Scream and Scream Again! Read online

  “I scream, you scream . . . I scream, you scream . . . I scream, you scream . . .”

  “Dwight!” the girl calls again. I think her name is Dot, and I’m pretty sure she’s Dwight’s sister. “Come on!” she snaps. “We’re gonna break curfew!”

  Dwight looks over his shoulder, obviously trying to decide if he has to heed that summons. Then he glances back at me, Will, and my brother. “I’m sorry,” he says, like he just did something wrong. “I’m really sorry!”

  Then he runs off on pale, wobbly legs. It’s just me, Will, and Ripper in the lot, and the truck sounds closer. Or maybe the night is just quieter without a bunch of kids around.

  “What’s up with that guy?” Will finally asks after Dwight and his sister disappear behind one of the mostly dark houses that line the street. He looks at me, frowning. “Is everybody in this town vegan or something? Is that why your parents moved here?”

  “I have no idea,” I admit, still watching the inky black spot that swallowed up Dwight. “I don’t know why nobody wants ice cream.”

  “Maybe we should go home too,” Ripper suggests, tugging on my T-shirt.

  He’s eight and worries about getting in trouble.

  Me and Will . . . not so much. In fact, Will kind of prides himself on being rebellious. He once boasted that he can start a car without a key—like a car thief—but I think he’s lying about that.

  “I scream, you scream . . .”

  The sound is coming from a few blocks over. Maybe getting a little closer. Maybe not.

  “How much money do you have?” Will asks, nodding at my pockets. “I’m really hot—and hungry.”

  “Guys . . .” Ripper sounds very uncertain.

  To be honest I’m kind of ready to head home too, even if that means we get stuck eating the frozen tofu my mom calls “nice cream,” because the stuff doesn’t hurt any animals. In truth it’s not so “nice.” And don’t cows need to be milked? How is that hurting them?

  The more I think about the tofu, the more I want real ice cream. And I don’t want to look like a chicken, either, although Dwight kind of freaked me out. I dig into my pockets again but then narrow my eyes at Will, who’s really cheap. “Don’t you have any money?”

  “I’ll pay you back,” he says, not exactly answering my question.

  I can tell by the way his teeth are gleaming again that he’s got cash hidden somewhere in his baggy cargo shorts, but I pull my hand out of my pocket and count out a whopping seven dollars, which I got for babysitting turtles back in my old neighborhood.

  “Come on,” I say, starting to forget about Dwight’s strange behavior. He’s probably just a strange kid, and besides, my mouth is watering. I hope the truck has more than just chocolate and vanilla. I also hope we can catch it. I grab Ripper’s shoulder and give him a shove because he’s not moving, and the song seems to be getting softer now. “Let’s go!”

  Will is always up for an adventure. “We’ll follow the song,” he says. “The truck can’t be that far away.”

  Ripper looks like he’s going to protest one more time. Then he shuts his mouth, and we all stand quietly for a second, trying to figure out the direction the song is coming from.

  “I scream, you scream . . .”

  “This way!” Will cries, pointing toward what I believe is west. I think he’s more excited about hunting down the truck than actually eating ice cream. “Follow me!”

  We all run down the street, our footsteps loud against the pavement even though we’re all wearing sneakers.

  Nightingale Corners shuts down after dark, and we don’t see anybody else as we head through the streets. We make a few turns, and the houses start to get farther apart. I can’t imagine that the ice cream man makes many sales in such a lonely place, but the song is still playing, getting louder.

  “I scream, you scream . . .”

  “I see it!” Will finally calls—just as the song stops. He’s gotten ahead of me and Ripper, who are both winded. As we catch up, I see Will standing on a small rise at the very edge of town. There are no more houses around, and lots of trees and shrubs, one of which half conceals a big wooden sign that says “Welcome to Nightingale Corners! Home of America’s Only—” Overgrown leaves and branches cover whatever makes the town unique.

  Will waves at us. “Come on! I think he’s quitting for the night, and we came so far!”

  Ripper looks up at me, clearly nervous. “We’re pretty far from home. . . .”

  I’m thinking the same thing. That we had a sort of fun time during the chase, but that we should turn around. Especially if the truck is parked for the night. But I don’t want to be a baby like Ripper, and Will still sounds excited. And impatient.

  “Hurry,” he urges, waving again. “What are you waiting for?”

  I look down at my brother and shrug. Then I lead us up the rise, past the wooden sign, to meet Will. And when I look down into a small clearing at the edge of the woods . . .

  What the . . . ?

  The ice cream truck sits right by the trees, the beat-up, blue vehicle silent and dark now. The song no longer plays. But as Ripper and I step closer, following Will, I can see a big poster affixed to the truck’s side, advertising everything that’s usually for sale, from popsicles shaped like rockets to ice cream sandwiches rolled in chocolate chips.

  The treats look good. What I don’t like is the truck’s name, spelled out in white letters across the side of the van.

  I SCREAM TRUCK!

  Those letters look cheerful enough, but I still have the willies. Plus, the truck is obviously shut down for the night.

  Ripper and I catch up to Will, and I grab his arm. “Hey, maybe we should . . .”

  But before he can even turn to look at me, the truck’s front door opens, nearly causing me to yelp. I’d thought the owner was gone for the night, but as we all watch, a little man in a white apron and a white paper hat climbs down off a seat that seems way too high for him. I can’t help wondering how he reached the pedals to drive.

  Ripper and I both start to back away, and Will finally seems uneasy too. He also takes a step backward. My hand is still on his arm, and I clutch him tighter. Not that I’m really scared.

  “Hey, kids,” the man greets us, wiping his hands on his apron, which is covered in dark stains. I guess he served a lot of chocolate that night. His voice is squeaky and raspy at the same time, and as he comes closer I can see that his face is deeply lined. His eyes glitter in the moonlight, and I can’t see his teeth when he smiles. It’s like they’ve all fallen out.

  “I’m closed for the night,” he tells us, taking a few more steps toward us. This time we all stand still, although Ripper grabs hold of me. Normally, I’d shake him off, but I don’t. “Sorry, but—”

  “It’s okay,” I say quickly. Beside me, Ripper nods vigorously in agreement. “We’re not really hungry.”

  “Yeah,” Will adds, with a nervous glance at me. There’s just something creepy about the ice cream . . . er, I Scream . . . man. “We’ll catch you next time.”

  The wizened little man hesitates, then shrugs. “Aw, what the heck.” He gestures to the truck. “Help yourselves. It’ll all be melted by morning, anyhow.”

  I don’t know much about running a business, but it seems to me that the old man should store the leftover stuff in a working freezer. Will and even Ripper must’ve thought the same thing because we all share confused looks.

  “Go ahead, kids,” the man urges, gesturing to the truck. “I’m going home.”

  We probably should’ve thanked him, but we just stand there, watching the old guy disappear into the woods.

  “Who lives in an empty forest?” I finally ask when I can’t see his white apron moving through the trees. I turn to Will and Ripper, frowning. “And why is he giving away ice cream?”

  Now that the strange man is gone, Will has regained his bravado. He smiles and shakes free of my hand, already heading toward the truck. “Who cares?” he asks over his shoulder. �
��It’s free ice cream!”

  He has a point, and I am also feeling more brave. I look down at Ripper. “What do you think?”

  “I would like a popsicle,” he admits, “now that we’re here. And it’s free.”

  I think about how I had to feed turtles for two weeks to get seven dollars, and about the tofu waiting at home, and I call to Will, “Wait up!”

  A few moments later we are climbing into the truck, which smells way better than it looks. Like sugar cones, chocolate, and vanilla. Will is the first to step into the back, which is surprisingly roomy, but dark, until he reaches up overhead and finds a light like the kind most regular cars have.

  “That’s better,” he says after clicking the switch and bathing the truck in a dim glow.

  “We shouldn’t leave that on too long,” I remind him, edging my way into the back of the truck too, with Ripper on my heels. “My dad says those little lights drain your battery. . . .”

  Then I stop talking because, as my eyes adjust to the light, I see that the walls of the truck are lined with photographs. Pictures of kids. Kids who look like they’ve eaten a lot of ice cream, if you get my meaning. Not to be rude, but it’s true. And none of them look too happy. Their eyes are all wide, like they’ve been surprised by the camera’s flash.

  “Holy cow!” Will says, drawing my attention away from the pictures. He’s opening a big silver bin and leaning over it. I quickly realize that he’s opened a freezer. When the cool air hits the hot, humid summer night, a fog forms. Will tries to wave it away, but it starts to fill the truck. He doesn’t seem to care. “Look at all this ice cream!”

  “Lemme see!” Ripper shoves past me. He’s warming to the adventure, now that sugar is involved. He leans over the freezer. “Wow!”

  I get pretty curious too, and push Ripper out of the way. The freezer is filled with popsicles and cartons of ice cream, the flavors stamped on the tops. I squint and start to read out loud. “‘Chocolate,’ ‘Rocky Road,’ ‘Neapolitan’ . . .”

  “Stop reading and start eating,” Will urges, beginning to pull the lids off the cartons.

  There is a lot of ice cream for us to sample. It’s like the truck didn’t sell anything that evening. Each tub is full to the top, the smooth surfaces, in pretty colors, just waiting to be ruined. Kind of like a fresh, snowy field that you want to mess up with footprints.

  “Here,” Ripper says. For once, he’s been resourceful and located a bunch of plastic spoons. He hands them out.

  Will accepts one. I do too. “Thanks.”

  Then we all take a moment to stare at one another, spoons held aloft.

  “Are you sure we should do this?” I finally ask.

  We seem doubtful. Then Will reminds us, “The old man says all this will go to waste. You’re not supposed to waste food, right?”

  That’s true. And we are all hot and hungry after chasing down the truck. A moment later we are digging in, cramming our faces full of ice cream. Ripper seems to have forgotten that he wanted a simple popsicle. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, a big tub of cookies and cream in his lap and a blissful expression on his face. His arm moves robotically, and he makes little mmm sounds now and then.

  Will and I just keep making the rounds, sampling every flavor, again and again. Except for banana. I hate banana. But I make up for that by taking extra bites of rocky road.

  A half hour later, the three of us are half sick. But so happy.

  And feeling a little guilty.

  “We should at least offer to pay something for all this,” I say—although I don’t reach for my seven dollars. I’m not sure how much the old man would charge for ice cream that was going to be ruined, anyhow. Then I look around the truck, which is kind of a mess. “We ate a lot. Maybe we should leave a dollar or two.”

  “Or . . .” Will looks mischievous. “We could come back tomorrow night. Thank the old guy and offer to pay. Maybe he won’t take any money.”

  Ripper stands up, groaning. I swear, his belly looks bigger than it did an hour ago. But he understands that Will is angling to get more ice cream tomorrow. “Yeah,” Ripper agrees. “We should come back!”

  And that’s how it starts.

  Five nights that begin with us playing with the other kids in the vacant lot.

  The song we hear in the distance.

  “I scream, you scream . . . I scream, you scream . . .”

  Dwight’s worried expression as he heads home with his sister, Dot.

  And the ice cream, which we never have to pay for because the old man always tells us, “Help yourselves. It’ll all be melted by morning, anyhow.”

  By the sixth evening—the night before Will is supposed to go home—we’re all fat and sluggish. I don’t even really want ice cream anymore. But I know that Ripper and I will never be brave enough to go to the truck without Will. This is our last chance to eat as much ice cream as we want. When we hear the song, we rest our hands against our swollen stomachs and groan—but we trudge off together. Toward the west, around the corners, past the partially obscured sign. “Welcome to Nightingale Corners! Home of America’s Only—”

  The old man welcomes us, and we don’t even offer to pay, like we did the last few nights. We just thank him and watch him walk into the forest in his stained apron. I don’t know how or why it gets stained. He never seems to sell any ice cream.

  As usual the tubs are all full, and we grab our plastic spoons and take our now-familiar places. Ripper sits down heavily to gorge on cookies and cream while Will and I dig into container after container after container.

  Soon my stomach feels huge. It is huge. Just like the bellies of the alarmed-looking kids whose pictures hang inside the truck.

  “Weird,” I whisper through a mouthful of chocolate marshmallow.

  Will has also put on a few pounds, and we bump against each other as he tries to reach the strawberry. “Sorry,” he mumbles—just as we hear a loud rustling sound, and murmuring, outside the truck.

  Will, Ripper, and I all stop eating, our spoons frozen in midair, halfway to our mouths.

  “You should see what’s outside,” Will suggests, addressing me.

  “Why me?” I complain as the rustling and murmuring grow louder. My heart’s pounding a little. “Why not you?”

  “You’re closer to the door.”

  He’s talking about the door in the back of the truck that the ice cream man would use to hand out treats and collect money. And I am the closest to it. It’s also pretty obvious that we need to see what’s going on. It sounds like the truck is surrounded by . . . something.

  “I’m scared,” Ripper admits in a whisper. He’s still sitting on the floor and holds the lid of his ice cream carton like a flimsy shield. “Maybe we should stay still, and see if it . . . they . . . go away.”

  Only whoever’s outside doesn’t leave. Something bumps into the truck. The whole thing rocks.

  I’m really scared, but I feel like we have to find out what’s happening.

  Will nods, silently letting me know that he agrees, and I reach for a latch I’d never really noticed before with fingers that shake like crazy. Then, taking a deep breath, I fling open the door, only to wince as a bright light assaults my eyes.

  “You guys really scared me,” I say, resting one hand against my chest.

  The truck is surrounded by a whole bunch of people, including kids I recognize from the vacant lot. We’ve played together all week, and I’ve started to learn their names. It’s hard for me to see because somebody took an obnoxious flash photo of me just as I opened the door, but I try to greet a few of my new friends. “Hey, Alec. Mike. Lucie . . .”

  Then I turn to give Will and Ripper a reassuring, if shaky, smile, in case they don’t realize we’re not really in danger. They are hanging back from the door. So much for Will being a big, tough guy.

  I face the crowd again and cock my head. “Why are you all here?” I’m struck by an idea, and I grow concerned. Especially since, as my eyes readju
st to the darkness, I realize that everyone seems to be holding shiny, silver utensils.

  “Did you all hear about the free ice cream?” I ask. “Because I don’t really know if it’s for everybody.”

  “It’s not for everybody,” somebody says.

  I recognize the voice, and I look down to see that Dwight has pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He seems more apologetic than ever before. And, for some reason, he’s holding not a spoon, for ice cream, but a fork. And a knife.

  I get a funny, tickly feeling in the pit of my stomach and look around to discover that no one seems prepared to eat ice cream. Everyone carries a fork. And a knife.

  Except for the old man in the stained apron. He has a camera slung around his neck. And a cleaver in his hand.

  “Maxine?” Ripper’s voice is high and nervous.

  “Max?” Will sounds anxious too.

  They’ve finally stepped up behind me and are peering over my shoulder.

  I meet the old man’s gaze for just a moment, and he shrugs—a halfhearted gesture of apology—before snapping Will’s and Ripper’s photos too.

  “You fattened ’em up nicely this year, ice cream man . . . or should I say, butcher!” someone calls out, laughing. A cruel, harsh sound. “And with three of ’em, we’ll remember this feast for years to come!”

  I can’t believe what I think is happening. And I can’t seem to form any words, either.

  I just look down at skinny, pale Dwight, our only hope for an ally. He’d tried to warn us that our gluttony would have consequences. But tonight, the moonlight glints off his glasses—and his utensils. And he sounds only partly apologetic—and mainly hungry—as he licks his lips and tells me, Ripper, and Will, “I’m sorry. But you do look tasty.”

  There is this strange moment of silence, and I feel like I’ve been stuck in the ice cream freezer for two days. I’m frozen solid and can’t move a muscle. Not even to look at Will or Ripper. I just keep staring at Dwight’s knife and fork.

  Then Ripper, who might not really understand what’s happening, whimpers, and that seems to launch Will into action. I’m still stuck in place, but he pushes past me, nearly knocking me out the door. I teeter, about to fall, while Will jumps into the driver’s seat. I hear him moving around, making a lot of noise, but I have no idea what he’s doing.