The Boy Who Ate Fear Street

by R. L. Stine

  “Come on, Sam,” Kevin called from the classroom door. “Hurry up. We don’t want to get stuck at the end of the food line. There won’t be any chips left!”

  Kevin loves potato chips. He eats three bags every day with his lunch.

  “You go ahead,” I called back. “I’m not really hungry.”

  “You’re still mad at me,” Kevin declared. “Right? Because of the shock thing?”

  “No,” I assured him. “I’m just not hungry. Go ahead without me.”

  Kevin shrugged. I watched him walk toward the cafeteria.

  “Sam?” Ms. Munson poked her head into the classroom. “Are you all right, Sam?”

  Ms. Munson is the new art teacher at Shadyside. She used to teach art at the Shadyside ABC School. That’s a school for toddlers.

  Our first art assignment this year was to draw the American flag—using finger paints. I guess Ms. Munson’s not used to teaching middle school yet.

  “Aren’t you going to eat lunch today?” Ms. Munson asked.

  “I’m not really hungry,” I told her.

  “You’re not sick, are you?” she asked.

  “No. I’m just not hungry,” I repeated.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  I didn’t know if she meant was I sure I wasn’t hungry or was I sure I wasn’t sick, but I nodded yes anyway.

  “Good!” she exclaimed. “I need your help. Follow me!”

  I followed Ms. Munson into the hallway, where she had pasted up a huge banner on the wall. SHADYSIDE MIDDLE SCHOOL SALUTES AUTUMN! it read in big block letters.

  “I’ve cut out all these pretty paper leaves.” Ms. Munson pointed to a stack of colorful leaves on the floor. “But I don’t have time to paste them on the banner. Are you a good paster?”

  “Uh, sure,” I answered.

  “Won-der-ful,” Ms. Munson sang out. She handed me a brush and a big mayonnaise jar filled with paste. “Now, if you need me, I’ll be in the art room, cutting out Pilgrim hats for Thanksgiving. You’re going to look soooo cute in a Pilgrim hat.”

  As Ms. Munson walked down the hall, I unscrewed the lid. I dipped the brush into the jar and slopped the back of a red leaf with the paste.

  I stuck the leaf to the banner. I held it there for a few seconds. Then I stood back. Hey! It looked pretty good.

  I slapped some paste on the back of a gold leaf. The smell of the paste filled my nostrils. To tell you the truth, it didn’t smell too good. It smelled, you know, pastey.

  But I had to taste it.

  I lifted the brush to my lips.

  Eat paste? What’s wrong with you?

  I quickly dropped the brush into the jar.

  I took a deep breath—and inhaled the smell of the paste again.

  I stared down at the jar.

  Just one little taste, I thought. That’s all I’ll take.

  I lifted the brush out of the jar.

  Whoa. Wait a minute, I ordered myself. What are you doing?

  I mean, if I were starving, maybe then I’d eat paste. Maybe. But I’d have to be really hungry to do that.

  I slapped the gold leaf on the banner. Then I picked up the next leaf from the pile and brushed the paste on it.

  I pasted lots more leaves. I studied the banner. A really nice job, I thought. Really nice.

  I peered up and down the hall, searching for someone to admire my work.

  No one in sight.

  Hmmm. No one in sight.

  I scooped out a glob of paste—and shoved it into my mouth.

  I swallowed it.

  It tasted disgusting.

  But I did it again.

  I scooped out another glob—a bigger glob this time—and down it went.

  Scoop and swallow. Scoop and swallow.

  I swallowed globs of paste. I crammed handful after handful into my mouth.

  I licked my fingers clean.

  I filled my mouth with more and more paste.

  It stuck to my teeth and spilled out between my lips.

  I couldn’t stop shoving it in.

  Until I heard the voice behind me shriek, “Sam! WHAT ARE YOU EATING?”

  9

  I whirled around.

  “Sam.” Kevin stared at me in disbelief. “What are you doing?”

  My heart pounded in my chest.

  I glanced down at my palm. A glob of paste sat in the middle of it.

  I lifted my hand—and stuffed the paste in my mouth.

  “Sam!” Kevin shrieked. “Stop!”

  I broke out in a cold sweat.

  I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. I shoved another handful of paste in my mouth.

  Kevin’s eyes filled with disgust. He yanked the jar from my hand. I tried to grab it back.

  “Why are you eating paste?” Kevin demanded.

  “I—I thought it was mayonnaise,” I blurted out.

  Kevin rolled his eyes.

  “Okay, I knew it was paste.” I shifted nervously from one foot to another. “So what? Lots of kids eat paste.”

  “No one eats paste after kindergarten, Sam!” Kevin declared.

  “Well, I was hungry,” I lied. “And it was too late to go to the cafeteria.”

  Kevin stared at me, trying to decide whether to believe me or not. I could tell he didn’t, but he handed the jar back to me. “Come on,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “We’re going to be late for gym.”

  I returned the jar of paste to the art room. Then we headed to the gym. As we changed into our gym clothes, I caught Kevin stealing glances at me and shaking his head. He didn’t mention the paste again, but I knew he was thinking about it.

  I sure was. As I tied my sneaker laces my hands began to tremble.

  I ate a half a jar of paste? And I couldn’t stop. What is wrong with me?

  “Move it, boys. Bleachers today! Everyone out of the locker room. NOW!” Mr. Sirk’s voice cut through my thoughts. Mr. Sirk is the gym teacher. He works out with weights a lot—and he looks it. He walks around with his chest puffed out to show off. I don’t mind though. I’d puff my chest out, too, if I looked like Mr. Sirk.

  I jogged into the gym. I love running the bleachers. I’m the best in the class. I could run them all day.

  “We ran the bleachers twice last week,” Chris Hassler complained.

  “We’ll do them twice this week too,” Mr. Sirk announced sternly.

  “Can’t we play football instead?” Zack Pepper asked.

  “You boys aren’t in shape yet,” Mr. Sirk replied. “You’ve got to get rid of that summer flab. Nothing like running the bleachers to do that. Shape you up in half the time of anything else.”

  I liked the sound of that. This year I really wanted to shape up. I know if I had muscles like Mr. Sirk and a scar like Kevin’s, I’d really look tough.

  Zack and Chris grumbled, but they didn’t argue. There was no point in arguing with Mr. Sirk. He never changed his mind.

  “Ready, guys?” Mr. Sirk shouted.

  “Ready!” we yelled back.

  “Go!”

  We all sprinted to the bleachers. One, two, three, four—I flew up the first four rows and took the lead easily.

  Five, six, seven, eight—no problem. I was flying! I could hear the other kids behind me, huffing and puffing. I wasn’t even breathing hard.

  When I reached the top, I spun around and started down. The rest of the kids still struggled on their way up. I glided by them. As usual, I made it down before everyone else.

  “Go for it, Kinny!” Mr. Sirk shouted. “Two more laps!”

  Two more laps. No problem. Last week I ran six laps without breaking a sweat.

  I started back up as everyone else made their way down. But when I reached the third row, I began breathing hard.

  I took two more rows and my heart started to pound. I pushed myself higher and higher. Sweat poured into my eyes.

  The other kids started their second laps. A few of them passed me on the way up. What was going on? Nobody ever passed me.

>   I struggled up two more rows, clutching my sides, gasping for air.

  “Kinny, are you okay?” Mr. Sirk called.

  “Just getting my second wind,” I answered. I wiped the sweat from my eyes. Then I leaped to the top row—and my legs buckled.

  I managed to stay on my feet, but my knees wouldn’t stop shaking.

  What’s wrong with me today? This has never happened before.

  My heart began to race wildly.

  I tried to calm down, but I couldn’t. I pictured myself chomping on the sponge sandwich and eating the paste. Eating the paste—out of control.

  “Kinny! What are you waiting for?” Mr. Sirk yelled.

  My legs trembled as I spun around.

  Concentrate! I ordered myself. Stop thinking and run!

  I stared down at the long rows of bleachers.

  I tried to clear my mind.

  I lifted my leg to take the first jump—and the gym began to spin.

  “Nooooo!” I cried out as my foot missed the bleacher.

  I was falling. Falling.

  No way to stop.

  The next thing I knew, Mr. Sirk was leaning over me. “Kinny! Are you okay?”

  “Uh-huh.” I nodded, struggling to my feet. “Wh-what happened?”

  “It looked like you slipped up there,” Mr. Sirk replied. “Kevin stopped your fall on his way up.”

  Kevin stared at me oddly—as if I were a stranger.

  “You’re usually good for half a dozen laps,” Mr. Sirk went on. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered, confused. “I wish I knew. I really wish I knew.”

  10

  Kevin and I walked home together after school. “What’s with you today?” he said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, feeling uncomfortable.

  “What do you mean, what do I mean?” he replied. “You know what I mean.”

  “Hey, guys! Wait up!” It was Lissa, running up behind us.

  “Sam, you have to stop by our house before you go home,” she said, out of breath. “You have to see our new karate move. Right, Kevin?”

  “Right,” Kevin agreed. “Aunt Sylvie said she made contact with the spirit of Bruce Lee last night. She said he showed her one of his incredible moves. Then she taught it to us. She’s great at it. Maybe she’ll show it to you.”

  “Can I, um, see it tomorrow? I promised my mom I’d come straight home from school and help her clean out the basement,” I lied. My legs still felt wobbly, I wanted to go straight home, and I really didn’t feel like seeing Aunt Sylvie today.

  “Okay,” Lissa said. “But don’t forget. You really have to see this one!”

  “Sure,” I said as I turned the corner to my house. “Tomorrow.”

  When I walked through my front door, I actually started to feel like my old self again. My legs seemed more solid, and I had my appetite back—my normal appetite, for some real food.

  “Mom!” I yelled. “I’m home.”

  No answer.

  “Mom! I’m home!” I yelled louder this time. “I’m hungry.”

  Still no answer.

  “I haven’t eaten anything all day, Mom!” I shouted.

  No reason to tell her about the paste. Right?

  Right.

  And I couldn’t anyhow. She wasn’t home.

  I dropped my backpack on the counter and opened the refrigerator. Rye bread, grape jelly, leftover beans. I scanned the shelves and grabbed two hard-boiled eggs.

  I sat down at the kitchen table and separated the whites from the yolks. On the chair next to me sat Mom’s newest doll—the biggest one she’s made so far. It was taller than I am, and it had long red hair and freckles. Almost finished, the only things missing were its eyes.

  I bet I know where Mom went, I realized. To find eyes for the doll.

  I popped a piece of the egg white into my mouth—and spit it out. It tasted bitter—and gritty. In fact, it scratched my tongue.

  There must have been eggshell stuck to it, I realized as I tossed it into the trash. A rotten egg with the shell still stuck to it—yuck.

  I bit into the second egg. Ewwww! This one tasted even worse than the first. Kind of slimy and sour.

  What was going on?

  Why did my milk taste sour? And my Cream of Wheat? And now the eggs?

  My stomach let out a loud, complaining rumble.

  I was starving.

  I had to find something to eat that didn’t taste terrible.

  I checked the refrigerator again—nothing.

  I searched the pantry. Canned soup. Crackers. Corn flakes. Chocolate sprinkles. Tuna fish.

  I decided to wait for Mom to get home. I’d ask her to make me a big bowl of macaroni and cheese.

  My stomach let out another loud rumble.

  To take my mind off how hungry I was, I decided to concentrate on my homework. I rummaged through my backpack for my English assignment. I had to read the next three chapters of Johnny Tremaine. Ms. Hartman planned a quiz on it tomorrow.

  I opened the book. The story takes place in Boston, during the American Revolution. I really like reading that stuff, and I dove right in. When I reached the most exciting part, the part where Johnny burns his hand, I heard the slurping sounds.

  I glanced across the kitchen. Fred hung over his bowl, devouring his dog food.

  “Hey, Fred! Can you hold it down?”

  Fred lifted his head from his bowl and gazed up at me. Drool and dog food dribbled from his mouth onto the floor.

  “Fred, that’s disgusting,” I told him. Fred wagged his tail.

  I returned to my book.

  Slurp. Slurp.

  “Fred, please!”

  Fred glanced up again, then plunged his head back into his bowl.

  Slurp. Slurp.

  The sound of Fred’s tongue lapping up his food made me feel queasy.

  I leaped up from the chair and pushed his bowl away. “Go into the living room. Go to the window and wait for Mom.” I pointed toward the front door.

  Fred didn’t budge.

  “Go!”

  Fred inched over to his bowl.

  I bent down and moved it farther away—and caught a whiff of his food.

  It smelled good—great, actually.

  My stomach began to growl. Fred’s ears perked up when he heard it—then he edged away from me.

  He watched me sink to my hands and knees.

  He watched as I lowered my head to his bowl.

  He moved in, trying to nudge me away from his food.

  I pushed him back, and he began to snarl.

  He nudged me again.

  I pushed him away again.

  I lowered my head, closer and closer to the food, breathing in the aroma. The incredibly delicious smell.

  And then I dove headfirst into the bowl. My tongue darted out, ready to lap up the juicy beef chunks.

  STOP! a voice inside my head screamed. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

  I leaped up from the floor and threw myself into the kitchen chair.

  I don’t believe this! I almost ate Fred’s dog food, I thought in horror. I pictured myself hanging over Fred’s bowl, and I started to gag. What is wrong with me? How could I even think about eating dog food?

  Slurp. Slurp.

  Fred had returned to his bowl.

  The smell of the dog food floated up to my nostrils as he ate.

  The delicious smell.

  I gripped the table with both hands, forcing myself to stay seated. I held on so tightly, my knuckles turned white.

  Fred’s slurping grew louder.

  I grew hungrier.

  I wanted that dog food.

  I had to have that dog food.

  I wanted it now.

  “No! No! NOOO!” I chanted over and over. “I will not eat dog food!”

  I held on to the table until Fred finished eating. Then I let go, and my hands began to tremble. I sat on them for a few minutes to make them stop.

  I inhaled deeply, then let
my breath out slowly.

  You are in control, I told myself. You did not eat the dog food. Now, go back to your book. Everything is okay.

  I forced myself to focus on the words. Fred stretched out in a corner of the kitchen, scratching at his flea bites.

  “Here, boy!” I called. “Sorry I pushed you!”

  Fred trotted over and plunked down on the floor next to me. I petted him with one hand and turned the page of my book with the other. This was another one of my favorite parts—the part about Paul Revere and the Battle of Bunker Hill.

  Totally focused now on the story, I continued to pet Fred and nibble away on my snack.

  Wait a minute, I thought. What snack? I searched the table for the eggs. Then I remembered I had thrown them away.

  I peered down at the food in my hand.

  Please let them be chocolate sprinkles, I prayed as I raised my hand slowly.

  I brought my hand right up to my eyes.

  I stared at the sprinkles between my fingers.

  I stared at them as they wiggled their tiny legs.

  “Noooo,” I moaned. “Oooooh, no! Fleas!”

  11

  “I’m eating fleas!” I shrieked.

  My stomach heaved.

  I clamped my hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t throw up—and felt a flea crawl off my finger and across my cheek.

  “Aghh!” I swiped it away.

  But now something tickled my throat. No, not a tickle. More like a sting.

  “Oh, no! There’s a flea stuck in my throat!”

  I tried to cough it out, but its sharp legs dug in deeper and deeper.

  I charged upstairs to the bathroom.

  I grabbed my toothbrush and frantically brushed at my throat. I brushed and brushed until I couldn’t feel the flea’s pinching legs.

  Then I rinsed and watched the flea float down the drain.

  Ugh.

  I brushed my teeth. I brushed my gums. I brushed my tongue. I brushed the roof of my mouth.

  I didn’t stop brushing until my entire mouth turned too sore to brush anymore.

  I have to tell Kevin. Something is definitely wrong with me. Kevin will help me figure out what it is.

  I’ll have to tell him about the fleas, I realized. But I knew I didn’t have a choice. I needed help—fast.

  I dialed the Sullivans’ number. Aunt Sylvie answered the phone. “Hello.”