The Battle of the Red Hot Pepper Weenies (2 page)

“W
hat's wrong, Sunshine?”
my dad asked me. My name is Lily, but he likes to call me names like Sunshine and Princess.

“Nobody asked me to the dance,” I told him. “Every other girl in my class has a date. Even Sabrina Zimanski, who spits when she talks and drools when she breathes. It's the first school dance ever, and nobody wants to take me.”

“Oh, stop worrying your pretty head,” Dad said. “I'm sure you'll get a date.”

“No, I won't. I'll never get a date.”

“Yes, you will. I promise. When is this dance?”

“A week from Saturday.”

“That soon? I'd better get back to the lab. I have a lot to do.” Dad dashed for the attic steps. He had a lab up there where he invented things.

I cried myself to sleep that night as thunder shook the walls of my bedroom and rain fell like my own tears.

The night before the dance, Dad insisted on taking me to the mall to buy a new dress.

“But I'm not going to the dance,” I said.

“I promise you, you'll go,” Dad said.

I let him buy me the dress. I figured I could wear it some other day.

“Try on your dress,” Dad told me on Saturday evening, half an hour before the dance.

“No. That would just make me sad,” I said.

“It would make me happy,” Dad said. “Please.”

I went to my room and changed. When I got back, there was a big guy in a black sweater standing next to Dad. As I got closer, I saw that he had one blue eye and one brown eye. His ears were different sizes, and one of them was sort of rotated a bit so the earlobe pointed toward his nose. At least I think it was a nose. It was in the right place, and had two holes, but beyond that, the resemblance was kind of weak.

“This is Stitchy,” Dad said. “He's taking you to the dance.”

Stitchy smiled and waved at me. I noticed his little finger and ring finger were switched.

I sniffed the air. Something rotten made my nose twitch. It reminded me of the pack of month-old hamburger meat I found in the back of the fridge last year. “He smells.”

“You're in seventh grade,” Dad said. “All the boys smell. Right?”

I had to admit that Dad had a point. By the end of the evening, the whole gym would smell like the inside of an empty clam chowder can that had been sitting in the sun. “Do you know how to dance?” I asked Stitchy.

He nodded, grunted, then twitched like he'd been hit by lightning.

“Okay—let's go.” Why not? He was still better-looking than most of the boys in my class, except for Brandon Kratchweiler. He's totally gorgeous. Not that he even knows I'm alive.

“Have a wonderful time,” Dad said.

“We'll try.”

We headed out. Stitchy actually held the door for me.
This might work,
I thought. Though I was pretty sure I wasn't going to dance with him.

The school was only three blocks from my house, but Stitchy didn't walk very quickly. I guess it would have been easier for him if his legs were the same length. The left one was longer, so he kept angling toward the road. I had to turn him back every time he reached the curb. By the time we got to the school, the gym was already crowded.

Nobody paid any attention to us. That was fine. I found an empty table and started to sit down, but Stitchy held up a hand to stop me. Then he pulled out a chair and pointed to the seat.

He waited until after I sat down to take his own seat. I watched the other kids. Everyone was dancing to a fast song. When the music stopped, Brandon Kratchweiler strolled over to my table, along with a couple of his friends.

Brandon pointed at Stitchy. “Where'd you dig him up?”

I didn't say anything. It was hard to talk, or even think of any words, when I was this close to Brandon.

Brandon smiled at me. “You make a nice couple….”

I tried to get my lungs to help me say, “Thank you.”

“A real nice couple,” Brandon said. “A couple of total losers.” His smile shifted to a smirk. Behind him, his friends laughed.

As a different pressure crushed my lungs, Brandon turned toward Stitchy and said, “Man, how can you even show your face? That's one weird-looking nose.”

Stitchy moved faster than I'd ever seen him move before. He shot up from his seat and grabbed the top of Brandon's head in one hand. It looked like when those professional basketball players palm a ball. Stitchy lifted Brandon straight up. As Brandon kicked and screamed, Stitchy grabbed Brandon's nose with his other hand.

“No, Stitchy, don't do it!” I shouted. No, wait—that's a lie. To be honest, I pretty much whispered it.

Stitchy yanked real hard.

whatever sound Brandon's nose made must have been pretty sickening. Luckily, Brandon's scream drowned it out.

Stitchy dropped Brandon, turned toward me, and held out his left hand. He pointed at the nose in his palm; then he pointed toward home and made a sewing motion.

“Sure, I suppose Dad could put it on for you,” I said. “But I kind of like you the way you are.”

Stitchy raised one eyebrow. I guess he raised it too hard, because it fell off.

I picked up the eyebrow and put it in my purse. “Really. You don't need to change. You're perfect without that snooty old nose.”

Stitchy raised the other eyebrow. It stayed on. I nodded.

Stitchy tossed Brandon's nose over his shoulder. It landed in the punch bowl. Brandon, who had stopped screaming but was still moaning and whimpering a lot, raced after it. I gave Stitchy a napkin so he could wipe his hand.

The DJ put on a slow record. “Come on, Stitchy,” I said, “let's dance.”

Stitchy and I walked out to the dance floor. He held me close. So I held him close, and danced. We moved in slow circles—clockwise, of course.

As we danced, I couldn't help thinking how lucky I was. Some of the other girls at the dance might have nice guys, or guys who they thought were perfect for them. But out of all the girls in the gym, I was the only one who could honestly say that my guy was made for me.

T
he first rumble
of thunder struck just as Woodrow was stealing the comic book. He froze, looked around, then slipped the comic from the middle of the pile. “That jerk will never miss it,” Woodrow muttered. It served Dwayne right for bringing the comics to show-and-tell and bragging about how many he had. Woodrow's mother didn't approve of comics, so he didn't have any of his own. But these were too awesome to resist.

Woodrow stuck the comic in his desk and joined the rest of his class outside for recess. When they got back, he watched Dwayne carefully. Sure enough, the fool never checked through the stack.

Perfect,
Woodrow thought. At the end of the day, he waited until everyone else had left, then slipped the comic under his shirt and headed out.

The rumbles grew closer. A raindrop hit Woodrow's nose. He looked up at the sky just as the clouds let loose. A heavy rain fell, and wind slapped at his face. He hunched over and
ran for the nearest shelter—a porch on an old house to his left.

The rain seemed to grow even harder. Woodrow shivered and watched the water rushing into the gutter across the street. He jumped as the door behind him opened. He spun and found himself facing a plump old lady with frizzy white hair and red cheeks. She looked like someone who baked lots of cookies.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked.

“No.” Nearly every day, in school and at home, Woodrow was warned about strangers. Besides, his favorite show was starting in ten minutes. “I have to go.”

“Well,” the woman said, “you aren't dressed for this kind of weather. You'll get soaked to the bone.”

Woodrow glanced at the lawn, where the grass was already turning into a land of miniature lakes. The woman was right. The rain would soak right through his shirt. He didn't care if he got wet, but the comic would be ruined. He'd dropped a magazine in his bathtub once. The pages had gotten all warped and rippled, and they'd stayed that way even after they dried out.

“But I really need to get home,” he said.

The woman looked over her shoulder, and then back at Woodrow. “You wait right here, young man.”

She scurried off. There was a clatter and a bit of banging; then she returned with a smile and an umbrella. “You can borrow my ratty old bumbershoot,” she said. “I'm not planning to go out in this downpour.”

“Bumbershoot?” Woodrow asked.

The woman laughed. “Silly me. I guess it's an old-fashioned
word. But I'm an old-fashioned lady.” She thrust out the umbrella. “Here. Take good care of it.”

“I will.” Woodrow pushed the umbrella open and held it over his head with one hand. The fabric smelled like old people. The handle was white, like ivory. The shaft was some sort of polished dark-brown material. He pressed his other hand against his chest, keeping the comic in place. The umbrella was large enough to cover him like a canopy. The tips of the ribs dropped past his shoulders.

Leaning against the wind, Woodrow stepped off the porch. The splat of water against the umbrella nearly drowned out the woman's next words. “You be sure to come back,” she said.

“I will. I promise.” Woodrow didn't want to keep her stupid umbrella. Which didn't mean he'd go to the trouble of bringing it back. He planned to chuck it in the trash once he got out of the rain.

The wind whipped up, jerking the umbrella in his hands. One of the end tips scratched his cheek. Woodrow swore and grabbed the handle with both hands, keeping his arm pressed against the comic so it wouldn't fall out from under his shirt.

The wind gusted again. The umbrella twisted and flapped like it was trying to fly back home. “You can borrow my bumbershoot,” Woodrow said, mocking the woman's voice. “Yeah, sure, I'll bring it back. Stupid old lady…”

Another gust nearly tore the umbrella from his hands. He pulled it closer, tilting it so he could see well enough to know where he was going.

For a moment, the umbrella was strangely still. Then it
flapped and jerked again. As the snap of the fabric filled his ears, Woodrow realized something was missing.

No rain.

The sound of the raindrops had stopped. The puddles around him were unrippled. The umbrella jerked and flapped.

Woodrow didn't hear leaves rustling. He didn't feel his pants legs flapping. No wind. The storm was over.

In the instant that it took Woodrow to wonder how an umbrella could flap when the air was dead calm, he lost his chance to fling it away. By the time he tried, it was too late. The umbrella clamped down on him with a wet snap. As the stiff fabric encased him, Woodrow struggled to free his arms. A dozen sharp jabs ringed his body as something bit into his flesh.

Woodrow let out a muffled scream. He kicked. He fell to the ground and rolled. It didn't matter. Nothing could make the bumbershoot let go of him. Not until it was finished.

When the wind picked up again, blowing back toward the house, the ratty old bumbershoot let go of what little remained, and tumbled back home, leaving behind nothing but a damp pile of clothes, a soaked pair of muddy shoes, and a wet, ruined comic book. As it bumped back against the porch steps, a small moist sound came from among the flaps. It might have been a burp.

C
lass, we are
going to write letters,” Ms. Twilliger said.

Everyone groaned. Nobody writes letters anymore, except kids whose parents make them write letters to thank their aunts and uncles for stupid sweaters that don't fit and look so ugly even a dog wouldn't want to wear them.

But my attitude changed when she added, “You'll each write a letter to your favorite author.”

Now that was sort of cool. I loved Digby Morgenstern. He wrote the best books. My favorite was
Snot Rocket,
about a kid who could go places by sneezing real hard.

I was afraid Ms. Twilliger wouldn't let me pick Digby Morgenstern, because she doesn't seem to think much about books that involve anything wet or drippy. But she said that was fine. Actually, what she said was, “If you absolutely can't think of anyone else.”

We also had to follow these stupid rules. In the first paragraph, we had to introduce ourselves. I guess that made sense. In the second, we had to tell the author three things we liked about his book. In the third, we had to list three
things we didn't like. I felt that this was a really stupid thing to ask us to do. Who wants to hear complaints?
Dear Author, your book stinks because nothing at all happens in the first chapter except that the main character gets dressed. And then, in chapter two, he looks in a mirror and describes himself.
Yeah, that would go over big.

But I wrote my letter. Here it is:

So that was my letter. Now let me tell you three things I don't like. First, Digby Morgenstern never wrote back to me. Second, Ms. Twilliger gave me a C-on the assignment. And third, a year and a half later, Digby Morgenstern came out with a book called
Fart Rocket.
It's about a kid named Tommy who gets in trouble for farting while reading a funny book during SSR.

I told everyone he'd stolen my idea. But I didn't have a copy of my letter, so nobody believed me. That didn't matter. I wasn't going to let him get away with it. So I wrote him another letter. This time, I didn't bother listing three things I liked about his books. I just came right to the point.

He didn't write back to me. I survived. Kids still mock me, but not constantly. Especially not since Walter Sphinxter took up yodeling as a hobby and Charlene Ebbermeyer decided it would be fashionable to dress like a pilgrim. But
then, a year and a half after I wrote the second letter, Digby Morgenstern came out with a book called
Liar Boy.
You can guess what it's about. Yup—a kid who writes to an author and gets his idea stolen, but nobody believes him. He didn't give me credit this time, either. But I'm keeping my mouth shut. And I'm sure not writing him another letter.