31 - Night of the Living Dummy II Page 3

  Report cards were being handed out tomorrow. Sara was sure she was getting all A’s.

  I was sure, too. Sure I wasn’t getting all A’s!

  I’d be lucky to get a C in math. I really messed up the last two tests. And I probably wasn’t going to do real well in science, either. My weather balloon project fell apart, so I hadn’t handed it in yet.

  I finished my spaghetti and mopped up some of the leftover sauce on my plate with a chunk of bread.

  When I glanced up, Jed had stuck two carrot sticks in his nose. “Amy, check this out. I’m a walrus!” he cried, grinning. He let out a few urk urks and clapped his hands together like a walrus.

  “Jed—stop that!” Mom cried sharply. She made a disgusted face. “Get those out of your nose.”

  “Make him eat them, Mom!” I cried.

  Jed stuck his tongue out at me. It was orange from the spaghetti sauce.

  “Look at you. You’re a mess!” Mom shouted at Jed. “Go get cleaned up. Now! Hurry! Wash all that sauce off your face.”

  Jed groaned. But he climbed to his feet and headed to the bathroom.

  “Did he eat anything? Or did he just rub it all over himself?” Dad asked, rolling his eyes. Dad had some sauce on his chin, too, but I didn’t say anything.

  “You interrupted me,” Sara said impatiently. “I was telling you about the State Art Contest. Remember? I sent my flower painting in for that?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mom replied. “Have you heard from the judges?”

  I didn’t listen to Sara’s reply. My mind wandered. I started thinking again about how bad my report card was going to be. I had to force myself to stop thinking about it.

  “Uh… I’ll clear the dishes,” I announced.

  I started to stand up.

  But I stopped with a startled cry when I saw the short figure creep into the living room.

  A dummy!

  My dummy.

  He was crawling across the room!

  7

  I let out another cry. I pointed to the living room with a trembling finger. “M-mom! Dad!” I stammered.

  Sara was still talking about the art competition. But she turned to see what everyone was gaping at.

  The dummy’s head popped out from behind the armchair.

  “It’s Dennis!” I cried.

  I heard muffled laughter. Jed’s muffled laughter.

  The dummy reached up both hands and pulled off his own head. And Jed’s head popped up through the green turtleneck. He still had spaghetti sauce smeared on his cheeks. He was laughing hard.

  Everyone else started to laugh, too. Everyone but me.

  Jed had really frightened me.

  He had pulled the neck of his sweater way up over his head. Then he had tucked Dennis’ wooden head inside the turtleneck.

  Jed was so short and thin. It really looked as if Dennis were creeping into the room.

  “Stop laughing!” I shouted at my family. “It isn’t funny!”

  “I think it’s very funny!” Mom cried. “What a crazy thing to think of!”

  “Very clever,” Dad added.

  “It’s not clever,” I insisted. I glared furiously at my brother. “I always knew you were a dummy!” I screamed at him.

  “Amy, you really were scared,” Sara accused. “You nearly dropped your teeth!”

  “Not true!” I sputtered. “I knew it was Dennis—I mean—Jed!”

  Now everyone started laughing at me! I could feel my face getting hot, and I knew I was blushing.

  That made them all laugh even harder.

  Nice family, huh?

  I climbed to my feet, walked around the table, and took Dennis’ head away from Jed. “Don’t go in my room,” I told him through clenched teeth. “And don’t mess with my stuff.” I stomped away to put the dummy head back in my room.

  “It was just a joke, Amy,” I heard Sara call after me.

  “Yeah. It was just a joke,” Jed repeated nastily.

  “Ha-ha!” I shouted back at them. “What a riot!”

  My anger had faded away by the time we started Family Sharing Night. We settled in the living room, taking our usual places.

  Mom volunteered to go first. She told a funny story about something that had happened at work.

  Mom works in a fancy women’s clothing store downtown. She told us about a really big woman who came into the store and insisted on trying on only tiny sizes.

  The woman ripped every piece of clothing she tried on—and then bought them all! “They’re not for me,” the woman explained. “They’re for my sister!”

  We all laughed. But I was surprised Mom told that story. Because Mom is pretty chubby. And she’s very sensitive about it.

  About as sensitive as Dad is about being bald.

  Dad was the next to share. He brought out his guitar, and we all groaned. Dad thinks he’s a great singer. But he’s nearly as tone deaf as I am.

  He loves singing all these old folk songs from the sixties. There’s supposed to be some kind of message in them. But Sara, Jed, and I have no idea what he’s singing about.

  Dad strummed away and sang something about not working on Maggie’s farm anymore. At least, I think that’s what he was saying.

  We all clapped and cheered. But Dad knew we didn’t really mean it.

  It was Jed’s turn next. But he insisted that he had already shared. “Dressing up like Dennis—that was it,” he said.

  No one wanted to argue with him. “Your turn, Amy,” Mom said, leaning against Dad on the couch. Dad fiddled with his glasses, then settled back.

  I picked up Slappy and arranged him on my lap. I was feeling a little nervous. I wanted to do a good job and impress them with my new comedy act.

  I’d been practicing all week, and I knew the jokes by heart. But as I slipped my hand into Slappy’s back and found the string, my stomach felt all fluttery.

  I cleared my throat and began.

  “This is Slappy, everyone,” I said. “Slappy, say hi to my family.”

  “Hi to my family!” I made Slappy say. I made his eyes slide back and forth.

  They all chuckled.

  “This dummy is much better!” Mom commented.

  “But it’s the same old ventriloquist,” Sara said cruelly.

  I glared at her.

  “Just joking! Just joking!” my sister insisted.

  “I think that dummy reeks,” Jed chimed in.

  “Give Amy a break,” Dad said sharply. “Go ahead, Amy.”

  I cleared my throat again. It suddenly felt very dry. “Slappy and I are going to tell some knock-knock jokes,” I announced. I turned to face Slappy and made him turn his head to me. “Knock knock,” I said.

  “Knock it off!” came the harsh reply.

  Slappy spun around to face my Mom. “Hey—don’t break the sofa, fatso!” he rasped. “Why don’t you skip the French fries and have a salad once in a while?”

  “Huh?” Mom gasped in shock. “Amy—”

  “Amy, that’s not funny!” Dad cried angrily.

  “What’s your problem, baldy?” Slappy shouted. “Is that your head—or are you hatching an ostrich egg on your neck?”

  “That’s enough, Amy!” Dad cried, jumping to his feet. “Stop it—right now!”

  “But—but—Dad—!” I sputtered.

  “Why don’t you put an extra hole in your head and use it for a bowling ball?” Slappy screamed at Dad.

  “Your jokes are horrible!” Mom exclaimed. “They’re hurtful and insulting.”

  “It’s not funny, Amy!” Dad fumed. “It’s not funny to hurt people’s feelings.”

  “But, Dad—” I replied. “I didn’t say any of that! It wasn’t me! It was Slappy! Really! I wasn’t saying it! I wasn’t!”

  Slappy raised his head. His red-lipped grin appeared to spread. His blue eyes sparkled. “Did I mention you are all ugly?” he asked.

  8

  Everyone started shouting at once.

  I stood up and dropped Slappy face
down on the armchair.

  My legs were trembling. My entire body was shaking.

  What’s going on here? I asked myself. I didn’t say those things. I really didn’t.

  But Slappy can’t be talking on his own—can he?

  Of course not, I realized.

  But what did that mean? Did that mean I was saying those horrible, insulting things to my parents without even knowing it?

  Mom and Dad stood side by side, staring at me angrily, demanding to know why I insulted them.

  “Did you really think that was funny?” Mom asked. “Didn’t you think it would hurt my feelings to call me fatso?”

  Meanwhile, Jed was sprawled on his back in the middle of the floor, giggling like a moron. He thought the whole thing was a riot.

  Sara sat cross-legged against the wall, shaking her head, her black hair falling over her face. “You’re in major trouble,” she muttered. “What’s your problem, Amy?”

  I turned to Mom and Dad. My hands were balled into tight fists. I couldn’t stop shaking.

  “You’ve got to believe me!” I shrieked. “I didn’t say those things! I really didn’t!”

  “Yeah. Right. Slappy is a baaad dude!” Jed chimed in, grinning.

  “Everybody, just be quiet!” Dad screamed. His face turned bright red.

  Mom squeezed his arm. She didn’t like it when he got too angry or excited. I guess she worried he might totally explode or something.

  Dad crossed his arms in front of his chest. I saw that he had a sweat stain on the chest of his polo shirt. His face was still red.

  The room suddenly fell silent.

  “Amy, we’re not going to believe you,” Dad said softly.

  “But—but—but—”

  He raised a hand to silence me.

  “You’re a wonderful storyteller, Amy,” Dad continued. “You make up wonderful fantasies and fairy tales. But we’re not going to believe this one. I’m sorry. We’re not going to believe that your dummy spoke up on his own.”

  “But he did!” I screamed. I felt like bursting out in sobs. I bit my lip hard, trying to force them back.

  Dad shook his head. “No, Slappy didn’t insult us. You said those things, Amy. You did. And now I want you to apologize to your mother and me. Then I want you to take your dummy and go to your room.”

  There was no way they’d ever believe me. No way. I wasn’t sure I believed it myself.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, still holding back the tears. “Really. I’m sorry.”

  With an unhappy sigh, I lifted Slappy off the chair. I carried him around the waist so that his arms and legs dangled toward the floor. “Good night,” I said. I walked slowly toward my room.

  “What about my turn?” I heard Sara ask.

  “Sharing Night is over,” Dad replied grumpily. “You two—get lost. Leave your mom and me alone.”

  Dad sounded really upset.

  I didn’t blame him.

  I stepped into my room and closed the door behind me. Then I lifted Slappy up, holding him under the shoulders. I raised his face to mine.

  His eyes seemed to stare into my face.

  Such cold blue eyes, I thought.

  His bright red lips curled up into that smirking grin. The smile suddenly seemed evil. Mocking.

  As if Slappy were laughing at me.

  But of course that was impossible. My wild imagination was playing tricks on me, I decided.

  Frightening tricks.

  Slappy was just a dummy, after all. Just a hunk of painted wood.

  I stared hard into those cold blue eyes. “Slappy, look at all the trouble you caused me tonight,” I told him.

  Thursday night had been awful. Totally awful.

  But Friday turned out to be much worse.

  9

  First I dropped my tray in the lunchroom. The trays were all wet, and mine just slipped out of my hand.

  The plates clattered on the floor, and my lunch spilled all over my new white sneakers. Everyone in the lunchroom clapped and cheered.

  Was I embarrassed? Take three guesses.

  Later that afternoon, report cards were handed out.

  Sara came home grinning and singing. Nothing makes her more happy than being perfect. And her report card was perfect. All A’s.

  She insisted on showing it to me three times. She showed it to Jed three times, too. And we both had to tell her how wonderful she was each time.

  I’m being unfair to Sara.

  She was happy and excited. And she had a right to be. Her report card was perfect—and her flower painting won the blue ribbon in the State Art Contest.

  So I shouldn’t blame her for dancing around the house and singing at the top of her lungs.

  She wasn’t trying to rub it in. She wasn’t trying to make me feel like a lowly slug because my report card had two C’s. One in math and one in science.

  It wasn’t Sara’s fault that I had received my worst report card ever.

  So I tried to hold back my jealous feelings and not strangle her the tenth time she told me about the art prize. But it wasn’t easy.

  The worst part of my report card wasn’t the two C’s. It was the little note Miss Carson wrote at the bottom.

  It said: Amy isn’t working to the best of her ability. If she worked harder, she could do much better than this.

  I don’t think teachers should be allowed to write notes on report cards. I think getting grades is bad enough.

  I tried to make up some kind of story to explain the two C’s to my parents. I planned to tell them that everyone in the class got C’s in math and science. “Miss Carson didn’t have time to grade our papers. So she gave us all C’s—just to be fair.”

  It was a good story. But not a great story.

  No way Mom and Dad would buy that one.

  I paced back and forth in my room, trying to think of a better story. After a while, I noticed Slappy staring at me.

  He sat in the chair beside Dennis, grinning and staring.

  Slappy’s eyes weren’t following me as I paced—were they?

  I felt a chill run down my back.

  It really seemed as if the eyes were watching me, moving as I moved.

  I darted to the chair and turned Slappy so that his back was to me. I didn’t have time to think about a stupid dummy. My parents would be home from work any minute. And I needed a good story to explain my awful report card.

  Did I come up with one? No.

  Were my parents upset? Yes.

  Mom said she would help me get better organized. Dad said he would help me understand my math problems. The last time Dad helped me with my math, I nearly flunked!

  Even Jed—the total goof-off—got a better report card than me. They don’t give grades in the lower school. The teacher just writes a report about you.

  And Jed’s report said that he was a great kid and a really good student. That teacher must be sick!

  I stared at Jed across the dinner table. He opened his mouth wide to show me a mouth full of chewed-up peas.

  Sick!

  “You reek,” he said to me. For no reason at all.

  Sometimes I wonder why families were invented.

  Saturday morning, I called Margo. “I can’t come over,” I told her with a sigh. “My parents won’t let me.”

  “My report card wasn’t too good, either,” Margo replied. “Miss Carson wrote a note at the bottom. She said I talk too much in class.”

  “Miss Carson talks too much,” I said bitterly.

  As I chatted with Margo, I stared at myself in the dresser mirror. I look too much like Sara, I thought. Why do I have to look like her twin? Maybe I’ll cut my hair really short. Or get a tattoo.

  I wasn’t thinking too clearly.

  I was too angry that my parents weren’t allowing me to go over to Margo’s house.

  “This is bad news,” Margo said. “I wanted to talk to you about performing with Slappy at my dad’s place.”

  “I know,” I replied sadly. “
But they’re not letting me go anywhere until my science project is finished.”

  “You still haven’t turned that in?” Margo demanded.

  “I kind of forgot about it,” I confessed. “I did the project part—for the second time. I just have to write the report.”

  “Well, I told you, Daddy has a birthday party for a dozen three-year-olds next Saturday,” Margo said. “And he wants you and Slappy to entertain them.”

  “As soon as I finish the science report, I’m going to start rehearsing,” I promised. “Tell your dad not to worry, Margo. Tell him I’ll be great.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes. Then my mom shouted for me to get off the phone. I talked for a little while longer—until Mom shouted a second time. Then I said good-bye to Margo and hung up.

  I slaved over my computer all morning and most of the afternoon. And I finished the science report.

  It wasn’t easy. Jed kept coming into my room, begging me to play a Nintendo game with him. “Just one!” And I had to keep tossing him out.

  When I finally finished writing the paper, I printed it out and read it one more time. I thought it was pretty good.

  What it needs is a really great-looking cover, I decided.

  I wanted to get a bunch of colored markers and do a really bright cover. But my markers were all dried up.

  I tossed them into the trash and made my way to Sara’s room. I knew that she had an entire drawer filled with colored markers.

  Sara was at the mall with a bunch of her friends. Miss Perfect could go out and spend Saturday doing whatever she wanted. Because she was perfect.

  I knew she wouldn’t mind if I borrowed a few markers.

  Jed stopped me outside her door. “One game of Battle Chess!” he pleaded. “Just one game!”

  “No way,” I told him. I placed my hand on top of his head. His red, curly hair felt so soft. I pushed him out of my way. “You always murder me at Battle Chess. And I’m not finished with my work yet.”

  “Why are you going in Sara’s room?” he demanded.

  “None of your business,” I told him.

  “You reek,” he said. “You double reek, Amy.”

  I ignored him and made my way into Sara’s room to borrow the markers.