31 - Night of the Living Dummy II (4 page)

I’d been practicing all week, and I knew the jokes by heart. But as I slipped
my hand into Slappy’s back and found the string, my stomach felt all
fluttery.

I cleared my throat and began.

“This is Slappy, everyone,” I said. “Slappy, say hi to my family.”

“Hi to my family!”
I made Slappy say. I made his eyes slide back and
forth.

They all chuckled.

“This dummy is much better!” Mom commented.

“But it’s the same old ventriloquist,” Sara said cruelly.

I glared at her.

“Just joking! Just joking!” my sister insisted.

“I think that dummy reeks,” Jed chimed in.

“Give Amy a break,” Dad said sharply. “Go ahead, Amy.”

I cleared my throat again. It suddenly felt very dry. “Slappy and I are going
to tell some knock-knock jokes,” I announced. I turned to face Slappy and made
him turn his head to me. “Knock knock,” I said.

“Knock it off!”
came the harsh reply.

Slappy spun around to face my Mom.
“Hey—don’t break the sofa,
fatso!”
he rasped.
“Why don’t you skip the French fries and have a salad
once in a while?”

“Huh?” Mom gasped in shock. “Amy—”

“Amy, that’s not funny!” Dad cried angrily.

“What’s your problem, baldy?”
Slappy shouted.
“Is that your head—or are you hatching an ostrich egg on your neck?”

“That’s enough, Amy!” Dad cried, jumping to his feet. “Stop it—right now!”

“But—but—Dad—!” I sputtered.

“Why don’t you put an extra hole in your head and use it for a bowling ball?”
Slappy screamed at Dad.

“Your jokes are horrible!” Mom exclaimed. “They’re hurtful and insulting.”

“It’s not funny, Amy!” Dad fumed. “It’s not funny to hurt people’s feelings.”

“But, Dad—” I replied. “I didn’t say any of that! It wasn’t me! It was Slappy! Really! I wasn’t saying it! I wasn’t!”

Slappy raised his head. His red-lipped grin appeared to spread. His blue eyes
sparkled.
“Did I mention you are all ugly?”
he asked.

Everyone started shouting at once.

I stood up and dropped Slappy facedown on the armchair.

My legs were trembling. My entire body was shaking.

What’s going on here? I asked myself. I didn’t say those things. I really
didn’t.

But Slappy can’t be talking on his own—
can
he?

Of course not, I realized.

But what did that mean? Did that mean I was saying those horrible, insulting
things to my parents without even knowing it?

Mom and Dad stood side by side, staring at me angrily, demanding to know why
I insulted them.

“Did you really think that was funny?” Mom asked. “Didn’t you think it would
hurt my feelings to call me fatso?”

Meanwhile, Jed was sprawled on his back in the middle of the floor, giggling like a moron. He thought the whole thing was a
riot.

Sara sat cross-legged against the wall, shaking her head, her black hair
falling over her face. “You’re in major trouble,” she muttered. “What’s your
problem, Amy?”

I turned to Mom and Dad. My hands were balled into tight fists. I couldn’t
stop shaking.

“You’ve got to believe me!” I shrieked. “I didn’t say those things! I really
didn’t!”

“Yeah. Right. Slappy is a baaad dude!” Jed chimed in, grinning.

“Everybody, just be quiet!” Dad screamed. His face turned bright red.

Mom squeezed his arm. She didn’t like it when he got too angry or excited. I
guess she worried he might totally explode or something.

Dad crossed his arms in front of his chest. I saw that he had a sweat stain
on the chest of his polo shirt. His face was still red.

The room suddenly fell silent.

“Amy, we’re
not
going to believe you,” Dad said softly.

“But—but—but—”

He raised a hand to silence me.

“You’re a wonderful storyteller, Amy,” Dad continued. “You make up wonderful
fantasies and fairy tales. But we’re not going to believe this one. I’m sorry.
We’re not going to believe that your dummy spoke up on his own.”

“But he
did!”
I screamed. I felt like bursting out in sobs. I bit my
lip hard, trying to force them back.

Dad shook his head. “No, Slappy didn’t insult us. You said those things, Amy.
You did. And now I want you to apologize to your mother and me. Then I want you
to take your dummy and go to your room.”

There was no way they’d ever believe me. No way. I wasn’t sure I believed it
myself.

“Sorry,” I muttered, still holding back the tears. “Really. I’m sorry.”

With an unhappy sigh, I lifted Slappy off the chair. I carried him around the
waist so that his arms and legs dangled toward the floor. “Good night,” I said.
I walked slowly toward my room.

“What about my turn?” I heard Sara ask.

“Sharing Night is over,” Dad replied grumpily. “You two—get lost. Leave
your mom and me alone.”

Dad sounded really upset.

I didn’t blame him.

I stepped into my room and closed the door behind me. Then I lifted Slappy
up, holding him under the shoulders. I raised his face to mine.

His eyes seemed to stare into my face.

Such cold blue eyes, I thought.

His bright red lips curled up into that smirking grin. The smile suddenly
seemed evil. Mocking.

As if Slappy were laughing at me.

But of course that was impossible. My wild imagination was playing tricks on
me, I decided.

Frightening tricks.

Slappy was just a dummy, after all. Just a hunk of painted wood.

I stared hard into those cold blue eyes. “Slappy, look at all the trouble you
caused me tonight,” I told him.

Thursday night had been awful. Totally awful.

But Friday turned out to be much worse.

First I dropped my tray in the lunchroom. The trays were all wet, and mine
just slipped out of my hand.

The plates clattered on the floor, and my lunch spilled all over my new white
sneakers. Everyone in the lunchroom clapped and cheered.

Was I embarrassed? Take three guesses.

Later that afternoon, report cards were handed out.

Sara came home grinning and singing. Nothing makes her more happy than being
perfect. And her report card was perfect. All A’s.

She insisted on showing it to me three times. She showed it to Jed three
times, too. And we both had to tell her how wonderful she was each time.

I’m being unfair to Sara.

She was happy and excited. And she had a right to be. Her report card was
perfect—
and
her flower painting won the blue ribbon in the State Art Contest.

So I shouldn’t blame her for dancing around the house and singing at the top
of her lungs.

She wasn’t trying to rub it in. She wasn’t trying to make me feel like a
lowly slug because my report card had two C’s. One in math and one in science.

It wasn’t Sara’s fault that I had received my worst report card ever.

So I tried to hold back my jealous feelings and not strangle her the tenth
time she told me about the art prize. But it wasn’t easy.

The worst part of my report card wasn’t the two C’s. It was the little note
Miss Carson wrote at the bottom.

It said:
Amy isn’t working to the best of her ability. If she worked
harder, she could do much better than this.

I don’t think teachers should be allowed to write notes on report cards. I
think getting grades is bad enough.

I tried to make up some kind of story to explain the two C’s to my parents. I
planned to tell them that
everyone
in the class got C’s in math and
science. “Miss Carson didn’t have time to grade our papers. So she gave us all
C’s—just to be fair.”

It was a good story. But not a great story.

No way Mom and Dad would buy that one.

I paced back and forth in my room, trying to think of a better story. After a
while, I noticed Slappy staring at me.

He sat in the chair beside Dennis, grinning and staring.

Slappy’s eyes weren’t following me as I paced—were they?

I felt a chill run down my back.

It really seemed as if the eyes were watching me, moving as I moved.

I darted to the chair and turned Slappy so that his back was to me. I didn’t
have time to think about a stupid dummy. My parents would be home from work any
minute. And I needed a good story to explain my awful report card.

Did I come up with one? No.

Were my parents upset? Yes.

Mom said she would help me get better organized. Dad said he would help me
understand my math problems. The last time Dad helped me with my math, I nearly
flunked!

Even Jed—the total goof-off—got a better report card than me. They don’t
give grades in the lower school. The teacher just writes a report about you.

And Jed’s report said that he was a great kid and a really good student. That
teacher must be
sick!

I stared at Jed across the dinner table. He opened his mouth wide to show me
a mouth full of chewed-up peas.

Sick!

“You reek,” he said to me. For no reason at all.

Sometimes I wonder why families were invented.

Saturday morning, I called Margo. “I can’t come over,” I told her with a
sigh. “My parents won’t let me.”

“My report card wasn’t too good, either,” Margo replied. “Miss Carson wrote a
note at the bottom. She said I talk too much in class.”

“Miss Carson talks too much,” I said bitterly.

As I chatted with Margo, I stared at myself in the dresser mirror. I look too
much like Sara, I thought. Why do I have to look like her twin? Maybe I’ll cut
my hair really short. Or get a tattoo.

I wasn’t thinking too clearly.

I was too angry that my parents weren’t allowing me to go over to Margo’s
house.

“This is bad news,” Margo said. “I wanted to talk to you about performing
with Slappy at my dad’s place.”

“I know,” I replied sadly. “But they’re not letting me go anywhere until my
science project is finished.”

“You still haven’t turned that in?” Margo demanded.

“I kind of forgot about it,” I confessed. “I did the project part—for the
second time. I just have to write the report.”

“Well, I told you, Daddy has a birthday party for a dozen three-year-olds
next Saturday,” Margo said. “And he wants you and Slappy to entertain them.”

“As soon as I finish the science report, I’m going to start rehearsing,” I
promised. “Tell your dad not to worry, Margo. Tell him I’ll be great.”

We chatted for a few more minutes. Then my mom shouted for me to get off the
phone. I talked for a little while longer—until Mom shouted a second time.
Then I said good-bye to Margo and hung up.

I slaved over my computer all morning and most of the afternoon. And I
finished the science report.

It wasn’t easy. Jed kept coming into my room, begging me to play a Nintendo
game with him. “Just one!” And I had to keep tossing him out.

When I finally finished writing the paper, I printed it out and read it one
more time. I thought it was pretty good.

What it needs is a really great-looking cover, I decided.

I wanted to get a bunch of colored markers and do a really bright cover. But
my markers were all dried up.

I tossed them into the trash and made my way to Sara’s room. I knew that she had an entire drawer filled with colored
markers.

Sara was at the mall with a bunch of her friends. Miss Perfect could go out
and spend Saturday doing whatever she wanted. Because she was perfect.

I knew she wouldn’t mind if I borrowed a few markers.

Jed stopped me outside her door. “One game of Battle Chess!” he pleaded.
“Just one game!”

“No way,” I told him. I placed my hand on top of his head. His red, curly
hair felt so soft. I pushed him out of my way. “You always murder me at Battle
Chess. And I’m not finished with my work yet.”

“Why are you going in Sara’s room?” he demanded.

“None of your business,” I told him.

“You reek,” he said. “You double reek, Amy.”

I ignored him and made my way into Sara’s room to borrow the markers.

I spent nearly an hour making the cover. I filled it with molecules and
atoms, all in different colors. Miss Carson will be impressed, I decided.

Sara returned home just as I finished. She was carrying a big shopping bag
filled with clothes she’d bought at Banana Republic.

She started to her room with the bag. “Mom—come see what I bought,” she
called.

Mom appeared, carrying a stack of freshly laundered towels.

“Can I see, too?” I called. I followed them to Sara’s room.

But Sara stopped at her door.

The bag fell from her hand.

And she let out a scream.

Mom and I crowded behind her. We peered into the bedroom.

What a mess!

Someone had overturned about a dozen jars of paint. Reds, yellows, blues. The
paint had spread over Sara’s white carpet, like a big, colorful mud puddle.

I gasped and blinked several times. It was unreal!

“I don’t believe it!” Sara kept shrieking. “I don’t believe it!”

“The carpet is ruined!” Mom exclaimed, taking one step into the room.

The emptied paint jars were on their sides, strewn around the room.

“Jed!” Mom shouted angrily. “Jed—get in here! Now!”

We turned to see Jed right behind us in the hall. “You don’t have to shout,”
he said softly.

Mom narrowed her eyes angrily at my brother. “Jed—how
could
you?”
she demanded through clenched teeth.

“Excuse me?” He gazed up at her innocently.

“Jed—don’t lie!” Sara screamed. “Did you do this? Did you go in my room
again?”

“No way!” Jed protested, shaking his head. “I didn’t go in your room today,
Sara. Not once. But I saw Amy go in. And she wouldn’t tell me why.”