The Big One-Oh (12 page)

I was snapped out of my pity-party when Mom gave a little gasp and smacked her forehead. “Oh, honey! I completely forgot. I've got something for you. Something
wonderful!
”

 

 

Mom hurried into the house, and I followed. She was explaining, “I started getting into the spirit today. The birthday spirit . . .” as we went up to her bedroom, “. . . so! I went shopping during my lunch break. And what do you think I found?”

By now, we were standing at the foot of Mom's bed, and she was holding up a shopping bag that she had pulled from inside her closet door.

“This was going to be a surprise, but this is as good a time as any for cheering ourselves up, isn't it?”

I nodded eagerly.

Mom emptied the shopping bag onto her bedspread. And when I saw what tumbled out, I just about collapsed.

I was staring down at eight miniature cowboy hats with elastic chinstraps; a plastic bag full of plastic cowboys and plastic horses; napkins with pictures of cows on them; paper plates with lassoes printed around the edges; and a paper tablecloth covered with drawings of bucking broncos and
cacti
.

“I just went to browse, and I couldn't help myself! I got such a kick out of buying it all,” Mom was chattering away as I stared in shock. “Come to think of it, it's the one nice thing that happened all day.”

She turned to me with a big smile and said, “What do you think?”

I didn't answer right away, because I knew I had a choice: I could either break down and tell Mom about the House of Horrors birthday that I had promised everybody, and, by doing so, I would probably crush her spirits.

Or, I could say what I said.

“Oh, cool. Cowboys.”

“Is it true?
Is it true?!
” Jennifer Mobley was panting with excitement as she raced down the hallway toward me, hair flying, braces sparkling.

“Is what true?”

“You're throwing a
House of Horrors Birthday Party?!
I know I'm not invited or anything, but I hear people talking, and I just gotta ask you . . .”—she lowered her voice—“. . . how're you going to do it, Charley? How're you going to scare people? Can you give me a hint? Just a little one?”

I winced at her questions, and she quickly stepped back. “Oh, okay! I totally understand. You don't have to tell me now and ruin the surprise. But maybe you can take pictures and make notes, and tell me afterwards? Huh? Please? Promise?”

“I don't know,” I mumbled as I busied myself with school-books. “I'm thinking now that maybe it's not such a good theme. Maybe I should change it.”

Jennifer's mouth flew open with shock. “What? You can't change it! Your theme is . . . is
genius!
”

I almost said “Really? You think so?” but just then, from behind us, Cougar spoke:
“He can't change what?”

We turned to find that Cougar and Scottie had been eavesdropping.

“He's gonna change his birthday theme!” Jennifer practically exploded to Cougar, momentarily forgetting that she never speaks to him.

Cougar clapped me on the shoulder. “Oh, man. We gotta talk.”

“Excuse me?” Jennifer said to Cougar, pointing between herself and me. “
We're
already talking here.”

“Oh, I believe you are through,” Cougar sneered.

“I don't believe we are,” Jennifer sneered back.

“Hmm. That's odd,” said Cougar pensively. He stuck a finger in his nose, pulled it out and examined his fingernail. “Cuz this
booger
says that you
are
through.”

And when he thrust his finger at Jennifer's face, she threw up her hands, shrieked,
“Ew, Leland!”
and ran off down the hall.

Cougar swiped his finger on his jeans and turned to me. “So, what's goin' on?”

“I'm . . . I'm having second thoughts,” I said weakly. “About my party theme.”

“What kind of second thoughts?” Cougar's eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Cuz I'm telling you right now—you'd better not have a clown.”

“Clowns give him nightmares,” Scottie sniggered to me.

“That was only one time!” snapped Cougar. He turned back to me. “And don't even think about cowboys.”

“Eww! Cowboys . . . blecch!” Scottie stuck out his tongue in disgust.

So I sure wasn't going to tell them what Mom had already bought.

“Look, man,” Cougar suddenly sounded threatening. “You announced a House of Horrors party. You better at least
try
to scare people.”

“Yeah,” Scottie nodded. “Even if you can't.”

“But it's not easy!” I blurted out. “Scaring people.”

Cougar shook his head. “Oh, I dunno. That bloody-eyeball-thing of yours had me going pretty good.”

“Yeah!” Scottie snorted, punching Cougar's arm. “You went down like a ton of bricks!”

“Shut up!” Cougar barked and punched him back twice as hard.

But while they sparred, I stood there with my jaw dropping, because what Cougar said had just sent a bolt of inspiration crashing into my brain!

You think a single eyeball is scary?
I thought.
What about seeing a severed foot floating in a punch bowl? Or finding a bloody ear in your slice of birthday cake? Or . . .
My explosion of ideas was interrupted when Cougar turned back to me.

“Look, Charlie, we're coming to your birthday party like
we
promised. And if you know what's good for you, you'll throw the party . . .” he jabbed his booger finger in my face, “. . . that
you
promised.”

I truly believed that Cougar's comment held the key to my salvation: body parts can be very scary, especially when not attached to a body.

My heart was pounding like a jackhammer as I raced home that afternoon, because I was painfully aware that the plan I was formulating—although
brilliant
—wasn't perfect.

For one thing, I had no idea how I was going to break the news to Mom that my party theme would no longer be “cowboys.”

And since she had forbidden me to ever go over to Garry's again, how was I going to explain to her where I got a shopping bag full of latex body parts?

Still, my idea was burning a hole in my skull, and I had to act on it immediately. I was only planning to borrow a few
effects
from Garry and worry about the rest later.

That's all I had in mind.

Honest.

I never planned to burn down our garage.

 

 

Of all the afternoons to leave the house, Garry had picked the worst possible one. I pounded on his front door for about five minutes before I accepted the fact that he wasn't at home. I was so deep in thought about what to do next that I didn't hear the delivery van pull up at Garry's curb.

When I turned around and found the Delivery Man standing right behind me, I yelped like a dog when a door closes on his tail.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you,” said the Delivery Man.

“You didn't scare me,” I lied.

He read the label of a box he was carrying: “Got a delivery here from Stage Effects Latex for Garry Quarky. You know him?”

I didn't answer right away, because I was staring at the box. And—call me crazy—but, from the size of it, I was willing to bet that there was enough latex in there to make a whole lot of scary body parts.

And, because I had watched Garry, I knew
exactly how to do just that!

“Kid?”

“Huh?” I blinked, trying to remember what the question was.

“Do you know this Garry Quarky guy?” he asked, nodding at Garry's house.

“Garry? Oh, sure. We're buddies.” I pointed to my house. “I live right there.”

“You wanna sign for the package, then?” the Delivery Man asked. And he held the box out to me.

Can you imagine my state of mind?
I was being offered the opportunity of a lifetime.
Mom would be home by the end of the afternoon. Garry may not be. I might never have this chance again!

And though a little voice in my head was chattering,
“That latex is not yours!”
it was being drowned out by an even louder voice that was chanting:
“Birthday! Birthday! Birthday!”

“Sure, I'll sign!” I said suddenly.

And, with a flick of a pen, my fate was sealed.

 

 

I waited until the delivery van had turned the corner at the end of our street before I ran around into Garry's backyard. Sure enough, Garry had left a lot of his tools out to dry, so I borrowed the ones that I guessed I would need—including the molds for making a finger, an ear and a nose.

Then I raced home and opened Garry's box in our garage. I realized that I was taking something that wasn't mine, but, because I was sure that Garry would understand my crisis, it didn't feel like stealing.

Besides, wasn't Garry the one who told me not to let fear rule my life?

So I was not afraid.

Sure enough, the delivery box contained four tall, plastic jars of white, gooey latex. If I could just work fast enough, I thought, I could be finished by the time Mom got home from work. Pouring the latex into the molds was going to be a snap; it was waiting for it to dry that was going to take time.

But then I remembered how Garry had flicked on portable floor heaters to make his workshop really warm and speed up the drying process. Just by luck, we have a space heater that Mom stores under the stairs when it's not winter. I ran and grabbed it, snatched up a couple of paper towels—in case I spilled anything—and rushed back into the garage.

I was ready to start molding.

“Why is it so hot in here?” Lorena whined, leaning into the garage.

“Close the door!”

I was kneeling on the floor in front of the portable heater, concentrating on keeping my very first molded finger warm. I probably looked like a mother hen fussing over an egg.

“What're you doing?” Lorena asked.

“What do you want?” I shot back. Ever since she got fired from the Chick-A-Dee, Lorena had been hanging around the house a lot more than she used to.

“Well, when you work at the Chick-A-Dee, you're not allowed to date fellow employees, y'know?” she started to explain.

“So?”

“So. Ever since Brad fired me, he's been begging me to go out with him. Like, today he called my cell phone about a hundred times.”

I turned and used one of her own lines on her: “You speak to me as if I care.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Lorena scoffed. “Anyway, I hate Brad. So if he shows up, don't answer the door.”

I could feel the temperature in the room dropping with every passing second.

“Get out!” I finally shouted.

“Whatever you're doing, Mom's gonna kill you,” Lorena said as she slammed the door and stomped away.

 

 

It was a little hard getting the first finger to plop out of the mold. I think it was sticky because I had rushed the process, but I was learning from my mistakes and still confident that I could crank out a bunch more body parts before Mom got home.

Then, from inside the house, I heard the ding-dong-ding dong-ding-dong of our doorbell being pushed over and over again.

“Loreeeeeeena!”
Brad was wailing on our porch.

“Go home, Brad!”
Lorena screamed from somewhere upstairs.

“Oh,
please
go home, Brad,” I groaned under my breath.

Brad resumed ringing and pounding, and I heard Lorena's footsteps racing down the stairs to the front door.

“Please?”
Brad begged. Then, in a little boy voice, he added,
“Pweeeeez? Pwetty pwease?”

Lorena is a sucker for guys who do little boy voices.

“Don't open the door, don't open the door, don't open the door,” I murmured, hoping to influence Lorena's behavior with mind-power. (Like in
Monsters & Maniacs
Issue 93: “The Man With Two Brains . . .
HIS AND YOURS!!!
”)

But it didn't work. In the silence that followed I figured out that Lorena was melting like a sno-cone in July, because the next sound I heard was the front door opening.

“What do you want, Brad?”
huffed Lorena.