17 - Why I'm Afraid of Bees

If you’re afraid of bees, I have to warn you—there are a
lot
of bees
in this story. In fact, there are hundreds.

Up until last month, I was afraid of bees. And when you read this story,
you’ll see why.

It all started in July when I heard a frightening
buzz,
the buzz of a
bee.

I sat up straight and searched all around. But I couldn’t see any bees
anywhere. The scary buzzing sound just wouldn’t stop. In fact, it seemed to be
getting louder.

“It’s probably Andretti again,” I told myself. “Ruining my day, as usual.”

I’d been reading a stack of comic books under the big maple tree in my back
yard. Other kids might have better things to do on a hot, sticky summer
afternoon—like maybe going to the pool with their friends.

But not me. My name is Gary Lutz, and I have to be honest. I don’t have many real close friends. Even my nine-year-old
sister, Krissy, doesn’t like me very much. My life is the pits.

“Why is that?” I constantly ask myself. “What exactly is wrong with me? Why
do all the kids call me names like Lutz the Klutz? Why does everybody always
make fun of me?”

Sometimes I think it might be because of the way I look. That morning, I’d
spent a long time studying myself in the mirror. I’d stared at myself for at
least half an hour.

I saw a long, skinny face, a medium-sized nose, and straight blond hair. Not
exactly handsome, but not terrible.

Bzzzzzz.

I can’t stand that sound! And it was coming even closer.

I flopped over on my stomach. Then I peered around the side of the maple
tree. I wanted to get a better view of my neighbor’s yard.

Oh, no, I thought. I was right. The buzzing sound was coming from Mr.
Andretti’s bees. My neighbor was at it again. He was always hanging out in the
back by his garage, messing with those bees of his.

How could he handle them every day without worrying about getting stung? I
asked myself. Didn’t they give him the creeps?

I climbed to my knees and edged a few inches forward. Even though I wanted to get a better look at Mr. Andretti, I didn’t
want him to see me.

The last time he caught me watching him, he made a big deal out of it. He
acted as if there were some kind of law against sitting outside in your own back
yard!

“What’s this?” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Did someone start a
neighborhood watch committee without informing me? Or is the FBI recruiting
ten-year-old spies these days?”

This last remark really steamed me, because Mr. Andretti knows perfectly well
that I’m
twelve
years old. After all, my family has lived next door to
him for my entire life. Which is bad luck for me. Mainly since I’m afraid of
bees.

I might as well confess it right away. I’m scared of a few other things, too,
such as: dogs, big mean kids, the dark, loud noises, and swimming in the ocean.
I’m even scared of Claus. That’s Krissy’s dumb cat.

But, most of all, I’m scared of bees. Unfortunately, with a beekeeper for a
neighbor, there are
always
bees around. Hairy, crawly, buzzing, stinging
bees.

“Meow!”

I jumped up as Claus the cat came creeping up behind me. “Why do you have to
stalk me like that?” I cried.

As I spoke, Claus moved forward and wrapped himself around my leg. Then he dug his long, needle-sharp claws into my skin.

“Ouch!” I screamed. “Get away from me!” I cannot understand how Krissy can
love that creature so much. She says he only jumps on me because he “likes” me.
Well, all I can say is that I
don’t
like him! And I wish he would keep
away from me!

When I finally managed to chase Claus away, I went back to studying my
neighbor. Yes, I’m scared of bees. And I’m fascinated by them, too.

I can’t seem to stop watching Mr. Andretti all the time. At least he keeps
his hives in a screened-in area behind his garage. That makes me feel pretty
safe. And he acts as if he knows what he’s doing. In fact, he acts as if he’s
the world’s greatest living expert on bees!

Today, Mr. Andretti was wearing his usual bee outfit. It’s a white suit, and
a hat with a wire-screen veil hanging down to protect his face. His clothes are
tied with string at the wrists and ankles. He looks just like some kind of alien
creature out of a horror movie.

As my neighbor carefully opened and closed the drawerlike sections of his
hanging hives, I noticed he wasn’t wearing any gloves.

Once, when I was with my dad, Mr. Andretti had explained this to us. “It’s
like this, Lutz,” he said. Lutz is my father, Ken Lutz. Naturally, during this entire conversation, Mr. Andretti had acted as if I wasn’t even
there.

“Your average beekeepers usually wear gloves,” he explained. “A lot of the
brave ones use gloves with no fingers and thumbs so they can work with the bees
more easily.”

Mr. Andretti thumped himself on the chest and went on. “But your truly
outstanding beekeeper—such as myself—likes to work with his bare hands. My
bees trust me. You know, Lutz, bees are really a lot smarter than most people
realize.”

Oh, sure, I said to myself at the time. If they’re really so smart, why do
they keep coming back to your hive and letting you steal all their honey from
them?

Bzzzzzz.

The humming from Mr. Andretti’s hives suddenly grew louder and more
threatening. I stood up and walked over to the fence between our two back yards.
I gazed into the screened-in area to see what was going on.

Then I gasped out loud.

Mr. Andretti’s white suit didn’t appear white anymore. It had become
black!

Why? Because he was totally
covered
with bees!

As I stared, more and more of the insects oozed out of their hives. They
crawled all over Mr. Andretti’s arms and chest, and even on his head.

I was so grossed out, I thought I might puke!

Mr. Andretti’s hat and veil shimmered and bulged as if they were
alive!

Wasn’t he scared of all those stingers?

As I leaned over the fence, Andretti suddenly yelled at me:
“Gary—look out!”

I froze. “Huh?”

“The bees!” Mr. Andretti screamed. “They’re out of control! Run!”

I never ran so fast in my life! I charged across the yard and stumbled up the
back steps of my house.

I flung open the screen door and almost fell into the house. Then I stopped
and leaned against the kitchen table, gasping for air.

When I finally caught my breath, I listened hard. I could still hear the
angry buzzing of the bees from the next yard. Then I heard something else.

“Haw haw haw!”

Somebody was laughing out there. And it sounded suspiciously like Mr.
Andretti.

Slowly, I turned around and peered out through the screen door. My neighbor
was standing at the bottom of the back steps. He’d taken off his bee veil, and I
could see that he had a huge grin on his face.

“Haw haw! You should have seen the expression on your face, Gary. You never would believe how funny you looked! And
the way you
ran!”

I stared at him. “You mean your bees weren’t escaping?”

Mr. Andretti slapped his knee. “Of course they weren’t! I have complete
control of those bees at all times. They come and go, bringing nectar and pollen
back from the flowers.”

He paused to wipe some sweat off his forehead. “Of course, sometimes I have
to go out and recapture a few lost bees with my net. But most of them know my
hives are really the best home they can possibly have!”

“So this was all a joke, Mr. Andretti?” I tried to sound angry. But that’s
hard to do when your voice is shaking even harder than your knees! “It was
supposed to be funny?”

“I guess that’ll teach you to get a life and stop staring at me all day!” he
replied. Then he turned and walked away.

I was so angry! What a mean trick!

It was bad enough having kids my age pick on me all the time. But now the
grown-ups were starting in!

I pounded my fist on the kitchen table just as my mother walked into the
room. “Hi, Gary,” she said, frowning. “Try not to destroy the furniture, okay? I
was just about to make myself a sandwich. Would you like one?”

“I guess so,” I muttered, sitting down at the table.

“Would you like the usual?”

I nodded. “The usual” was peanut butter and jelly, which I never get tired
of. For a snack, I usually like taco chips, the spicier the better. As I waited
for my sandwich, I ripped open a new bag of chips and started chewing away.

“Uh-oh.” Mom was rummaging through the refrigerator. “I’m afraid we’re out of
jelly. Guess we’ll have to use something else.”

She pulled out a small glass jar. “How about this with your peanut butter?”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Honey.”

“Honey!” I shrieked.
“No way!”

Later, I was feeling lonely. I wandered over to the school playground. As I
walked by the swing set, I saw a bunch of kids I knew from school.

They were standing around on the softball diamond, choosing up sides for a
game. I joined them. Maybe, just maybe, they’d let me play.

“Gail and I are captains,” a boy named Louie was saying.

I walked over and stood at the edge of the group. I was just in time.

One by one, Louie and Gail picked players for their teams. Every kid was
chosen. Every kid except one, that is. I was left standing by myself next to home plate.

As I slumped my shoulders and stared down at the ground, the captains
starting fighting over me. “You take him, Gail,” Louie said.

“No.
You
take him.”

“No fair. I always get stuck with Lutz!”

As the two captains argued over who was going to be stuck with me, I could
feel my face getting redder and redder. I wanted to leave. But then they all
would have said I was a quitter.

Finally, Gail sighed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right,” she said. “We’ll
take him. But remember the special Lutz rule. He gets
four
strikes before
he’s out!”

I swallowed hard and followed my teammates out onto the diamond. At that
point, luck was with me. Gail sent me to the outfield.

“Go way out in right, Lutz,” Gail ordered. “By the back fence. Nobody ever
hits it out there.”

Some kids might be angry about being stuck so far away from the action. But I
was grateful. If no balls were hit to me, I wouldn’t have a chance to drop them
the way I always did.

As I watched the game, my stomach slowly tied itself into a tight knot. I was
last in the batting order. But when my turn at the plate finally came around,
the bases were loaded.

I picked up the bat and wandered out toward the plate. A groan rose up from my teammates. “Lutz is up?” somebody cried in
disbelief.

“Easy out!” yelled the girl playing first base. “No batter, no batter, no
batter!” Everyone on the other team hooted and laughed. Out of the corner of my
eye I saw Gail put her face in her hands.

I ground my teeth together and started praying. Please let me get a walk.
Please let me get a walk. I knew I could never hit the ball. So a walk was my
one and only hope.

Of course I struck out.

Four straight strikes.

“Lutz the Klutz!” I heard someone cry. Then a lot of kids laughed.

Without looking back, I marched off the baseball diamond and away from the
playground. I was heading home toward the peace and quiet of my own room. It
might not be perfect, I thought. But at least at home no one teased me about
being a klutz.

“Hey, look, guys!” a voice shouted as I turned onto my street.

“Hey—wow—it’s Lutz the Klutz!” someone else answered.

“Lookin’ good, dude!”

I couldn’t believe my bad luck. The three voices belonged to the biggest,
meanest, toughest creeps in the entire neighborhood—Barry, Marv, and Karl. They’re my age, but at least five times as big!

These guys are
gorillas!
I mean, their knuckles drag on the sidewalk!

And when they’re not swinging back and forth on a tire swing in their gorilla
cage, what’s their favorite activity?

You guessed it. Beating me up!

“Give me a break, guys,” I pleaded. “I’m having a bad day.”

They laughed.

“You want a
break,
Lutz?” one of them shouted menacingly. “Here!”

I only had time to blink as I watched a huge, mean-looking fist heading right
for my nose.

A long, painful ten minutes later, I walked through the back door of my
house. Fortunately, my mom was somewhere upstairs. She didn’t see my bloody
nose, scratched, bruised arms, and torn shirt.