Read The Curse of the Campfire Weenies Online
Authors: David Lubar
The Curse of the Campfire Weenies (12 page)
ads
P
lease,
Rusty thought as he waited for Mrs. Grimkin to return his paper,
let it be okay this time.
But he knew from the angry sound of her steps as she approached his desk that his paper was not anywhere near okay.
lease,
Rusty thought as he waited for Mrs. Grimkin to return his paper,
let it be okay this time.
But he knew from the angry sound of her steps as she approached his desk that his paper was not anywhere near okay.
“Well, Rusty,” Mrs. Grimkin said, holding the paper as if it were coated with a thick layer of wet germs, “you didn't do very well.” She dropped the report on his desk and turned toward her next victim.
Rusty stared at the pageâa sea of red circles and lines highlighted his mistakes. “Stupid assignment,” he muttered.
Who cares about spelling and grammar? So what if I misspelled a few words?
If he wrote “lite” where he should have written “light,” anyone reading it would still know what he meant. No matter what anybody said, Rusty knew that spelling wasn't important. Especially not tiny mistakes like the ones his teacher loved to point out.
Who cares about spelling and grammar? So what if I misspelled a few words?
If he wrote “lite” where he should have written “light,” anyone reading it would still know what he meant. No matter what anybody said, Rusty knew that spelling wasn't important. Especially not tiny mistakes like the ones his teacher loved to point out.
As Rusty watched Mrs. Grimkin walk toward the front
of the class, rage filled him, pumping into his heart and lungs and gut. He wanted to shout at her. But he'd already been kept after school more times than anyone else in the class. Instead of shouting, he closed his eyes and spoke softly, trying to hold in the anger. “I wish whatever I did was right. I wish I made the rules.”
of the class, rage filled him, pumping into his heart and lungs and gut. He wanted to shout at her. But he'd already been kept after school more times than anyone else in the class. Instead of shouting, he closed his eyes and spoke softly, trying to hold in the anger. “I wish whatever I did was right. I wish I made the rules.”
He almost managed to calm down. But when he opened his eyes and saw the paper again, the anger exploded. He crumpled the sheet, squeezing it with all his strength into a tight ball. Leaping to his feet, he launched the paper across the room, not aiming anywhere, just trying to fling his rage away. The wadded paper shot toward Mrs. Grimkin, hurtling straight for the back of her head as she reached her desk.
Rusty froze, his arm still extended.
Mrs. Grimkin bent to pick up a book.
The paper zipped past her head, just brushing the top fringes of her hair. It struck the blackboard and bounced up, following a perfect arc until it landed with barely a rustle in the half-filled wastebasket.
As Mrs. Grimkin rose with the book in her hand and turned to face the class, Rusty realized he was still standing. He sat quickly.
“Man, are you lucky,” Steve said, leaning toward Rusty from his desk in the next row. “That was a million-to-one shot. Maybe a zillion to one. She'd have kept you after school for the rest of the year if you'd hit her. Maybe even gotten you expelled for good.”
Rusty nodded. He felt incredibly lucky. But the luck
didn't last long. It vanished completely when Mrs. Grimkin said, “Clear your desks, class. Time for the spelling test.”
didn't last long. It vanished completely when Mrs. Grimkin said, “Clear your desks, class. Time for the spelling test.”
Test?
Rusty grabbed his spelling book. “I forgot to study,” he said.
Rusty grabbed his spelling book. “I forgot to study,” he said.
“You're doomed,” Steve said. “This is a hard one.”
Frantically, Rusty flipped the book open.
What chapter was it?
Rusty looked at the page. No, those words seemed too familiar. They'd already done them. He flipped more pages but went too far. Those words weren't right at all. Sweat rolled down the back of Rusty's neck. He continued to search through the book. Finally, he found the page with this week's words.
What chapter was it?
Rusty looked at the page. No, those words seemed too familiar. They'd already done them. He flipped more pages but went too far. Those words weren't right at all. Sweat rolled down the back of Rusty's neck. He continued to search through the book. Finally, he found the page with this week's words.
“CLEAR YOUR DESKS, CLASS!”
Rusty almost toppled off his chair as the shout crashed through his brain. Mrs. Grimkin was standing directly over him, glaring down with the undeniable danger of a stick of dynamite with just a billionth of an inch left on the fuse. Feeling that doom was about to grab him and squash him no matter what he did, Rusty shut his book and jammed it in his desk.
“Stupid spelling,” he muttered as he took out a piece of paper.
“Barrel,” Mrs. Grimkin said, giving the first word.
Rusty muttered several phrases that would never be on any spelling test. Why did they have to start with that word? He could never remember whether it was “barrel” or “barrle.”
“Holiday,” Mrs. Grimkin said, spitting out the happy word like it hurt her mouth.
Quickly Rusty wrote “b-a-r-r-e-l.” It didn't look right. He erased it and wrote “b-a-r-r-l-e.”
That's it,
he thought. He hurried to catch up. His teacher was already on the third word.
That's it,
he thought. He hurried to catch up. His teacher was already on the third word.
Rusty knew, as he handed in his paper, that he was in big trouble. On the way home that afternoon, he saw something that made him stamp his foot against the sidewalk. There, right on the corner of Main and Madison, was a delicatessen called the Pickle Barrel.
“I'm so stupid,” Rusty said. He couldn't believe he'd gotten it wrong.
The next morning, first thing, Mrs. Grimkin threaded her way up and down the aisles, handing back the tests. Rusty slunk deeper into his seat, knowing that doom was headed his way. When Mrs. Grimkin reached his desk, she dropped the paper in front of him without saying a word. Rusty stared. His mouth fell open. There, in red ink, where he usually got a 65 or a 70, was a score of 100âa perfect A+ grade. Never in his life had he gotten that high a mark. It had to be a mistake. Or maybe it was a joke. Maybe Mrs. Grimkin would start laughing, then take out her pen, scratch off the grade, and write an F instead.
Rusty scanned the sheet. Right at the top was “barrle.” He knew it was wrong. And he knew he should say something. But he didn't.
While Rusty stared at his paper, he heard the tap and skritch of Mrs. Grimkin writing on the chalkboard. Around him, kids groaned. Rusty looked up. It was a history test this
time. He hadn't studied. He'd known there was going to be a test, but he'd been too angry last night to open his books. He read the first question.
time. He hadn't studied. He'd known there was going to be a test, but he'd been too angry last night to open his books. He read the first question.
Who was the fifteenth president?
“Lincoln,” Rusty wrote. At least that was an easy one. He went on to the rest of the questions, barely managing to finish before time ran out.
As he left the room at the end of the day, Mrs. Grimkin called to him. “Rusty ⦔
“Yes?” He waited for her to tell him the spelling grade was a mistake.
“It's good to see you finally making an effort,” she said.
“Thank you.”
Rusty hurried out. On the way home, he almost walked right past the deli without noticing anything. But an odd difference caught his eye. He stared at the sign over the door: The Pickle Barrle.
“But ⦔ Rusty ran home and pulled the dictionary from the bookcase. There it was, just like on the sign and on his paperâ“barrle.”
“I must have forgotten or something,” he said, trying to remember exactly what the sign had looked like the day before. Spelling wasn't his best subject, so he knew the dictionary must be right.
Rusty looked up one other thing and found bad news. According to the dictionary, Lincoln was the sixteenth president, not the fifteenth. That meant he had at least one wrong on the history quiz.
Eager to get it over with, Rusty started on his homework. Mrs. Grimkin had told them to write an essay called “What I Do After School.” At least he could use the spell-checker on his computer to make sure everything was all right. He'd never bothered using it before. But he didn't want to risk making any more mistakes.
Rusty wrote carefully, trying to be sure there were no errors. The spell-checker caught a bunch of problems but fixed all of them. Once he was sure his essay was perfect, he printed it out. The first copy smeared as it came through the printer. Rusty made a second copy. That one came out fine, though he got a smudge of ink on the back of the page.
The next day, when Rusty turned in his homework, Mrs. Grimkin handed back his history test. Sometimes she let the class read while she graded papers. As the kids around him were taking out their books, Rusty stared at his test. A+. Another perfect score. But what about Lincoln?
Rusty reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins, and grabbed a penny. At least, it looked like a penny. But he didn't recognize the face on the front of the coin. “Who's this?” he whispered, showing the penny to Steve.
Steve gave him a puzzled look. “Grant. Who else? You know, president during the Civil War.”
The penny fell from Rusty's fingers and clattered to the floor.
My mistakes become true,
he realized.
But not until Mrs. Grimkin reads them. She must have read the history tests
last night.
Suddenly, with shaking hands, Rusty grabbed the smeared copy of his homework.
My mistakes become true,
he realized.
But not until Mrs. Grimkin reads them. She must have read the history tests
last night.
Suddenly, with shaking hands, Rusty grabbed the smeared copy of his homework.
“Check this, okay?” he asked, shoving it at Steve.
Mrs. Grimkin glanced up, said “Shush,” and then went back to grading the homework.
“Kind of late for that, isn't it?” Steve whispered. “You already handed it in.”
“Please.”
Steve shrugged and took the copy from him.
Rusty held his breath and watched Steve's face for any sign of trouble. A moment later, Steve grinned.
Oh no ⦠,
Rusty thought.
Rusty thought.
“You didn't check this very carefully, did you?” Steve asked.
“The computer checked it,” Rusty said. “There aren't any mistakes.”
There can't be any mistakes.
There can't be any mistakes.
Steve shook his head. “No spelling mistakes, but that doesn't mean no mistakes. Here, look.” He held out the paper and pointed.
Rusty read the sentence. He didn't see anything wrong. The words were all spelled correctly, as far as he could tell. “It looks fine to me.”
“Read it again,” Steve said, pointing to the middle of the page.
Rusty read the paragraph. It was about what happened when he got home from school. He'd written: “My mom and dad both work. Some kids have a parent around in the afternoon. I don't have any body.” He looked at Steve again, puzzled.
“Right there,” Steve said, tapping the words “any body.” “That's not what you meant to say. You meant âanybody.'” Steve smirked, then added, “One word, not two. Big difference.”
For an instant, Rusty didn't get it. Then, like the world's largest snowball, the meaning hit him smack in the face. His gaze shot toward the front of the room. Mrs. Grimkin was reading a paper with a smudge of ink on the back. Rusty had to stop her before she read his mistake. He leaped from his seat.
Air whooshed past his ears.
He was falling.
His head hit the desk. Rusty looked down. It wasn't easy. He didn't have any body.
“Good essay,” Mrs. Grimkin said, walking up to his desk. She put the paper down, patted Rusty on the head, and walked away.
After a while, the bell rang. The rest of the kids left. Rusty, who didn't have any body, watched them go. A while later, Mrs. Grimkin got up, turned off the light, and went out the door. Rusty, who couldn't head anywhere, just stayed on his desk.
It could be worse,
he thought. That was when his nose started to itch.
he thought. That was when his nose started to itch.
“M
an, that was a long day,” Amy said as she walked out the front door of the school. When she reached the corner, she paused and looked down the street in the direction of her house. She could either follow the sidewalk or cut through the new development that was being built in the old field across from the school.
an, that was a long day,” Amy said as she walked out the front door of the school. When she reached the corner, she paused and looked down the street in the direction of her house. She could either follow the sidewalk or cut through the new development that was being built in the old field across from the school.
The road was a little hard to walk on in the new section. The workers weren't finished yet, and most of the streets were covered with large pieces of gravel. But it was a lot shorter than going the regular way. Amy decided to cut through the development.
She walked onto the new road that sliced through the side of the field, then turned off on the long road that ran all the way through the development. Amy could follow it to the end, and then she just had to cross the street and walk a half a block to her house.
The road dipped down a little, then rose back up. At
the far end, she could see a stop sign. All around, there were the frames of half-built houses, covered with silver and pink strips of insulation.
the far end, she could see a stop sign. All around, there were the frames of half-built houses, covered with silver and pink strips of insulation.
As Amy walked, she thought about her day in school. It had been pretty much like any other day, except for that thing her teacher had told them about. Miss Kripke had this period she always set aside for what she called Expanded Horizons. That meant she talked about stuff she thought was interesting, like geology or word origins.
Sometimes it actually was interesting. She'd talked about sports or outer space a couple of times. And once, she'd told them about a guy who'd spent his life carving a sculpture into the side of a mountain. But today it wasn't exciting or interesting. Amy had just found it confusing. As far as she could tell, so did most of the rest of the class.
She looked ahead as she walked. Each step brought her a bit closer to the stop sign.
Closer.
That's what Miss Kripke had talked about. Amy tried to remember the name of the thing they'd discussed. Right. It was about some old Greek guy named Zero. No, not Zero. Zeno. Miss Kripke said he'd come up with something called Zeno's paradox. She'd said he proved that motion was impossible.
That's what Miss Kripke had talked about. Amy tried to remember the name of the thing they'd discussed. Right. It was about some old Greek guy named Zero. No, not Zero. Zeno. Miss Kripke said he'd come up with something called Zeno's paradox. She'd said he proved that motion was impossible.
Amy knew that was stupid. Obviously, things moved. She kicked a rock and watched it skitter across the road. In class, a couple of the kids had pretty much pointed the same thing out. One of the kids in the back row, Sammy Johnson, had even tossed his pencil across the room and shouted, “See that? It moved.”
“I know it seems that things can move. But Zeno looked at it differently,” Miss Kripke had explained. “To walk from my desk to the wall, I have to get halfway to the wall first. Right?”
“Right,” the other kids in the class had said.
“Big yawn,” Amy muttered.
“But, before I can go halfway, I have to go half of halfway.”
That's when Amy had started to lose track of the concept. Miss Kripke kept talking, explaining the whole thing. It was something about if you kept cutting the distance in half you never ran out of pieces. And if you had to go halfway, first you had to go half of that distance. And so on and so on.
Amy shook her head, as if to get rid of the memory of the class. She looked up. The stop sign seemed closer, but she was surprised she hadn't reached it yet.
She kept going, feeling the sharp edges of the gravel through her sneakers. She walked. She got closer.
But she wasn't getting there.
Amy stopped for a moment. She looked over her shoulder and wondered whether she should just go back the way she'd come. Off in the distance, at the other end of the road, she saw a street sign. But she wasn't sure whether she could ever reach that sign, either.
Amy turned back toward the stop sign and kept walking. As the day grew darker and the sign grew closer, Amy found herself wishing she'd paid more attention in class. She knew, now, that she'd never reach the stop
sign. She knew that she'd be walking on this road forever. She only wished she could understand why.
sign. She knew that she'd be walking on this road forever. She only wished she could understand why.
But maybe she could figure it out. She had plenty of time for thinking.
ads
Other books
Decay by J. F. Jenkins
In the Valley of the Kings: Stories by Terrence Holt
The Blind Owl by Sadegh Hedayat
Bent Not Broken (A Cedar Creek #1) by Julia Goda
Rampage! by Wills, Julia; Hartas, Leo ;
The Oasis by Pauline Gedge
Solstice: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse by Donna Burgess
Ultimate Prizes by Susan Howatch
Puppy Fat by Morris Gleitzman
Circle of Love by Joan Lowery Nixon