Feather Brain (5 page)

Sometimes he'd pull the plastic lids too far away for me to reach; then I'd have to send in a new one. After a while my room began to smell of rotting meat and dinosaur poop, but I didn't dare go into the closet to clean it up.

I learned to turn on my radio whenever I fed him or whenever he was noisy, which was a lot of the time. Otherwise Mom or Dad would bang on the door and ask exactly what my special project involved.

“Just practicing dinosaur cries,” I said.

Stegy became quieter and quieter. The only time he seemed happy was when I took him outside. He loved grazing on fresh grass and the shoots of plants coming up in the garden.

I learned to like being at school more than being at home. That was weird. Even Kyle didn't seem so awful.

And then, one Friday morning, I couldn't find my jeans. I'd been dropping them on the floor every night and pulling them on again in the morning. But they were gone. The closet was still blocked by my dresser, so the beast couldn't have done it. Stegy was snoring in his box. Mom? Oh, no—laundry!

I raced downstairs. Sure enough, my jeans were whirling around in the washer in a flurry of soap bubbles. I looked down. I was wearing pajamas; little dinosaurs danced down my legs. Definitely not for Kyle's eyes. Could I convince Mom I was sick?

“You'll have to wear something else today,” her voice announced from behind me. I spun around.

She smiled. “Your jeans will be clean and dry tomorrow. Today you need to choose something else.” She pushed me toward the stairs. “Go on.”

I dragged myself up the stairs, considering my options. Wear dinosaur pajamas to school? Kyle would love that. Convince Mom I was too sick to go to school
until my jeans were dry? No chance. Tell her about my dinosaurs? She'd never believe me because they were just models to her. I'd only be in more trouble.

Could I ask her to go into my closet? But she'd see the mess and never let me keep my door closed. Then the beast would tear apart the whole house when Mom and Dad weren't looking. Maybe I could just throw myself out my window and break a leg. Then I wouldn't have to go to school. But I'd have to stay home with the beast. I finally decided I had to go into the closet.

I shut my door, turned on the radio and packed Stegy away inside two boxes so he'd be totally out of reach of the beast. I pulled on an old sweatshirt and tugged on a pillowcase like a helmet, the pillow still inside.

I unpacked one of my plastic boxes to drop on top of him. I pushed my dresser to one side and picked up the plastic container. Taking a deep breath, I pulled open the closet doors, ready to drop the box on top of the beast.

But he was too fast. In a flash, he was out of the closet, racing around the room, hissing and clawing. He must have smelled Stegy, because he attacked Stegy's boxes with a roar. I chased after him with my container, dropping it down on him, but I only caught one leg. He yanked it free and turned on me.

The pillow protected my head, but he scratched my cheeks, clawed holes in my sweatshirt and tore right through my pajama pants. Finally I trapped him with the plastic container while he was trying to shred my feet. I stood with one foot on top of the box, ignoring his shrieks, while I pulled jeans and clean pajamas out of my closet. Then I scooped out all the plastic lids and bits of rotting meat, and pushed the plastic box inside the closet. But how was I going to get it off him and still keep him trapped?

Maybe I could just leave him in it. I sighed—it really was too small. I wasn't that mean, even if he was. I pulled the closet doors almost shut; then I used a ruler to flip over the box. While the beast attacked the doors, I pushed them shut and dragged my dresser back into place.

Finally I sat on my bed with a thump and checked out the damage. Sweatshirt and pajama bottoms— trashed. Stegy safe. Room stinking of meat. I opened the window and bagged up the garbage.

Me? I snuck into the bathroom to check. Scratched face, arms, chest and legs. Bleeding feet. I scrubbed and sprayed all the scrapes. We were almost out of antiseptic spray; I'd have to make up a story for Mom. Luckily she was drowning in tax returns, so she might not pay attention.

I pulled on clean jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, even though it was nice out. Nothing else would cover my scratches. Then I made up a story at breakfast.

“What happened to your face?” Mom asked, turning my head to examine my cheek.

“I tripped and fell” I said. “I tore my dinosaur pajama pants too. I know you're busy right now—you don't have to try to fix them. I have others.”

She looked at me, puzzled. I was usually fanatical about anything with dinosaurs on them. But she really was busy, so she let it go and went back to making coffee.

“I cleaned the scrape,” I said. “We're almost out of antiseptic spray.”

“I'll put it on the shopping list,” she said, jotting it on the list on the fridge. Then she stood, pencil in hand, looking around the kitchen.

“Coffee,” I said. “You were making coffee.”

She smiled. “Thanks, hon. I'm a little distracted these days.”

“I know,” I said. “Tax season.”

But I guess she wasn't as distracted as I thought. After dinner I heard her talking to Dad. “I called Lucas's teacher today, Miss Dubois. I'm worried he
doesn't have any friends. Miss Dubois says he's a nice boy who gets along well with most of the kids.”

Dad said, “He's just quiet. Don't worry so much.”

“But I do worry. And Miss Dubois agreed to help. She said there's another boy in the class who doesn't seem to have any close friends, and she'll try to encourage them to work together.”

Kyle
, I thought as I listened from the stairs. He was the only other kid in the class who didn't have friends. Everyone was afraid of him, afraid they'd become his next target. I couldn't cope with Kyle
and
the beast. And since I couldn't do anything about Kyle, I was going to have to get rid of the beast. Somehow.

Saturday morning I tackled the beast. Literally. I waited until Mom was working in her office and Dad was vacuuming. I found a cardboard box in the garage and borrowed a roll of packing tape. I pushed Stegy into his box, shut the window and the door, and turned on the radio, loud. Then I dressed in my torn sweatshirt and pulled my ragged pajama pants over my jeans, strapped on my bike helmet and pulled on Mom's leather gardening gloves.

I tried to pretend I was a brave gladiator, but I didn't feel very brave when I pushed the dresser away from the closet doors. Mostly I felt queasy.

I squared my shoulders, picked up my box and tried to feel tough. Slowly, I eased open the closet doors
a crack. Maybe the beast was sleeping and I could trap him easily.

But suddenly he was smashing against the doors, screeching and clawing. When I didn't open them any further, he roared with fury and launched himself at the doors again. He pulled back and threw himself at them, over and over. The rhythm gave me an idea. I set the box right by the opening and waited. He smashed against the doors, drew back and smashed again. When he drew back once more, I opened the doors so that instead of hitting the doors, he flew past them, right into the box. Yes!

I flipped over one flap, then turned the box upright and scrambled for the others. He clawed past them. I pushed him in and pulled down another flap. He ripped at my gloves but the leather protected me. He tried again, higher this time, and tore a gouge down my wrist. I stifled a scream, shook him off and pushed him back down again. Then I held all four flaps in place with one hand while I groped for the packing tape with the other.

I tugged off a leather glove with my teeth and held the tape between my knees while I tried to find the end. My other hand was fighting to keep the beast in the box. Finally I stood, with one foot on the top of
the box, so I could get both hands on the roll of tape. I ran my fingers around and around the roll until I found an end. I picked it loose and unrolled a length of tape. Kneeling, I started strapping up the box. The beast sank his teeth into my bare fingers as they passed by the opening between the flaps. I poked him in the eye with my other hand, and he let go with a shriek. Quickly I taped up the opening. Then I wrapped tape around and around the box.

Feeling clever, I wiped the blood off my hands with a tissue and snuck down the stairs with the shrieking box. I carried it out to the garbage bin outside the back fence and dropped it into a can with a thump. You can go live at the dump, I thought. There'll be lots of food and it'll be far from me! I banged down the lid on the can, dropped down the lid of the bin and bounced back to the house. I had done it. I was free of the beast!

I hung out in my room all morning. I cleaned up the closet floor, opened the windows and let Stegy wander. He wouldn't go near the closet, but he loved exploring the rest of the room. After lunch, I took him out to the yard. He feasted on dandelion greens, tiny shoots of chives and long crabgrass spears. Together we explored
the garden, finding every plant that was pushing its way out of the dirt. We had a great day.

After dinner, Mom took out the garbage and came back fuming. “A dog has torn apart the garbage bags and strewn garbage all over the place. And I have nineteen tax returns to finish!”

Dad looked over his shoulder at her, his hands in the kitchen sink, washing dishes. “Lucas can do it. Take a big green garbage bag, will you? Just bag up everything. You can wear gardening gloves if you want. Then make sure the bin lid is down.”

I stood immobile in the middle of the kitchen. I was pretty sure no dog had dug around in our garbage bin.

“Lucas?” Mom shook me. “Go ahead. You're old enough to help with gross chores.”

I looked up at her with huge eyes. “But Mooom—”

“What? Dad and I are both busy. You don't think you can do it?” She raised her eyebrows, making it perfectly clear what the right answer was.

“No, I'll do it,” I said, my voice weak.

Dad smiled as he turned back to the dishes; he didn't say anything to save me.

I armed myself again—with a torn sweatshirt, a garbage bag and leather gloves. I didn't think they'd
understand the bike helmet; I'd just have to hope the beast was long gone.

He was. I could see where he had chewed open the cardboard box. And I could see, from how far the garbage was flung across the alley, that he was really, really angry. But I couldn't figure out how he had opened the garbage bin lid. Was he really that strong?

That thought left me shaking as I hurried to pick up the garbage. I wanted to get back inside before he knew I was out here. I was almost done when Kyle walked by.

“Ah, the garbage boy!” he said with a nasty smirk. “Were you a bad boy? Parents make you do the nasty job?”

I just ignored him and leaned down to pick up the last crumpled paper. Kyle was stepping closer when he heard our back door shut. He turned and walked away, muttering, “About time, too. Spoiled brat!”

He thought I was spoiled? I didn't have a computer or a tv in my room, not like lots of kids. I wasn't spoiled! I glared as he walked down the alley, cool in his oversized sweatshirt. At least I didn't wear the same shirt every day!

Dad came out just as I was finishing.

“Nice job,” he said as he lifted the full garbage bag into the bin for me. As we walked back through the yard, he stopped and leaned down near the raspberry canes. He reached out an arm and stood up with the beast in his hand. “You must have left this outside when you were playing earlier. Don't leave it out in the rain—it's your best model yet.”

I stared at the beast in horror. I did not want him back! But Dad would never understand. Slowly I took him from Dad. Then, just as slowly, an idea formed.

“Hey, Dad, I'm having trouble with my math. Could you come up and help me?” Maybe if he came up to my room with me, I could get the beast into my closet while he was still motionless.