You Can't Scare Me! Read online

  I was so excited, I felt like I was about to burst. Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead and into my eyes. I wiped them with the sleeve of my T-shirt and peered down.

  Yes!

  Molly and Charlene had done it. They had backed Courtney under the balcony. The three of them stood right beneath us.

  Perfect!

  “Hat — do it!” I whispered.

  Hat didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. This was too perfect. Too perfect!

  His eyes on the three girls directly below, he reached into the container and picked up the hairy tarantula.

  Then he raised himself up a little higher over the balcony edge, held the tarantula over the side, took careful aim — and let it drop.

  12

  Hat and I both leaned over the balcony and watched the tarantula drop.

  And we both cried out in horror when it landed with a sick plop in Molly’s hair.

  “Hat — you missed!” I screamed.

  But Molly was screaming a lot louder. Her face was as red as a tomato, and her eyes were bulging out of her head. She was shrieking at the top of her lungs and doing a strange dance, hopping wildly up and down while her hands thrashed the air.

  A lot of kids were running over with startled and bewildered expressions. “What’s wrong with Molly?” someone screamed.

  “Why is she doing that?”

  “What happened to her?”

  Staring down, I leaned so far over the balcony, I nearly dropped like the tarantula.

  Poor Molly was tearing at her hair now, still shrieking and hopping around.

  I cried out in relief as she finally managed to pull the tarantula from her dark hair. She juggled it in her hand, nearly dropping it. Then, still screaming, she tossed it to Charlene!

  Beside me on the balcony, Hat was laughing now. But I was too upset to find it funny.

  How could Hat have missed such an easy shot?

  Charlene let out a scream that rattled the gym rafters. She bobbled the tarantula from one hand to the other.

  Then it dropped to the floor at her feet.

  Charlene leaped back, still screaming, both hands pressed against the sides of her face.

  Everyone in the gym class had huddled around. Some kids still looked confused. Others were laughing. A couple of girls were trying to comfort Molly, whose hair was standing straight up on her head.

  “Oh, wow. Oh, wow,” Hat kept repeating, shaking his head. “Oh, wow.”

  Gripping the balcony edge with both hands, I watched Courtney bend over and gently pick up the tarantula from the gym floor. She placed it in the palm of her hand and appeared to be saying soothing words to it.

  The kids had formed a circle around Courtney. As she held the tarantula close to her face, they quieted down and watched.

  “It’s just a tarantula,” Courtney said, petting its hairy back with one finger. “Tarantulas don’t bite that often. And if they do, it doesn’t hurt very much.”

  Kids began murmuring once again about how brave Courtney was. I saw Molly and Charlene comforting each other at the edge of the circle. Charlene was smoothing down Molly’s hair. Molly’s whole body was still quivering.

  “Where did this tarantula come from?” Courtney was asking.

  I saw Molly stare up angrily at us. She raised her fist and shook it toward us.

  I ducked down out of sight behind the balcony wall.

  “The plan didn’t work too well,” Hat murmured.

  Is he the master of understatement — or what?

  We didn’t realize that the disaster wasn’t over. “Let’s get out of here,” I whispered.

  Too late. We both looked up to see Mr. Russo glaring angrily at us from the balcony entrance. “What are you boys doing up here?” he asked suspiciously.

  I turned to Hat. Hat stared back at me blankly.

  Neither of us could think of a good answer.

  “Come on back downstairs,” Mr. Russo said softly, holding open the door for us. “Let’s have a nice, long talk.”

  It could have been worse, I thought.

  Sure, Hat and I had to stay after school and clean the science lab every afternoon for the next two weeks. And sure, we had to write one-thousand-word essays on why it’s wrong to steal living things and drop them on people’s heads.

  And sure, Molly and Charlene aren’t speaking to Hat or me.

  But it could have been worse.

  I mean, what if Hat and I were still locked in the supply cabinet? That would be worse, wouldn’t it?

  It was later that afternoon. I was slumped on my bed, glumly thinking about gym class and how our plan had bombed.

  It’s all Courtney’s fault, I told myself, absently pulling at a little tear in my bedspread.

  Courtney had moved just at the last minute.

  She must have moved. Hat couldn’t be that bad of an aim.

  I sighed bitterly as once again I pictured Courtney calmly picking the tarantula up off the floor and petting it. “It’s only a tarantula,” Courtney had said. So smug. So superior. “It’s only a tarantula. They don’t bite very often.”

  Why didn’t it bite her hand?

  That would have wiped the smug expression off her face.

  Why did she have to be so totally brave?

  Courtney really deserves to be scared out of her wits, I thought unhappily. I tore at the little rip in the bedspread, turning it into a big rip.

  She’s really asking for it, asking to be frightened speechless.

  But how, how, how?

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I had my head lowered and my shoulders hunched. I was leaning forward glumly, picking at the bedspread without even realizing it.

  Again I pictured Hat letting the tarantula drop.

  Again I saw it land on Molly’s head.

  No! No! No!

  Again I saw Molly start to do her frantic, furious dance.

  The unhappy picture vanished from my mind as I suddenly realized I was no longer alone. Raising my eyes to the doorway, I gasped sharply.

  And saw the tall, lean monster stagger toward me, its face dripping with dark blood.

  13

  The tall monster lurched toward me, its dripping arms reaching out in front of it, ready to grab me.

  “Kevin — get out of here!” I cried. “You’re dripping mud all over my floor!”

  My older brother, Kevin, lowered his arms to his sides. “It isn’t real mud, punk,” he said. “It’s makeup.”

  “I don’t care,” I replied shrilly, jumping up off the bed and giving him a hard shove in the stomach. “It’s dripping all over.”

  He laughed. “Scared you, didn’t I?”

  “No way!” I insisted. “I knew it was you.”

  “You thought it was a Mud Monster,” he said, grinning at me through the thick brownish-orange gunk dripping down his face. “Admit it, punk.”

  I hate when he calls me punk. I guess that’s why he does it. “You don’t look like a Mud Monster,” I told him nastily. “You just look like a pile of garbage.”

  “We scared some little kids who came into the woods this afternoon,” Kevin said gleefully. “You should’ve seen their faces. We ran at them and yelled BOO. Two of them started to cry.” He snickered.

  “Way to go,” I muttered. I gave him another shove toward the door and got the thick brownish-orange gunk all over my hands.

  “The video is almost finished,” he told me, deliberately wiping his hand on my open notebook. He stared down at the dark stain he had made on my math homework. “Maybe I’ll let you see it when it’s done.”

  “Get away from my stuff, Kevin!” I said angrily. Then I remembered what I wanted to ask him, and changed my tone. “Can I be in the video?” I pleaded. “Please? You said maybe I could be in it — remember?”

  “Huh-uh, punk.” He shook his head. “You’d get too scared.”

  “What?” Was he putting me on?

  “You’d get too scared, Eddie,” he repeated, scratching his for
ehead through the heavy, wet makeup. “All alone in the deep, dark woods with three Mud Monsters walking around. You’d lose it. You’d totally lose it.”

  “Hey!” I cried angrily. “You’re not funny, Kevin. You promised —”

  “No, I didn’t,” Kevin insisted. A big brown blob of gunk fell off his shoulder and landed with a splat on my floor. “Whoa. You’re going to have to clean that up,” he said, grinning meanly.

  “I’m going to make you eat it!” I shouted angrily, crossing my arms over my chest.

  He just laughed.

  I suddenly had an idea. “Kevin, will you help me with something?” I asked thoughtfully.

  “Probably not,” he replied, still grinning. “What is it?”

  “Do you have any good ideas for scaring someone?” I asked.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. Then he gestured to the brownish-orange stuff covering his whole body. “Isn’t this scary enough?”

  “No. I mean, some other way to scare someone,” I said, wondering how to explain. I decided just to come right out and say it. “Some friends and I, we’re trying to scare this girl Courtney.”

  “Why?” Kevin demanded, resting a globby hand on my dresser top.

  “You know. Just for fun,” I told him.

  He nodded.

  “But we haven’t been able to scare her at all,” I continued. “Everything we try totally bombs out.” I sank back onto my bed.

  “What have you tried?” Kevin asked.

  “Oh. A couple of things. A snake and a tarantula,” I said. “But she didn’t get scared.”

  “Too small,” he muttered. He stepped away from the dresser. I could see that he had left a big brown stain on the side.

  “Huh? What do you mean ‘too small’?” I demanded.

  “Too small,” he repeated. “You’re trying to scare her with little things. You’ve got to scare her with something big. You know. Maybe something bigger than she is.”

  I thought about what he was saying. It seemed to make sense. “What do you mean by big?” I asked him. “You mean like an elephant?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “Eddie, where are you going to get an elephant? I mean like a big dog. You know. A huge, growling dog.”

  “A dog?” I scratched my head.

  “Yeah. Let’s say this girl Courtney is walking down the street, or she’s in the woods, maybe — and suddenly she hears angry growls and snarls. She looks up and sees this enormous dog, its mouth open, its fangs bared, running right at her. That’ll scare her. No problem.”

  “Not bad,” I said thoughtfully. “Not bad. You’re a genius, Kevin. Really.”

  “Tell me about it,” he replied. He walked out of the room, leaving a muddy trail behind him.

  A huge, growling dog, I thought. I pictured it in my mind. I pictured it raising its head to the moon and howling like a wolf.

  Then I pictured Courtney walking innocently down a dark street. She hears a sound. A low growl. She stops. Her eyes grow wide with fear.

  What’s that noise? she wonders.

  And then she sees it. The biggest, meanest, loudest, angriest dog that ever lived. Its eyes glow red. It pulls back its heavy lips to reveal a mouth full of pointy fangs.

  With an earth-shattering growl, it makes its leap. It goes right for her throat.

  Courtney cries out for help. Then she turns. She’s running now, running for her life, shrieking and crying like a frightened baby.

  “Here, boy,” I call to the attacking beast.

  The dog stops. It turns around. It walks quickly to me, its tail wagging. Courtney is still crying, still shaking all over, as the dog gently licks my hand.

  “It’s only a dog,” I tell her. “Dogs won’t hurt you — unless they sense that you’re afraid!”

  I jumped up from my bed, laughing out loud.

  It’s definitely worth a try, I thought excitedly. Definitely worth a try.

  Now, who do I know who has an enormous, growling, ferocious dog?

  14

  Saturday afternoon we were in Charlene’s backyard, trying out the new croquet set her father had bought. It was an overcast day. High clouds kept blocking out the sun, sending long gray shadows over the back lawn.

  The roar of a power mower from next door made it a little hard to be heard. But I was telling Molly, Charlene, and Hat about my brother’s idea for scaring Courtney.

  “A big, angry dog is way scary,” Hat quickly agreed. He tapped his mallet hard against his green croquet ball and sent mine sailing into the hedge.

  Molly frowned. She still hadn’t forgiven me for the tarantula incident, even though I had apologized a thousand times. She straightened the bottom of her yellow T-shirt over her black shorts and prepared to take her turn.

  “We need a dog that really looks vicious,” Molly said. She slammed her ball hard. It missed the hoop and bounced off a wooden peg.

  “I guess my dog, Buttercup, could do it,” Charlene offered, sighing.

  “Huh? Buttercup?” I cried out in surprise. “Get serious, Charlene. Buttercup is a big, lovable oaf. He couldn’t scare a fly.”

  A teasing smile formed on Charlene’s face. “Buttercup could do it,” she repeated.

  “Oh, sure,” I said, rolling my eyes. “He’s real vicious. That’s why you gave him a vicious name like Buttercup.”

  “It’s your turn,” Molly said to me, pointing to my ball way over at the hedge.

  “This is such a boring game,” I complained. “Why does anyone like it?”

  “I like it,” Hat said. He was winning.

  Charlene cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Buttercup! Buttercup! Come here, you ferocious beast!”

  A few seconds later, the big Saint Bernard came lumbering toward us from the side of the house. His bushy white tail was wagging hard, making his entire backside waggle as he hurried across the grass, his big pink tongue drooping out.

  “Ooh, I’m scared! I’m scared!” I cried sarcastically. I dropped my croquet mallet and hugged myself, pretending to shiver in fright.

  Buttercup ignored me. He ran up to Charlene and started licking her hand, making tiny mewing sounds, almost like a cat.

  “Ooh, he’s tough,” I exclaimed.

  Hat came up beside me, adjusting his baseball cap over his eyes. “He’s a big, lovable Saint Bernard, Charlene,” Hat said, bending to scratch the dog behind the ears. “He’s not too scary. We need a big wolf. Or a six-foot-tall Doberman.”

  Buttercup turned his big head to lick Hat’s hand.

  “Yuck!” Hat made a disgusted face. “I hate dog slobber.”

  “Where can we get a real attack dog?” I asked, picking up my mallet and leaning on it like a cane. “Do we know anyone who has a guard dog? A big, ugly German shepherd, maybe?”

  Charlene still had that teasing grin on her face, as if she knew something the rest of us didn’t. “Give Buttercup a chance,” she said softly. “You might be surprised.”

  Clouds drifted over the sun again. The air suddenly grew cooler as gray shadows slid over the grass.

  The power mower on the other side of the hedge sputtered to a stop. The backyard suddenly seemed eerily quiet and still.

  Buttercup dropped to the grass and rolled onto his back. His four furry paws kicked the air as he scratched his back on the lawn.

  “Not too impressive, Charlene,” Hat said, laughing. The dog looked so stupid.

  “I haven’t done our little trick yet,” Charlene replied. “Just watch.”

  She turned to the dog and started to whistle. A tuneless whistle, just a bunch of shrill, flat tones.

  The big Saint Bernard reacted immediately. As soon as he heard Charlene’s whistle, he rolled off his back and climbed to his feet. His tail shot out stiffly behind him. His entire body appeared to go rigid. His ears stood up on his head.

  Charlene continued to whistle. Not loudly. A steady, low whistle of long, shrill notes.

  And as we stared in silent surprise, Buttercup began
to growl. The growl started deep in his stomach, angry and menacing.

  He pulled back his dark lips. He bared his big teeth.

  He growled loudly. His growl became a vicious snarl.

  The dog’s eyes glowed angrily. His back stiffened. His head arched back as if preparing to attack.

  Charlene sucked in a deep breath and whistled some more. Her eyes were locked on the growling dog.

  “Buttercup — get Eddie!” Charlene suddenly screamed. “Get Eddie! Kill! Kill!”

  15

  “No!” I shrieked and fell back toward the hedge.

  The dog growled a warning. Then it leaped to attack.

  I raised my arms in front of me as a shield and waited for the impact.

  And waited.

  When I slowly lowered my arms, I saw that Charlene was hugging the dog around the neck. Charlene had a gleeful grin on her face. Buttercup turned and planted a slobbery dog kiss on her forehead.

  “Gotcha, Eddie!” Charlene declared. “That was to pay you back for the tarantula.”

  Molly laughed. “Way to go, Charlene.”

  “Wow,” I exclaimed weakly. My heart was still pounding. The backyard was spinning in front of me.

  “That’s a good trick,” Hat told Charlene. “How did you teach him that?”

  “I didn’t,” Charlene said, giving the dog a final hug, then shoving him away from her. “It was sort of an accident. I was whistling one day, and Buttercup went ballistic on me. He started growling and snarling, showing his teeth.”

  “I guess he really hates the way you whistle!” I exclaimed, starting to feel a little more normal.

  “He hates anyone whistling,” Charlene replied, brushing dog fur off the legs of her denim cutoffs. “Maybe it hurts his ears or something. I don’t know. But you can see what it makes him do. He goes nuts like that every time someone whistles.”

  “That’s great!” Hat declared.

  “He really can terrify Courtney,” Molly said.

  We watched the dog lumber away, his tongue hanging nearly to the ground. He sniffed at something in the flower bed, then disappeared around the side of the house.