44 - Say Cheese and Die—Again (2 page)

Of course, no one has ever called them Sumo One or Sumo Two to their faces.
When Donny and Brian get angry, they
sit
on kids and squash them like
bugs.

And now, they had followed me from Mr. Saur’s class and were grinning at me
from the next table. When they saw me watching, they formed little square
cameras with their fingers and raised them in front of their eyes.

“Click! Click!” Brian called. “I’ve got an evil camera here!”

“Say cheese!” Donny shouted. “Say cheese—and die! Ha-ha-ha!”

“Click. Click. Click.” They clicked their air cameras.

“Watch the birdie!” Donny cried.

“Watch the birdbrain!” Brian yelled.

They both tossed back their heads and laughed like lunatics, slapping each
other high fives.

“Funny, guys,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Real funny.”

“You two should do stand-up,” Michael told them. “You should stand up in the
corner!”

No one laughed. No one ever laughs at Michael’s jokes. His jokes are never
funny. In fact, they are embarrassing.

Michael has short red hair, blue eyes, and a face full of freckles. He isn’t
exactly fat—but no one would ever call him skinny.

One of these days, he’s going to surprise us and make a joke that
isn’t
totally lame.

But I was in no mood for jokes, anyway. My summer was about to be ruined. My
three friends all had plans to go away. No way I wanted to be left all alone in
Pitts Landing with nothing to do for three months!

If I had to bring in that camera to prove to Mr. Saur that I was telling the
truth… I’d do it!

Shari must have read my thoughts. She reached across the table and grabbed my
arm. “Greg—you can’t,” she said. “That camera is too dangerous.”

Bird agreed. “I’m not going back to that weird house,” he said, shaking his head. “Never again.”

“Hey—what about your brother?” Michael asked me.

I turned to him, confused. “What about my brother?”

“Isn’t he working in a camera store?” Michael demanded.

I nodded. My older brother, Terry, was working at Kramer’s Photo Store after
school. “Yeah. He’s at Kramer’s. He works in the developing lab. So what?”

“Maybe Terry could borrow an old camera from the store,” Michael suggested.
“You can bring it in and tell Mr. Saur it’s the evil camera.”

“Just one problem,” I told Michael. “I have to prove the camera is evil. How
do I do that?”

Michael thought about it. And thought.

“It won’t work,” I sighed. “We have to go get the real camera.” I glanced
around the table. “Who will go with me?”

No one answered. Bird concentrated on getting the egg salad out from under
his fingernails. Shari twisted a lock of black hair around one finger. Michael
stared at the floor.

“Don’t all volunteer at once,” I grumbled.

They still didn’t move.

“I just need the camera for one day,” I added. “Then we’ll return it and
never take it out again.”

No one replied. Bird raised his beady little eyes to the ceiling and started
whistling to himself.

I sneered at them. “Okay, wimps. I’ll go by myself.”

“Don’t do it,” Shari warned again. “Not even for a day. Something horrible
will happen. I know it will.”

If only I had listened to her.

The rest of the afternoon, I barely heard a word anyone said. I think I had a
spelling quiz. I think we played volleyball in gym. I think someone slammed the
ball onto my head.

Did it hurt? Did I have to leave the game for a while?

I really don’t remember.

In music class, Miss Jakes caught me staring out the window, a dazed look on
my face. She thought it was because of the volleyball accident. She wanted to
send me to the nurse.

But I explained that I was okay. I told her I wasn’t hurt—I was only
daydreaming.

I didn’t explain that I was thinking hard. Thinking about that evil camera
hidden away in the Coffman house.

Thinking about how I was going to sneak out after dinner. Ride my bike up the
hill to the deserted old house. Creep down to the basement—and pull the camera from its hiding place in the wall.

I’m going to prove the camera is evil, Sourball. I’m going to prove you’re
wrong and unfair! I thought bitterly.

I’m going to prove it to Brian and Donny and all the other kids who laughed
at my story.

I’m going to get an
A
for my report. Not an
F.

I thought about all that. And I thought about Shari, Michael, and Bird.

I didn’t blame my friends for being scared. I was scared, too. I promised
myself I’d be really careful.

I’ll bring it to school. But I won’t take anyone’s picture with it, I
decided.

Then how would I prove to Mr. Saur that the camera is evil?

I thought hard. I’ll take a snapshot of the empty classroom, I decided. Or
maybe the lunchroom or the gym when no one is there.

As soon as Mr. Saur changes my grade to an
A,
I’ll return the camera,
I promised myself. I’ll shove it back into its hiding place. And I’ll never take
it out again.

After school, I searched for Shari. She lives next door, so we usually walk
home together. But I didn’t see her anywhere.

I crossed the street, kicking a bottle cap I found at the curb. Thinking
about my plan. Thinking about the camera.

I had walked about half a block when I heard voices behind me. “Greg! Hey—Greg!”

Two hands grabbed my shoulders and spun me around hard.

Brian Webb!

“Greg—Donny and I went to the Coffman house!” he exclaimed, grinning,
holding me in place. “We found the evil camera!”

“Say cheese!” Donny cried.

He pointed the camera and flashed it in my face.

I uttered a hoarse cry.

And shut my eyes against the white flash.

Something horrible is going to happen to me now, I realized.

The picture is going to show me in pain. In agony. In terrible trouble. And
then it’s going to come true!

When I opened my eyes, Brian and Donny were laughing. They slapped each other
a high five.

I stared at the camera in Donny’s hand.

A yellow cardboard camera. One of those cheap throwaway cameras.

Not the evil camera. Not the old camera from the Coffman house.

“Good joke, guys!” I said sarcastically. I blinked several times, trying to
make the yellow dots disappear. “You guys are a riot.”

“You’re
the funny one!” Brian shot back. “That was such a funny story you
told in class!”

“Yeah. It had us
all
laughing,” Donny chimed in.

I stared angrily at them. My heart thumped loudly. Sumo One and Sumo Two.
They were so big, they nearly blocked out the sunlight!

I knew they wanted to keep on teasing me. Have some more laughs at my
expense. Maybe get into a fight.

But I didn’t have time to fight with them.

“Maybe you won’t be laughing tomorrow,” I murmured. Then I turned, jogged
across the street, and headed for home.

At dinner, I stared down at my plate. I was too nervous to eat. My stomach
felt as if it were tied in a tight knot.

“Pass the potatoes,” my brother, Terry, said with a mouth full of chicken.

“It’s not potatoes. It’s turnips,” Mom corrected him.

Terry shrugged. “Whatever.” He scooped a pile onto his plate and began
spooning them quickly into his mouth.

“Slow down, Terry,” Dad scolded. “You’re eating so fast, you don’t know what
you’re eating!”

“Sure, I do,” Terry protested. “I’m eating
dinner!”

Mom and Dad laughed.

Terry looks a lot like me—blond hair, green eyes, kind of a goofy smile. We
could almost be twins, except that he’s sixteen, four years older than me.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” Mom asked him.

Terry burped. “Excuse me.” He licked chicken grease off his fingers. “I have
to get back to work. A lot of special orders came in today. So I promised Mr.
Kramer I’d put in a few extra hours in the developing lab.”

“You’re learning a lot about photography—aren’t you?” Dad said.

“Yeah. A lot.”

Oh, please!
I thought.
Please don’t talk about photography!

I knew that soon after dinner, I’d be sneaking out to that creepy old
deserted house. I didn’t want to think about cameras or photography.

Terry’s chair scraped the floor as he jumped to his feet. He tossed his
greasy napkin onto the table. “Got to run. See you later.” He loped to the door.

“Don’t you have any homework tonight?” Mom called after him.

“No,” he shouted from the front hall. “They don’t give homework in high
school!” The front door slammed behind him.

“What a comedian,” Dad muttered, shaking his head.

They both suddenly remembered that I was at the table, too. “Greg—you haven’t touched your chicken!” Mom said, staring
at my full plate.

“I ate too much junk after school,” I lied. “I’m not too hungry.”

“Your mom and I are going over to Alana’s after dinner,” Dad told me. Alana
is Mom’s sister. “Alana still isn’t feeling well. Do you want to come with us?”

“Uh… no,” I replied, thinking hard. “I’ve got too much homework. I’m going
to be studying all night.”

I don’t like to lie to Mom and Dad—if I can help it.

Tonight I couldn’t help it.

“How are your grades this semester?” Mom asked.

“Yes, how are they?” Dad repeated, leaning closer. “Pete and Alice out in
Yosemite called me this afternoon. They asked if you are coming to visit them
this summer. I told them we’d know as soon as your next report card arrives.”

“Uh… I’m doing real well,” I told them, staring down at my chicken and
turnips.

I’ll be doing real well after tomorrow,
I thought. My stomach knotted
even tighter.

Mom and Dad stood up to clear the table. “Pete and Alice said to be sure to
bring a camera,” Dad said. “It’s such beautiful country out there.”

“Maybe Terry can get you a good camera at the store,” Mom suggested.

Please stop talking about cameras!
I thought, gritting my teeth. “Maybe
he can,” I said.

I waited till Mom and Dad drove off for Alana’s house. Then I waited ten
minutes more. Sometimes they forget something, turn around, and come back home.

I peered out the window. Under the white moonlight, the bare trees were
bending and shaking. A breezy night. Still cold even though spring was only a
few weeks away.

I pulled a long-sleeved flannel shirt over my T-shirt. Tucked a pocket
flashlight into my jeans. And headed out to the garage to get my bike.

The swirling wind felt heavy and wet. I glanced up at the sky, hoping it
wasn’t getting ready to rain. A pale half-moon floated over the quivering trees.

The front tire on my bike was a little low. But I guessed I could make it up
the hill to the Coffman house. I walked the bike out of the garage, then climbed
on.

I’d left all the lights on in the house. From the driveway, it looked so
bright and warm and safe. For a moment, I was tempted to go back inside and
forget about the evil camera.

But my mind was made up. I
desperately
wanted to visit my cousins this
summer. No way I could do that if I got an
F
from Mr. Saur on my report.

I took a deep breath. Clicked on the bike headlight. And pedaled down to the
street.

It was lucky that Mom and Dad had to go away, I told myself. At least I
didn’t have to sneak out of the house.

“That’s it, Greg,” I said out loud, pedaling harder. “Look on the bright
side.”

The street seemed darker than usual. Glancing up, I saw that two streetlights
were out.

The wind swept toward me. On both sides, the trees appeared to be shivering.
I swerved to miss a sheet of old newspaper fluttering across the street.

I shifted gears as the street sloped uphill. I pictured the ramshackle old
Coffman house. Hidden behind ancient oak trees at the top of a weed-choked lawn.

I remembered that it stood three stories tall, gray shingle, with a
wraparound screened porch, a sloping red roof, and tall chimneys on either end.

Many years ago, it must have been a really fancy house. But no one had lived
in it for dozens of years. And the house had crumbled and decayed until it
looked like a wreck.

I crossed a street, pedaling smoothly and steadily uphill. Familiar houses
rolled past in the darkness. And then a small wooded area.

I felt my throat tighten. And my hands grow cold.

The house—the Coffman house—stood just beyond the woods.

The tree branches swayed, glowing gray—the color of bone—under the cold
moonlight.

I squeezed the brake as I rolled past the woods.

Past the sloping lawn. Past the ancient oak trees.

Up to the old house—and gasped in shock.

The house was gone.

I jumped off my bike and let it fall to the sidewalk. I uttered a low cry of
surprise.

Then I blinked several times. Tried to make the big, old house appear where
it belonged behind the oak trees.

But no.

The trees rose up over the lawn, silvery-gray in the moonlight. Now they
protected only scattered piles of boards and shingles.

The house had been torn down.

Totaled.

Dazed, I stood at the curb, staring up to where the house should be. Staring
hard. Trying to force it to come back.

A minute or two later, I felt a stab of pain—and slapped a mosquito on my
forehead. It’s too early in the spring for mosquitoes, I thought. I felt wet
blood on my forehead.

Rubbing the bite, I turned to the gravel driveway. And saw a stenciled sign near the street: SOLD.

So the Coffman house had been sold.

And the new owner tore it down.