My Hairiest Adventure (3 page)

I picked up my toothbrush and spread a small line of blue toothpaste on it.

I started to raise the toothbrush to my mouth—and then stopped.

“Hey—!” I cried out.

The toothbrush dropped into the sink as I gazed at the back of my hand.

At first I thought the hand was covered by a dark shadow.

But as I raised it closer to my face, I saw to my horror that it was no
shadow.

I let out a loud gulping sound as I stared at the back of my hand.

It was covered by a patch of thick, black hair.

Staring down in shock, I shook the hand hard. I think I expected the black
hair to fall off.

I grabbed at it with my other hand and tugged it.

“Ow!”

The hair really was growing from the back of my hand.

“How can this be?” I cried to myself. Holding the hand in the light, I
struggled to stop it from trembling so that I could examine it.

The hair was nearly half an inch high. It was shiny and black. Very spikey.
Very prickly. It felt kind of rough as I rubbed my other hand over it.

“Hairy Larry.”

That dumb name Lily called me suddenly popped back into my head.

“Hairy Larry.”

In the mirror I could see my face turning red. They’ll call me Hairy Larry
for the rest of my life, I thought unhappily, if they ever see this black hair growing out of my hand!

I
can’t
let anyone see this! I told myself, feeling my chest tighten
in panic. I
can’t
! It would be so embarrassing!

I examined my left hand. It was as smooth and clear as ever.

“Thank goodness it’s only on one hand!” I cried.

I tugged frantically at the patch of black hair again. I pulled at it until
my hand ached. But the hair didn’t come out.

My mouth suddenly felt dry. I gripped the edge of the sink with both hands,
struggling to stop my entire body from trembling.

“What am I going to do?” I murmured.

Do I have to wear a glove for the rest of my life?

I can’t let my friends see this. They’ll call me Hairy Larry forever. That’s
how I’ll be known for the rest of my life!

A panicky sob escaped my throat.

Got to calm down, I warned myself. Got to think clearly.

I was gripping the sink so tightly, my hands ached. I lifted them, then
rolled up both pajama sleeves.

Were my arms covered in black hair, too?

No.

I let out a long sigh of relief.

The square patch of prickly hair on the back of my right hand seemed to be the only hair that had grown.

What to do? What to do?

I could hear my parents climbing the stairs, on their way to their bedroom.
Quickly, I closed the bathroom door and locked it.

“Larry—are you still up? I thought you went to bed,” I heard my mom call
from out in the hall.

“Just brushing my hair!” I called out.

I brush my hair every night before I go to bed.

I know it doesn’t make any sense. I know it gets messed up the instant I put
my head down on the pillow.

It’s just a weird habit.

I raised my eyes to my hair. My dark blond hair, so soft and wavy.

So unlike the disgusting patch of spikey black hair on my hand.

I felt sick. My stomach hurtled up to my throat.

I forced back my feeling of nausea and pulled open the door to the medicine
chest. My eyes slid desperately over the bottles and tubes.

Hair Remover. I searched for the words Hair Remover.

There
is
such a thing—isn’t there?

Not in our medicine cabinet. I read every jar, every bottle. No Hair Remover.

I stared down at the black patch on my hand. Had the hair grown a little bit?
Or was I imagining it?

Another idea flashed into my mind.

I pulled down my dad’s razor. On the bottom shelf of the medicine cabinet, I
found a can of shaving cream.

I’ll shave it all off, I decided. It will be easy.

I’d watched my dad shave a million times. There was nothing to it. I started
the hot water running in the sink. I splashed some onto the back of my hand.
Then I rubbed the bar of soap over the bristly black hair until it got all
lathery.

My hands were wet and slippery, and the can of shaving cream nearly slid out
of my grip. But I managed to push the top and spray a pile of white shaving
cream onto the back of my hand.

I smoothed it over the ugly black hair. Then I picked up the razor in my left
hand, held it under the hot water, the way I’d seen Dad do it.

And I started to shave. It was so hard to shave with my left hand.

The razor blade slid over the thick patch. The bristly hair came right off.

I watched it flow down the sink drain.

Then I held my hand under the faucet and let the water rinse away the rest of
the shaving cream lather.

The water felt warm and soothing. I dried off my hand and then examined it
carefully.

Smooth. Smooth and clean.

Not a trace of the disgusting black hair.

Feeling a lot better, I put my dad’s razor and shaving cream back in the medicine chest. Then I crept across the hall to my
bedroom.

Rubbing the back of my hand, enjoying its cool smoothness, I clicked off the
ceiling light and climbed into bed.

My head sank heavily into the pillow. I yawned, suddenly feeling really
sleepy.

What had caused that ugly hair to grow? The question had been nagging at me
ever since I discovered it.

Was it the INSTA-TAN? Was it that old bottle of tanning lotion?

I wondered if any of my friends had grown hair, too? I had to giggle as I
pictured Manny covered in hair, like a big gorilla.

But it wasn’t funny. It was scary.

I rubbed my hand. Still smooth. The hair didn’t seem to be growing back.

I yawned again, drifting to sleep.

Oh, no. I’m itchy, I suddenly realized, half-awake, half-asleep. My whole
body feels itchy.

Is spikey black hair growing all over my body?

“Did you sleep?” Mom asked as I dragged myself into the kitchen for
breakfast. “You look pale.”

Dad lowered his newspaper to check me out. A white mug of coffee steamed in
front of him. “He doesn’t look pale to me,” he muttered before returning to his
newspaper.

“I slept okay,” I said, sliding on to the stool at the breakfast counter. I
studied my hand, keeping it under the counter just in case.

No hair. It looked perfectly smooth.

I had jumped out of bed the instant Mom called from downstairs. I turned on
the light and studied my entire body in front of my dresser mirror.

No black hair.

I was so happy, I felt like singing. I felt like hugging Mom and Dad and
doing a dance on the breakfast table.

But that would be embarrassing.

So I happily ate my Frosted Flakes and drank my orange juice.

Mom sat down beside Dad and started to crack open a hard-boiled egg. She had
a hard-boiled egg every morning. But she threw away the yellow and only ate the
white. She said she didn’t want the cholesterol.

“Mom and Dad, I have to tell you something. I did a pretty stupid thing
yesterday. I found an old bottle of a cream called INSTA-TAN in a trash
Dumpster. And my friends and I all rubbed it on ourselves. You know. So we’d
have tans. But the date had run out on the bottle. And… well… last
night, I suddenly grew some really gross black hair on the back of my hand.”

That’s what I
wanted
to say.

I wanted to tell them about it. I even opened my mouth to start telling them.
But I couldn’t do it.

I’d be so embarrassed.

They would just start yelling at me and telling me what a jerk I was. They’d
probably drag me off to Dr. Murkin and tell him what I had done. And then
he
would tell me how stupid I had been.

So I kept my mouth shut.

“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Mom said, sliding a sliver of egg white
into her mouth.

“Nothing much to talk about,” I muttered.

I ran into Lily on the way to school. She had her coat collar pulled up and a
red-and-blue wool ski cap pulled down over her short blond hair.

“It isn’t
that
cold!” I said, jogging to catch up with her.

“Mom said it’s going down to ten,” Lily replied. “She made me bundle up.”

The morning sun floated low over the houses, a red ball in the pale sky. The
wind felt sharp. We leaned into it as we walked. A hard crust had formed over
the snow, and our boots crunched loudly.

I took a deep breath. I decided to ask Lily the big question on my mind.
“Lily,” I started hesitantly. “Did any… uh… well… did any strange
hair grow on the back of your hands last night?”

She stopped walking and stared at me. A solemn expression darkened her face.
“Yes,” she confessed in a hushed whisper.

“Huh?” I gasped. My heart skipped a beat. “You grew hair on your hand?”

Lily nodded grimly. She moved closer. Her blue eye and her green eye stared
at me from under the wool ski cap.

“Hair grew on my hands,” she whispered, her breath steaming up the cold air
as she talked. “Then it grew on my arms, and my legs, and my back.”

I let out a choked cry.

“Then my face changed into a wolf’s face,” Lily continued, still staring hard
at me. “And I ran out to the woods and howled at the moon. Like this.” She threw
back her head and uttered a long, mournful howl.

“Then I found three people in the woods, and I
ate
them!” Lily
declared. “Because I’m a
werewolf
!”

She growled at me and snapped her teeth. And then she burst out laughing.

I could feel my face turning red.

Lily gave me a hard, playful shove. I lost my balance and nearly fell on to
my back.

She laughed even harder. “You
believed
me—didn’t you, Larry!” she
accused. “You actually believed that dumb story!”

“No way!” I cried. My face felt red-hot. “No way, Lily. Of
course
I
didn’t believe you!”

But I
had
believed her story. Up to the part where she said she ate
three people.

Then I finally figured out that she was joking, that she was teasing me.

“Hairy Larry!” Lily chanted. “Hairy Larry!”

“Stop it!” I insisted angrily. “You’re not funny, you know? You’re not funny
at all!”

“Well,
you
are!” she shot back. “Funny-looking!”

“Ha-ha,” I replied sarcastically. I turned and crossed the street, taking
long strides, trying to get away from her.

“Hairy Larry!” she called, chasing after me. “Hairy Larry!”

I slid on a patch of ice. I quickly caught my balance, but my backpack slid
off my shoulder and dropped with a
thud
onto the street.

As I bent to pick it up, Lily stood over me. “Did
you
grow hair last
night, Larry?” she demanded.

“Huh?” I pretended not to hear her.

“Did you grow hair on the back of your hand? Is that why you asked me?” Lily asked, leaning over me.

“No way,” I muttered. I hoisted the backpack onto my shoulder and started
walking again. “No way,” I repeated.

Lily laughed. “Are
you
a werewolf?”

I pretended to laugh, too. “No. I’m a vampire,” I replied.

I wished I could tell Lily the truth. I really wanted to tell her about the
patch of ugly hair.

But I knew she could never keep it a secret. I knew she would spread the
story over the whole school. And then everyone I knew would call me Hairy Larry
for the rest of my life!

I felt bad about lying to her. I mean, she
is
my best friend.

But what could I do?

We walked the rest of the way to school without saying much. I kept glancing
over at Lily. She had the strangest smile on her face.

“Are you ready to present your book reports?” Miss Shindling asked.

The classroom erupted with sounds—chairs scraping, Trapper-Keepers being
opened, papers being rustled, throats being cleared.

Standing in front of the entire class and reciting a book report makes
everyone nervous. It makes me
very
nervous! I just hate having everyone
stare at me.

And if I goof up a word or forget what I want to say next, I always turn
bright red. And then everyone laughs and makes fun of me.

The night before, I had practiced my book report standing in front of the
mirror. And I had done pretty well. Only a few tiny mistakes.

Of course, I hadn’t been nervous giving the report to myself in my room. Now,
my knees were shaking—and I hadn’t even been called on yet!

“Howie, would you give your report first?” Miss Shindling asked, motioning
for Howie Hurwin to come to the front of the class.

“It’s a shame to have the
best
go first!” Howie replied, grinning.

A few kids laughed. Other kids groaned.

I knew that Howie wasn’t joking. He really thought he was the best at
everything.

He stepped confidently to the front of the room. Howie is a big guy, sort of
chubby, with thick, brown hair that he never brushes, and a big, round face with
freckles on his cheeks.

He always has a smirk on his face. A stuck-up look that says, “I’m the best—and you’re an insect.”

He usually wears baggy faded denim jeans about five sizes too big, and a
long-sleeved T-shirt with a shiny black vest opened over it.

He held up the book he was reporting on. One of the Matt Christopher baseball
books.

I groaned to myself. I knew in advance exactly what Howie was going to say: “I recommend this book to anyone who likes
baseball.”

That’s how Howie always started his book reports. So boring!

But Howie always got A’s anyway. I never understood why Miss Shindling thinks
he’s so terrific.

Howie cleared his throat and grinned at Miss Shindling. Then he turned to the
class and started his report in a loud, steady voice. “I recommend this book to
anyone who likes baseball,” he began.