The Battle of the Red Hot Pepper Weenies (12 page)

I
'd made it!
I'd been accepted by the world's greatest school for clowns. I'd bet they've never taken a kid before. But I'm good—very good. I can juggle five balls while balancing on a teeterboard. I can even juggle three balls with my eyes closed. I can ride a unicycle, walk on my hands, and take a fall that looks hilarious.

It doesn't matter that I'm only twelve. They accepted me. My aunt and uncle, who I'd been living with, were happy to let me go. They pretended to care about me, but I knew the truth.

None of that mattered.

I was right where I needed to be. Poirotte Clown College—the best clown school in the world. The teachers were so serious about being clowns—yeah, I know it sounds funny saying it that way—anyhow, they're so serious that they always wore their makeup in class.

And each face was different. Most people don't know this, but that's one of the most important decisions a clown has to make. Every clown has his own face. I'd read that in
the old days a clown would paint a copy of his makeup on an egg and they'd keep all the eggs in the town hall. I guess it was a way to make sure nobody could steal your face. That was a long time ago, somewhere like France or !England.

I loved the college. And I was really good. Some of the students couldn't handle the harder stuff. One poor guy never did get the hang of walking in big shoes. But I nailed every skill on my first try. I was a natural-born clown.

When Emmett—he was my teacher for slapstick class—showed me how to throw a pie, I did it perfectly the first time. Same with the seltzer bottle.

In a week, I was even driving the clown car—and I'm not nearly old enough to drive a real car. It's amazing how many clowns we could pack in it. You've seen that at the circus, I'm sure. Well, it's no trick—just hard work, a lot of planning, and a bit of pain. But I don't even mind some pain. If I take a bad fall or a hard slap, that doesn't matter. I just shake it off and keep going. As long as I can be a clown, I'm happy.

“You've got it, kid,” Emmett said to me during my second month. “You were born for this.”

“I know,” I said. I loved his face. Instead of the usual red nose, he had a long orange one, sort of like Pinocchio. But he had a big smile and stars around his eyes. Emmett was a happy clown.

Smiles are a major decision. Some clowns are happy and some are sad. I want a smile, because I like action and laughter. Sad Sack—he's another of the teachers—has this really sad face, with tears and all. That's great if you're into that, but I like happy faces. Though even the happy faces sort of seem sad sometimes.

Finally, I got to start my makeup class. Instead of putting
the greasepaint on our own faces, they had us work on a dummy. I guess that gave us a better chance to look at it as we experimented.

It took two weeks of playing around, but I finally created the perfect face.

“Is that the one, kid?” Emmett asked.

“Yeah. That's me.” It was exactly what I wanted—huge red nose, big smile, blue lines making giant eyebrows. And freckles. Lots of orange freckles. I'd topped it all off with an enormous wig of frizzy green hair. It was great.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” I could just see the little kids in the audience cracking up when I clomped out with this makeup and a pair of giant shoes, carrying a pie or walking an invisible dog.

“Great,” Emmett said. “You did a fine job. Let's take a break.” We went to the cafeteria, where he treated me to a special lunch.

I fell asleep right after we ate. I usually don't take a nap, but I just couldn't keep my eyes open that afternoon.

When I woke up, Emmett was there, sitting right by the side of my bed. He held out a mirror.

“Wow,” I said. I guess Emmett had put on my makeup. “Perfect.” As soon as the words left my lips, a wave of pain washed over my face.

“Easy, kid,” Emmett said. “It'll hurt for a few days. But then you'll be fine.”

“Hurt?” I asked. Even that small word caused my lips to ache. I reached up to touch my big red nose.

Emmett grabbed my wrist. “Leave it alone. Let it heal.”

Heal?
I stared in the mirror at the clown face I'd created.
A face that would last forever. It wasn't makeup. It was my own flesh—carved and reformed to match my design. That's when I knew why even the funniest clown, with the biggest smile, sometimes seems to have a sad, sad face behind the makeup.

L
ook what I
found,” Colleen said as she slipped into her seat at school. She held out her hand, revealing the treasure that lay on her palm.

“Nice ring,” Madeleine said.

“It's not just a ring,” Colleen told her. “It's special. My grandma got it ages ago, when she was a kid. Watch this.” Colleen slipped the ring on her finger and waited while the large stone reacted.

“Wow,” Madeleine said. “It changed colors.”

“Yeah. Grandma said they call it a mood ring. It's so cool.”

“Can I try?” Madeleine asked.

“Sure.” Colleen handed the ring over, then watched as the color of the stone shifted from blue to green on Madeleine's finger.

“What's the color mean?” Madeleine asked.

Colleen shrugged. “Grandma couldn't remember.”

“Hey, what's up?” Lindsey asked, leaning over Madeleine's shoulder.

Colleen explained, and Lindsey tried the ring. Then
Cathy tried, along with all the rest of the girls in the class. Except for Deanne. She just sat in the back like she always did, not really taking part. Ever since she'd shown up, a month and a half ago, the girls had tried to get to know her, but she hadn't responded to their attempts. She seemed more like a spectator than a student.

“I know,” Colleen said, “let's find out Deanne's mood.” She went to Deanne's desk at the far right side of the last row and held out the ring.

Deanne just sat there, not looking up.

“Come on,” Colleen said. “Try it. It's fun.” She could feel the other girls gathering behind her.

Deanne still didn't move.

“Oh, come on. Be a sport.” Colleen reached out and lifted Deanne's hand, then slipped the ring on the girl's finger.

The stone lost all color.

Colleen pulled the ring free.

“What happened?” Madeleine asked from behind Colleen. “I didn't see.”

“Yeah,” Lindsey said, “I didn't see, either.”

“It turned red,” Colleen said. She wasn't exactly sure why she'd lied, but she had a feeling she'd stumbled across a sad and painful secret.

Deanne moved her lips slightly, as if silently whispering,
Thank you
.

“We'd better get to our seats before class starts.” Colleen walked away from Deanne, not looking back.

Deanne didn't come to school the next day. Or ever again. Colleen never forgot the clear lifeless look of the gem in the mood ring, or the cold lifeless feel of Deanne's fingers. And she never wore the ring again.

I
only did one
truly stupid thing in my entire life. That was enough. It killed me. One minute, I'm proving I'm brave enough to slip out of my harness and stand up while riding the tallest, fastest roller coaster in the state. The next minute, I'm floating over my body. Truly stupid. Terminally stupid.

It wasn't much fun watching the rest. My buddy Rick scrambled out of the coaster the normal way, at the end of the ride. He ran over and pushed through the crowd that had gathered a safe distance from the spray zone of my splattered remains. When he saw my body, he turned away and got sick. I can't blame him.

I felt kind of numb. I mean, there I was, being scraped into an ambulance—as if there was any point taking me to a hospital—but here I was drifting around like a jellyfish at high tide.

“Hey, what's your name?”

I turned and saw someone drifting toward me. He looked about my age. I could see through him. I held up my hand and stared at it. I could see through that, too.

“Your name?” he asked again.

“Brett,” I said. “Am I a ghost?”

“Yup. You're a ghost. Congratulations on figuring that out. Some people have a hard time with the concept. After the way you flew out of that ride, I figured you might not be the brightest guy around. I'm Curtis.”

“Hi,” I said. “Now what?”

“We hang out, or we drift around. Come on—I'll introduce you to some of the guys and girls who hang out here.” Curtis started to drift away.

“Hey,” I called after him. “How do I move?”

“Just kind of lean forward,” he said. “Like with one of those electric scooters.”

I tilted myself. It worked. I drifted with Curtis to the other side of the park. He introduced me to five kids—I mean, ghosts—who were in the amusement park at the time. They were pretty nice, though they all mentioned that my last act as a living person had been pretty much the stupidest thing they'd seen in a long time. I didn't argue with them. After that, I just drifted around the park for a while.

That night, Curtis came looking for me. There were three other ghosts with him. “Hey, Brett, I have to ask you something. That kid Rick—the one who was on the coaster with you—he's a friend of yours. Right?”

“Yeah. He's my best friend. I mean, he was….”

“Well, Rick's going to have a bad accident tonight. He's going to die unless you stop him from leaving his house.”

“How do you know that?”

“We can see this stuff,” Terry, another of the ghosts, told me. “You will, too, once you've been here for a while. Your buddy is going to walk out of his house and head down the
street. When he reaches the corner, a power line's going to break and the wire is going to fall right on him. Zap! Bye, bye, Rick.”

“What can I do?” I asked. “Can I stop him?”

“Sure,” Curtis said. “We can appear to people if we try really hard. It just takes a lot of energy.”

I didn't wait to hear any more. I drifted as fast as I could toward Rick's house. I hoped I wasn't too late. I didn't want him to get fried, even though it would be nice to have him around here all the time.

As I got closer, I realized I hadn't asked when Rick's accident was supposed to happen. I waited a long time. At least I didn't get hungry or thirsty. Just bored. Finally, the front door opened, and Rick came down his porch steps. He looked awful, like he'd been crying. I felt bad for him, but glad that he missed me.

I drifted in front of him and started shouting. “Go back! Rick, get back. Don't go out.”

He walked through me. I drifted ahead of him again and tried harder. “Stop, Rick!”

He hesitated for an instant, as if he'd caught a glimpse of me. Then he shook his head and started walking again. I'd done something right that time. I just hadn't done it hard enough.

“Stop!”
I shouted, focusing all my strength, wishing with all my concentration that he could see me. The effort took so much out of me that I could feel myself wilt. But it worked.

Rick froze for a moment. His eyes grew wide. Then he screamed and ran back into the house.

I'd saved him. My death, as stupid as it was, had actually served a purpose. For the first time since I died, I felt good.

Behind me, someone laughed.

Curtis was standing in the road, along with about twenty other ghosts—all laughing hysterically.

“Man, oh man, did you see his eyes?” Curtis said.

“I think Rick is putting on clean underwear,” Terry said.

“But I saved him. Right?” I asked. “He won't get hit by the power line.”

Curtis laughed so hard, he bent over. At the same time, he pointed a finger up above our heads. I looked up. For a moment, I had no idea what I was supposed to see. Then I realized there was something I didn't see. I guess I really can be stupid at times. And not just on roller coasters. There are power lines near my house. Lots of power lines. But Rick lives in a newer section of town. There aren't any power lines overhead in Rick's neighborhood. The lines all run underground.

I shook my head, amazed that Curtis had tricked me so easily. But I guess every group has some sort of tricks or pranks they play on newcomers. My first year at camp, I'd gone on a snipe hunt. I'd stood for an hour in a field, holding a cloth sack, waiting to catch a snipe. It turned out there was no such thing. Instead of heading into the woods to flush the snipe toward me, the other kids had just gone back to camp, looted my locker, and poured maple syrup on my sheets.

“Got you good, didn't we?” Curtis asked.

“Yeah. You got me.” There was no point being a bad sport.

“Come on. Let's go back to the park,” Curtis said. “Maybe someone will fall off the sky ride.”

“Sounds good.” As I drifted along next to him, I started thinking up a good trick to play on the next newcomer. It really helped pass the time.

B
illy didn't even
see the attackers until after the searing pain shot through his arm. As he slapped at his shoulder and spun around, he spotted three of them hovering a foot away. Hornets! No mistake. No other stinging creature had that same awful, drooping body, like some sort of half-dead insect that lived only to cause anguish.

He raced for his front door, stumbled over a rock, and fell hard. That's the last thing he remembered before he woke up in the hospital with a cast on his ankle and a bandage on his head.

“Am I okay?” he asked.

“You'll be fine,” his mom said, patting his shoulder. “The doctor said it was a clean break.”

“How'd it happen?” his dad asked. “When we found you, you were knocked out cold.”

Billy explained about the hornets.

“Must be a nest nearby,” his dad said. “I'll take care of it this evening. That's the best time to spray a nest, when it's cool outside.”

“As long as I can watch them die,” Billy said. He pictured the hornets dropping lifelessly to the ground as the spray washed over them.

They brought him home and set him on the couch. A little while later, his dad came inside and said, “I found the nest.”

That evening, balancing on crutches, Billy watched as his dad got ready to use the spray.

“Is that stuff good?” Billy asked.

“It's death in a can,” his dad said. “It can shoot twenty-five feet straight up. Watch this.” He pointed the can at the nest, which was under the roof, right above Billy's bedroom window.

Billy shuddered at the thought that all those hornets had been living so close to him, building their papery home against his own.

His dad pushed the button on top of the can. The liquid inside shot out in a powerful stream. As cool as the spray was, the result wasn't all that exciting. When the first blast hit the nest, a couple hornets escaped. They dropped to the ground, lifeless and wet. Billy wanted to crush them with his good foot, but he wasn't going to walk under the nest. As the poisonous spray coated the nest and expanded into a foam, nothing else escaped.

“All dead,” Billy's dad said as the last drops dribbled from the canister.

“Good.” Billy imagined the hornets, trapped in the dark, dying a sudden and unexpected death. He couldn't help smiling. Maybe later, they could knock the nest down and burn it. The dead insects would crackle like popcorn. The thought made Billy happy. He put his weight on his good
foot, leaned over, and grabbed a rock. He hurled it at the nest, knocking a small hole in the bottom. Nothing flew out.

“Nice shot, sport,” his dad said.

“Now get to bed,” his mom said. “You need to rest up so you can heal.”

The next day, Billy's ankle hurt too much for him to walk, so he stayed in bed. That evening, his creepy cousin Amy came to visit him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I'm going to mend you,” she said. She held up a paper bag. “I've been doing research in natural healing.”

Billy didn't say anything. He'd learned there was no point talking to Amy when she became obsessed with a new hobby. It was easier to let her do what she wanted. She was annoying, but harmless. Last year, she'd decided to save endangered species. Then, she'd gotten all crazy about an online multi-player game and made everyone call her Etherea the Enchantress. After that wore off, she started looking for flying saucers. Now, apparently, she was some sort of mystical healer.

She pulled a candle, a metal bowl, and a bunch of small jars from a bag and put everything on Billy's bedside table. “These are healing elements,” she said, pointing to the jars. “Essence of hyacinth picked under the new moon, myrtle from a sacred grove, rust from a piece of iron two centuries old.”

She kept talking, but Billy tuned her out. After she opened all the jars, she placed the bowl on a small stand above the candle.

Amy lit the candle. “Let the healing begin.”

“Does your mom know you're playing with matches?” Billy asked.

“I'm not playing,” Amy said. “This is serious. Women have practiced healing arts since the beginning of time.” She emptied the contents of each of the jars into the bowl.

Smoke trickled from the mixture. Just little wisps drifted out at first. Then, with a
whumpf,
the mixture ignited. Thick plumes rose from the bowl.

“Put it out!” Billy shouted.

“Relax,” Amy said. “It's almost finished. You need to stay still so the healing vapors can penetrate your cast.”

There was a bright orange flash from the bowl, followed by a final dense cloud of smoke. Billy couldn't breathe. He could hardly see. Coughing, he tumbled out of bed, winced as his bad foot touched the floor, then raised the cast off the ground, hopped to the wall, and opened his window.

Fresh air flowed in and the awful smoke seeped out. Billy gasped, steadying himself with one hand against the wall.

“It won't work if you do that,” Amy said.

“It won't work anyhow!” Billy shouted. “It's ridiculous. And you're crazy. Just get out. Go save some endangered dolphins or something.”

“Well, if that's how you feel about my help, I'm leaving.” Amy blew out the candle, gathered everything, and left the room.

“Idiot,” Billy muttered. As he turned back toward the bed, something buzzed past his face.

Hornet!
he realized. One of them must have been away when the nest was sprayed. He slammed the window closed, just in case there were more stragglers. Then he grabbed his math book from his desk and looked around for the hornet. There it was, on the wall right next to the door. “You're
dead.” He hopped across the room and slammed the book against the insect, flattening it.

He pulled the book away and looked with satisfaction at the crushed remains, still stuck to the book.

“I win.” Billy dropped the book to the floor, then went back to bed. His ankle hurt like crazy. As he stretched out, a motion caught his eye. He looked at the book on the floor.

Billy blinked. He was sure the smoke had messed up his eyes. He blinked again. But there was no mistake. The crushed hornet started to wriggle and twitch.

It lifted its head from the book. Its thorax expanded. As the stinger regained its shape, Billy leaped from the bed, grabbed the book, and slammed it against the wall. Again and again, he hit it. Finally, out of breath, barely able to see anything past the sweat stinging his eyes, he looked at the book. The hornet was beyond crushed. All that was left was a smeared streak of insect paste.

As the adrenaline faded from his bloodstream, Billy's leg crumpled. The pain, worse than anything before, knocked him off his feet. He fell, dropping the book. As he lay there, he saw the jellied smear of hornet quiver again. It started to pull together.

I'll throw the book outside,
he thought. That would be enough for now. whatever Amy's healing smoke had done, he'd toss the hornet outside and be safe. As much as his leg throbbed, he knew he could make it across the room. Billy looked at the window and frowned.

It was dark.

Too dark.

No streetlights shone through. No moonlight. The darkness flowed and pulsed like a living creature. Billy heard taps
against the glass. Light taps, at first. Then harder ones. Hundreds of taps.

The hornets, Billy realized. Healed. Back from the dead. Unkillable. Pressing against the glass. Ramming it like hailstones. Amy's healing smoke had seeped into the hive.

A crack shot across one of the windowpanes.

Billy pushed himself to his feet, trying to ignore the bursts of agony that exploded through his ankle. He turned toward his door.

Behind him, he heard the sharp crack of glass breaking. The hornets swarmed inside. Billy raced for the door, but he never reached it.