A Nightmare on Clown Street Page 5

  I swallowed. My mouth was suddenly dry as cotton.

  I wanted to say: Yes. It got a really huge laugh. We should do it every show.

  But I’m not crazy.

  I said, “Uh … well …”

  “What put that stunt in your head?” the ringmaster demanded. “What on earth were you thinking, Jack?”

  “My name is Ray, sir.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “Well … actually … it was an accident,” I stammered.

  He raised one eyebrow. “Accident?”

  I nodded. “Yes. You see, I tripped over Bingo-Bongo’s shoes and fell. I didn’t really plan to knock you down.”

  He stared at me. I could see sweat forming on his forehead under the brim of his top hat. Finally, he said, “Bingo-Bongo tripped you? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “No,” I said. “He didn’t trip me on purpose. I just fell. Because my shoes were loose. It wasn’t his fault. Really.”

  He lowered his face till it was an inch from mine. “I see you’re trying to protect Bingo-Bongo. He tripped you and —”

  “No!” I insisted. “He didn’t. I tripped over his shoes. That’s all. He shouldn’t be in trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about Bingo-Bongo,” Mr. HahaFace said. He made a shooing motion with both hands. He was finished with me. “Go rehearse falling on someone else, Jack.”

  I didn’t wait around for him to say anything more. I turned and took off running. One of my ripped shoes slid off. I stopped to pick it up.

  Some kids pointed at me and laughed. A little girl walked up to me. “Can I punch your big belly?” she asked.

  I blinked. The question caught me by surprise. “Sure,” I said.

  She curled her little hand into a fist and punched my pillow stomach hard. I groaned and pretended to double over in pain. Actually, I didn’t feel a thing. She laughed and went running back to her parents.

  A small crowd had gathered. “What’s your name?” a boy asked.

  “Mr. Belly-Bounce.”

  “Is that your real stomach?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s my clown stomach.”

  Two more kids wanted to punch it. They thought it was a riot.

  Did I find it annoying? No way. I liked all the attention. And I liked making the kids laugh. Maybe my uncle was right. Maybe I really did have the funny bones.

  The crowd had left the show tent. Now they jammed the row of carnival games and food booths. My stomach growled.

  I decided to get a hot dog or two before going back to my trailer. I turned toward the carnival booths — and someone stepped out to block my path.

  Deanna Banana.

  With a knife in her hand.

  A chill of fear ran down my body. I started to step back.

  But, whoa. Wait. It wasn’t a knife in her hand. It was her phone.

  She smiled. “Hey, how’s it going?” She tucked her phone into her jacket pocket and walked up to me.

  I let out a sigh of relief. Was I starting to lose it? Imagining things that weren’t there? “Not bad,” I said.

  Her yellow jacket sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight. She wore the yellow pleated skirt and white tights that were her costume for the show. “Well, spill,” she said. “How did your first show go? Did you enjoy it?”

  I had the urge to tell her about tripping and knocking over Mr. HahaFace. But then I remembered he was her father. And I remembered I’d better be real careful around her.

  “Awesome,” I said. “I had a great time. I was surprised. I wasn’t even nervous.”

  She nodded. Her eyes studied me for a long moment. Did she already know about how I messed up with her father? Was she waiting for me to tell her about it?

  I kind of liked her. With her blond hair and blue eyes, she may have been the most awesome-looking girl I’d ever known. And she was the only one here at the circus who was my age.

  But I knew I’d never be comfortable around her. I mean, I knew I’d always have to be on guard.

  “I’m hungry,” she said. “I’m always starving after a performance. Want to get some hot dogs?”

  I laughed. “You read my mind. Definitely.”

  We began to walk side by side between the two rows of booths. It wasn’t very crowded. People had seen the show. Now they were heading home to dinner.

  Across from us, a little girl was struggling to hold a gigantic pink stuffed bear her father had won for her. The bear was actually as big as the little girl. People were still lined up at the cotton candy booth. And the pop-pop-pop didn’t let up from the two rifle-firing ranges.

  Past a dart-tossing booth, we came to a food cart with a sign: HOT DOGGIES. SO FRESH THEY’RE STILL BARKING.

  A short, pudgy man in a white chef’s hat and apron leaned forward to greet us. “Oh, hi, Deanna. How you doing?” he said. “Who’s your big-bellied friend?”

  “Hey, Uncle Noah,” she said. She stood on tiptoes and leaned over the cart to kiss his cheek. “This is Ray. He’s Theo’s nephew.”

  Noah squinted at me. “Welcome to the circus, Ray. What’ll you have? Two with everything?”

  “Two with everything for both of us,” Deanna said.

  Noah turned to the grill.

  “So do you know everyone who works here?” I asked.

  Deanna nodded. “Pretty much. I grew up in the circus. A lot of the workers are my cousins and aunts and uncles.”

  “You never lived in a house?”

  “No,” she said. “Never. Only circus trailers.”

  “Weird,” I said. “I’ve lived in the same house in Tampa my whole life.”

  “Well, I think that’s weird,” she said.

  “I think you’re both weird,” her uncle Noah said. He handed us our hot dogs on paper plates. They were steaming hot, and the rolls bulged with sauerkraut, onions, mustard, and relish.

  “How do I pay you?” I asked him. “I can’t carry money in my clown suit. No pockets.”

  “That’s what they all say,” Noah joked. He waved a hand. “You never have to pay if you’re with Deanna.”

  We thanked him and walked on through the carnival, eating our hot dogs. Actually, we didn’t eat them — we devoured them. Deanna was right. A circus show can make you seriously hungry.

  At a game booth across from us, some kids were trying to toss basketballs into a high hoop. Next to them, I saw one of those old-fashioned Test-Your-Strength poles where you try to ring the bell at the top by slamming down a huge mallet.

  “Want to try it?” Deanna asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s too easy.”

  She laughed.

  We kept walking. I stopped when the Dunk-A-Klown tank came into view. I stopped and let out a cry. “Oh, no!”

  “Keep walking.” Deanna gave me a push. “Come on, Ray. Don’t look. Just keep walking.”

  Deanna grabbed me by the arms and tried to pull me down the aisle. But I tugged myself free and turned to the tall water tank.

  “Stay away,” she warned. “Come on, Ray. You don’t want to watch.”

  But I had to watch. Because it was Bingo-Bongo perched on the chair above the water.

  He sat tensely, staring down at the crowd in front of the tank. He had his arms crossed tightly in front of him. I waved to him, but he didn’t see me.

  He was concentrating on the tall, powerful-looking man who had a stack of baseballs in his arms. I could see Bingo-Bongo’s whole body trembling. He looked totally terrified.

  “Come on, Ray,” Deanna urged. “We don’t have to watch this.”

  But I didn’t move. The big man heaved a baseball at the target. Missed. Heaved another one. Missed.

  His third throw hit the target with a loud smack.

  The chair collapsed under Bingo-Bongo, and he dropped into the water tank, splashing water on the glass walls. His hands flew up as he dropped. He sank to the bottom, then started to swim.

  Deanna gripped my arm tightly. She tried to pull me
away.

  But I refused to budge. I stared into the tank as Bingo-Bongo struggled to swim. His eyes bulged as he saw me. His face moved closer to the glass tank wall. He reached out with both hands, as if begging me to help him.

  His lips moved. His mouth formed the words help me.

  And as I stared, frozen in horror, he was flushed out of sight.

  My heart pounding, I turned to Deanna. “We’ve got to do something!” I cried. “We’ve got to help him.”

  “We can’t,” she replied. “Don’t you understand? He’s being punished.”

  I swallowed. “Punished? But … but he’ll be okay. Right?”

  She squinted at me. “I’ve got to go,” she said. She spun away from me and started to hurry off.

  “No. Wait —” I started after her. “He’ll be okay — right? Answer my question. He’ll be okay?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she started running through the row of carnival booths. She almost collided with a baby stroller and then pushed her way through a group of teenagers.

  “What was that about?” I murmured.

  Why couldn’t she answer a simple question?

  I’ll have to ask Bingo-Bongo where he went when he was flushed from the tank, I told myself.

  I turned and started to head to our trailer. I kept seeing the look of horror on Bingo-Bongo’s face. And his lips forming the words help me.

  And then the frightening thought popped into my brain: Was Bingo-Bongo being punished because of me? Because Mr. HahaFace thought he tripped me?

  No. Oh, please — no. Please don’t let it be my fault.

  The sun was nearly down. The sky was a solid charcoal gray. The lights came on all over the circus lot. White lights, also red and blue. So many lights, it almost looked bright as day.

  The air still felt heavy and humid. I couldn’t wait to get out of the clown suit and take a shower. I had to hurry back to the trailer and see if Bingo-Bongo was already back.

  I still hadn’t completely learned my way around. The trailers at the far end of the lot all looked alike. They were parked at odd angles, which made it hard to remember which was mine.

  After circling the trailers twice, I finally found mine and started eagerly to the door. To my surprise, the ping-pong table that Bingo-Bongo kept out front was gone. I wondered why he had moved it.

  I saw a light inside through the trailer window. I guessed he’d beaten me back to the trailer.

  I pushed open the door and called out, “Hey — are you home?”

  No answer.

  I stepped into the trailer and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. The first thing I noticed was that the food counter in our kitchen area was bare.

  Weird, I thought. Bingo-Bongo used to have his nacho chip bags and candy bars and cookie boxes all over the place. Why had he cleaned up?

  Bingo-Bongo’s big black trunk was gone. And the framed photograph of his dog back home had been removed from the wall.

  I heard a cough. I turned — and saw someone sitting on Bingo-Bongo’s cot. “Hey, you’re here!” I cried. “You’re back. Wow. Thank goodness!”

  The clown turned to face me. He had a red bulb nose and a thick stubble of beard, a funny little red top hat angled over his black hair. His costume was white with red stripes.

  “Hi,” he said. He had a funny, squeaky voice.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  He climbed up from the cot, crossed the trailer, and stuck out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Dr. Phooey,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “Uh … Ray,” I answered. “Well, actually, Mr. Belly-Bounce.”

  He nodded. “Nice to meet you. I took that bunk against the wall. Is that okay?”

  I stared hard at him. “Yeah. But that’s Bingo-Bongo’s cot,” I said. “Where is he? Where did he go?”

  Dr. Phooey gave a sad shrug. “Poor guy. I heard he went to Clown Street.”

  A stab of fear made me gasp. I felt my heart skip a beat.

  Dr. Phooey gave another sad shrug, his eyes half-closed. He walked back to his cot and sat down.

  I followed and sat across from him on my cot. “You have to tell me about Clown Street,” I said. “You have to tell me.”

  “What is there to tell?” he replied.

  “Where is it? Why is it such a bad place?” I demanded. “Why doesn’t anyone want to talk about it?”

  The clown leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “I just got here. I need this job. I have to keep my nose clean. Know what I mean?”

  “Just tell me what Clown Street is!” I insisted.

  “Listen, kid. Ray. Whatever you said your name is. Do what they tell you. You won’t have any trouble. You’re just a kid. You don’t have to worry about things like that.”

  He had his eyes on the trailer window. Like he thought someone might be outside spying on us.

  “Be a clown,” he said. “Be happy.”

  He climbed to his feet. He brushed off the front of his costume with both hands. Then he started to the door.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why won’t you answer a simple question?”

  “I’ve got to go pick up my trunk,” he said. “Catch you later, dude.” He disappeared out the door.

  “So what is Clown Street?” I said out loud to myself. “Why won’t anyone tell me?”

  I sat hunched on my cot with my hands clasped in front of me. I gazed around the trailer. All of Bingo-Bongo’s stuff was gone. Everything had been taken away. And … he had been taken away.

  A heavy feeling of dread made me feel sick to my stomach. Was it my fault? Had Mr. HahaFace sent Bingo-Bongo to Clown Street because he thought he tripped me and made me knock HahaFace over?

  How crazy was that?

  But was it true?

  Leaning forward on my cot, I felt my stomach do flip-flops. My hands were suddenly cold and sweaty.

  It was only my second day at the circus. But I was already convinced this was not a happy place. In fact, this was a dangerous place.

  In my mind, I replayed what had happened to me since I arrived. The knife that barely missed my head. The whispered voice calling my name outside the trailer at night, and the pile of fish guts in front of the steps. My clown shoes, slashed in half …

  Someone was trying to tell me something. Someone was trying to scare me.

  Everyone seemed scared at this circus. Scared of Mr. HahaFace. Scared of going to Clown Street. And now, my roommate was gone. Could that mean that I’d be next?

  I had to find out the answers to all my questions. And I knew one person who could answer them all. Uncle Theo.

  I jumped to my feet. I really wanted to get out of this costume. But I was desperate to talk to my uncle. I kicked off the ruined clown shoes and pulled on my sneakers. Then I hurried out of the trailer.

  Night now. The carnival booths were closed. The people had all gone home. I saw a few clowns making their way to the food tent for dinner. But I wasn’t hungry. I knew I couldn’t eat until I had forced Uncle Theo to tell me everything.

  Deanna’s trailer was dark. Maybe she was at the food tent, too. I decided Uncle Theo was probably there.

  An early dew had formed. My sneakers squished over the wet grass. I strode past the show tent. The lights were on inside. I saw some blue-uniformed workers on tall ladders, adjusting the big sound speakers.

  Two cats were prowling around the garbage cans at the side of the food tent. One of them knocked a lid over. It hit the ground, and the two cats took off in different directions, as if a bomb had gone off.

  I stepped into the food tent and gazed up and down the tables for Uncle Theo. It must have been pizza night, because I saw big plates of pepperoni pizza in front of everyone.

  Billy Laffs waved at me and motioned for me to come sit down. But I shook my head and shouted, “Have you seen my uncle Theo?”

  “Not since the performance,” he called back. “He stunk up the show. He’s probably ashamed to show his face.”


  He saw that I didn’t laugh. I wasn’t in a laughing mood.

  “Hey — just kidding,” he called. “Just clowning. It’s a job, you know.”

  “I’ll try his mobile home,” I said.

  The pizza aroma followed me as I walked out of the tent and took the path toward my uncle’s little house. Behind me in the tent, I heard Mrs. Giggle-Wiggle laughing. Some clowns were arguing over the best way to do a water spit.

  They seem happy, I thought. You’d never guess that something is terribly wrong here.

  The lights were on in Uncle Theo’s mobile home. I knocked on the door, then let myself in. “Uncle Theo? Are you here?”

  “In the back,” he shouted.

  I stepped through the short hallway and stopped at the door to the bedroom. Uncle Theo sat at his dressing table, his back to me. In the mirror in front of him, I could see he was removing his clown makeup.

  “Hi. It’s me,” I said.

  He didn’t turn around. “How’s it going?” he asked. He quickly lowered his head.

  “I … I wanted to talk to you,” I stammered. “I’m worried and I thought —”

  He stopped wiping the thick greasepaint from his face and kept his head down. I watched him in the mirror. “Tell me what you’re worried about,” he said.

  But I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t speak. I opened my mouth in a gasp of horror.

  I stared into the mirror, frozen in disbelief. Frozen in shock.

  The man sitting there in front of me … the man who stopped removing his Murder the Clown makeup …

  He wasn’t my uncle Theo.

  My heart thudded so loud I could hear it. I took a step closer.

  I blinked several times. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the dim light of the room made him appear different. Maybe I was seeing things.

  But no. I could see his face in the mirror clearly. It wasn’t my uncle’s face. The eyes were closer together. The nose was longer and came to a point. The chin …

  No. No! Not my uncle!

  Finally, my silence made him turn around. He dropped the cotton pad he was using to remove the makeup. His eyes met mine.

  “Ray …” the man murmured. “Listen to me …”