Locker 13 (5 page)

Yes. The long hair flowed from my nose and snaked around me as I watched in horror. Curled around me, covering me in warm, scratchy hair. Covering me like a big, furry coat, and then tightening. Tightening. Tightening around my chest. Tightening around my face. Wrapping me like a mummy. Wrapping me in my ghastly nose hair.

I woke up, one hand tightly wrapped around the Lucite block with the four-leaf clover. Gray morning sunlight seeped through my bedroom window. My room was so cold, cold as a freezer.

“Luke, what are you doing up there? You're late!” Mom's voice shattered the frozen silence.

“A dream,” I murmured. A hoarse laugh escaped my throat. My eyes darted around the room. Normal. Everything normal.

“Hurry, Luke! It's really late.” Mom's voice sounded so good to me.

I followed her order. I hurried. I got showered, dressed, ate breakfast, and arrived at school with about two minutes to spare. The halls were pretty empty. Most kids had already gone to their homerooms.

I glanced at the clock on the tile wall. Then jogged to the end of the back hall to toss my jacket into my locker.

But a few feet from my locker I stopped with a gasp.

What was that on the door to locker 13?

I crept closer.

A calendar?

Yes.

Someone had taped a calendar to the door. And … and today … Friday the thirteenth was circled in red.

“My dream!” I murmured.

That horrifying dream. It's coming true, I realized. I'm going to open the door, and it's going to come true.

 

I stared at the calendar, at the number 13 circled in red marker.

Last night's dream played itself again through my mind. I shuddered. My legs and arms itched. I could practically feel the disgusting hair curling around my skin.

With an angry cry I ripped the calendar off the door and crumpled it in my hand.

Now I expected to hear the heavy breathing from inside the locker. And the tiny cries—my cries—begging to be let out.

But I didn't wait. “I'm not opening it,” I said out loud.

No way
am I going to allow the dream to come true.

I tossed the wadded-up calendar sheet to the floor. Then I spun around and began running to class. The hall was empty. My shoes thudded loudly on the hard floor as I ran.

I'll keep my coat with me, I decided. I'll just drag it around with me all day. I don't need to open the locker.

The bell rang as I reached my homeroom door. Mr. Perkins looked up as I burst into the room. “Good morning, Luke,” he said. “Running a little late this morning?”

“A little,” I replied breathlessly. Unzipping my jacket, I started to my seat.

“Would you like time to go hang your coat in your locker?” Mr. Perkins asked.

“Uh … no. That's okay.” I lowered my backpack to the floor and dropped into the chair. “I'll just … keep it.”

A few kids were staring at me. Mr. Perkins nodded and turned back to the papers he was reading.

I took a deep breath and settled back against the chair. I rubbed the right sleeve of my lucky shirt seven times.

That dream is
not
going to come true! I told myself. No way! I won't let it.

Of course, I wasn't thinking clearly. How
could
that crazy dream come true?

If I had stopped for one second to think about it, I would have realized the whole idea was insane.

But today was Friday the thirteenth. And I
never
can think clearly on Friday the thirteenth. I admit it. I'm always a little crazy on that unlucky day.

I glanced up to see that Mr. Perkins had been reading the morning announcements. I hadn't heard a word he said. I pulled the four-leaf clover from my backpack, twirled it in my hand, and wished for good luck for the rest of the day.

At noon I found Hannah at a table against the back wall of the lunchroom. She was sitting all by herself, staring down at her brown lunchbag, which she hadn't opened.

“Hi. Whassup?” I dropped across from her.

“Hi,” she said softly, without raising her eyes. “How's it going?”

“Well, pretty okay for a Friday the thirteenth,” I said. Actually, the morning had flown by without any problems at all.

I expected Hannah to make some kind of joke about how superstitious I am. But she didn't say a word.

I pulled the sandwich from my bag and started to unwrap the foil. “My lucky sandwich,” I said. “Peanut butter and mayonnaise.”

“Yum,” she said, rolling her eyes. She finally looked at me. She appeared tired. Her eyes were bloodshot, red, as if she'd been crying. Her hair was a mess, and her face was gray.

“How come you're wearing your coat?” she asked.

“Oh … uh … no reason,” I said. “I was kind of cold.”

She nodded glumly.

“Did you come to school in the new SUV?” I asked.

She shook her head. “We don't have it yet. Dad has to go fill out a lot of papers.” She let out a long sigh.

I lowered my sandwich. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked.

She didn't answer. Instead, she sighed again and stared down at the table.

I poked her lunchbag with one finger. “What do you have for lunch?”

She shrugged. “Just some fruit. I'm not very hungry.” She opened the bag, reached a hand in, and pulled out a bright yellow banana.

She struggled with the skin. Then finally peeled it open.

“Oh, yuck!” Her face twisted in disgust. She dropped the banana to the table.

Inside the skin, the banana was completely rotten. Just a soft pile of black mush. A horrible, sour smell—like ripe vomit—floated up from it.

Hannah shoved the banana away. “Sick. That's really sick.”

“The skin is perfectly fresh,” I said. “How could the banana be so rotten?”

“I think I have an apple,” Hannah said glumly. She tore the bag apart and pulled out a red apple. She twirled it between her hands—then stopped with a gasp.

I saw the deep, dark hole on the side of the apple. And as we both stared at it, a fat, brown worm—at least two inches long—curled out from inside. And then another. And another.

The worms dropped from the apple, onto the tabletop.

“I don't
believe
this!” Hannah shrieked. She scraped her chair back so hard, it toppled over.

And before I could say anything, she was running from the room.

After school I looked for Hannah on my way to basketball practice. I was worried about her. She had acted so weird at lunch. Not like herself at all.

I reminded myself that it was Friday the thirteenth. And sometimes people act a little weird on this day.

But not Hannah. Hannah is the least superstitious person I know. She walks under ladders all the time, and she hugs black cats, and doesn't think a thing of it.

And why should she? Hannah has to be the luckiest person on earth!

Lockers slammed as kids prepared to go home. I started to the gym, then turned back. I don't want to carry my coat and backpack to the gym, I decided. I'm going to stuff them in my locker.

I hesitated as the locker came into view at the end of the hall. I read the words on the door: LUCKY 13. Of course I remembered my nightmare—and the calendar from my nightmare taped on the locker door.

But I had to open the locker. I didn't want to carry my stuff around with me for the rest of the year!

“Hey, Luke!” I saw Darnell Cross waving to me from the doorway to the science lab. “Are the Squires going to beat Davenport?”

“They're not so tough,” I called back. “We could take them.”

“You going to play?” Darnell asked. He grinned because he already knew the answer.

“As soon as I grow taller than Stretch!” I replied.

He laughed and disappeared back into the lab.

I stepped up to locker 13. I brought my face close to the door. “Anyone in there?” I called in.

Silence.

“Just checking,” I said. I grabbed the door handle. I was feeling pretty confident. Friday the thirteenth was two-thirds over, and so far, nothing terribly unlucky had happened to me.

I squeezed my rabbit's foot for luck. Then I took a deep breath—and pulled open the locker.

 

Nothing unusual inside the locker.

I realized I was still gripping the rabbit's foot inside my pocket. I let go of it and slipped my backpack off my shoulders.

I studied the locker carefully. A bunch of books and notebooks on the top shelf, where I had left them. My old gray sweatshirt lay crumpled on the locker floor.

No black cats. No one breathing or crying or shooting piles of hair from his nose.

I let out a long sigh of relief. Then I tossed the backpack on top of the balled-up sweatshirt. Shoved my jacket onto the hook on the back wall.

I started to slam the door shut when I spotted something at my feet.

My shoe kicked it and it rolled against the locker bottom, then bounced back.

A ball?

I bent down and picked it up. I raised it close to my face.

“Whoa.” Not a ball. A tiny yellow skull, a little larger than a Ping-Pong ball.

It had an open-mouthed grin, revealing two rows of gray teeth. I ran my finger over the teeth. They were hard and bumpy.

I squeezed it. The little skull was made of some kind of hard rubber.

The eyes—sunken deep in the sockets—were red glass. They glowed in the hall lights, like tiny rubies.

“Where did you come from?” I asked it.

I turned back to the locker. Did the skull fall out of the locker? How did it get in there? Was someone playing some kind of Friday the thirteenth head game with me?

I decided that had to be the answer.

I rolled the skull around in my hand a few times. I poked my finger against the glowing, red glass eyes.

Then I tucked it into my pants pocket. I slammed the locker shut—and headed to practice.

“Look alive! Heads up. Look alive!” Coach Bendix was shouting.

I ran out of the locker room and grabbed a basketball off the ball rack. I began dribbling around the floor.

We were having one of Coach's free-for-all practices. That meant we had to keep moving, keep playing—run, dribble, pass, shoot, play defense. Do everything all at once in a big free-for-all.

I dribbled slowly across the floor, concentrating hard. Trying not to lose the dribble. I saw Stretch turn toward me. He stuck out both hands and moved forward, ready to block me.

I decided to try and fake him out. I dribbled left—and moved right. I edged past him easily. Moved under the basket. And sent up a shot that sailed across the gym and dropped in.

“Hey—one for one!” I cried happily.

“Lucky shot!” Stretch called.

I took the ball and moved back to the top of the key. I sent up a two-handed jumpshot. It soared over the rim—and dropped through the basket with a soft
swish
.

“Yes!” I pumped my fists in the air.

I didn't have long to celebrate. I turned and saw Stretch barreling toward me, dribbling hard, leaning forward with grim determination.

He's going to charge right over me, I realized. He's going to
flatten
me.

Guys backed out of his way as Stretch flew across the floor.

“Look out, Luke!” someone shouted.

I froze for a moment. Then I ducked to the left. Stuck out my hand and slapped the ball away from Stretch.

He made a wild grab for it. But I dribbled it out of his reach. Then I spun around and sent a wild, high shot into the air. The ball hit the glass backboard—and sank through the net.

“Wow!”

“Way to go, Luke!”

“Three for three!”

The other players were in shock.

Stretch shook his head. “Feeling lucky, today? Think fast!” He pulled back his long arm—and heaved the ball at my chest with all his strength.

I caught it easily. Dribbled it three times. Shot—and dropped another basket.

Stretch scowled. “I don't believe this,” he muttered, shaking his head.