Trapped in Transylvania (11 page)

BOOK: Trapped in Transylvania
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My eyes sought out the clock on the wall. “At the end of second period! And the wall's not cracked anymore. We're home! We did it! This is excellent!”

We got to our feet, stretched, breathed, and then stared at each other.

“This is so weird,” said Frankie. “I feel as if we've been away forever.”

“And now we're back to reality?” I said.

“Yeah.” Then she shook her head. “Actually, no. Because the book seemed so real while we were in it.”

I thought about that. “Maybe that's the thing with books. If you really read them, they do become real.”

Just then, we heard the rapid patter of feet as they approached the workroom door.

“Mrs. Figglehopper!” I said. “Quick, back to work!”

We bounded up to the table and sat down.

The second we plunked down into our seats, Mrs. Figglehopper flung open the door and barged in.

“Well!” she boomed, as we taped up the last page and closed the back cover of
Dracula
, finished at last. “Having fun?”

It wasn't a question I had an answer to, so I gave her a look that probably made her think I was an idiot.

Frankie answered for me. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Splendid!” The librarian picked up the book and examined it. “You seem to have finished the entire book. All the pages are nicely taped. Good work.”

“It wasn't as boring as we thought,” I said.

“Oh, I know!” Mrs. Figglehopper said.

Now, I won't say her eyes exactly twinkled when she said that, but they were very bright.

When she left a moment later, Frankie nudged me. “Do you think she knows? I mean, about the zapper gates, and the crack in the wall, and getting into the book and all? I mean, they're her gates and her wall.”

I gave a shrug of the shoulders. “Not sure,” I said. “But just in case, we'd better not say anything, you know. We should probably just keep it a secret.”

Frankie agreed. “It's not like anyone would believe us.”

The next day in English class Frankie and I asked Mr. Wexler if we could give an oral report on
Dracula
.

“Dazzle me,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

We did dazzle him. For forty minutes we talked all about our detailed knowledge of the original classic vampire saga.

We discussed theme (the awesome victory of good stuff over bad-evil stuff), setting (Transylvania, Whitby, London, then Transylvania again), and character (good husband Harker, extremely bad-evil creep-head yucky doofus vampire Dracula, poor babe Lucy, language-twisting vamp expert Van Helsing, pretty almost-vampire Mina, regular guy Dr. Seward, noble Texan Quincey Morris, fancy Lord Godalming, and garlic-snitching Mrs. Westenra). Then, while the plot mostly took place in winter, we summarized it anyway.

“It all comes down to this,” I said, finally. “There are bad things in the world.”

“And bad people,” said Frankie, “who mostly have very long teeth, red eyes, and a big cape.”

“But if you have friends helping you out, you can take on any challenge.”

“Including a very fat chubby book!”

Frankie and I looked at each other. We shrugged.

“Mr. Wexler, can we sit down now?” I asked.

Our teacher gave us both the eye. It was clear he didn't understand how we could actually know so much about
Dracula
. But he couldn't prove anything.

“Oh … just take your seats!” he said.

But we didn't take them anywhere.

We just sat down.

F
ROM THE
D
ESK OF

I
RENE
M. F
IGGLEHOPPER
, L
IBRARIAN

Dear Reader:

Like Mr. Wexler, I, too, heard Frankie and Devin's class report about Bram Stoker's classic book,
Dracula
.

While their report shows that they must have read the book (their story is strangely close to Stoker's actual tale), I can't think how in the world they did it, can you? There simply wasn't time to read five hundred pages!

Oh, well. Never mind. Classics are classics for a reason. Once readers get “into” a good book, I find they just have to keep reading until they're done!

Still, a few words about the real author and his book might be helpful here.

Abraham “Bram” Stoker was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1847. Listening to his mother retell the old Irish legends, little Bram's ears were filled with tales of banshees, water goblins, and child-stealing demons. No doubt these old legends fueled Bram's lifelong fascination with fantasy and terror. How nice! After graduating from Dublin's Trinity College, Bram spent his days managing a theater and his nights writing stories and novels. None of his books was successful until, in 1890, he began work on his masterpiece.

The most famous of all vampire tales,
Dracula
is a novel told in letters, journal entries, diary excerpts, even a newspaper clipping, Bram did much research in the famous British Museum. There he learned about vampire legends, folk beliefs, and the terrain of Transylvania (now part of Romania). He must have done a good job, for he clearly scared the wits out of Frankie and Devin!

When Bram's book was published in 1897, it was instantly hailed as the finest vampire tale ever written. Over a century later,
Dracula
remains unequaled in its ability to scare the cookies out of you.

While the book is mainly about the terrible effects of evil on ordinary lives—Dracula left many victims scattered across Europe—Devin and Frankie also discovered that the book shows how friendship and love can knock the stuffing out of evil (or the dust out of a vampire!). For even though Quincey Morris dies, the novel ends with the birth of a son to Jonathan and Mina. In memory of their friend, they name the child Quincey.

By the time Bram Stoker died in 1912, he had written nineteen books. But none has been read with such fascination and fright as his classic, Dracula.

If you ask me, readers should wait until they are Devin and Frankie's age to read the original. You need a good vocabulary and a cheery disposition—not to mention a strong stomach. One more thing: never read a horror book at night! I found that out the hard way.

Note to self: those security gates have started buzzing again. Check it out before someone gets suspicious.

Check it out? Look at me, I've made a library joke!

Well, that's all for now. See you where the books are!

I. M. Figglehopper

Turn the page to continue reading from the Cracked Classics series

Chapter 1

“Devin Bundy!”

No answer.

“Frankie Lang!”

No answer.

Well, no answer except maybe a stifled giggle.

You see, our English teacher, Mr. Wexler, was huffing down the halls of Palmdale Middle School looking for me and my best-friend-forever-even-though-she's-a-girl, Frankie (Francine) Lang. And by the growly tone of Mr. Wexler's voice—a tone we had definitely heard before—he was roaring mad.

“When I find you two, I'll …”

But he wouldn't find us. Frankie and I were hiding out in the janitor's tiny supply closet among the smelliest cleaning fluids and stalest work shirts that ever burned your nostrils.

It stank in there, but that's what made it the best hiding place. Nobody ever wanted to open that door. It could cause instant brain death to anyone who ever sniffed the air in there.

But brain death didn't bother Frankie and me.

“Wherever you are,” Mr. Wexler said, “I hope you're studying for my test!”

“Studying?” I whispered to Frankie. “I don't think so. I studied for a test last year. I'm still getting over the shock to my system!”

“Tell me about it,” Frankie said, nodding in agreement. “It was a one-way ticket to Headache City.”

I had to laugh. I mean, everybody knows that Frankie and I aren't the best students in our class. In fact, we happen to know the best student in our class. He reads thick books all the time, and he wears pants so short you can see his socks.

“I'll find you-ou-ou!” Mr. Wexler said, finally. Then, rattling the lockers and pounding on the lavatory doors, he plodded away down the hall.

“Hurry, Dev,” said Frankie, whipping a large square book out of her backpack and handing it to me. “We've got twelve minutes before Mr. Wexler tests us on this book. So crack it open and start reading. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in summer school.”

I shivered. “Summer … school. Two words that definitely don't go together! Okay, I'm reading.”

I turned to the first page of the book.

On it was a picture of a smiling teddy bear wearing a cute sailor suit. He sat in a tiny boat in shallow water at the beach. “Are you sure this is the book Mr. Wexler is going to test us on?” I asked.

Frankie nodded.
“The Adventures of Timmy the Sailor
. He said it's a classic that he read five times as a kid. Now, read. We have to pass this test.”

“One classic coming up,” I said. I began to read.

Timmy the Sailor was in his boat
.

Timmy was happy in his boat
.

“Boats are fan, fan, fan!” said Timmy
.

A sudden pain shot into my head. “So many words! The story's too complicated. I can't read anymore!”

Frankie sighed. “But, Devin, what about the test?”

“If we're not there, we can't take it,” I said. “I suggest we just wait here until it's over. In the meantime, I've got a neat jumbo paper clip in my pocket. We could twist it into weird shapes. What do you have?”

It was cool how I won her over.

“Well, I've got some kite string. We can play miniature rodeo!”

“Frankie, you are the best!” I said. “Ya—hoo!”

But at the exact moment I shouted the “hoo” part of “yahoo,” I flung my arms up in joy. This action dislodged one of the janitor's smelly work shirts from its hook. This is the reason no one sets foot, let alone other parts of themselves, in this closet. When the shirt fell from its hook, it settled directly onto my nose.

“Ackkkk!”

I accidentally breathed in the maximum amount of horrifying stink of the janitor's crusty armpit that it's possible for a human kid to breathe in.

“Ackkkkk!” I screamed again.

To keep the odor from burning my face, I ripped the shirt off and flung it away.

Right onto Frankie's nose. She let out a howl like a puppy whose paw had just been stepped on.

“EEEEOOOOOWWWW!”

She flung herself back against the door—
blam!
It suddenly opened, and hallway light flooded over us.

And a face was staring at us.

“Gotcha!” boomed the voice of Mr. Wexler.

We were caught.

Again.

“So!” said our teacher, a slow grin working its way across his face. “Devin Bundy and Francine Lang. Hiding out, eh? I should send you to the office right now.”

A glimmer of hope stirred in my brain. We couldn't take the test in the office. “You definitely should.”

“But I won't,” he stated. “Our test starts in nine minutes, and you are going to take it.” Then he sighed. “Did you even bother to read the book?”

“We did read it!” I said. I held up the book proudly. “And I know what you're thinking.”

He glanced at the book. “Oh, really?”

“You're thinking, how do kids who are so overwhelmed with activities—nachos, pizza, CDs, music, homework, pony rides, church, temple, school, shopping, sleeping, and, of course, more than four hundred cable stations—find time in their busy day to read a book?”

He stared at the book. “That's not what I'm thinking.”

“Well, it's not easy,” I went on. “True, we are completely swamped by life.
Overbooked
, you might say.”

“I wouldn't.”

“But the reason we read this book, Mr. Wexler, is because Frankie and I … believe in books—”

“That's not the book I assigned,” Mr. Wexler said.

My heart did a little fluttering thing. I tapped the cover of the book and spoke words.
“The Adventures of Timmy the Sailor
. It's what you said in class.”

The man breathed out loudly through his nose. “Why would I assign a twelve-page picture book with a kindergarten reading level?”

Frankie shrugged. “To make it tough on us?”

“I did not ask you to read
The Adventures of Timmy the Sailor”
our teacher insisted. “I asked you to read
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer!
It's a three-hundred-page classic novel written by the great American author Mark Twain over a hundred and twenty-five years ago.”

I looked at Frankie. She looked at me.

“Tom Sawyer?” she said.

“Yes,” said the teacher.

“Not Timmy the Sailor?” I asked.

“No,” said the teacher.

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