by R. L. Stine
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.”
10
Sara and Mom both turned accusing eyes on me.
“How could you?” Sara screamed, walking around the big paint puddle. “How could you?”
“Whoa! Wait! I didn’t! I didn’t!” I cried frantically.
“I asked Amy why she was going in here,” Jed chimed in. “And she said it was none of my business.”
“Amy!” Mom cried. “I’m horrified. I’m truly horrified. This—this is sick!”
“Yes, it’s sick,” Sara repeated, shaking her head. “All of my poster paint. All of it. What a mess. I know why you did it. It’s because you’re jealous of my perfect report card.”
“But I didn’t do it!” I wailed. “I didn’t! I didn’t! I didn’t!”
“Amy—no one else could have,” Mom replied. “If Jed didn’t do it, then—”
“But I only came in here to borrow markers!”
I cried in a trembling voice. “That’s all. I needed markers.”
“Amy—” Mom started, pointing to the huge paint puddle.
“I’ll show you!” I cried. “I’ll show you what I borrowed.”
I ran to my room. My hands were shaking as I scooped Sara’s markers off my desk. My heart pounded.
How could they accuse me of something so terrible? I asked myself.
Is that what everyone thinks of me? That I’m such a monster?
That I’m so jealous of my sister, I’d pour out all her paints and ruin her rug?
Do they really think I’m crazy?
I ran back to Sara’s room, carrying the markers in both hands. Jed sat on Sara’s bed, staring down at the thick red, blue, and yellow puddle.
Mom and Sara stood over it, gazing down and shaking their heads. Mom kept making clucking noises with her tongue. She kept pressing her hands against her cheeks.
“Here! See?” I cried. I shoved the markers toward them. “That’s why I came in here. I’m not lying!”
Some of the markers fell out of my hands. I bent to pick them up.
“Amy, there were only three of us home this afternoon,” Mom said. She was trying to keep her voice low and calm. But she spoke through gritted teeth. “You, me, and Jed.”
“I know—” I started.
Mom raised a hand to silence me. “I certainly didn’t do this horrible thing,” Mom continued. “And Jed says that he didn’t do it. So…” Her voice trailed off.
“Mom—I’m not a sicko!” I shrieked. “I’m not!”
“You’ll feel better if you confess,” Mom said. “Then we can talk about this calmly, and—”
“But I didn’t do it!” I raged.
With a cry of anger, I flung the markers to the floor. Then I spun around, bolted from Sara’s room, and ran down the long hall to my room.
I slammed the door and threw myself facedown onto my bed. I started sobbing loudly. I don’t know how long I cried.
Finally, I stood up. My face was sopping wet, and my nose was running. I started to the dresser to get a tissue.
But something caught my eye.
Hadn’t I turned Slappy around so that his back was turned to me?
Now he was sitting facing me, staring up at me, his red-lipped grin wider than ever.
Did I turn him back around? Did I?
I didn’t remember.
And what did I see on Slappy’s shoes?
I wiped the tears from my eyes with the backs of my hands. Then I took a few steps toward the dummy, squinting hard at his big leather shoes.
What was that on his shoes?
Red and blue and yellow… paint?
Yes.
With a startled gasp, I grabbed both shoes by the heels and raised them close to my face.
Yes.
Drips of paint on Slappy’s shoes.
“Slappy—what is going on here?” I asked out loud. “What is going on?”
11
When Dad came home and saw Sara’s room, he nearly exploded.
I was actually worried about him. His face turned as red as a tomato. His chest started heaving in and out. And horrible gurgling noises came up from his throat.
The whole family gathered in the living room. We took our Sharing Night places. Only, this wasn’t Family Sharing Night. This was What Are We Going To Do About Amy Night.
“Amy, first you have to tell us the truth,” Mom said. She sat stiffly on the couch, squeezing her hands together in her lap.
Dad sat on the other end of the couch, tapping one hand nervously against the couch arm, chewing his lower lip. Jed and Sara sat on the floor against the wall.
“I am telling the truth,” I insisted shrilly. I slumped in the armchair across from them. My hair fell over my forehead, but I didn’t bother to brush it back. My white T-shirt had tear stains on the front, still damp. “If you would only listen to me,” I pleaded.
“Okay, we’re listening,” Mom replied.
“When I went into my room,” I started, “there were splashes of paint on Slappy’s shoes. And—”
“Enough!” Dad cried, jumping to his feet.
“But, Dad—” I protested.
“Enough!” he insisted. He pointed a finger at me. “No more wild stories, young lady. Storytime is over. We don’t want to hear about paint stains on Slappy. We want an explanation for the crime that was committed in Sara’s room today.”
“But I am giving an explanation!” I wailed. “Why did Slappy have paint on his shoes? Why?”
Dad dropped back onto the couch with a sigh. He whispered something to Mom. She whispered back.
I thought I heard them mention the word “doctor”.
“Are you—are you going to take me to a psychiatrist?” I asked timidly.
“Do you think you need one?” Mom replied, staring hard at me.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Your father and I will talk about this,” Mom said. “We will figure out the best thing to do.”
The best thing to do?
They grounded me for two weeks. No movies.
No friends over. No trips to the mall. No trips anywhere.
I heard them t
alking about finding me a counselor. But they didn’t say anything about it to me.
All week, I could feel them watching me. Studying me as if I were some kind of alien creature.
Sara was pretty cold to me. Her room had to be emptied out and a new rug installed. She wasn’t happy about it.
Even Jed treated me differently. He kind of tiptoed around me and kept his distance, as if I had a bad cold or something. He didn’t tease me, or tell me that I reek, or call me names.
I really missed it. No kidding.
How did I feel? I felt miserable.
I wanted to get sick. I wanted to catch a really bad stomach flu or something so they’d all feel sorry for me and stop treating me like a criminal.
One good thing: They said I could perform with Slappy at The Party House on Saturday.
Whenever I picked Slappy up, I felt a little weird. I remembered the paint on his shoes and the mess in my sister’s room.
But I couldn’t come up with one single explanation. So I practiced with Slappy every night.
I had put a lot of good jokes together. Silly jokes I thought little three-year-olds would find funny.
And I studied myself in the mirror. I was getting better at not moving my lips. And it was getting easier to make Slappy’s mouth and eyes move correctly.
“Knock knock,” I made Slappy say.
“Who’s there?” I asked.
“Eddie.”
“Eddie who?” I asked.
“Eddie-body got a tissue? I hab a teddible cold!”
And then I pulled back Slappy’s head, opened his mouth really wide, and jerked his whole body as I made him sneeze and sneeze and sneeze.
I thought that would really crack up the three-year-olds.
Every night, I worked and worked on our comedy act. I worked so hard.
I didn’t know that the act would never go on.
On Saturday afternoon, Mom dropped me off at The Party House. “Have a good show!” she called as she drove away.
I carried Slappy carefully in my arms. Margo met me at the door. She greeted me with an excited smile.
“Just in time!” she cried. “The kids are almost all here. They’re total animals!”
“Oh, great!” I muttered, rolling my eyes.
“They’re total animals, but they’re so cute!” Margo added.
She led me through the twisting hallway to the party room in back. Clusters of red and yellow balloons covered the ceiling. I saw a brightly decorated table, all yellow and red. A balloon on a string floated up from each chair around the table. Each balloon had the name of a guest on it.
The kids really were cute. They were dressed mostly in jeans and bright T-shirts. Two of the girls wore frilly party dresses.
I counted ten of them, all running wildly, chasing each other in the huge room.
Their mothers were grouped around a long table against the back wall. Some of them were sitting down. Some were standing, huddled together, chatting. Some were calling to their kids to stop being so wild.
“I’m helping out, pouring the punch and stuff,” Margo told me. “Dad wants you to do your act first thing. You know. To quiet the kids down.”
I swallowed hard. “First thing, huh?”
I had been excited. I could barely choke down my tuna fish sandwich at lunch. But now I began to feel nervous. I had major fluttering in my stomach.
Margo led me to the front of the room. I saw a low wooden platform there, painted bright blue. That was the stage.
Seeing the stage made my heart start to pound. My mouth suddenly felt very dry.
Could I really step up on that stage and do my act in front of all these people? Kids and mothers?
I had forgotten that the mothers would all be there. Seeing adults in the audience made me even more nervous.
“Here is the birthday girl,” a woman’s voice said.
I turned to see a smiling mother. She held the hand of a beautiful little girl. The girl gazed up at me with sparkling blue eyes. She had straight black hair, a lot like mine, only silkier and finer. She had a bright yellow ribbon in her hair. It matched her short yellow party dress and yellow sneakers.
“This is Alicia,” the mother announced.
“Hi. I’m Amy,” I replied.
“Alicia would like to meet your dummy,” the woman said.
“Is he real?” Alicia asked.
I didn’t know how to answer that question. “He’s a real dummy,” I told Alicia.
I propped Slappy up in my arms and slipped my hand into his back. “This is Slappy,” I told the little girl. “Slappy, this is Alicia.”
“How do you do?” I made Slappy say.
Alicia and her mother both laughed. Alicia stared up at the dummy with her sparkling blue eyes.
“How old are you?” I made Slappy say.
Alicia held up three fingers. “I’m fffree,” she told him.
“Would you like to shake hands with Slappy?” I asked.
Alicia nodded.
I lowered the dummy a little. I pushed forward Slappy’s right hand. “Go ahead,” I urged Alicia. “Take his hand.”
Alicia reached up and grabbed Slappy’s hand. She giggled.
“Happy Birthday,” Slappy said.
Alicia shook his hand gently. Then she started to back away.
“We can’t wait to see your show,” Alicia’s mother said to me. “I know the kids are going to love it.”
“I hope so!” I replied. My stomach fluttered again. I was still really nervous.
“Let go!” Alicia cried. She tugged at Slappy’s hand. She giggled. “He won’t let go!”
Alicia’s mom laughed. “What a funny dummy!” She grabbed Alicia’s other hand. “Let go of the dummy, honey. We have to get everyone in their seats for the show.”
Alicia tugged a little harder. “But he won’t let go of me, Mommy!” she cried. “He wants to shake hands!”
Alicia gave a hard tug. But her tiny hand was still wrapped up inside Slappy’s. She giggled. “He likes me. He won’t let go.”
“Oh, look,” her mother said, glancing to the door. “Phoebe and Jennifer just arrived. Let’s go say hi.”
Alicia tried to follow her mom, but Slappy held tight to her hand. Alicia’s smile faded. “Let go!” she insisted.
I saw that several kids had gathered around. They watched Alicia tug at Slappy’s hand.
“Let go! Let me go!” Alicia cried angrily.
I leaned over to examine Slappy’s hand. To my surprise, it appeared that his hand had clenched tightly around hers.
Alicia gave a hard tug. “Ow! He’s hurting me, Mommy!”
More kids came over to watch. Some of them were laughing. Two little dark-haired boys exchanged frightened glances.
“Please—make him let go!” Alicia wailed. She tugged again and again.
I froze in panic. My mind whirred. I tried to think of what to do.
Had Alicia gotten her hand caught somehow?
Slappy’s hand couldn’t really close around hers—could it?
Alicia’s mother was staring at me angrily. “Please let Alicia’s hand out,” she said impatiently.
“He’s hurting me!” Alicia cried. “Ow! He’s squeezing my hand!”
The room grew very quiet. The other kids were all watching now. Their eyes wide. Their expressions confused.
I didn’t know what to do. I had no control for Slappy’s hands.
My heart pounded in my chest. I tried to make a joke of it. “Slappy really likes you!” I told Alicia.
But the little girl was sobbing now. Little tears rolled down her cheeks. “Mommy—make him stop!”
I pulled my hand out from Slappy’s back. I grabbed his wooden hand between my hands. “Let go of her, Slappy!” I demanded.
I tried pulling the fingers open.
But I couldn’t budge them.
“What is wrong?” Alicia’s mother was screaming. “Is her hand caught? What are you doing to her?”
&n
bsp; “He’s hurting me!” Alicia wailed. “Owwww! He’s squeezing me!”
Several kids were crying now. Mothers rushed across the room to comfort them.
Alicia’s sobs rose up over the frightened cries of the other three-year-olds. The harder she tugged, the tighter the wooden hand squeezed.
“Let go, Slappy!” I shrieked, pulling his fingers. “Let go! Let go!”
“I don’t understand!” Alicia’s mother cried. She began frantically tugging my arm. “What are you doing? Let her go! Let her go!”
“Owwwww!” Alicia uttered a high, heartbreaking wail. “Make him stop! It hurts! It hurts!”
And then Slappy suddenly tilted his head back. His eyes opened wide, and his mouth opened in a long, evil laugh.
12
I burst into the house and let the screen door slam behind me. I had taken the city bus to Logan Street. Then I had run the six blocks to my house with Slappy hanging over my shoulder.
“Amy, how did it go?” Mom called from the kitchen. “Did you get a ride? I thought we were supposed to come pick you up.”
I didn’t answer her. I was sobbing too hard. I ran down the hall to my room and slammed the door.
I hoisted Slappy off my shoulder and tossed him into the closet. I never wanted to see him again. Never.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror. My cheeks were swollen and puffy from crying. My eyes were red. My hair was wet and tangled, and matted to my forehead.
I took several deep breaths and tried to stop crying.
I kept hearing that poor little girl’s screams in my ears. Slappy finally let go of her after he uttered his ugly laugh.
But Alicia couldn’t stop crying. She was so frightened! And her little hand was red and swollen.
The other kids were all screaming and crying, too.
Alicia’s mother was furious. She called Margo’s dad out from the kitchen. She was shaking and sputtering with anger. She said she was going to sue The Party House.
Margo’s dad quietly asked me to leave. He led me to the front door. He said it wasn’t my fault. But he said the kids were too frightened of Slappy now. There was no way I could do my show.
I saw Margo hurrying over to me. But I turned and ran out the door.
