Noisy Outlaws, Unfriendly Blobs, and Some Other Things That Aren't As Scary Page 5

  “So why didn’t anyone from Bungalow 4 take a picture of the monster?”

  “They did. But you couldn’t see anything.”

  “Snow is cooler anyway.”

  “No way. A monster is way better.”

  “I think it’s weird that Terence hasn’t come back up yet.”

  “Hey, Terence! Terence!”

  They all yelled for Terence for a few minutes. The snow kept falling. They did little dances in the snow to keep warm. The fire got thinner and thinner and started to go out. But before it went out, the monster came up the muddy, snowy path. It smiled at them and it came up the path and Danny Anderson shone his flashlight at it and they could all see it was a monster and not Terence pretending to be a monster. No one in Bungalow 6 had ever seen a monster before, but they all knew that a monster was what it was. It had a white face and its hands were red and dripping. It moved very fast.

  You can learn a lot of stuff at camp. You learn how to wiggle an arrow so that it comes out of a straw target without the metal tip coming off. You learn how to make something out of yarn and twigs called a skycatcher, because there’s a lot of extra yarn and twigs in the world, and someone had to come up with something to do with it. You learn how to jam your feet up into the mattress of the bunk above you, while someone is leaning out of it, so that they fall out of bed. You learn that if you are riding a horse and the horse sees a snake on the trail, the horse will stand on its hind legs. Horses don’t like snakes. You find out that tennis rackets are good for chasing bats. You find out what happens if you leave your wet clothes in your trunk for a few days. You learn how to make rockets and you learn how to pretend not to care when someone takes your rocket and stomps on it. You learn to pretend to be asleep when people make fun of you. You learn how to be lonely.

  The snow came down and people ran around Honor Lookout. They screamed and waved their arms around and fell down. The monster chased them. It moved so quickly that sometimes it seemed to fly. It was laughing like this was an excellent, fun game. The snow was still coming down and it was dark, which made it hard to see what the monster did when it caught people. James Lorbick sat still. He pretended that he was asleep or not there. He pretended that he was writing a letter to his best friend in Chicago who was spending the summer playing video games and hanging out at the library and writing and illustrating his own comic book. “Dear Alec, how are you? Camp is almost over, and I am so glad. This has been the worst summer ever. We went on a hike and it rained and my counselor found a bone. This kid made me put on a dress. There was a monster that ate everybody. How is your comic book coming? Did you put in the part I wrote about the superhero who can only fly when he’s asleep?”

  The monster had one Simpson twin under each arm. The twins were screaming. The monster threw them down the path. Then it bent over Bryan Jones, who was lying half inside one of the tents, half in the snow. There were slurping noises. After a minute it stood up again. It looked back and saw James Lorbick. It waved.

  James Lorbick shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the monster was standing over him. It had red eyes. It smelled like rotting fish and kerosene. It wasn’t actually all that tall, the way you’d expect a monster to be tall. Except for that, it was even worse than Bungalow 4 had said.

  The monster stood and looked down and grinned. “You,” it said. It had a voice like a dead tree full of bees: sweet and dripping and buzzing. It poked James on the shoulder with a long black nail. “What are you?”

  “I’m James Lorbick,” James said. “From Chicago.”

  The monster laughed. Its teeth were pointed and terrible. There was a smear of red on the dress where it had touched James. “You’re the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. Look at that dress. Look at your hair. It’s standing straight up. Is that mud? Why are you covered in mud?”

  “I was going to be a monster,” James said. He swallowed. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” the monster said. “Wow, maybe I should go visit Chicago. I’ve never seen anything as funny as you. I could look at you for hours and hours. Whenever I needed a laugh. You’ve really made my day, James Lorbick.”

  The snow was still falling. James shivered and shivered. His teeth were clicking together so loudly he thought they might break. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Where’s Terence? Did you do something to him?”

  “Was he the guy who was down at the bottom of the hill? Talking on a cell phone?”

  “Yeah,” James said. “Is he okay?”

  “He was talking to some girl named Darlene,” the monster said. “I tried to talk to her, but she started screaming and it hurt my ears so I hung up. Do you happen to know where she lives?”

  “Somewhere in Ohio,” James said.

  “Thanks,” the monster said. He took out a little black notebook and wrote something down.

  “What are you?” James said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Angelina Jolie,” the monster said. It blinked.

  James’s heart almost stopped beating. “Really?” he said. “Like in Danny Anderson’s dream?”

  “No,” the monster said. “Just kidding.”

  “Oh,” James said. They sat in silence. The monster used one long fingernail to dig something out from between its teeth. It belched a foul, greasy belch. James thought of Bryan. Bryan probably would have belched right back, if he still had a head.

  “Are you the monster that Bungalow 4 saw?” James asked.

  “Were those the kids who were here a few days ago?”

  “Yeah,” James said.

  “We hung out for a while,” the monster said. “Were they friends of yours?”

  “No,” James said. “Those kids are real jerks. Nobody likes them.”

  “That’s a shame,” the monster said. Even when it wasn’t belching, it smelled worse than anything James had ever smelled before. Fish and kerosene and rotting maple syrup poured over him in waves. He tried not to breathe.

  The monster said, “I’m sorry about the rest of your bungalow. Your friends. Your friends who made you wear a dress.”

  “Are you going to eat me?” James said.

  “I don’t know,” the monster said. “Probably not. There were a lot of you. I’m not actually that hungry anymore. Besides, I would feel silly eating a kid in a dress. And you’re really filthy.”

  “Why didn’t you eat Bungalow 4?” James said. He felt sick to his stomach. If he looked at the monster he felt sick, and if he looked away, there was Danny Anderson, lying facedown under a pine tree with snow on his back and if he looked somewhere else, there were Bryan Jones’s legs poking out of the tent. There was Bryan Jones’s head. One of Bryan’s shoes had come off and that made James think of the hike, the way Terence lay down in the mud to fish for the Simpson twin’s shoe. “Why didn’t you eat them? They’re mean. They do terrible things and nobody likes them.”

  “Wow,” the monster said. “I didn’t know that. I would have eaten them if I’d known, maybe. Although most of the time I can’t worry about things like that.”

  “Maybe you should,” James said. “I think you should.”

  The monster scratched its head. “You think so? I saw you guys eating hot dogs earlier. So do you worry about whether those were good dogs or bad dogs when you’re eating them? Do you only eat dogs that were mean? Do you only eat bad dogs?”

  “Hot dogs aren’t really made from dogs,” James said. “People don’t eat dogs.”

  “I never knew that,” the monster said. “But, see, if I worried about that kind of thing, whether the person I was eating was a nice guy or a jerk, I’d never eat anyone. And I get hungry a lot. So to be honest, I don’t worry. All I really notice is whether the person I’m chasing is big or small or fast or slow. Or if they have a sense of humor. That’s important, you know. A sense of humor. You have to laugh about things. When I was hanging out with Bungalow 4, I was just having some fun. I was just playing around. Bungalow 4 mentioned that you guys were going to show up. I was jok
ing about how I was going to eat them and they said I should eat you guys instead. They said it would be really funny. I have a good sense of humor. I like a good joke.”

  It reached out and touched James Lorbick’s head.

  “Don’t do that!” James said.

  “Sorry,” said the monster. “I just wanted to see what the mud spikes felt like. Do you think it would be funny if I wore a dress and put a lot of mud on my head?”

  James shook his head. He tried to picture the monster wearing a dress, but all he could picture was somebody climbing up to Honor Lookout. Somebody finding pieces of James scattered everywhere like pink and red confetti. That somebody would wonder what had happened and be glad that it hadn’t happened to them. Maybe someday people would tell scary stories about what had happened to Bungalow 6 when they went camping. Nobody would believe the stories. Nobody would understand why one kid had been wearing a dress.

  “Are you shivering because you’re cold or because you’re afraid of me?” the monster said.

  “I don’t know,” James said. “Both. Sorry.”

  “Maybe we should get up and run around,” the monster said. “I could chase you. It might warm you up. Weird weather, isn’t it? But it’s pretty, too. I love how snow makes everything look nice and clean.”

  “I want to go home,” James said.

  “That’s Chicago, right?” the monster said. “That’s what I wrote down.”

  “You wrote down where I live?” James said.

  “All those guys from the other bungalow,” the monster said. “Bungalow 4. I made them write down their addresses. I like to travel. I like to visit people. Besides, if you say that they’re jerks, then I should go visit them? Right? It would serve them right.”

  “Yeah,” James said. “It would serve them right. That would be really funny. Ha ha ha.”

  “Excellent,” the monster said. It stood up. “It was great meeting you, James. Are you crying? It looks like you’re crying.”

  “I’m not crying. It’s just snow. There’s snow on my face. Are you leaving?” James said. “You’re going to leave me here? You aren’t going to eat me?”

  “I don’t know,” the monster said. It did a little twirl, like it was going to go running off in one direction, and then as if it had changed its mind, as if it was going to come rushing back at James. James whimpered. “I just can’t decide. Maybe I should flip a coin. Do you have a coin I can flip?”

  James shook his head.

  “Okay,” the monster said. “How about this. I’m thinking of a number between one and ten. You say a number and if it’s the same number, I won’t eat you.”

  “No,” James said.

  “Then how about if I only eat you if you say the number that I’m thinking of? I promise I won’t cheat. I probably won’t cheat.”

  “No,” James said, although he couldn’t help thinking of a number. He thought of the number four. It floated there in his head like a big neon sign, blinking on and off and back on. Four, four, four. Bungalow 4. Or six. Bungalow 6. Or was that too obvious? Don’t think of a number. He would have bet anything that the monster could read minds. Maybe the monster had put the number four in James’s head. Six. James changed the number to six hundred so it wouldn’t be a number between one and ten. Don’t read my mind, he thought. Don’t eat me.

  “I’ll count to six hundred,” the monster said. “And then I’ll chase you. That would be funny. If you get back to camp before I catch you, you’re safe. Okay? If you get back to camp first, I’ll go eat Bungalow 4. Okay? I tell you what. I’ll go eat them even if you don’t make it back. Okay?”

  “But it’s dark,” James said. “It’s snowing. I’m wearing a dress.”

  The monster looked down at its fingernails. It smiled like James had just told an excellent joke. “One,” it said. “Two, three, four. Run, James! Pretend I’m chasing you. Pretend that I’m going to eat you if I catch you. Five, six. Come on, James, run!”

  James ran.

  EACH SOLD

  SEPARATELY

  BY JON SCIESZKA

  Illustrated by Lane Smith

  He runs inside and puts the bag on the table.

  —I got it, he says.

  —Got what? says the girl.

  —The real thing.

  The girl looks in the bag.

  —Wow. You just did it. You obeyed your thirst.

  The boy nods.

  —I’m an army of one, a king of beers, a breakfast of champions.

  —I’m lovin’ it, says the girl.

  The boy holds the bag up and shakes it.

  —I let my fingers do the walking.

  —Snap! Crackle! Pop! cheers the girl.

  —Plop plop, fizz fizz, says the boy.

  —Are you in good hands? asks the girl.

  —M’m, m’m good hands.

  But now that the girl is standing, she sees herself in the mirror. She wonders.

  —Is it less filling?

  —Tastes great.

  —Low fat?

  —Low carb.

  —Twenty-five percent more?

  —Twenty-five percent less.

  —New?

  —And improved.

  There is a pause. The boy and girl are refreshed.

  The girl reaches for the bag.

  —I want fast acting, lemony fresh, sparkling clean, with whiteners!

  The boy holds the bag out of reach.

  —It’s for a limited time only.

  —But reach out and touch someone, says the girl.

  The boy edges toward the door.

  —Can you hear me now?

  —What would Jesus do? begs the girl.

  —Just say no, answers the boy.

  —Remember the Maine?

  —God bless America, says the boy.

  —Remember the Alamo?

  —Support our troops, says the boy.

  —Remember Pearl Harbor?

  —Freedom is on the march, says the boy.

  He eases the door open.

  The girl collapses back in her chair.

  —How do you spell relief?

  —You buy one, get one free, says the boy.

  He steps outside, them takes off running.

  —Land of the free, says the girl.

  —No child left behind, says the girl.

  —Each sold separately, says the girl.

  SEYMOUR’S

  LAST WISH

  BY SAM SWOPE

  Illustrated by Henrik Drescher

  Young Seymour had a big heart, a small brain, and a mother who, I am sorry to report, was an ogre. You’ll notice I didn’t say that she was “like” an ogre—no, Seymour’s mother was the real, live, genuine article, with greenish skin, lopsided eyes, bad posture, and a rotten personality. Her name, oddly, was Mrs. Seymour, and like all ogres, Mrs. Seymour loathed children—including Seymour, her own son. There was nothing personal in this; it’s just the way ogres are. (Perhaps it’s a genetic thing.) But in any event, Mrs. Seymour would have been much much happier if her son had been born something different, like a cat.

  Mrs. Seymour loved cats more than anything. She loved cats so much she had 1,138 of them. Cats were all over everywhere in her apartment. There were cats on the chairs and cats on the sofa. There were cats on the computer and cats on the fax. There were cats in the trash, on the toilet, and under the sink. Wherever they could be, there were cats.

  At night, Mrs. Seymour curled up with her 1,138 cats in her ogre-sized bed. There wasn’t room for Seymour, who slept by himself.

  Poor Seymour. He desperately wanted his mother to love him and he did everything he could think of to please her. He meowed hello to her each morning, licked himself clean each night, and never went near the food bowl till the cats were finished eating. But no matter what Seymour did, he couldn’t change the basic fact that he was a boy.

  Seymour lived with his mother and her cats on the 87th floor of the tallest skyscraper in the city. Every afternoon, his moth
er got out her 1,138 leashes and took the cats down the elevator and out for a walk in the park. Seymour always took up the rear. One day on their walk, Seymour was amusing himself by pretending to be a dinosaur—ROAR! ROAR! ROAR!—and noticed a path he’d never seen before. It curved down a hill and ended in a stand of birch trees through which shone a single beam of sunlight.

  Seymour went to investigate. The moment he stepped among the trees, the air went still, the world grew hushed, and it seemed that this was a place both magical and special. The shaft of sunlight, coming through the leaves, sparkled as if full of glitter, but on closer examination, Seymour discovered the sunbeam wasn’t full of glitter, or even motes of dust. It was full of fairies—thousands of tiny fairies with sparkly wings.

  Seymour darted his hand into the sunbeam, and just-like-that the fairies vanished. He was pretty sure he’d snagged one, though, because he felt a little tingling inside his fist. As he peered through his clenched fingers to see, he heard a muffled voice cry, “Let me out! Please, let me out!”

  Seymour opened his hand and there was a fairy. It was a boy fairy. He looked no older than Seymour himself, but of course a fairy’s age is always hard to tell for sure. Seymour was surprised to learn that fairies could be chubby. This one’s tunic was bulging at the seams. The poor little thing was quite frightened. His wings fluttered nervously and he cowered with his arms held over his head as if he expected to be smushed at any minute.

  “Don’t worry,” Seymour told him. “I won’t hurt you.”

  The fairy wasn’t the least bit convinced. He knew boys were not to be trusted. In order to miss some expected blow, the fairy executed dodging maneuvers across Seymour’s palm. He zigged and zagged, zagged and zigged, and sometimes he’d pretend he was about to zig and zag instead. Or just the reverse. Not surprisingly, before long the fat little fairy was huffing and puffing, and the sight was so comical that Seymour couldn’t help but giggle.