26 - My Hairiest Adventure Read online

  “I don’t think it’s working at all,” Lily said, letting out a disappointed sigh.

  I studied the label again. “It says we should have a dark, good-looking tan almost instantly,” I reported. I shook my head. “I knew this stuff was too old. I knew we shouldn’t have—”

  Manny’s shrill scream cut off my words. We all turned to him and saw his horrified expression.

  “My face!” Manny shrieked. “My face! It’s falling off!”

  He had his hands cupped. They trembled as he held them up. And I saw that he was holding a pale blob of his own skin!

  5

  “Ohhhh.” A weak moan escaped my lips.

  The others stared down at Manny’s hands in silent horror.

  “My skin!” he groaned. “My skin!”

  And then a grin burst out over his face, and he started to laugh.

  As he held up his hand, I saw that it wasn’t a piece of pale skin at all. It was a wet, wadded-up tissue.

  Laughing his head off, Manny let the tissue float down to the bathroom floor.

  “You jerk!” Lily cried angrily.

  We all began shouting and shoving Manny. We pushed him into the shower. Lily reached for the knobs to turn on the water.

  “No—stop!” Manny pleaded, laughing hard, struggling to break free. “Please! It was just a joke!”

  Lily changed her mind and backed away. We all took final glances into the mirror as we paraded out of the bathroom.

  No change. No tan. The stuff hadn’t worked at all.

  We grabbed our coats and hurried back outside to finish the snowman. I took the empty INSTA-TAN bottle with me and tossed it into the snow as Lily and Kristina rolled a snowball to make the head. Then they lifted it onto the snowman’s body.

  I found two dark stones for eyes. Manny grabbed Jared’s Raiders cap and placed it on the snowman’s head. It looked pretty good, but Jared quickly grabbed his cap back.

  “It looks a lot like you, Manny,” Jared said. “Except smarter.”

  We all laughed.

  A strong gust of wind whipped around the side of the house. The wind toppled the snowman’s head. It rolled off the body and crumbled to powder on the ground.

  “Now it really looks like you!” Jared told Manny.

  “Think fast!” Manny cried. He scooped up a big handful of snow and heaved it at Jared.

  Jared tried to duck. But the snow poured over him. He instantly bent down, scooped up an even bigger pile of snow, and dropped it over Manny’s head.

  This started a long, funny, snowball fight among the five of us. Actually, it turned out to be Lily and me against Manny, Jared, and Kristina.

  The two of us held our own for a while. Lily is the fastest snowball maker I ever saw. She can make one and throw it in the time it takes me to bend down and start rolling the snow between my gloves.

  The snowball fight quickly became a war. We weren’t even bothering to make snowballs. We were just heaving big handfuls of snow at each other. And then we started rolling in the snow. And then we chased each other to the next yard, where the snow was fresh—and started another heavy-duty snowball fight.

  What a great time! We were laughing and shouting, all breathing hard, all steaming hot despite the cold, swirling winds.

  And then suddenly I felt sick.

  I dropped to my knees, swallowing hard. The snow started to gleam brightly. Too brightly. The ground swayed and shook.

  I felt really sick.

  What’s happening to me? I wondered.

  6

  Dr. Murkin raised the long hypodermic needle. It gleamed in the light. A tiny droplet of green liquid spilled from the tip.

  “Take a deep breath and hold it, Larry,” the doctor instructed in his whispery voice. “This won’t hurt.”

  He said the same words every time I had to see him.

  I knew he was lying. The shot hurt. It hurt every time I got one, which was about every two weeks.

  He grabbed my arm gently with his free hand. He leaned close to me, so close I could smell the peppermint mouthwash on his breath.

  I took a deep breath and turned away. I could never bear to watch the long needle sink into my arm.

  “Ow!” I let out a low cry as the needle punctured the skin.

  Dr. Murkin tightened his grip on my arm. “That doesn’t hurt much, does it?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.

  “Not too much,” I groaned.

  I glanced up at my mother. She was biting her lower lip, her face twisted in worry. She looked as if she were getting the shot!

  Finally, I felt the needle slide out. Dr. Murkin dabbed a cold, alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the puncture spot. “You’ll be okay now,” he said, patting my bare back. “You can put your shirt back on.”

  He turned and smiled reassuringly at my mother.

  Dr. Murkin is a very distinguished-looking man. I guess he’s about fifty or so. He has straight white hair that he slicks down and brushes straight back. He has friendly blue eyes behind square-shaped, black eyeglasses, and a warm smile.

  Even though he lies when he says the shot won’t hurt, I think he’s a really good doctor, and I like him a lot. He always makes me feel better.

  “Same old sweat gland problem,” he told my mother, writing some notes in my file. “He got overheated. And we know that’s not good—don’t we, Larry?”

  I muttered a reply.

  I have a problem with my sweat glands. They don’t work very well. I mean, I can’t sweat. So when I get really overheated, I start to feel sick.

  That’s why I have to see Dr. Murkin every two weeks. He gives me shots that make me feel better.

  Our snowball battle was a lot of fun. But out in the snow and cold wind, I didn’t even realize I was getting overheated.

  That’s why I started to feel weird.

  “Do you feel better now?” my mom asked as we made our way out of the doctor’s office.

  I nodded. “Yeah. I’m okay,” I told her. I stopped at the door and turned to face her. “Do I look any different, Mom?”

  “Huh?” She narrowed her dark eyes at me. “Different? How?”

  “Do I look like maybe I have a suntan or something?” I asked hopefully.

  Her eyes studied my face. “I’m a little worried about you, Larry,” she said quietly. “I want you to take a short nap when we get home. Okay?”

  I guessed that meant I didn’t look too tanned.

  I knew that INSTA-TAN wouldn’t work. The bottle was too old. And it probably didn’t work even when it was new.

  “It’s hard to get a suntan in the winter,” Mom commented as we headed across the snowy parking lot to the car.

  Tell me about it, I thought, rolling my eyes.

  Lily called me right after dinner. “I felt a little sick, too,” she admitted. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine,” I replied. I held the cordless phone in one hand and flipped TV channels with the remote control in my other hand.

  It’s a bad habit of mine. Sometimes I flip channels for hours at a time and never really watch anything.

  “Howie and Marissa walked by after you left,” Lily said.

  “Did you massacre them?” I asked eagerly. “Did you bury them in snowballs?”

  Lily laughed. “No. We were all soaked and exhausted by the time Howie and Marissa showed up. We all just sort of stood there, shivering.”

  “Did Howie say anything about their band?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Lily replied. “He said he bought an Eric Clapton guitar book. He said he’s learning some new songs that will blow us away.”

  “Howie should stick to drums. He is the worst guitar player in the world,” I muttered. “When he plays, the guitar actually squeaks! I don’t know how he does it. How do you make a guitar squeak?”

  Lily laughed. “Marissa squeaks, too. But she calls it singing!”

  We both laughed.

  I cut my laughter short. “Do you think Howie and the Shouters
are any good?”

  “I don’t know,” Lily replied thoughtfully. “Howie brags so much, you can’t really believe him. He says they’re good enough to make a CD. He says his dad wants them to make a demo tape so he can send it to all the big CD companies.”

  “Yeah. Sure,” I muttered sarcastically. “We should sneak over to Howie’s house some afternoon when they’re all practicing,” I suggested. “We could listen at the window. Check them out.”

  “Marissa is actually a pretty good singer,” Lily said. “She has a nice voice.”

  “But she’s not as good as you,” I said.

  “Well, I think we’re getting better,” Lily commented. Then she added, “It’s a shame we don’t have a real drummer.”

  I agreed. “Jared’s drum machine doesn’t always play the same song we play!”

  Lily and I talked about the Battle of the Bands a while longer. Then I said good night, turned off the phone, and sat down at my desk to start my homework.

  I didn’t finish until nearly ten. Yawning, I went downstairs to tell Mom and Dad I was going to sleep. Back upstairs, I changed into pajamas and crossed the hall to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

  Under the bright bathroom light, I studied my face in the mirror over the sink. No tan. My face stared back at me, as pale as ever.

  I picked up my toothbrush and spread a small line of blue toothpaste on it.

  I started to raise the toothbrush to my mouth—and then stopped.

  “Hey—!” I cried out.

  The toothbrush dropped into the sink as I gazed at the back of my hand.

  At first I thought the hand was covered by a dark shadow.

  But as I raised it closer to my face, I saw to my horror that it was no shadow.

  I let out a loud gulping sound as I stared at the back of my hand.

  It was covered by a patch of thick, black hair.

  7

  Staring down in shock, I shook the hand hard. I think I expected the black hair to fall off.

  I grabbed at it with my other hand and tugged it.

  “Ow!”

  The hair really was growing from the back of my hand.

  “How can this be?” I cried to myself. Holding the hand in the light, I struggled to stop it from trembling so that I could examine it.

  The hair was nearly half an inch high. It was shiny and black. Very spikey. Very prickly. It felt kind of rough as I rubbed my other hand over it.

  “Hairy Larry.”

  That dumb name Lily called me suddenly popped back into my head.

  “Hairy Larry.”

  In the mirror I could see my face turning red. They’ll call me Hairy Larry for the rest of my life, I thought unhappily, if they ever see this black hair growing out of my hand!

  I can’t let anyone see this! I told myself, feeling my chest tighten in panic. I can’t! It would be so embarrassing!

  I examined my left hand. It was as smooth and clear as ever.

  “Thank goodness it’s only on one hand!” I cried.

  I tugged frantically at the patch of black hair again. I pulled at it until my hand ached. But the hair didn’t come out.

  My mouth suddenly felt dry. I gripped the edge of the sink with both hands, struggling to stop my entire body from trembling.

  “What am I going to do?” I murmured.

  Do I have to wear a glove for the rest of my life?

  I can’t let my friends see this. They’ll call me Hairy Larry forever. That’s how I’ll be known for the rest of my life!

  A panicky sob escaped my throat.

  Got to calm down, I warned myself. Got to think clearly.

  I was gripping the sink so tightly, my hands ached. I lifted them, then rolled up both pajama sleeves.

  Were my arms covered in black hair, too?

  No.

  I let out a long sigh of relief.

  The square patch of prickly hair on the back of my right hand seemed to be the only hair that had grown.

  What to do? What to do?

  I could hear my parents climbing the stairs, on their way to their bedroom. Quickly, I closed the bathroom door and locked it.

  “Larry—are you still up? I thought you went to bed,” I heard my mom call from out in the hall.

  “Just brushing my hair!” I called out.

  I brush my hair every night before I go to bed.

  I know it doesn’t make any sense. I know it gets messed up the instant I put my head down on the pillow.

  It’s just a weird habit.

  I raised my eyes to my hair. My dark blond hair, so soft and wavy.

  So unlike the disgusting patch of spikey black hair on my hand.

  I felt sick. My stomach hurtled up to my throat.

  I forced back my feeling of nausea and pulled open the door to the medicine chest. My eyes slid desperately over the bottles and tubes.

  Hair Remover. I searched for the words Hair Remover.

  There is such a thing—isn’t there?

  Not in our medicine cabinet. I read every jar, every bottle. No Hair Remover.

  I stared down at the black patch on my hand. Had the hair grown a little bit? Or was I imagining it?

  Another idea flashed into my mind.

  I pulled down my dad’s razor. On the bottom shelf of the medicine cabinet, I found a can of shaving cream.

  I’ll shave it all off, I decided. It will be easy.

  I’d watched my dad shave a million times. There was nothing to it. I started the hot water running in the sink. I splashed some onto the back of my hand. Then I rubbed the bar of soap over the bristly black hair until it got all lathery.

  My hands were wet and slippery, and the can of shaving cream nearly slid out of my grip. But I managed to push the top and spray a pile of white shaving cream onto the back of my hand.

  I smoothed it over the ugly black hair. Then I picked up the razor in my left hand, held it under the hot water, the way I’d seen Dad do it.

  And I started to shave. It was so hard to shave with my left hand.

  The razor blade slid over the thick patch. The bristly hair came right off.

  I watched it flow down the sink drain.

  Then I held my hand under the faucet and let the water rinse away the rest of the shaving cream lather.

  The water felt warm and soothing. I dried off my hand and then examined it carefully.

  Smooth. Smooth and clean.

  Not a trace of the disgusting black hair.

  Feeling a lot better, I put my dad’s razor and shaving cream back in the medicine chest. Then I crept across the hall to my bedroom.

  Rubbing the back of my hand, enjoying its cool smoothness, I clicked off the ceiling light and climbed into bed.

  My head sank heavily into the pillow. I yawned, suddenly feeling really sleepy.

  What had caused that ugly hair to grow? The question had been nagging at me ever since I discovered it.

  Was it the INSTA-TAN? Was it that old bottle of tanning lotion?

  I wondered if any of my friends had grown hair, too? I had to giggle as I pictured Manny covered in hair, like a big gorilla.

  But it wasn’t funny. It was scary.

  I rubbed my hand. Still smooth. The hair didn’t seem to be growing back.

  I yawned again, drifting to sleep.

  Oh, no. I’m itchy, I suddenly realized, half-awake, half-asleep. My whole body feels itchy.

  Is spikey black hair growing all over my body?

  8

  “Did you sleep?” Mom asked as I dragged myself into the kitchen for breakfast. “You look pale.”

  Dad lowered his newspaper to check me out. A white mug of coffee steamed in front of him. “He doesn’t look pale to me,” he muttered before returning to his newspaper.

  “I slept okay,” I said, sliding on to the stool at the breakfast counter. I studied my hand, keeping it under the counter just in case.

  No hair. It looked perfectly smooth.

  I had jumped out of bed the instant Mom c
alled from downstairs. I turned on the light and studied my entire body in front of my dresser mirror.

  No black hair.

  I was so happy, I felt like singing. I felt like hugging Mom and Dad and doing a dance on the breakfast table.

  But that would be embarrassing.

  So I happily ate my Frosted Flakes and drank my orange juice.

  Mom sat down beside Dad and started to crack open a hard-boiled egg. She had a hard-boiled egg every morning. But she threw away the yellow and only ate the white. She said she didn’t want the cholesterol.

  “Mom and Dad, I have to tell you something. I did a pretty stupid thing yesterday. I found an old bottle of a cream called INSTA-TAN in a trash Dumpster. And my friends and I all rubbed it on ourselves. You know. So we’d have tans. But the date had run out on the bottle. And… well… last night, I suddenly grew some really gross black hair on the back of my hand.”

  That’s what I wanted to say.

  I wanted to tell them about it. I even opened my mouth to start telling them. But I couldn’t do it.

  I’d be so embarrassed.

  They would just start yelling at me and telling me what a jerk I was. They’d probably drag me off to Dr. Murkin and tell him what I had done. And then he would tell me how stupid I had been.

  So I kept my mouth shut.

  “You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Mom said, sliding a sliver of egg white into her mouth.

  “Nothing much to talk about,” I muttered.

  I ran into Lily on the way to school. She had her coat collar pulled up and a red-and-blue wool ski cap pulled down over her short blond hair.

  “It isn’t that cold!” I said, jogging to catch up with her.

  “Mom said it’s going down to ten,” Lily replied. “She made me bundle up.”

  The morning sun floated low over the houses, a red ball in the pale sky. The wind felt sharp. We leaned into it as we walked. A hard crust had formed over the snow, and our boots crunched loudly.

  I took a deep breath. I decided to ask Lily the big question on my mind. “Lily,” I started hesitantly. “Did any… uh… well… did any strange hair grow on the back of your hands last night?”