28 - The Cuckoo Clock of Doom (2 page)

Mom and Dad were still in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. I didn’t
think it would matter if I just looked at the clock a little.

Careful not to touch any buttons, I stared at the dial that showed the year.
I ran my fingers along a curve of silver at the edge of the clock. I glanced at the little door over the face of the clock. I knew the cuckoo sat
behind that door, waiting to leap out at the right time.

I didn’t want to be surprised by the bird again. I checked the time. Five
minutes to eight.

Under the face of the clock I saw another door. A big door. I touched its
gold knob.

What’s behind this door? I wondered. Maybe the gears of the clock, or a
pendulum.

I glanced over my shoulder again. No one was looking. No problem if I just
peeked behind that big clock door.

I tugged on the gold knob. The door stuck. I pulled harder.

The door flew open.

I let out a scream as an ugly green monster burst out of the clock. It
grabbed me and knocked me to the floor.

“Mom! Dad! Help!” I shrieked.

The monster raised its long claws over me. I covered my face, waiting to be
slashed.

“Goochy goochy goo!” The monster giggled and tickled me with its claws.

I opened my eyes. Tara! Tara in her old Halloween costume!

She rolled on the floor, giggling. “You’re so easy to scare!” she shouted.
“You should have seen your face when I jumped out of the clock!”

“It’s not funny!” I cried. “It’s—”

Gong.

Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!

The bird popped out of the clock and started cuckooing. Okay, I admit it
scared me again. But did Tara have to clutch her sides, laughing at me that way?

“What’s going on in here?” Dad stood in the doorway, glaring down at us.

He pointed at the clock. “What’s that door doing open? Michael, I
told
you to stay away from the clock!”

“ME?” I cried.

“He was trying to catch the cuckoo,” Tara lied.

“I
thought
so,” Dad said.

“Dad, that’s not true! Tara’s the one who—”

“Enough of that, Michael. I’m sick of hearing you blame Tara every time you
do something wrong. Maybe your mother is right. Maybe I have been encouraging
your imagination a little too much.”

“That’s not fair!” I yelled. “I don’t have any imagination! I
never
make anything up!”

“Dad, he’s lying,” Tara said. “I came in here and saw him playing with the
clock. I tried to stop him.”

Dad nodded, swallowing every word his precious Tara said.

There was nothing I could do. I stormed off to my room and slammed the door.

Tara was the biggest pain in the world, and she never got blamed for
anything. She even ruined my birthday.

I turned twelve three days ago. Usually, people like their birthday. It’s
supposed to be fun, right?

Not for me. Tara made sure my birthday was the worst day of my life. Or at least
one
of the worst.

First, she ruined my present.

I could tell my parents were very excited about this present. My mother kept
hopping around like a chicken, saying, “Don’t go in the garage, Michael!
Whatever you do, don’t go in the garage!”

I knew she’d hidden my present in there. But just to torture her, I asked,
“Why not? Why can’t I go in the garage? The lock on my bedroom door is broken,
and I need to borrow one of Dad’s tools….”

“No, no!” Mom exclaimed. “Tell your father to fix the lock. He’ll get the
tools. You can’t go in there, because… well… there’s a huge mound of
trash in there. It really stinks. It smells so bad, you could get sick from it!”

Sad, isn’t it? And she thinks I get my “imagination” from Dad!

“All right, Mom,” I promised. “I won’t go in the garage.”

And I didn’t—even though the lock on my door really was broken. I didn’t
want to spoil whatever surprise they had cooked up.

They were throwing me a big birthday party that afternoon. A bunch of kids
from school were coming over. Mom baked a cake and made snacks for the party.
Dad ran around the house, setting up chairs and hanging crepe paper.

“Dad, would you mind fixing the lock on my door?” I asked.

I like my privacy—and I
need
that lock. Tara had broken it a week
earlier. She’d been trying to kickbox the door down.

“Sure, Michael,” Dad agreed. “Anything you say. After all, you’re the
birthday boy.”

“Thanks.”

Dad took the toolbox upstairs and worked on the lock. Tara lounged around the
dining room making trouble. As soon as Dad was gone, she pulled down a crepe
paper streamer and left it lying on the floor.

Dad fixed the lock and returned the tools to the garage. As he passed through
the dining room, he noticed the torn-down streamer.

“Why won’t this crepe paper stay up?” he mumbled. He taped it back up. A few
minutes later, Tara tore it down again.

“I know what you’re doing, Tara,” I told her. “Stop trying to wreck my
birthday.”

“I don’t have to wreck it,” she said. “It’s bad all by itself—just because
it’s the day you were born.” She pretended to shudder in horror.

I ignored her. It was my birthday. Nothing could keep me from having fun, not
even Tara.

That’s what I
thought.

About half an hour before the party, Mom and Dad called me into the garage.

I pretended to go along with Mom’s silly story. “What about the horrible
trash?”

“Oh, that,” Mom clucked. “I made it up.”

“Really?” I said. “Wow. It was so believable.”

“If you believed that, you must be a moron,” Tara said.

Dad threw open the garage door. I stepped inside.

There stood a brand-new 21-speed bike. The bike I’d wanted for a long time.

The coolest bike I’d ever seen!

“Do you like it?” Mom asked.

“I love it!” I cried. “It’s awesome! Thanks!”

“Cool bike, Mike,” Tara said. “Mom, I want one of these for
my
birthday.”

Before I could stop her, she climbed up on the seat of my new bike.

“Tara, get off!” I yelled.

She didn’t listen. She tried to reach her feet to the pedals, but her legs
were too short. The bike fell over.

“Tara!” Mom cried, running to the little brat’s side. “Are you hurt?”

Tara stood up and brushed herself off. “I’m okay. I scraped my knee a little,
though.”

I picked up my bike and inspected it. It was no longer perfectly shiny and
black. There was a huge white scratch across the middle bar.

It was practically ruined.

“Tara, you wrecked my bike!”

“Let’s not get overexcited, Michael,” Dad said. “It’s only a scratch.”

“Don’t you even care about your sister?” Mom asked. “She could’ve been hurt!”

“It’s her own fault! She shouldn’t have touched my bike in the first place!”

“Michael, you have a lot to learn about being a good brother,” Dad said.

They make me so mad sometimes!

“Let’s go inside,” Mom said. “Your friends will be here soon.”

The party. I thought the party would make me feel better. After all, there
would be cake, presents, and my best friends. What could go wrong?

It started out okay. One by one my friends arrived, and they all brought me
presents. I’d invited five guys: David, Josh, Michael B., Henry, and Lars; and
three girls: Ceecee, Rosie, and Mona.

I wasn’t so crazy about Ceecee and Rosie, but I really liked Mona. She has
long, shiny brown hair and a turned-up nose that’s kind of cute. She’s tall, and
good at basketball. There’s something sort of cool about her.

Ceecee and Rosie are Mona’s best friends. I had to invite them if I was going
to invite Mona. They always go everywhere together.

Ceecee, Rosie, and Mona arrived all at once. They took off their jackets.
Mona was wearing pink overalls over a white turtleneck. She looked great. I didn’t care what
the other girls were wearing.

“Happy birthday, Michael!” they all called out at the door.

“Thanks,” I said.

They each handed me a gift. Mona’s was small and flat and wrapped in silver
paper. Probably a CD, I figured. But which one? What kind of CD would a girl
like Mona think a guy like me would like?

I set the presents on top of the pile in the living room.

“Hey, Michael—what did your parents give you?” David asked.

“Just a bike,” I said, trying to be cool about it. “A twenty-one speed.”

I put on a CD. Mom and Tara brought in plates of sandwiches. Mom went back to
the kitchen, but Tara stayed.

“Your little sister is so cute,” Mona said.

“Not once you get to know her,” I muttered.

“Michael! That’s not very nice,” Mona said.

“He’s a terrible big brother,” Tara told her. “He yells at me all the time.”

“I do not! Get lost, Tara.”

“I don’t have to.” She stuck her tongue out at me.

“Let her stay, Michael,” Mona said. “She’s not bothering anybody.”

“Hey, Mona,” Tara chirped. “You know, Michael really likes you.”

Mona’s eyes widened. “He does?”

My face got red-hot. I glared at Tara. I wanted to strangle her right then
and there. But I couldn’t—too many witnesses.

Mona started laughing. Ceecee and Rosie laughed, too. Luckily, the guys
didn’t hear this. They were around the CD player, skipping from cut to cut.

What could I say? I
did
like Mona. I couldn’t deny it—it would hurt
her feelings. But I couldn’t admit it, either.

I wanted to die. I wanted to sink through the floor and die.

“Michael, your face is all red!” Mona cried.

Lars heard this and called out, “What did Webster do now?”

Some of the guys call me by my last name.

I grabbed Tara and dragged her into the kitchen, Mona’s laughter ringing in
my ears.

“Thanks a lot, Tara,” I whispered. “Why did you have to tell Mona I like
her?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” the brat said. “I always tell the truth.”

“Yeah, right!”

“Michael—” Mom interrupted. “Are you being mean to Tara again?”

I stormed out of the kitchen without answering her.

“Hey, Webster,” Josh called when I returned to the living room. “Let’s see
your new bike.”

Good, I thought. A way to get away from the girls.

I led them to the garage. They all stared at the bike and nodded at each
other. They seemed really impressed. Then Henry grabbed the handlebars.

“Hey, what’s this big scratch?” he said.

“I know,” I explained. “My sister…”

I stopped and shook my head. What was the use?

“Let’s go back and open my presents,” I suggested.

We trooped back into the living room.

At least I’ve got more presents coming, I thought. Tara can’t ruin those.

But Tara always finds a way.

When I entered the living room, I found Tara sitting in the middle of a pile
of torn-up wrapping paper. Rosie, Mona, and Ceecee sat around her, watching.

Tara had opened all my presents for me.

Thanks so much, Tara.

She was ripping open the last present—Mona’s.

“Look what Mona gave you, Michael!” Tara shouted.

It
was
a CD.

“I’ve heard there are some great
love
songs on it,” Tara teased.

Everybody laughed. They all thought Tara was a riot.

Later, we all sat down in the dining room for cake and ice cream. I carried
the cake myself. Mom followed me, holding plates, candles, and matches.

It was my favorite kind of cake, chocolate-chocolate.

Balancing the cake in my hands, I stepped through the kitchen door and into
the dining room.

I didn’t see Tara pressed against the wall. I didn’t see her stick her bratty
little foot in the doorway.

I tripped. The cake flew out of my hands.

I landed on top of the cake. Facedown. Of course.

Some kids gasped. Some tried to muffle their laughter.

I sat up and wiped the brown frosting from my eyes.

The first face I saw was Mona’s. She was shaking with laughter.

Mom leaned over and scolded me. “What a mess! Michael, why don’t you look where you’re going?”

I listened to the laughter and stared at my ruined cake. I had no candles to
blow out now. But it didn’t matter. I decided to make a wish, anyway.

I wish I could start this birthday all over again.

I stood up, covered in gooey brown cake. My friends howled.

“You look like the Hulk!” Rosie cried.

Everybody laughed harder than ever.

They all had a great time at my party. Everyone did.

Except for me.

My birthday was bad—very bad. But ruining it wasn’t the worst thing Tara
did to me.

Nobody would believe the worst thing.

It happened the week before my birthday. Mona, Ceecee, and Rosie were coming
over. We all had parts in the school play, and planned to rehearse together at
my house.

The play was a new version of
The Frog Prince.
Mona played the
princess, and Ceecee and Rosie were her two silly sisters. Perfect casting, I
thought.

I played the frog, before the princess kisses him and turns him into a
prince. For some reason, our drama teacher didn’t want me to play the prince.
Josh got that part.

Anyway, I decided that the frog is a better part. Because Mona, the princess,
kisses the
frog,
not the prince.

The girls would arrive any minute.

Tara sat on the rug in the den, torturing our cat, Bubba. Bubba hated Tara
almost as much as I did.

Tara lifted Bubba by the hind legs, trying to make him do a handstand. Bubba
yowled and squirmed and wriggled away. But Tara caught him and made him do a
handstand again.

“Stop that, Tara,” I ordered.

“Why?” Tara said. “It’s fun.”

“You’re hurting Bubba.”

“No, I’m not. He likes it. See? He’s smiling.” She let go of his hind legs
and grabbed him with one hand under his front legs. With the other hand she
lifted the corners of his mouth and stretched them into a pained smile.