Nine Doors (2 page)

I pointed at the house attached to ours. “There's an old lady living there, but I don't know her. I've never even met her. I think her name's Marjorie or something.” Just as I said it, we saw someone move behind the lacy curtain in the living-room window.

Richard's eyes perked up.

“Perfect. Our first victim. Nyah-ha-ha.” He laughed like the evil genius he was.

“No,” I said. “No way. She's sick. There's something the matter with her. She never comes out of the house. Mom would kill me if we did anything to her.”

I could see Richard searching his brain for some excuse that would make it okay to pick on a sick old lady, but he didn't come up with anything.

“Fine,” he said, making it very clear that he didn't think it was fine at all. “Who else is there then?”

“That's it,” I said. “The only other person I know is my mother—but don't even think about it. You aren't ringing our doorbell.
She's trying to get this big article finished for some magazine and, trust me, she would not find the interruption funny.”

Richard leaned his head to one side. “Oh yeah? She might...Never know until you try!”

Was he joking, or was he really going to do it? You never could tell with Richard. He has one of those baby faces that adults think are so adorable. They see the big blue eyes, the curly blond hair, the smart-kid glasses, and they just can't imagine him doing anything wrong. I wasn't that easily fooled.

It crossed my mind that I should let him go ahead and ring our doorbell after all. Sicking my mother on him would sure pay him back for all the times he'd bugged me. (The guy would be having nightmares about it for years.)

No. I couldn't be that cruel.

I was just going to say, “Let's forget about the stupid game,” when a door down the street opened. This chunky guy came out and shook a blanket over the railing.
He was wearing a pink flowered apron with a bow in the back. It even had those frilly things on the shoulders.

Richard's face scrunched up into this big grin. I swear he looked exactly like the Grinch. He rubbed his hands together. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Looky here... I think it's time we paid Mr. Mom a little visit, don't you?”

I have to admit I laughed. I mean, if you're going to ring somebody's doorbell, you want to ring the doorbell of a big beefy guy in a pink flowered apron.

Seriously.

His outfit would have made a great Halloween costume, but it was a little bizarre for a Tuesday afternoon in August. He was right out of some bad sitcom. All he needed was a blond wig and a pair of high-heeled shoes with pompoms on the toes.

We waited until the guy went back inside, and then we snuck closer to his house. It's weird. I'd have been really embarrassed if any of my friends caught me playing something called Nicky Nicky Nine Doors,
but right then, it didn't matter. I was actually starting to feel kind of excited. I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing.

I crouched down behind another car. I felt like a cop staking out a suspect in some action movie. Richard checked to make sure the coast was clear, then “casually” strolled across the street and up the guy's front stairs. He did another quick look around, then rang the doorbell. He must have held it down for five or six seconds before he booted it back to our hiding place.

We peeked up through the car window and held our breath. You'd think Richard had just planted a bomb or something— that's how wound up we were.

We waited and waited. Nothing happened.

All of a sudden, Richard banged his hand against the car window. “What's the matter with the guy? Is he deaf or something? We know he's in there! He can't hide.”

I was sort of startled. I don't think I'd ever seen Richard mad before. He always acted like nothing bothered him.

He slumped back down against the side of the car, all dejected.

“So try again, why don't you?” I said. I knew he really wanted to get the guy, but that wasn't the only reason I encouraged him. Somehow I wasn't just killing time anymore. It was my game now too. I wanted to see what happened as much as he did.

I elbowed Richard in the ribs. “Come on!” I said. “Try again. He was probably just touching up his mascara or couldn't hear you over the hair dryer or something.”

Richard liked that. He sort of chuckled. “Right. That was probably it.”

He pointed at me and winked. “This time, he'll hear me for sure.” He did a quick scan of the area. He dropped his voice way down low. “Cover me. I'm going in!”

He darted across the street, all hunched over like a commando under heavy fire. He slid up the stairs with his back against the wall, then rang the bell. He pressed his ear to the door and listened. After a while, he turned toward me and lifted his hands up in a shrug. No one was coming.
I motioned at him to ring the bell again.

This time he pushed it for a really long time. He waited. When there was no answer, he pushed it again.

And again.

And again.

He dropped the whole commando thing and started doing this little dance. My guess is he was tapping out some song on the doorbell. His moves were unbelievably lame. It was like something my dad would do in one of his many embarrassing attempts to look cool. It totally cracked me up. That's one thing you've got to like about Richard. He'll do anything for a laugh.

All of a sudden, his eyes flew open. He jumped down the stairs and booted it across the street, flapping his hands in front of him like a little kid who'd just seen a monster. I couldn't tell if he was trying to be funny or if he really was scared. Either way, it was hilarious. He dove down behind the car just as the door opened.

The guy said, “Hello? Hello...?” He stepped out of the house and looked
around. He was way older than I'd thought he was. I got the impression he used to be a cop once upon a time. He had the look down pat—the slicked-back hair, the bulging arms, the gray pants with the crease down the middle. (The apron, of course, watered down the whole macho thing he had going on.)

It only took the guy a couple of seconds to realize someone was playing a prank on him. Even through the car windows, we could see how mad he was. His face had gone pinker than his apron. He did this angry Ninja thing with his mouth. I was working so hard not to laugh I was afraid my brain was going to start spurting out my ears.

The guy called out, “Just wait until I get my hands on you kids! So help me, I'm going to...I'm going to...” Either he couldn't find the words or he figured they were too rude to scream out in the middle of the day. He tore his apron off and threw it on the porch. It would have looked like a real tough-guy thing to do if had been
a bulletproof vest or a flack jacket, but frankly, under the circumstances, it was just funny.

He must have seen us move or heard us snort or something, because suddenly he looked up. He started coming down the stairs straight for us. I have to admit it made me nervous. He was a lot scarier without the apron on.

I was sure we were toast.

But then the guy suddenly turned around and went, “No, no. It's all right, Norma. It's nothing. I'm coming.” He sounded all sweet as pie again.

He snatched the apron up off the porch. He went back into the house. Just before he closed the door, he leaned out and shook his fist in our general direction.

We thought it was the most comical thing we'd ever seen.

At least we did at the time.

Later, of course, it wasn't so funny.

I was only joking when I said, “Too bad we didn't get that on videotape.”

Lesson Number One: Never joke with Richard.

The next thing I knew we weren't playing Nicky Nicky Nine Doors anymore. We were making
Nicky Nicky Nine Doors: The Movie
.

“Seriously,” Richard said. “This could be our big break! Critics love this sort of thing. You know: ‘Fourteen-year-old boys
make ground-breaking documentary.' I'm not kidding. We could go to all the film festivals. Meet all the big stars. Make a ton of money...”

I was rolling my eyes, but I was sort of going for it too. I mean, how cool would that be? Making our own movie. Getting famous. Getting rich. I acted reluctant, but I was totally up for it.

I had to do an errand for my mother. By the time I got back an hour later, Richard had scrounged a video camera and had practically written the script too.

“Okay, this is what we should do,” he said. “We'll stick to this street. We'll ring nine doors and videotape what happens. Then afterwards, we'll go back and explain that we're making a movie. We'll interview the people. You know, ask them how they felt when nobody was there. Ask them if they played the same game when they were kids. Whatever...”

Hearing him describe our so-called “blockbuster” kind of killed my enthusiasm. “I don't know,” I said. “It sounds a little
boring.
We
might find it funny, but I'm not sure anybody else would.”

I tried to be as gentle as I could—I didn't want to hurt his feelings—but I mean, come on. Interviewing people? It sounded like one of those educational films you watch in social studies class.

Richard was already rooting around in his backpack for the video camera, so I wasn't expecting him to take my comments very well—but he surprised me. He tapped his finger on his front tooth and nodded. “You're right,” he said. “It is kind of lame. We need to add something else...get a little excitement in there...”

He paced back and forth for a while and then sat down on the lawn to think.

“Whoa! Watch it!” I said. I pointed to a crusty brown mound on the grass right next to where he was sitting.

He put on this appalled-old-lady voice and went, “Ewww! Doggie droppings! How positively vile!”

The natural thing to do was to move away. It was a hot day. Believe me, you don't
want to be around a pile of “droppings” on a hot day. I took a few steps back—but not Richard. He was down on his knees, staring at the stuff as if he'd just discovered a new life-form or something.

“I got to get this on film!” he said.

I managed to cough out, “
Why
?”

Although, frankly, I really didn't want to know the answer.

Richard rubbed his chin and smiled. “What can I say? Different things inspire different people. Isaac Newton had the apple. I've got...this!” He waved his hand at the pile as if he was introducing the lead singer in his band.

He turned on the camera and leaned in for the close-up.

I practically gagged.

“What are you
doing
?” I said.

“Just documenting the process, my friend,” he said. “This humble pile of bio-waste has inspired me to undertake...the Flaming Feces project!”

I went, “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Bio-waste? You know—doggy-doo, canine ca-ca...”

“I know what it is! I just don't understand how it could have inspired you—or anybody else, for that matter.”

He took the camera away from his face and sighed. I guess I was being dense.

“Please. It's the oldest trick in the book! You put the fecal matter in a brown paper bag. You place the brown paper bag on the porch. You light the bag on fire. You ring the doorbell. You run. When the homeowner opens the door, they see the fire. They put it out with the first thing they can find— which, generally speaking, is their foot.” He let this sink in for a second.

I got it. I laughed. He was right. It was a funny idea.

This wicked smile spread over that angelic face of his.

“If we're
really
lucky,” he said, “they'll remember the immortal words of the fire safety pledge...”

I knew exactly where he was going with this. We both said it together.

“Stop, drop and roll!”

We cracked up. The image of that guy in his apron rolling over a flaming doggie bag was just too much for me.

I was laughing so hard I didn't even notice Richard had moved on to other things. He'd pulled a paper bag out of his knapsack. He dumped the Choco-Nutz bar inside it onto the ground.

“You just
happen
to have a paper bag with you?” I said, wiping the tears from my eyes.

“Yeah. So?” He made it sound like the most natural thing in the world. “I'm a good Boy Scout—always prepared.”

He picked up a couple of twigs as if they were chopsticks and started trying to drop the poop into the bag. (It was harder than it sounds.) “Shall we give it a go?” he said.

“What? No!” I said. “You're not actually serious!”

He stuck his neck out at me. “Why not? You seemed to think it was funny.”

“Yeah, but...” I just looked at him with my mouth hanging open. I didn't know where
to start. Setting fire to a bag of doggie droppings was just so wrong on so many levels.

“Ye-es?” He said it like a challenge, as if only an idiot would disagree with him.

“Okay, for starters...,” I said but then had to stop. “Would you quit playing with it for a second so I can think straight?” Seriously. What was wrong with the guy? He was like a kid with a new tub of play dough.

He said, “Oooh, sorry,” under his breath and then stuck the twigs into the mound like two little antlers. “I didn't realize you were so sensitive.”

I let that go. I tried again. “Okay. For starters, it's full of germs. It's gross!”

“That's the whole point!” he went. “All the popular movies are gross. That's what makes them funny!”

He snorted at my stupidity. I snorted right back.

“Movies aren't gross. They just
look
gross. Newsflash, Richard: It's make-believe. They use props. You think Adam Sandler or Will Ferrell would actually roll around in...in...that?” I pointed.

Richard looked down and smiled at the pile as if it was too cute to actually do any harm. After a while he shrugged and went, “Okay, fine. No biggie. So we won't use it.”