Bride of the Living Dummy Page 6

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Excuse me? What about Mary-Ellen?”

  “Maybe I could borrow that doll from your sisters,” Harrison suggested. “She’s so big and weird-looking, she’d make a great dummy.”

  “Well …” I stared at him.

  “Maybe we could say that Slappy and Mary-Ellen are boyfriend and girlfriend,” Harrison continued. “Maybe we could say they’re going to get married. That could be funny.”

  I frowned. “Slappy and Mary-Ellen? You’re right. It could be funny. But I really don’t want to do it. I really don’t want to use Slappy.”

  “Think about it,” Harrison pleaded. “It’s a great idea, Jillian. And we don’t want to be clowns again. Just think about it — okay?”

  “Okay,” I replied. But I kept picturing Slappy’s evil grin. And the words in the little diary repeated in my mind.

  It’s true, I decided.

  The dummy can come alive. The dummy is evil….

  When I rode up to the house, Mom was waiting for me at the front door. “You’re late!” she called as I climbed off my bike and grabbed up my backpack. “Remember — you’re taking care of the twins tonight?”

  I’d completely forgotten.

  I hurried into the house. “I put your dinner on the table,” Mom said. “Your dad and I have to get going.”

  “I’ll be right down,” I told her. “I just want to drop off my backpack.”

  I took the stairs two at a time. Burst into my room. Tossed the heavy backpack onto the floor.

  I turned back to the door. Stopped. And gasped.

  “Oh, nooo,” I moaned, staring across the room.

  Slappy sat on my dresser top. I saw an open tube of lipstick in his right hand.

  Then I read the words scrawled across the mirror in fat red letters:

  WHERE IS MY BRIDE?

  “Mom! Dad!” I went screaming down the stairs.

  They were already out on the front stoop. Dad was helping Mom with her jacket.

  I pushed open the storm door. “I have to tell you — ” I started.

  Mom turned. “Katie and Amanda are already at the table. Go make sure they eat a good dinner.” She and Dad hurried toward the car in the driveway.

  “But, Mom — ” I cried. “My mirror! You have to see — ”

  “Tell me later,” Mom insisted impatiently. “You made us very late, Jillian.”

  “We’ll talk to you when we get home,” Dad said. He opened the car door and slid behind the wheel.

  Mom hurried around to the passenger side. “You’re in charge!” she called. “I’m trusting you, Jillian. I don’t want any trouble of any kind.”

  “But — but — ” I sputtered.

  “One little problem, and all three of you will be grounded for life!” Mom called. She climbed in and slammed the car door.

  I stood in the front door, watching the car back down the drive. Pictured the words scrawled in red lipstick on my mirror: WHERE IS MY BRIDE?

  When the car turned a corner, I took a deep breath and made my way into the dining room. Katie and Amanda sat with big bowls of spaghetti in front of them. Katie was twirling a huge knot of spaghetti on her fork. Amanda was picking up long noodles between her fingers.

  I stepped up to the table, my heart pounding. “Were you two in my room?” I asked through clenched teeth.

  Amanda slurped a long noodle down. Katie looked up at me innocently. “When?” she asked.

  “Were you in my room this afternoon?” I demanded in a shaky voice. “Did you put Slappy on my dresser? Did you write on my mirror?”

  They both squinted at me. “You’re crazy,” Katie said.

  “We didn’t go in your dumb room,” Amanda added.

  This time I believed them.

  They were telling the truth. The diary told the truth.

  The dummy was alive! Someone had read the words on the little slip of paper.

  “I — I’ll be right back,” I told the girls. “Just sit there and eat your dinner.”

  I spun away and ran up the stairs to my room.

  Perched on my dresser, the lipstick tube clenched in his hand, Slappy stared across the room at me.

  I grabbed him and lifted him off the dresser. I carried him to my bed and set him down on his back.

  Then I reached into the jacket pocket where I had stuffed the little slip of paper.

  My fingers fumbled in the pocket.

  I searched the other pocket.

  Then I searched the first pocket again.

  Not there. Not there. Not there.

  The slip of paper was gone.

  Staring down at the grinning dummy, I suddenly put the whole story together. I knew exactly what had happened.

  Katie and Amanda were messing around with the dummy. They found the slip of paper. They read the words and brought the dummy to life.

  They were terrified. Terrified of what they had done. Too frightened to tell Mom and Dad.

  The girls had found out how evil Slappy was. And they knew it was all their fault that he’d come to life. They were too frightened to talk about it. Too frightened they’d get in terrible trouble.

  I picked up the dummy in both hands and stared into his round dark eyes. “Is it true?” I cried. “Is it true, Slappy? Did my sisters bring you to life?”

  The glassy eyes gazed up at me. The crooked, red mouth appeared to be laughing at me.

  “Is it true?” I demanded shrilly. “Is it true?”

  I grabbed the dummy by the shoulders and began to shake him. I shook him hard. Harder.

  His heavy, wooden head bounced on his shoulders. His arms flew wildly up and down.

  I shook him harder. Harder.

  Finally, I stopped. I was breathing hard, my heart pounding in my chest.

  “I can’t let you ruin my life!” I declared breathlessly. “I can’t let you destroy our family!”

  I heaved him back onto the bed. He bounced twice, then lay still, gazing up blankly, his head tilted, grinning mouth hanging open.

  Trying to calm down, I made my way to the top of the stairs. “Are you two eating your dinners?” I shouted.

  “Yes. We’re eating!” Amanda called up to me from the dining room.

  “Where are you? What are you doing, Jillian?” Katie called.

  “I’ll be right down,” I told them.

  I crossed the hall into the bathroom. Leaning over the sink, I threw cold water on my burning hot face. Then I washed my hands.

  I was drying my hands and face with a big bath towel when I heard a crash.

  So loud, the house seemed to shake.

  Startled, I grabbed the side of the sink. And heard another crash. From downstairs.

  I leaped out into the hall.

  And heard another crash from downstairs.

  And then a horrified cry.

  Both twins shrieking and crying.

  I dove down the stairs, leaping three at a time.

  “Katie? Amanda? What’s wrong?” I shrieked.

  I burst breathlessly into the dining room — and cried out in shock.

  Slappy sitting at the table?

  Slappy?

  “How — how did he get down here?” I stam-mered.

  And then my eyes swept over the mess.

  Broken dishes. Spaghetti spilled everywhere.

  Milk glasses overturned. Tomato sauce stains dripping down the walls and the window curtains. Salad tossed everywhere. A pile of spaghetti on the carpet.

  “He did it! He did it!” the twins wailed. They both pointed at Slappy.

  The dummy slumped in his chair, head tilted forward. One arm hung at his side. The other hand rested in a puddle of spaghetti sauce on the table.

  I gazed from the dummy to the girls, then back to the dummy. “When — ? How — ?” I choked out. The words caught in my throat. My legs were trembling so hard, I grabbed the wall to hold myself up.

  What a horrible mess. Piles of spaghetti everywhere. And the red stains … the shattered
dinner dishes.

  “He did it! The dummy did it!” Katie cried.

  “You’ve got to believe us!” Amanda pleaded.

  I did believe them.

  The dummy slumped lifelessly in the chair. But how did he get down from my room?

  My sisters love practical jokes. But they would never go this far.

  What could I do? What should I do next?

  The phone rang.

  I jumped, startled by the sound. Then I spun away from the shrieking girls, away from the dummy, away from the horrible mess, and ran to the living room to grab the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Jillian. It’s me.”

  “Mom?”

  “Is everything okay?” she demanded. “You sound out of breath.”

  “No!” I cried. “No! Mom — everything isn’t okay!”

  “Huh? What — ?”

  “The dummy is alive, Mom!” I shouted into the phone. “You’ve got to come home! The dummy is alive! He spilled the spaghetti and — and — ” I gasped for breath.

  “Jillian — stop it!” Mom replied sternly. “Stop it right now. I’m very disappointed in you.”

  “But, Mom — ” I desperately wanted to tell her everything. But she cut me off with an exasperated cry.

  “Jillian, stop it. I begged you. No more fighting with the twins. You are in charge, Jillian. You have to be the grownup.”

  “But — but — Mom — ” I sputtered.

  “Don’t say another word,” she insisted. “I’m so disappointed in you. Your father and I will try to get home early. Good-bye.”

  She hung up.

  I swallowed hard. Took a deep breath. And hurried back to the dining room.

  I have to lock up that dummy, I decided. I have to lock him up before he does any more damage.

  I stopped in the doorway — and stared at an empty chair.

  “Where is he?” I cried. “What did you do with Slappy?”

  Katie opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  Amanda whimpered and shook her head.

  “Where?” I demanded. “Where is the dummy?”

  “He — he left!” Katie finally replied in a whisper.

  “Excuse me?” I cried.

  But then I heard the soft thud of footsteps. A thud and then a scrape. From the front stairs.

  “It’s him,” Amanda whispered.

  “He’s going upstairs,” Katie added. She and Amanda exchanged frightened glances.

  I froze.

  And listened to the BUMP BUMP BUMP as the dummy climbed the stairs.

  “This can’t be happening,” I muttered.

  I forced myself to move. I flew through the living room. Then I pulled myself up the stairs.

  I stopped in the doorway to my room.

  Slappy sat on my bed. He had orange strands of spaghetti on his head and noodles hanging over the shoulders of his sports jacket.

  My eyes lowered to the tube of lipstick in his hand.

  And then up to the wall above my bed where he had scrawled the words:

  WHERE IS MY BRIDE?

  “We’ve all been grounded,” I told Harrison. I paced back and forth in my room, balancing the phone between my shoulder and chin. “My parents are so angry, they won’t even speak to us.”

  “Bad news,” Harrison murmured.

  I glanced out the window. A beautiful, sunny day. No school because of some teachers’ conference. But I wouldn’t be going anywhere. Or seeing any friends.

  “I’ve never seen them so angry,” I told Harrison. “The spaghetti stains won’t come out of the curtains or the wall. We tried everything.”

  “Did you tell your parents the dummy did it?” Harrison asked.

  “They won’t listen,” I replied. “Every time I mention Slappy, it makes them even more angry. They started screaming at me never to mention the dummy again.”

  “And do you really think he’s alive?” he asked.

  I shivered. “I know he is, Harrison. I locked him in a suitcase. I made sure the suitcase was double locked. We have to get him out of here. As far away as we can.”

  “What about the birthday party Saturday night?” Harrison interrupted. “We need the dummy for the party — remember?” And then he added, “But you’re grounded. Does that mean we can’t entertain at the party?”

  “Mom is going to let me do the party,” I told him. “Mrs. Simkin called. Her little boy is the birthday boy. But she had a flood in her basement. So we’re having the party at my house. Down in the basement.”

  “So we need Slappy,” Harrison declared.

  “No way!” I cried. “I told you, I locked him in a suitcase. I won’t let him out. I won’t!” I switched the phone to my other ear. “We have to do the clown act, Harrison.”

  “We can’t!” he cried. “Kids hate our clown act, Jillian. It was so bad, it made the kids cry — remember?”

  “But the dummy — ” I started.

  “I wrote a whole act for the dummy and the doll,” Harrison declared. “It’s really funny. The kids will love it. We have to do it.”

  I didn’t say a word. I kept picturing the evil grin on Slappy’s face as he sat at the dinner table, the dishes broken, spaghetti smeared everywhere. And once again I saw the words crudely scribbled on my mirror and wall: WHERE IS MY BRIDE?

  My whole body trembled.

  I couldn’t do a ventriloquist act with him. I couldn’t give Slappy a chance to do more evil.

  “Find another dummy,” I told Harrison. “That’s the only way we can do the act. We can use Mary-Ellen. But I won’t use Slappy. You’ll have to find another dummy.”

  “Okay, okay,” he agreed. “A new dummy. I’ll find one. No problem.”

  * * *

  “Give me that!”

  “No — it’s mine!”

  “You said you’d share!”

  “Go get your own!”

  The first fight broke out at the birthday party about five minutes after the guests started to arrive.

  Six-year-olds can be beasts. I should know. My six-year-old twin sisters are beasts most of the time.

  And now, Harrison and I stood together in the center of my basement rec room, staring at about fifteen six-year-olds, wrestling, hopping, jumping up and down, shouting, laughing, and chasing each other around the room.

  Harrison snickered and shook his head. “Their parents couldn’t wait to dump them here and get out.”

  I sighed. “Can you blame them?”

  A balloon burst — and a little girl with red braids started to cry. Harrison hurried to calm her down.

  The parents were having their own party next door. Even Mrs. Simkin couldn’t wait to escape — and it was her son Eddie’s party!

  “We’ll be next door,” she said, leaving Harrison and me in charge. “Just shout if you need us.”

  Harrison finally got the red-haired girl to stop crying. He hurried back to me. A soccer ball flew across the room and nearly bounced into the birthday cake. “Mrs. Simkin isn’t paying us enough!” Harrison sighed.

  I glanced across the room. Katie and Amanda appeared to be having a good time. They were showing their huge collection of beanbag dolls to two other girls.

  I looked down to see Eddie Simkin, the birthday boy, tugging at my T-shirt. “When does the show start?” he demanded. “We want the show to start.”

  He began to chant, and a couple of other boys joined in: “We want the show! We want the show!”

  “Let’s go get Maxie and Mary-Ellen,” I suggested to Harrison. “At least the show will keep the kids quiet for a while.”

  “Maybe,” Harrison said, shaking his head.

  Maxie was a goofy-looking, bucktoothed dummy Harrison had found in his uncle’s attic. We had practiced with Maxie and Mary-Ellen all week, and it had gone really well. In fact, the act was so funny, we’d laughed ourselves silly.

  I couldn’t wait to perform the act for the kids.

  We’d hid Maxie and Mary-Ellen in suitc
ases. And we’d stashed them in the closet in my dad’s workshop on the other side of the basement.

  Harrison lifted Mary-Ellen from her suitcase and straightened her hair.

  I pulled Maxie’s beat-up suitcase from the closet and set it on its side.

  “Now, don’t forget the changes we made in the song,” I warned Harrison.

  He nodded. “No problem.”

  I clicked open Maxie’s case. And lifted the lid. And reached in for Maxie.

  “Noooooo!” A moan of horror burst from my throat.

  “How did HE get in here?” I shrieked.

  Harrison and I both stared down at Slappy.

  Slappy.

  Slappy.

  Grinning up at us from Maxie’s suitcase.

  “We want the show! We want the show!”

  Across the basement, the kids were all chanting.

  “I — I can’t do this,” I told Harrison. “I’m too afraid.”

  “We want the show! We want the show!”

  Harrison gaped into the suitcase. “Who switched dummies?” he choked out. “How — how — ?”

  Slappy’s grin appeared to spread. His round eyes flashed in the dim basement light.

  “We want the show! We want the show!”

  Harrison grabbed my arm. “We have to do it,” he insisted. “We have to do the show. The kids will riot if we don’t. It’ll be ugly!”

  Behind us, the kids chanted and cheered. They were sitting on the floor, clapping as they chanted, waiting impatiently for us.

  “But — he was locked upstairs!” I cried, staring down at the painted, grinning face. “Locked up tight.”

  “Just pick him up,” Harrison ordered. “We’ll do the show. Then we’ll get rid of him for good. Pick him up, Jillian. Hold on to him tightly. It’ll be okay.”

  I glanced back at the chanting kids. They were getting restless. I knew Harrison was right. I knew we had to go on with the show.

  I took a deep breath — and hoisted Slappy into my arms. Harrison perched Mary-Ellen on his arms. Then we marched across the basement to begin the act.

  “It’s my birthday!” Eddie declared, pushing his way through several kids. “So I get the best seat.” He plopped down right in front of Slappy and me.

  Harrison and I sat down on tall, wooden stools. We raised Slappy and Mary-Ellen to our laps. I gripped the dummy as tight as I could. We started our show.