The Boy Who Ate Fear Street (5 page)

K
evin and I walked home together after school. “What's with you today?” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling uncomfortable.

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” he replied. “You know what I mean.”

“Hey, guys! Wait up!” It was Lissa, running up behind us.

“Sam, you have to stop by our house before you go home,” she said, out of breath. “You have to see our new karate move. Right, Kevin?”

“Right,” Kevin agreed. “Aunt Sylvie said she made contact with the spirit of Bruce Lee last
night. She said he showed her one of his incredible moves. Then she taught it to us. She's great at it. Maybe she'll show it to you.”

“Can I, um, see it tomorrow? I promised my mom I'd come straight home from school and help her clean out the basement,” I lied. My legs still felt wobbly, I wanted to go straight home, and I really didn't feel like seeing Aunt Sylvie today.

“Okay,” Lissa said. “But don't forget. You really have to see this one!”

“Sure,” I said as I turned the corner to my house. “Tomorrow.”

When I walked through my front door, I actually started to feel like my old self again. My legs seemed more solid, and I had my appetite back—my normal appetite, for some real food.

“Mom!” I yelled. “I'm home.”

No answer.

“Mom! I'm home!” I yelled louder this time. “I'm hungry.”

Still no answer.

“I haven't eaten anything all day, Mom!” I shouted.

No reason to tell her about the paste. Right?

Right.

And I couldn't anyhow. She wasn't home.

I dropped my backpack on the counter and opened the refrigerator. Rye bread, grape jelly, leftover beans. I scanned the shelves and grabbed two hard-boiled eggs.

I sat down at the kitchen table and separated the whites from the yolks. On the chair next to me sat Mom's newest doll—the biggest one she's made so far. It was taller than I am, and it had long red hair and freckles. Almost finished, the only things missing were its eyes.

I bet I know where Mom went, I realized. To find eyes for the doll.

I popped a piece of the egg white into my mouth—and spit it out. It tasted bitter—and gritty. In fact, it scratched my tongue.

There must have been eggshell stuck to it, I realized as I tossed it into the trash. A rotten egg with the shell still stuck to it—yuck.

I bit into the second egg. Ewwww! This one tasted even worse than the first. Kind of slimy and sour.

What was going on?

Why did my milk taste sour? And my Cream of Wheat? And now the eggs?

My stomach let out a loud, complaining rumble.

I was starving.

I had to find something to eat that didn't taste terrible.

I checked the refrigerator again—nothing.

I searched the pantry. Canned soup. Crackers. Corn flakes. Chocolate sprinkles. Tuna fish.

I decided to wait for Mom to get home. I'd ask her to make me a big bowl of macaroni and cheese.

My stomach let out another loud rumble.

To take my mind off how hungry I was, I decided to concentrate on my homework. I rummaged through my backpack for my English assignment. I had to read the next three chapters of
Johnny Tremaine.
Ms. Hartman planned a quiz on it tomorrow.

I opened the book. The story takes place in Boston, during the American Revolution. I really like reading that stuff, and I dove right in. When I reached the most exciting part, the part where Johnny burns his hand, I heard the slurping sounds.

I glanced across the kitchen. Fred hung over his bowl, devouring his dog food.

“Hey, Fred! Can you hold it down?”

Fred lifted his head from his bowl and gazed up at me. Drool and dog food dribbled from his mouth onto the floor.

“Fred, that's disgusting,” I told him. Fred wagged his tail.

I returned to my book.

Slurp. Slurp.

“Fred, please!”

Fred glanced up again, then plunged his head back into his bowl.

Slurp. Slurp.

The sound of Fred's tongue lapping up his food made me feel queasy.

I leaped up from the chair and pushed his bowl away. “Go into the living room. Go to the window and wait for Mom.” I pointed toward the front door.

Fred didn't budge.

“Go!”

Fred inched over to his bowl.

I bent down and moved it farther away—and caught a whiff of his food.

It smelled good—great, actually.

My stomach began to growl. Fred's ears perked up when he heard it—then he edged away from me.

He watched me sink to my hands and knees.

He watched as I lowered my head to his bowl.

He moved in, trying to nudge me away from his food.

I pushed him back, and he began to snarl.

He nudged me again.

I pushed him away again.

I lowered my head, closer and closer to the food, breathing in the aroma. The incredibly delicious smell.

And then I dove headfirst into the bowl. My tongue darted out, ready to lap up the juicy beef chunks.

STOP!
a voice inside my head screamed.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

I leaped up from the floor and threw myself into the kitchen chair.

I don't believe this! I almost ate Fred's dog food,
I thought in horror. I pictured myself hanging over Fred's bowl, and I started to gag.
What is wrong with me? How could I even think about eating dog food?

Slurp. Slurp.

Fred had returned to his bowl.

The smell of the dog food floated up to my nostrils as he ate.

The delicious smell.

I gripped the table with both hands, forcing myself to stay seated. I held on so tightly, my knuckles turned white.

Fred's slurping grew louder.

I grew hungrier.

I wanted that dog food.

I had to have that dog food.

I wanted it now.

“No! No! NOOO!” I chanted over and over. “I will not eat dog food!”

I held on to the table until Fred finished eating. Then I let go, and my hands began to tremble. I sat on them for a few minutes to make them stop.

I inhaled deeply, then let my breath out slowly.

You are in control,
I told myself.
You did not eat the dog food. Now, go back to your book. Everything is okay.

I forced myself to focus on the words. Fred stretched out in a corner of the kitchen, scratching at his flea bites.

“Here, boy!” I called. “Sorry I pushed you!”

Fred trotted over and plunked down on the floor next to me. I petted him with one hand and turned the page of my book with the other. This was another one of my favorite parts—the part about Paul Revere and the Battle of Bunker Hill.

Totally focused now on the story, I continued to pet Fred and nibble away on my snack.

Wait a minute,
I thought.
What snack?
I searched the table for the eggs. Then I remembered I had thrown them away.

I peered down at the food in my hand.

Please let them be chocolate sprinkles,
I prayed as I raised my hand slowly.

I brought my hand right up to my eyes.

I stared at the sprinkles between my fingers.

I stared at them as they wiggled their tiny legs.

“Noooo,” I moaned. “Oooooh, no! Fleas!”

“I
'm eating fleas!” I shrieked.

My stomach heaved.

I clamped my hand over my mouth so I wouldn't throw up—and felt a flea crawl off my finger and across my cheek.

“Aghh!” I swiped it away.

But now something tickled my throat. No, not a tickle. More like a sting.

“Oh, no! There's a flea stuck in my throat!”

I tried to cough it out, but its sharp legs dug in deeper and deeper.

I charged upstairs to the bathroom.

I grabbed my toothbrush and frantically brushed
at my throat. I brushed and brushed until I couldn't feel the flea's pinching legs.

Then I rinsed and watched the flea float down the drain.

Ugh.

I brushed my teeth. I brushed my gums. I brushed my tongue. I brushed the roof of my mouth.

I didn't stop brushing until my entire mouth turned too sore to brush anymore.

I have to tell Kevin. Something is definitely wrong with me. Kevin will help me figure out what it is.

I'll have to tell him about the fleas, I realized. But I knew I didn't have a choice. I needed help—fast.

I dialed the Sullivans' number. Aunt Sylvie answered the phone. “Hello.”

“It's Sam Kinny,” I said. “Is Kevin there?”

“Hello? Hello?”

“It's Sam Kinny,” I repeated. “Is Kevin there?”

“Hello. Who is this? I can't understand you,” Aunt Sylvie said.

Must be a bad connection, I thought. “It's Sam Kinny,” I shouted into the phone. “Are Kevin or Lissa there?”

“I'm sorry. I still can't understand a word you're saying,” she replied. “Concentrate hard—I'll try to read your mind.”

I hung up the phone.

I redialed, hoping Kevin would pick up.

“Hello.” Aunt Sylvie again.

Maybe she's hard of hearing, I thought.

“It's Sam,” I screamed into the phone. “Is Kevin there?”

“Owww!” Aunt Sylvie cried. “Now you've hurt my ears. How rude!” She hung up on me.

Okay. This is it. I'll call once more, then I'm giving up. Aunt Sylvie picked up the phone before the first ring ended.

“It's Sam Kinny,” I said. “I didn't mean to hurt your ears, but I was wondering if I could speak to Kevin. It's kind of important.”

“Slower! Slower! Please!” Aunt Sylvie said.

Slower?

What did she mean—slower?

“It'sSamKinny,” I repeated. “Iwanttospeakwith . . .”

Yikes! Aunt Sylvie was right. I was talking fast. Really fast.

I inhaled deeply. I counted to five.

“It'sSamKinny.”

Oh, no!

I tried again.

“IhavetospeaktoKevin.”

Now
I
couldn't even understand what I was saying.

“I'm not in the mood for jokes, young man,” Aunt Sylvie scolded. “Don't call back again.” She slammed the phone down with a crash.

“Tsamny! Tsamny!” I repeated the sentence over and over, trying my hardest to slow down. But it didn't work.

I focused on my lips. My tongue. Trying to control them.

“It'sSamKinnyIwanttospeaktoKevinandLissa.”

I couldn't slow down no matter how hard I tried.

“It'sSamKinnyIwanttospeakKevandLisIt'sSamKinnyIwanttospeaktoKevandLis.”

Oh, no! Now I couldn't stop talking!

I broke out in a cold sweat.

“Wtmlgningtdo?” I chattered. “Wtmlgningto-do? Wtmlgningtdomlgningtodo?”

I grabbed my jaw with both hands and clamped it shut.

I went to my room and stared in the mirror over my dresser.

Very slowly I relaxed the grip on my jaw.

“What.”

Before my mouth could utter another word, I clamped my jaw shut with both hands again.

Okay. Stay calm,
I told myself.
That was good. You said only one word.

I relaxed my grip again.

“What.”

I said it again. Then clamped my jaw shut.

Then I relaxed it.

“Am.”

Clamp. Relax.

“I.”

Again.

“Going.”

Again.

“To.”

One more time.

“Do?”