The Boy Who Ate Fear Street (4 page)

“I didn't say that,” he reminded me. “Lissa did. Maybe something weird
is
going on with you,” he went on. “Lucas wears braces. Let's see if you get a shock from them.”

I sat down at my desk. Lucas Johnson sits directly in front of me. Since school started three months ago, I'd seen a lot of the back of his neck, but I never felt like touching it. And I didn't feel like touching it now.

I glanced sideways at Kevin. He nodded his head, urging me on.

I'll just brush the back of Lucas's neck, I thought. Then when Lucas turns around, I'll apologize. Pretend it was an accident.

I leaned forward.

I reached out my fingers.

Even though I was pretty sure nothing would happen, my hand started shaking.

I moved it closer.

I glanced at Kevin. “Hurry up!” he mouthed. “Do it now!”

I moved my hand closer—it was an inch away from the back of Lucas's head.

Then I did it. I touched Lucas's neck.

Lucas jerked in his chair.

His entire body stiffened.

Then he began to quake—as if he had been struck by lightning.

He lurched to one side and fell over.

The whole class gasped as he crashed to the floor.

“L
ucas! Lucas!” I jumped out of my seat. I knelt over Lucas's trembling body. “Help!” I cried out. “Somebody, help him.” I gripped Lucas's shoulders, trying to stop his body from jerking.

It didn't work. The harder I held Lucas, the more his body twitched.

“You jerk!” Kevin cried.

“Don't call him a jerk!” I shouted. “Can't you see he's hurt?”

“You,”
he said, pointing—at me. Then he burst out laughing.

Lucas started laughing too.

My hands dropped from Lucas's shoulders.

“Very funny,” I said, taking my seat. “You guys are a riot.” I glanced around the classroom. All the kids around us giggled.

“Aw, come on,” Lucas said. “Kevin told me about the shocks. Lighten up. It was just a joke. Admit it—it was funny.”

I couldn't believe it. I really thought I electrocuted Lucas. I guess it was pretty funny. I even managed to laugh a little later when I thought about it again. And I started to feel a better.

And then it was time for lunch.

And everything turned worse.

Much worse.

*   *   *

As soon as the bell rang for lunch, all the kids shoved their books into their desks and ran for the cafeteria. Even though I didn't eat breakfast, I just wasn't all that hungry. I took my time putting my things away.

“Come on, Sam,” Kevin called from the classroom door. “Hurry up. We don't want to get stuck at the end of the food line. There won't be any chips left!”

Kevin loves potato chips. He eats three bags every day with his lunch.

“You go ahead,” I called back. “I'm not really hungry.”

“You're still mad at me,” Kevin declared. “Right? Because of the shock thing?”

“No,” I assured him. “I'm just not hungry. Go ahead without me.”

Kevin shrugged. I watched him walk toward the cafeteria.

“Sam?” Ms. Munson poked her head into the classroom. “Are you all right, Sam?”

Ms. Munson is the new art teacher at Shadyside. She used to teach art at the Shadyside ABC School. That's a school for toddlers.

Our first art assignment this year was to draw the American flag—using finger paints. I guess Ms. Munson's not used to teaching middle school yet.

“Aren't you going to eat lunch today?” Ms. Munson asked.

“I'm not really hungry,” I told her.

“You're not sick, are you?” she asked.

“No. I'm just not hungry,” I repeated.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

I didn't know if she meant was I sure I wasn't hungry or was I sure I wasn't sick, but I nodded yes anyway.

“Good!” she exclaimed. “I need your help. Follow me!”

I followed Ms. Munson into the hallway, where she had pasted up a huge banner on the wall. SHADYSIDE MIDDLE SCHOOL SALUTES AUTUMN! it read in big block letters.

“I've cut out all these pretty paper leaves.” Ms. Munson pointed to a stack of colorful leaves on the floor. “But I don't have time to paste them on the banner. Are you a good paster?”

“Uh, sure,” I answered.

“Won-der-ful,” Ms. Munson sang out. She handed me a brush and a big mayonnaise jar filled with paste. “Now, if you need me, I'll be in the art room, cutting out Pilgrim hats for Thanksgiving. You're going to look soooo cute in a Pilgrim hat.”

As Ms. Munson walked down the hall, I unscrewed the lid. I dipped the brush into the jar and slopped the back of a red leaf with the paste.

I stuck the leaf to the banner. I held it there for a few seconds. Then I stood back. Hey! It looked pretty good.

I slapped some paste on the back of a gold leaf. The smell of the paste filled my nostrils. To tell you the truth, it didn't smell too good. It smelled, you know, pastey.

But I had to taste it.

I lifted the brush to my lips.

Eat paste? What's wrong with you?

I quickly dropped the brush into the jar.

I took a deep breath—and inhaled the smell of the paste again.

I stared down at the jar.

Just one little taste, I thought. That's all I'll take.

I lifted the brush out of the jar.

Whoa. Wait a minute,
I ordered myself.
What are you doing?

I mean, if I were starving, maybe then I'd eat paste. Maybe. But I'd have to be really hungry to do that.

I slapped the gold leaf on the banner. Then I picked up the next leaf from the pile and brushed the paste on it.

I pasted lots more leaves. I studied the banner. A really nice job, I thought. Really nice.

I peered up and down the hall, searching for someone to admire my work.

No one in sight.

Hmmm. No one in sight.

I scooped out a glob of paste—and shoved it into my mouth.

I swallowed it.

It tasted disgusting.

But I did it again.

I scooped out another glob—a bigger glob this time—and down it went.

Scoop and swallow. Scoop and swallow.

I swallowed globs of paste. I crammed handful after handful into my mouth.

I licked my fingers clean.

I filled my mouth with more and more paste.

It stuck to my teeth and spilled out between my lips.

I couldn't stop shoving it in.

Until I heard the voice behind me shriek, “Sam! WHAT ARE YOU EATING?”

I
whirled around.

“Sam.” Kevin stared at me in disbelief. “What are you doing?”

My heart pounded in my chest.

I glanced down at my palm. A glob of paste sat in the middle of it.

I lifted my hand—and stuffed the paste in my mouth.

“Sam!” Kevin shrieked. “Stop!”

I broke out in a cold sweat.

I wanted to stop, but I couldn't. I shoved another handful of paste in my mouth.

Kevin's eyes filled with disgust. He yanked the jar from my hand. I tried to grab it back.

“Why are you eating paste?” Kevin demanded.

“I—I thought it was mayonnaise,” I blurted out.

Kevin rolled his eyes.

“Okay, I knew it was paste.” I shifted nervously from one foot to another. “So what? Lots of kids eat paste.”

“No one eats paste after kindergarten, Sam!” Kevin declared.

“Well, I was hungry,” I lied. “And it was too late to go to the cafeteria.”

Kevin stared at me, trying to decide whether to believe me or not. I could tell he didn't, but he handed the jar back to me. “Come on,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “We're going to be late for gym.”

I returned the jar of paste to the art room. Then we headed to the gym. As we changed into our gym clothes, I caught Kevin stealing glances at me and shaking his head. He didn't mention the paste again, but I knew he was thinking about it.

I sure was. As I tied my sneaker laces my hands began to tremble.

I ate a half a jar of paste? And I couldn't stop. What is wrong with me?

“Move it, boys. Bleachers today! Everyone out of the locker room. NOW!” Mr. Sirk's voice cut
through my thoughts. Mr. Sirk is the gym teacher. He works out with weights a lot—and he looks it. He walks around with his chest puffed out to show off. I don't mind though. I'd puff my chest out, too, if I looked like Mr. Sirk.

I jogged into the gym. I love running the bleachers. I'm the best in the class. I could run them all day.

“We ran the bleachers twice last week,” Chris Hassler complained.

“We'll do them twice this week too,” Mr. Sirk announced sternly.

“Can't we play football instead?” Zack Pepper asked.

“You boys aren't in shape yet,” Mr. Sirk replied. “You've got to get rid of that summer flab. Nothing like running the bleachers to do that. Shape you up in half the time of anything else.”

I liked the sound of that. This year I really wanted to shape up. I know if I had muscles like Mr. Sirk and a scar like Kevin's, I'd really look tough.

Zack and Chris grumbled, but they didn't argue. There was no point in arguing with Mr. Sirk. He never changed his mind.

“Ready, guys?” Mr. Sirk shouted.

“Ready!” we yelled back.

“Go!”

We all sprinted to the bleachers. One, two, three, four—I flew up the first four rows and took the lead easily.

Five, six, seven, eight—no problem. I was flying! I could hear the other kids behind me, huffing and puffing. I wasn't even breathing hard.

When I reached the top, I spun around and started down. The rest of the kids still struggled on their way up. I glided by them. As usual, I made it down before everyone else.

“Go for it, Kinny!” Mr. Sirk shouted. “Two more laps!”

Two more laps. No problem. Last week I ran six laps without breaking a sweat.

I started back up as everyone else made their way down. But when I reached the third row, I began breathing hard.

I took two more rows and my heart started to pound. I pushed myself higher and higher. Sweat poured into my eyes.

The other kids started their second laps. A few of them passed me on the way up. What was going on? Nobody
ever
passed me.

I struggled up two more rows, clutching my sides, gasping for air.

“Kinny, are you okay?” Mr. Sirk called.

“Just getting my second wind,” I answered. I wiped the sweat from my eyes. Then I leaped to the top row—and my legs buckled.

I managed to stay on my feet, but my knees wouldn't stop shaking.

What's wrong with me today? This has never happened before.

My heart began to race wildly.

I tried to calm down, but I couldn't. I pictured myself chomping on the sponge sandwich and eating the paste.
Eating the paste
—
out of control
.

“Kinny! What are you waiting for?” Mr. Sirk yelled.

My legs trembled as I spun around.

Concentrate!
I ordered myself.
Stop thinking and run!

I stared down at the long rows of bleachers.

I tried to clear my mind.

I lifted my leg to take the first jump—and the gym began to spin.

“Nooooo!” I cried out as my foot missed the bleacher.

I was falling. Falling.

No way to stop.

The next thing I knew, Mr. Sirk was leaning over me. “Kinny! Are you okay?”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded, struggling to my feet. “Wh-what happened?”

“It looked like you slipped up there,” Mr. Sirk replied. “Kevin stopped your fall on his way up.”

Kevin stared at me oddly—as if I were a stranger.

“You're usually good for half a dozen laps,” Mr. Sirk went on. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know,” I answered, confused. “I wish I knew. I really wish I knew.”