Sink or Swim (2 page)

SAY IT ISN'T SO

AS WE CONTINUE
our walk to school, Amy Armstrong, the queen of the One-Upsters, spots us and scuttles over, fluffing her perfect blonde hair as she goes. Norm Swerling, the class snitch, tags along. “What are you people doing hanging out with
them
?” Amy points to me, Sam, and Lucille.

“Looking for eyewitnesses.” Alice struggles to climb over a fallen branch lying on the sidewalk. It is nearly as tall as she is. “The perpetrator appears to have been heading in this direction. Did any of you notice an extremely tall man running toward Cedar Street and carrying a bag of old shoes this morning?” She suddenly wheels on me and points dramatically. “Where were
you
at precisely seven fifty-five a.m., Charlie Drinkwater?”

“I was leaving my house and heading down Lonesome Lane. What are you getting at?”

“Are you absolutely certain?” Alice Pincus persists. “Think hard. Exactly where were you?”

“Exactly where he always is at seven fifty-five every school morning,” Lucille interrupts. “On his way to school. Like every other normal person in the entire seventh grade.”

“Charlie Drinkwater, normal?” Amy Armstrong snorts. “That's a hoot.”

“That's not nice!” Sam snaps.

“I don't intend it to be,” Amy replies.

“Do you swear on the life of your dog that you didn't see a tall man carrying a big bag of—” Alice Pincus begins.

“Get serious, people. Charlie doesn't have to swear on anything,” Lucille says. “He isn't a liar. He's the most decent, trustworthy person in the entire middle school. Which is a whole lot more than I can say for the rest of you.”

“Trustworthy?”
Alice Pincus shrieks. “That's a laugh. Are you trying to tell me you don't think he had anything to do with the break-in at Craig Dieterly's father's fish store?” Alice Pincus tucks her notepad back into her waistband and puts her tiny hands on her even tinier waist.

“I'm not
trying
to tell you. I'M TELLING YOU!” Lucille practically shouts. “HE DIDN'T!”

“I was home sleeping,” I protest. “I didn't do anything. Ask my parents. Ask my brother. Ask my dog. Why would I lie about a thing like that?”

“Oh, come off it, Drinkwater.” Amy Armstrong sighs. “Everybody in town thinks you did it.”

“But that's ridiculous! Why would I steal my uncle's old shoes? I may be large and green and scaly, but that doesn't automatically make me a thief.”

“Oh yeah?” Amy Armstrong counters. “Then tell me this: who else could carry away that much salmon?”

“He even smells like salmon,” Norm Swerling adds.

“Just because I
could
have done it doesn't mean I actually did it!” Argh! I hate being wrongfully accused. I don't even like being
rightfully
accused all that much.

“Maybe it wasn't your idea,” Alice Pincus suggests. “Maybe you only helped break the door down. Maybe you were just an accessory before the fact. But you had something to do with it. I'd bet my life on it. Frankly I didn't even trust you all that much when you were human, Charlie Drinkwater.”

With that, Alice Pincus marches away. Her One-Upster and Bandito friends chase after her quicker than you can say “certain very short people have been watching too many crime shows on TV lately.”

“That is so unfair I can't stand it!” Lucille exclaims.

“Double ditto,” Sam says.

My friends and I take the shortcut through the ravine and hightail it to school. I try not to trip over my enormous flippers. We mutant dinosaurs prefer the plains. We don't do well with hills and valleys.

“We've got a real mystery on our hands, guys!” Sam exclaims. “With a perp and a victim and unusual circumstances and everything!” Sam can barely catch his breath. “I wonder if the robber who stole Charlie's uncle's shoes is the same guy who broke into Mr. Dieterly's fish store?”

“I wonder if it's somebody we know,” Lucille adds. “Wouldn't that be creepy?”

“Yeah!” I say. “Just like in
House of Wax
when Professor Henry Jarrod stalks the young and beautiful Sue Allen, and after he catches her he dips her in a vat of boiling hot wax and sticks her in his creepy exhibit of wax-coated corpses, and nobody realizes the dead woman is right under everybody's nose.”

“Exactly like in
House of Wax
,” Sam says. “Only this
really happened
! And whoever did it is still
on the loose
!”

My friends and I have seen
Wax
, as we like to call it, four and a half times. (The last time we watched it Balthazar ate a bowl of popcorn and threw up all over the couch. We had to stop in the middle to clean up the mess.) Our version of choice is the original, starring Vincent Price. Not the remake, starring Paris Hilton, which gets a minus ten on our fear-o-meter.

The three of us love being scared. We will watch anything that gets the hairs on our necks to stand up. Of course, I don't exactly have hairs on my neck anymore. I have scales. And I couldn't get them to stand up if King Kong walked into my room carrying Jack the Ripper on his shoulders.

“We're here, guys.” Sam points to the herd of wild animals otherwise known as the Stevenson Middle School student body, and we elbow our way across the courtyard and climb the big stone steps that lead to the lobby. My eight-foot tail barely makes it through the heavy metal front door before it slams behind us.

The warning bell for first period rings. We've got Mr. Arkady's science class in exactly sixty seconds.

Mr. Arkady is my favorite teacher, and not just because he has pointy teeth, wears a black cape, and looks exactly like Dracula. But it helps.

I like Mr. Arkady because if you ever have a problem you can always go to him for advice and he never makes you feel like you're stupid. Unfortunately, he takes off for lateness. We make a mad dash for the third floor.

“What's hangin', slimy flipper boy?” Craig Dieterly, king of the Banditos, says as he spots me hauling my seven-hundred-and-fifty-pound body up the stairs. He has been making my life miserable ever since we started pre-K together, eight long years ago. “Eat any disgusting insects lately?” He cheerfully punches me so hard in what passes for my arm that I could cry, only I would never give him the satisfaction. I turn around and glare right at him. But mutant dinosaurs basically always look like they are glaring, so I doubt if Craig Dieterly even notices.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.” The second it is out of my mouth I regret it.

“That is so third grade it's pathetic, Drinkwater.” Craig Dieterly shoves me against the railing.

“Hey, watch it, Dieterly,” Lucille says angrily.

“Why don't you go pick on someone else for a change?” Sam suggests.

“Fat chance,” he growls at Sam. He grabs my neck in his big beefy hands and gets right in my face. “I'm
glad
you broke into my dad's store. Know why, Turtle Breath?”

I shake my head, unable to speak.

“Because when they prove you did it, you will get into so much trouble you'll wish you had never been born. I'm sick and tired of you making the rest of us look bad with your dumb four-point-six average and your sucky extra credit papers. It's time somebody made you pay for all the misery you cause for the rest of us.”

Craig Dieterly's two Neanderthal-sized friends, Dirk and Dack Schlissel, join us on the stairs. They are famous for two things: having the lowest combined grade point average in the history of seventh grade, and picking their noses when they think nobody is looking.

“Hey, Dieterly, what do you get when you cross a mutant dinosaur with the geekiest kid in seventh grade?” one of them asks.

“I give up,” Craig Dieterly replies. “What do you get?”

“Sick to your stomach!” the other one answers. The Schlissel twins and Craig Dieterly howl with laughter and race up the stairs three at a time.

“What kind of trouble do you think I could get in, guys?” I ask.

“Don't even think about it,” Lucille says firmly.

“You're innocent, pal,” Sam adds. “Nothing's going to happen to you.”

As my friends and I approach the classroom, I notice Mr. Arkady waiting in the hallway, tapping one of his long, pointy velvet slippers and wagging his bony finger at me. “Follow me, Mr. Drinkvater,” he commands ominously.

“Can we come, too?” Lucille asks.

“No.” Mr. Arkady doesn't say another word. He just marches me up the stairs toward the principal's office. I tuck my enormous tail firmly between my powerful haunches and wonder what on earth I've done this time.

IT'S THE PRINCIPAL OF THE THING

“WHY'D YOU DO IT,
Drinkwater?” Principal Muchnick growls the second I enter his majestic, wood-paneled, book-lined office.

I try hard not to sneeze as his cologne hits my sensitive snout like a ton of bricks. Principal Muchnick must have a closet filled with the stuff. He never smells the same way twice. Last Friday he smelled like dirty socks and vinaigrette. Today he smells like cheap cigars and Elmer's glue. Ever since I became a creature, I can basically detect a molecule of cinnamon from two miles away. This is more than I can handle. I hold my claws over my nostrils and try not to gag.

“Why'd I do what, sir?” I ask.

“You know perfectly well what I'm talking about.” Principal Muchnick glares at me.

Dr. Craverly, the school psychologist, stands next to him, looking concerned. Concerned is Dr. Craverly's main look. His other look is incompetent.

“Someone stole thirty-two loaves of freshly baked sourdough bread from the cafeteria this morning, Charlie,” Craverly says. “They had to scale a fifteen-foot brick wall and break down a steel door to do it. You have to admit it looks pretty—”

“It wasn't me, I swear,” I interrupt. “I was home all morning. Ask anybody. It couldn't have been me.” Sheesh. In my whole life I have never been suspected of so many things in such a short amount of time.

“Tell it to the judge, Drinkwater.” When Principal Muchnick fixes his penetrating gaze on you, it's like a laser beam. You can practically feel it burning into your skin. (Or scales, in my particular case.)

“Have a little patience, Willard,” Dr. Craverly says. “The boy's been through a lot.”

If my first name was Willard, you'd have to pull off my fingernails to get me to admit it. If I had fingernails. My middle name is even worse. It's Elmer, and if you ever tell anybody I will deny it, so don't even think about it.

“I don't care if he's been to hell and back, Craverly,” Principal Muchnick says. “I will not tolerate antisocial behavior in this school for one instant.” He turns abruptly and aims his beady little eyes right at me. “Do you read me loud and clear, Mr. Drinkwater?”

Principal Muchnick has had it in for me ever since he made football mandatory for all fifth-grade boys and I organized a school-wide protest. It didn't work, but Principal Muchnick never forgot.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why did you force your way into the cafeteria and steal thirty-two loaves of freshly baked sourdough bread?” Principal Muchnick's chubby red face is getting rounder and rosier by the second. He looks like a balloon that's about to pop.

“I didn't,” I reply nervously. “I swear. I'm innocent. I don't even like sourdough bread. I prefer seeded rye.”

“Are you seriously going to stand there and tell me someone else in this town was able to scale a fifteen-foot brick wall and break down a steel door with his bare hands?” Principal Muchnick runs his pudgy fingers through his oily black hair.

“Yes, sir.” I shift nervously from one flipper to the other.

Doc Craverly looks at me and shakes his head sadly. “Adolescents,” he murmurs. “One minute they're helping little old ladies across the street. The next they're pushing them into it.”

“What in the Sam Hill is that supposed to mean, Craverly?” Principal Muchnick screams at the psychologist. “Nobody's pushing any little old ladies into the street.”

Doc Craverly starts to tremble. “Raging ha . . . ha . . . hormones . . . Willard,” he stammers. “They can turn the nicest ka . . . ka . . . kid into a frustrated and belligerent fugitive from ja . . . ja . . . justice just like that!” Doctor Craverly tries to snap his fingers for emphasis, but they're so drenched with sweat they slide off each other silently.

“You're the doctor in the house,” Muchnick roars. “What do you suggest we do about this?”

“I suggest Charlie start participating in a team sport immediately,” Doctor Craverly says meekly. “It'll do him a world of ga . . . ga . . . ga . . . good.”

“That's the stupidest thing I ever heard in my life!” Principal Muchnick snorts.

“I ba . . . ba . . . beg to da . . . da . . . differ,” Doc Craverly stammers. He is not much for confrontations.

“Why?” Principal Muchnick demands. “This better be good, Craverly.” Doc Craverly gulps air like a dying guppy while his mouth silently forms words. “Pull yourself together, man,” Principal Muchnick barks. “You are a trained professional in the field of mental health.”

Doc Craverly takes a deep breath and steadies himself, and the words come tumbling out. “The rebellious adolescent often masks insecurity by acting out in a futile attempt to establish a stronger sense of his or her own identity. Joining a team has been known to engender the feeling of order and discipline so often lacking in the unruly youngster, encouraging self-esteem while bolstering the confidence necessary to become a productive member of one's own community.” Doc Craverly wipes away perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve.

“I have no idea what you just said, but I like it, Craverly. Congratulations, Drinkwater, you're joining a team,” Principal Muchnick says. “And you will stay on it until you stop acting out in this antisocial manner. Got it?”

I have never been much of a team player. In third grade I signed up for intramural volleyball. The first day we played, all seventeen other members of the team signed a petition saying that if I remained on it, they were quitting. I missed the ball every time it came near me. The one time I hit it back, I smacked Amy Armstrong in the head so hard she had to be sent home.

I manage to come out with a feeble, “What team am I joining, sir?”

“I'm not sure.” Principal Muchnick shuts his eyes. He concentrates intensely. A moment later they snap open and he beams at me. “The swimming team. It's perfect!”

I am not joining the swimming team. Never. Ever. I don't care if they throw me in jail and feed me stale bread crumbs for the rest of my life. I feel like screaming
Noooooo
at the top of my lungs.

But what actually comes out is, “I'd rather not, sir.”

“Nonsense,” Principal Muchnick replies. “We've finished last in three meets out of four, and we swim against our archrivals, the Carbondale Catfish, on Friday. You're just the thing we need to lift the Stevenson Sardines out of their slump. An actual fish. I can just picture the headline: ‘Sardines Drown Catfish in Virtuoso Swimming Display.' We'll be on our way to the division finals in no time!”

“Technically speaking, I'm not a fish, sir. I'm a mutant dinosaur.” I am starting to panic.

“Technically speaking, I wouldn't care if you were an armadillo,” Principal Muchnick snaps. “Whatever you
were
, you're a Sardine now, Drinkwater. Don't try to wriggle out of it.” Principal Muchnick laughs at his stupid joke. “You start practice tomorrow after school.” He returns to his desk. “Craverly, you go locate the appropriate parental approval forms while I call Coach Grubman and give him the good news.” He grabs the phone.

“But I don't know how to swim, sir. I can't even tread water.”

“You have flippers, scales, and a tail, Mr. Drinkwater. You'll learn.”

“No offense, Principal Muchnick, but I don't really want to learn.”

“Do you really want to graduate from seventh grade?” Principal Muchnick smiles at me. He looks just like Jack Nicholson in
The Shining
. Only scarier.

“But sir,” I plead. “A person should have the freedom to choose his or her own extracurricular activities. Shouldn't they?” I feel that dull ache you get at the bottom of your throat when you are trying to stop yourself from crying.

“What do you think this is, Drinkwater, a democracy?” Professor Muchnick bellows. “You're in seventh grade and what I say goes. Period. Now get out of here before I sign you up for the Marines.” He holds the receiver up to his ear. “Willard Muchnick here. I've got some terrific news for you, Coach Grubman. Are you sitting down?”

I stagger out of his office. I am so light-headed from smelling Principal Muchnick's cheap cologne that I stumble as I make my way down the stairs and nearly flatten a fifth grader, who runs away, screaming for his mother.

How am I going to get myself out of this mess?