said. “But why are you doing it now?”

“I don't remember,” he said. “Help me to my feet, okay?”

I helped Billy to his feet. “Can I pick your brain?” I asked.

He stared at me. “You mean like picking your nose?”

“No. I didn't mean that. I need some ideas,” I said.

Billy slapped me a high five. “You came to the right guy,” he said. “I have an average of 235 ideas a day. Not counting weekends.”

“Awesome,” I said. I dropped down on the edge of his bed. “I need to raise a lot of money. Do you have any good ideas?”

He started to think. He shut his eyes and rubbed his chin. Then he
opened
his eyes and rubbed his chin. Then he tugged his hair and rolled his eyes while rubbing his chin.

“I've
got
it!” he cried. “Why don't you bring Stupid Chicken to Rotten School? Kids would pay a LOT to see Stupid Chicken in person. Bernie, you could probably get ten dollars a ticket!”

My mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

Billy slapped me on the back. “You could do it, Bernie. Make a few phone calls. Find Stupid
Chicken's agent. I'll bet you could make a deal to bring Stupid Chicken here.”

“I…I…I…” I was speechless. I stood there with my mouth open, going, “I…I…I…”

Finally I put a hand on Billy's shoulder. “Billy,” I said softly, “I have very bad news for you.”

Billy turned to me. “Bad news?”

I nodded. “Yes. Listen to me. Stupid Chicken isn't real. Stupid Chicken is a
cartoon
.”

Billy blinked several times. “Are you
sure
?” he asked.

I took his arm and led him to a chair. Then I quickly left the room. He was panting hard, and his face was as white as a sheep. I could see he was badly shaken. I knew he had to be alone.

I closed the door and stepped out into the hall.

Maybe Billy needs a new nickname,
I thought.

How about Billy the Stupid Idiot?

But I couldn't worry about Billy. I had to start raising the big bucks. And I didn't have much time.

Downstairs, I could hear the guys BLUCK BLUCKing away.

Back in my room, I picked up the phone and
made the call that would start me on my way to being RICH.

“Send me three dozen Stupid Chicken shirts,” I said. “And three dozen Stupid Chicken caps.”

Bernie B. knows a craze when he sees one. I
knew
I could cash in on this chicken craze. How could I lose?

A few nights later, I called a dorm meeting in my room. The guys came trooping in, punching each other, making each other flinch.

“Can I sit on a chair?” Nosebleed asked. “Sitting on the floor gives me a nosebleed.”

“Just sit close,” I said, “because you'll want to see what I've got.”

I had the Stupid Chicken shirts and caps piled up on my bed. The shirts were a beautiful egg-yolk yellow. They had Stupid Chicken's face on them, with his Buffalo Wings of Steel. And the words:
I'M
WITH STUPID CHICKEN
in bright red.

The caps were egg shell color. With the words:
YOU'VE GOT PLUCK
,
LITTLE CLUCK-CLUCK
on the front in yellow.

Could they be any more awesome?

“Line up, dudes,” I said. “Special tonight. Only five dollars for a shirt. And four dollars for a cap. The caps are made of
real
sturdy cardboard. None of that fake stuff. Sorry, but I can only sell
five
per customer!”

They didn't move. I gazed around the room at their blank faces.

“Do you all speak English?” I said. “Didn't you hear me? I've got your favorite here. Check these out. Shirts and caps. Get your money out and line up, guys. Don't push. There's enough for everyone.”

Nothing.

They stared at me.

Nosebleed wiped his nose. Beast was eating the foam rubber out of my bed pillow. Feenman and Crench were snapping fingers in each other's faces, making each other flinch.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “You drive a hard bargain.
Okay. I'll give you a deal. You can buy a shirt and a cap together for only twelve dollars. How about it?”

I knew they couldn't add five and four. In arithmetic class, most of them hadn't started addition yet. Billy the Brain was trying to figure it out on his fingers.

“Come on. Who's first to look terrific?” I asked, holding up a shirt.

No takers.

“What's going on, guys?” I asked.

Feenman finally spoke up. “Bernie, we have to
save
our money. To buy tickets to
Stupid Chicken On Ice
.”

My mouth dropped open. “Huh? Ice?”

Feenman nodded. “Yeah. It's coming to town next week. We've got to buy our tickets early.”

“But, guys,” I said, “I'm raising money for Parents' Day. What about your parents?”

“Let them buy their
own
tickets!” Feenman said.

Was I discouraged? Does a snake eat his dinner whole?

Trick question! Bernie B. is
never
discouraged.

There are lots of kids on this campus. I just had to find the ones who wanted to wear the snazziest Stupid Chicken shirts and caps on earth.

“Belzer, pick up the shirts and caps,” I said. “Follow me.”

He piled the shirts so high in front of him, he couldn't see. “Bernie, could you take some of these?” he asked.

“Bad for my back,” I said. “Don't worry about it.
You don't have to see. Just follow the sound of my voice.”

I sang the
Official Rotten School Song
all the way to the Student Center.

It's a totally awesome song. And I knew a lot of my friends listened to it day and night on their computers at www.rottenschool.com.

“Careful, Belzer,” I said. “I'll have to make you pay for any shirts you drop.”

“But, Bernie,” he whined, “you already took all my money in that all-night Ping-Pong game. Remember?”

“Oh. Right,” I muttered. “You were a terrible Ping-Pong player, Belzer.”

“It's hard to play Ping-Pong in the dark!” Belzer whined.

I led him into the TV room. It was crowded with kids who didn't want to do their homework. They stared like zombies at the big-screen TV.

I saw April-May June, the coolest, hottest girl at Rotten School. And Flora and Fauna, the Peevish twins. And I saw Wes Updood, and Sherman Oaks, and Joe Sweety, and a bunch of other guys. They're all from the dorm we hate—Nyce House.

“Okay, Belzer,” I said. “Put the shirts down.”

“Bernie, can you help me?” he asked. “They're stacked so high; I don't want to spill them.”

“Sorry. I can't. I have muscle cramps,” I said.

He stooped low. I could hear his knees crack. He set the shirts and caps on the floor beside the big TV.

“Good work, Belzer,” I said. I touched knuckles with him. “Now, step aside and watch a master salesman go to work.”

I stepped in front of the TV. “Attention, everyone!” I shouted. “Attention!”

I held up a beautiful Stupid Chicken T-shirt. “I've got the shirts you want!” I shouted. “Don't crowd me. There's plenty to go around!”

 

“BOOOOOOOOO!”

“HISSSSSSSSSSS!”

 

What a strange reaction.

“You're not booing
me
—are you?” I asked. “You're booing something on TV—right?”

I held up a Little Cluck-Cluck cap. “These are
awesome
!” I shouted. “One size fits all. Get your money out!”

They WERE booing and hissing me!

Is that any way to treat a Hall of Famer? Is that any way to treat the most popular dude on campus, even though I'm too modest to say it myself?

What was this about? Did I do something
wrong
?

 

“BOOOOOOOOO!”

“HISSSSSSSSSSS!”

 

I turned to Wes Updood, the coolest dude in school. “Whussup, Updood?” I asked. “Whussup with the booing and hissing?”

He shrugged. “It's like maple syrup, man,” he said. “Drink it from the INSIDE of the bottle, you know? It's sticky like Cincinnati. In your nose, dude. Really.”

Wes is so totally cool, no one can understand a word he says!

I took a breath and started over. “Who likes Stupid Chicken?” I asked. “Everybody, right? So who
would like to wear the
best
Stupid Chicken T-shirts on earth? They're made of real, genuine, imitation cotton!”

 

“BOOOOOOOOO!”

“HISSSSSSSSSSS!”

 

I could tell it wasn't going well.

And then Joe Sweety, the biggest, meanest kid in school, bounced up from his chair. He stampeded toward me, shaking his huge fist.

“Bernie, I'm gonna punch out your lights!” he snarled.

“Down, boy, down!” I said. “Sit! Sit!”

That always worked with Beast. But Sweety was a little more human.

“Remember the raw hamburger Chef Baloney gave us for lunch that made us all puke our guts out?” he growled. “Well, that's what your
face
is gonna look like!”

I grabbed his big fist as it swung toward me. “I think you have a hangnail,” I said. “Let me take a look at that.”

My heart was thudding in my chest. I felt weak. Dizzy.

Why did Sweety want to pound me into chopped meat? What did I do wrong?

He pulled his fist back. I could see that it had my name written on it. My whole life flashed before my eyes.

“Someone, please—” I begged. “Tell me! What did I do wrong?”

Joe Sweety lowered his fist. “We HATE Stupid Chicken!” he growled.

“He's totally stupid!” Flora Peevish said with a sneer. “Only babies watch Stupid Chicken.”

Sweety pulled the shirt from my hands and ripped it into tiny shreds. “That's what we think of Stupid Chicken,” he said.

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

Everyone cheered.

I glanced at the TV. “I don't get it,” I said. “You're not watching Stupid Chicken? What are you watching?”

Sweety rolled his eyes. “We're watching
Drastic Duck
, of course. What else?”

Excuse me? Drastic Duck?

“The Caped Quacker!” Fauna Peevish exclaimed. “He's Plucked—and he's Pumped—for ACTION!”

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

They cheered again, jumping up and down and quacking at the top of their lungs.

Sherman Oaks—that spoiled, rich kid—walked up to me. He flashed me his perfect, million-dollar smile and brushed back his wavy blond hair. His blue eyes sparkled.

“Check these out, Bernie,” he said.

He held up a handful of gray feathers. “My parents bought me these feathers. They're worth five thousand dollars.”

I squinted at the feathers. They looked like normal feathers to me. “Why are they so valuable?” I asked.

Sherman sneered at me. “It's obvious, isn't it? They came off the
actual duck
used as a model for Drastic Duck. They are the most valuable duck feathers in the world!”

 

“YAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

 

The kids in the TV room all cheered again. Then they began to do the Drastic Duck chant:

They did some more cheering and some more quacking.

When it finally got quiet, I turned back to Sherman. “Let me see those five-thousand-dollar feathers,” I said.

He raised them to my face.

The feathers brushed my nose. And—UH-OH!—I…

SNEEZED!

Whoa. The feathers flew up into the air. The ceiling fan blew them everywhere. I saw some of them sail out the window.

Sherman dove to the floor in a feeble attempt to rescue his precious feathers. He caught two or three of them. He waved his fist at me.

“You did that on purpose!” he shouted. “You did that because you're a Stupid Chicken fan!”

“No. Not true!” I cried. “I couldn't help it! I—I—”

I sneezed again. Sherman's last three feathers went flying out the window.

Kids gasped in horror.

Joe Sweety jumped to his feet. “This means WAR!” he boomed.