Dr. Maniac vs. Robby Schwartz Page 2

  I was half asleep. Not thinking clearly.

  I pulled on my sneakers and crept out of the tent in my pajamas. Maybe I was sleepwalking or something. I don’t know. But I left our tents behind and walked across the clearing to the trees.

  I followed the sounds into the woods. I had to know who was there. And why he was calling my name.

  “It has to be Dad,” I suddenly realized.

  There was no one else camping near us. Of course — Dad. Playing one of his dumb tricks?

  I stopped in the shadows in front of the trees.

  And froze when I saw a figure slither out. Moving quickly, he slid toward me.

  “Dad?” I called, my voice high and shrill.

  Then I saw the cape — the leopard-skin cape — flutter in the wind.

  Dr. Maniac stepped into the moonlight. And he was carrying a dead squirrel.

  “You’re real?” I said. My voice came out in a choked whisper. “It’s impossible!”

  “Eat this dead squirrel,” Dr. Maniac said. His eyes bugged out. He grinned from ear to ear. His voice was low, from deep in his chest. The gold M on his shirt glowed in the moonlight.

  “This is crazy!” I said. You don’t exist! I made you up!”

  “Eat the squirrel, Robby,” he repeated. He raised the decaying squirrel in both hands. “Stop stalling. I want to see how brave you are.”

  “Me? Brave?” I choked out. “Are you crazy?”

  “I’m not crazy — I’m a MANIAC!” he boomed. “Eat it! Eat the squirrel!”

  He shoved it into my face.

  Uccccch! The sour smell poured into my nostrils. The squirrel fur was bristly and hard and scratched my cheeks.

  My stomach lurched. I started to gag.

  “Go ahead,” Dr. Maniac said. “Show me how brave you are. Are you the brave one? Or is it your brother, Sam?”

  “Sam? You’re crazy! NO WAY!” I screamed.

  I staggered back. Away from the sick smell. Away from the hard, bristly body pressing against my skin.

  I rubbed my nose. I wiped my face with both hands. Trying to rub away the horrible feeling of the dead creature.

  Then I raised my eyes to Dr. Maniac. He held the squirrel in one hand and brushed his cape back with the other. He stared hard at me, studying me.

  “Okay,” he murmured. “Okay. Okay. Okay. I guess I’M the brave one!”

  He raised the dead squirrel to his face — and CHOMPED into its belly.

  Then he stood staring at me, chewing … chewing loudly. Chewing the dead meat.

  He took another big bite. And chewed some more. He made a loud gulp as he swallowed the rotten squirrel flesh.

  “Not bad,” he said. “If you ignore the taste and the smell.”

  He held it out to me. It was mostly bones now. Most of the meat had been chewed away. “Want to try some? I saved you the head — the best part!”

  I grabbed my stomach. “Ulllllp.” I started to barf. Somehow I forced it back down. “I’m … going to be sick,” I murmured.

  “No time for that, Robby Boy,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

  He tossed the squirrel into the trees.

  “Huh? What are you saying?” I gasped. My stomach heaved.

  “You failed the bravery test. But you’re coming with me,” he said. “You’re going to help me destroy my enemy, the Purple Rage.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Now I KNOW you’re crazy!” I exclaimed. “The Purple Rage is the angriest supervillain in history! He screams so hard, even his breath is deadly!”

  Dr. Maniac shrugged his powerful shoulders. “So? Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Well, what can I do to help you?” I asked.

  “You’ll see,” Dr. Maniac said.

  Then he grabbed my arm and spun me around. He squeezed his strong hands over my shoulders and started to drag me away.

  “No! Let GO! Let GO of me!” I wailed. “Let GO of me! Somebody — HELP!”

  Sam squinted at the screen as he read the newest comic strip on my laptop. “Cool episode,” he said. Then he laughed. “Robby, when Dr. Maniac grabs you, you look like a frightened geek.”

  Our friend Brooke nodded her head. “You got that right,” she said. “I could feel your fear, Robby. Your drawing gets better and better.”

  It was Sunday afternoon. The three of us were upstairs in my room. We were huddled around my desk so I could show off the newest Dr. Maniac strip.

  Yes. You probably figured out that the adventure in the woods wasn’t real. It was just another comic strip.

  Brooke brushed back her straight brown hair. She wears it very short with bangs across her forehead. Brooke is tiny and thin. She looks like a first-grader even though she’s eleven, Sam’s age.

  She has sparkly blue eyes and a little turned-up nose. Kids at school call her Elf, which she hates. She lives across the street. We have all been friends since I was four and they were three.

  “Where did you get the idea for the Purple Rage?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Dunno. I guess I was in an angry mood. So I made up a new villain. I love villains. That’s why I put so many of them in my comic strips.”

  I pulled out my big sketchbook and turned to my first drawings of the Purple Rage. I always do dozens of sketches of my characters in colored pencil before I scan in my finished art.

  “See?” I held up some early sketches. “At first, I made his cheeks bright red. You know. To show how angry he was. But then I thought maybe that wasn’t enough.”

  I flipped the page to show them the next drawings. These showed the Purple Rage in full costume, shaking a big purple-gloved fist in front of him.

  “See? He’s dressed all in purple,” I said. “Purple cape, purple tights. He’s always in a total rage, so his whole face is bright red. And then when he gets really mad, it turns purple.”

  “That’s awesome,” Sam said. He grabbed the sketchbook out of my hands. “Do you have sketches of me in here?”

  I grabbed it back. “Why would I do sketches of you?” I asked. “I already know what you look like.”

  “I hate the way you draw me,” Sam groaned. “I look like a turtle.”

  “Then grow a few inches,” I said, “and I’ll draw you like a tall turtle!”

  Brooke didn’t laugh. “Short people can be superheroes, too,” she said.

  I tucked the sketchbook back onto its shelf. “For sure,” I said. “I’ll put you in the strip, Brooke. Wonder Elf! I’ll draw you standing under a toadstool!”

  I thought that was funny, but Brooke didn’t laugh. Instead, she grabbed my hair with both hands and pulled as hard as she could.

  I let out a screech.

  “Wonder Elf Defeats the Mutant from the Hair Planet!” Brooke cried. She pumped her fists in the air.

  I tried to smooth my hair, but it didn’t go down. It bounced right back up.

  “How was your family camping trip?” Brooke asked. “You just got back — right?”

  “It was okay,” I said. “You know. Lots of nature and stuff.”

  “Bor-rrrring,” Sam groaned. He sat down at my laptop and started tapping away at the keyboard.

  “Hey — what are you doing?” I asked.

  “My computer crashed,” he said. “Brooke and I want to play Battle Chess.”

  “Fine,” I said. “No problem. Just use mine. Don’t ask or anything.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said, typing away. Brooke pulled up a chair beside him and sat down.

  The opening game screen appeared. Bold music and floating chess pieces, all carrying guns. Sam and Brooke have to be the only two kids in America who play this game!

  I hurried downstairs. I could see Mom and Dad through the front window. They were on their knees, planting seeds in the flower garden by the driveway. They sure love being outdoors.

  I walked into the kitchen and pulled a bag of nacho chips from the cabinet. I grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge and started to the den to see if any good movies
were on cable.

  I was about to drop onto the couch when I heard a noise upstairs.

  A loud crash.

  And then a high scream of horror.

  BROOKE’s scream!

  The Coke can fell from my hand and rolled across the den rug. I tossed the nacho chips onto the couch — and took off running.

  I bolted up the stairs and ran down the hall to my room.

  “Brooke — what’s wrong?” I cried. “What happened?”

  Someone had slid the bedroom window wide open. The curtains were blowing out.

  Brooke stood by the window with both hands pressed against her face. Her eyes were wide with fright.

  “What happened?” I repeated. “What was that crash?”

  “S-Sam …” she stammered. She pointed to the open window. “Robby — Sam is GONE!”

  A few minutes later, Mom and Dad were staring at Brooke, shaking their heads. Their hands were still dirty from the garden. Dad had a wide dirt smear across his sweaty forehead.

  “I am telling the truth!” Brooke screamed. “Would I make something like this up?”

  Dad waved both hands in front of him. “Shhh. Calm down. Everybody calm down.”

  “Did you call 911?” Mom asked. She folded her arms around her chest. I could see how scared she was. Her chin was trembling.

  “Yes. The police are on their way,” Dad said.

  I sat next to Brooke on my bed. I kept staring at the open window. Brooke’s story rolled through my mind again and again.

  Dad wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “Tell us again,” he said to Brooke. “Start at the beginning. Think hard, Brooke. Tell us what really happened.”

  “I already told you what really happened,” Brooke insisted. Her voice cracked. She was breathing hard.

  “But — how can we believe —?” Mom started.

  Brooke interrupted. “I swear!” she cried. She raised her right hand as if she were taking an oath.

  “Tell us again,” Dad said softly.

  Brooke took a deep breath. Then she started talking in a trembling voice.

  “Sam and I were playing Battle Chess on Robby’s laptop. We heard a noise at the window. We turned around — and Dr. Maniac flew into the room.”

  Still hugging herself, Mom squinted hard at Brooke. “Dr. Maniac? Robby’s comic character? You’re telling us a comic character flew in the window?”

  Brooke swallowed hard. “Yes. He landed right in front of us. He grabbed Sam and pulled him off his chair. I … I tried to save him. But … I wasn’t fast enough. Dr. Maniac dragged him across the room. And then he flew out the window with him!”

  Brooke started to sob. Her whole body shuddered.

  Dad stepped forward and patted her shoulder to calm her. His hand left a round dirt smear on her sleeve. “Okay. Okay,” he whispered.

  Mom started pacing back and forth. “Brooke, Robby made up Dr. Maniac,” she said. “He’s a comic strip character. You do realize he isn’t real?”

  Brooke let out a sob. She wiped her wet cheeks with her hands. “I know you don’t believe me,” she choked out. “But he was real. He was here. And … and he took Sam with him.”

  “But, Brooke — that’s impossible,” Mom said. She leaned over Brooke. “Don’t be afraid to tell us what really happened. Tell us the TRUTH!”

  “Whoa — wait!” I cried. My heart skipped a beat. I stared at something on the floor in front of the open window.

  I jumped off the bed, crossed the room, and picked it up. Two feathers. Two yellow feathers.

  “Mom! Dad!” I shouted. I held up the feathers. “Dr. Maniac has yellow feathers on his boots,” I said.

  They both stared at the feathers. Brooke jumped off the bed, strode over to me, and took the feathers from my hand. “I told you,” she whispered. “I told you….”

  Mom opened her mouth to say something.

  But a noise downstairs stopped her. Loud thuds on the front door.

  “Police!” a deep voice shouted. “Police! Please open the door! We found your son!”

  “Oh, thank goodness!” Mom cried.

  “They found him!” Dad exclaimed.

  The four of us went running to the bedroom door. We made a traffic jam of arms and legs as we all tried to squeeze out the door at the same time.

  Mom and Dad practically flew down the stairs. Brooke and I followed close behind.

  I was gasping for breath as Dad pulled open the front door.

  I stared at two black-uniformed police officers. They stood on the front stoop with a boy I’d never seen before!

  Mom let out a cry. Her eyes bulged as she stared at the boy. He was tall and athletic looking, with curly brown hair, green eyes, and freckles on his cheeks.

  “You’re not Sam!” she yelled.

  “I told them,” the boy said. “My name is Jerome.” He rolled his eyes. “How come no one ever believes kids?”

  “This isn’t your son?” one of the officers asked.

  Mom and Dad shook their heads.

  “Where do you live?” the officer asked.

  “On Brentwood,” Jerome said. “Near the old library. My bike had a flat tire, and I was trying to walk home. That’s when you stopped me.”

  “Take Jerome home,” the officer told his partner. “Sorry, son.” He turned to my parents. “I’m Officer Rawls. I’m real sorry about the mix-up. Let’s go inside and straighten this out.”

  So we all trooped into the living room. The four of us sat on the edge of the couch. Officer Rawls leaned against the mantelpiece and took notes on a little pad.

  Brooke began her story. But before she could get very far, the door opened and Taylor stepped into the room.

  “I’m back from Patsy’s!” she called. Then she saw the police officer — and stopped with a gasp. “What’s up?”

  “Sam is … missing,” Mom told her. “Come here. Sit down with me. Brooke is going to tell the officer what happened.”

  So Brooke told her story all over again. By the time she finished, Officer Rawls had his cap off. He was scratching his short brown hair and blinking his eyes a lot.

  Taylor walked over to Brooke. “Hel-lo,” she said. “Are you and Sam playing a practical joke on us?”

  As I said, our whole family likes to play jokes. Except for Mom, of course. So, naturally, that’s the first thing Taylor thought.

  “It’s not a joke,” Brooke whispered. Tears rolled down her cheeks again. “Really. Not a joke.”

  Taylor went pale. Her mouth dropped open. She stared hard at Brooke.

  Officer Rawls placed his cap back on his head. He glanced at the little notepad in his hand. Then he turned back to Brooke.

  “Brooke, please listen to me,” he said softly. “I want you to think long and hard about this. You can see how upset Sam’s family is. I want you to think about what happened up in Robby’s room. And then tell it one more time.”

  Brooke let out a long sigh. Then she began telling her story again.

  I couldn’t sit still. I felt sick. My stomach was bubbling and churning. I kept picturing that open window. And I kept seeing my little brother’s pudgy, smiling face.

  Would I ever see him again?

  I wandered into the den. I heard voices. The TV was on. A talk show my mom likes. It stars this big man with bright red hair that stands straight up on his head. Red Martinson.

  I hate Red Martinson. He laughs at his own jokes. He thinks he’s a real riot. Mom thinks he’s cute.

  I reached for the remote to turn off the TV.

  “So tell me,” Martinson was saying to a guest, “how do you feel about things now?”

  I let out a sharp cry when I saw the guest. The remote fell from my hand.

  “I — I can’t believe it!” I gasped.

  I was staring at the Purple Rage! Red Martinson’s guest was my comic character — the Purple Rage!

  “How do I feel about things?” the Rage boomed. “I’m ANGRY! Know what really PINCHES my PIANO? Everythi
ng! I’m angry about EVERYTHING!”

  His face turned as purple as his costume. His eyes were red and looked like they were about to pop out of his head.

  “I’m ANGRY!” he shouted, and thumped his big fist on Red Martinson’s desk.

  “Most of our viewers won’t believe you’re real,” Martinson said. “Do something super to prove you’re the real deal.”

  “That BURNS my BUBBLE BLOWER!” the Rage screamed. “That makes me even ANGRIER! How could I be on TV if I’m not REAL?”

  Then his face turned an even darker purple. Only a supervillain could turn that purple.

  I gaped at the screen in disbelief. The Rage? Real? How could that be?

  Mom and Dad have got to see this!

  Breathless, I spun away from the TV. I ran back into the living room. Brooke was still telling her story. Officer Rawls was writing in his little pad.

  I ran up to Mom and Dad. “Hurry!” I screamed. “In the other room! On TV!”

  I pulled them toward the den. “It’s my other comic character!” I cried. “You’ll see! It’s the Purple Rage! For real!”

  They followed me into the den. I pointed to the TV.

  “So what plans do you have for the future?” Red Martinson was asking.

  “I’m glad you asked that question,” the guest replied.

  “Huh?” My mouth dropped open. Where did the Purple Rage go?

  The guest was a white-haired man in a gray suit with a red necktie.

  “That’s Congressman McCloo,” Dad said. “Robby, why did you pull us in here to see Congressman McCloo?”

  My whole body was shaking. I stared at the screen. How could the Purple Rage disappear like that?

  Mom rested her hand on my shoulder. “Robby, we know how upset you are,” she said softly. “We know how much you care about your brother. But don’t make it worse by making up crazy stories.”

  “But — But — But —” I sputtered. My brain was spinning. I couldn’t speak.

  Officer Rawls said he had to leave. He told us all to stick around. He said he would send his Crime Scene people to study the yard and the whole house. He promised he’d come back.

  Mom and Dad went to Taylor’s room to comfort her.