by R. L. Stine
My mouth suddenly felt dry. I’m not good with shots. I’ve had a lot of allergy shots. And I wasn’t brave about any of them. “I don’t know if —” I started.
“Don’t move, Richard,” he said. “It will only pinch for a few seconds. But don’t move. Please. Don’t turn around.”
I held my breath. I tightened all my muscles. I shut my eyes and waited for the stab of pain in my back.
One … two … three …
I counted silently to myself. Waiting … waiting for the pinch of pain.
… four … five …
I couldn’t take it. I opened my eyes and looked behind me.
And saw the needle raised in Dr. Root’s hand. It was two feet long!
Before I could move, he pressed it into my back.
I uttered a hoarse scream.
Everything went black.
I opened my eyes. I blinked a few times, then stared up at a pale green sky.
Sky?
Where am I?
No. I saw a long ceiling light. The ceiling was green. I raised my head. Blinked some more. Dr. Root’s office slowly came into focus.
I cleared my throat. Took a few breaths. It took me a while to realize I was flat on my back.
Dr. Root leaned over me. His face was as red as a tomato. His tiny black eyes gazed down at me. “Sorry, Richard,” he said in a whisper.
“Am I — ?” The ceiling spun in circles above me.
“You’re okay,” he said, patting my arm. “You fainted. I’m afraid you’re not the first person to faint because of that long needle.” He shook his head. “I told you not to look.”
“I … I couldn’t help it. I —”
He grabbed my shoulders gently and pulled me up to a sitting position. “You’ll be okay now,” he said. “That shot looks terrifying, but you’ll see. It really will help you.”
My dizziness faded. I started to feel better. I climbed to my feet.
Dr. Root wiped sweat off his cheeks with both hands. He smiled again, his chins folding like pie dough beneath his mouth. “It didn’t hurt, did it?”
“I … I guess not,” I stammered. “I mean, I didn’t feel anything.”
“Good,” he said softly. “I’m glad.” He motioned to the front. “You can go now. I don’t think you’ll need another shot. But if you need me, I’m easy to find.”
“Well … thank you,” I said.
Awkward. I just wanted to get out of there.
I turned and walked to the waiting room. He didn’t follow me. I stepped out into the hall, strode quickly to the elevator, and took it down to the ground floor.
I stepped outside. The afternoon sun was low in the sky. The breeze had grown cooler. I raised my eyes to the museum. I couldn’t wait to get over there.
I looked for traffic. Started to jog across the street. And …
CHOOOOOOO-EEEEY.
I stepped into the wide front entryway to the museum. The ceiling was a mile high, lined with tall windows. A huge red-and-blue chandelier hung down over the long front desk.
My shoes clicked on the white marble floor. The sound echoed through the enormous room. My eyes swept over the big posters of superheroes that covered the walls.
“Hey, Kahuna. How’s it going?” I shouted.
Behind the desk, Kahuna looked up from the graphic novel he was reading. “Yo, Richard. Keeping it real?”
Big Kahuna is the main greeter and curator of the museum. I don’t know his real name. I call him Kahuna. We’re like friends. I mean, I spend more time with him than with my own family.
Kahuna has a long, serious face. He wears black-framed glasses. He has dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Dangling from one ear, he has a big silver pirate hoop earring. And he has colorful tattoos of his favorite superheroes up and down his arms and across his chest. He wears sleeveless T-shirts to show them off.
He’s a cool guy, but I’ve never seen him smile.
I stepped up to the desk. “Shazam, bro,” he said. We bumped knuckles. “Where have you been lately?”
I spun around and sneezed. I held my breath and made sure I wasn’t going to sneeze again. Then I turned back to him. “Just been to the allergy doctor,” I said. “He gave me a shot.”
Kahuna snickered. “I don’t think it’s working.” He pulled open a drawer under the desk and reached inside. “Got something for you.”
He pulled out two comic books. I couldn’t see the covers, but they looked pretty old. The paper was yellow.
Kahuna is the greatest dude ever. He always finds comics he knows I’ll like. And he pretty much lets me do whatever I want in the museum. I can go into any of the rare comics rooms and spend as much time as I want looking at the old collections.
He raised the comics for me to see. On the covers, I saw a chimpanzee with a black mask pulled down over his head. “The Masked Monkey!” I cried.
Kahuna nodded. “These are very rare, bro. The only two Masked Monkey comics ever produced. From 1973. You seen them before? Of course you haven’t.” He answered his own question.
My hands shook a little as I took the two comics from him. These were very rare and valuable. “Awesome,” I said. “Totally awesome. I’ll take them to the reading room and read them. Thanks, Kahuna.”
We bumped knuckles again. Then I carefully gripped the comics in front of me as I made my way to the reading room at the back of the long front hall.
My shoes clicked on the marble floor. I hurried past the bronze statues of the Martian Mayhem and his archenemy, Plutopus.
Some days I stopped to look at the hundreds of framed comic book covers that spread over one entire wall. But not today. I was too eager to study these valuable Masked Monkey comics.
I didn’t see anyone else in the museum. Why wasn’t it more popular? Didn’t people realize this was the best comic book museum in the world?
I passed the video projection room and the tall statue of Captain Protoplasm. The auditorium stood dark and silent.
I trotted to the end of the hall. I knew I didn’t have much time. My parents were probably at home now, arguing over what we should have for dinner.
“Oh, wow.” I let out a cry when I saw that the reading room doors were closed. I grabbed the knob and turned it. “No. Please.”
The doors were locked.
I turned and started back to the front to get the key from Kahuna. As I walked, I carefully wiped my hands on the legs of my jeans. I didn’t want to get sweat on the valuable comics.
I was halfway to the front desk when I heard shouts. I heard a crash. Then a dull THUD. Another shout.
Was Kahuna fighting with someone?
I took off, running to the desk. My shoes skidded on the slick floor. My heart started to pound.
The desk came into view. But — whoa. Where was Kahuna?
He wasn’t in his usual place, sitting on the tall stool behind the desk.
I skidded to a stop. I stared at the stranger behind the desk. I couldn’t see his face. He had his back turned.
I tucked the Masked Monkey comics into my backpack and stepped up to the desk. “Hey, where’s Kahuna?” I asked. My voice came out high and shrill.
“He had to leave,” the man replied. He didn’t turn around.
I blinked. Something was weird. The man was standing in the tall trash can behind the desk.
I stared at his back. He wore a long black trench coat. He had silver hair falling down over the collar.
Slowly, he turned to face me — and I let out a startled gasp.
His eyes — they had no pupils. No color in them at all. They were solid white.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
I stared into those blank white eyes. No pupils. No irises. None at all. Was he blind?
“Can I help you?” he repeated. His voice was scratchy and hoarse. His head was bald and shiny and shaped like a light bulb.
“Uh … no,” I said. “I mean …”
He picked up a pencil and scribbled some w
ords on the desk pad.
He’s not blind. But he has no pupils.
“I’m … uh … late for dinner,” I stammered. “I’ll come back when Kahuna is here.”
He nodded. “Have a super evening,” he said. But he said it coldly. Like a threat.
A chill of fear made me shudder. What was this about? I knew I’d heard a shout and then a crash. And then suddenly, this weird dude stood behind Kahuna’s desk.
“Bye,” I said. I spun away from the desk and ran out of the museum.
I didn’t realize I’d taken the Masked Monkey comics home with me until after dinner.
We had a typical dinner at the Dreezer house. Mom and Dad argued about whether the short ribs were tender enough. Ernie was clowning around and acting like a jerk, pretending he was a string puppet. And he spilled his apple juice. But of course they didn’t shout at him or anything because everything he does is adorable.
I dropped a carrot on the floor, and Mom and Dad started shouting about what a clumsy klutz I am. Then I sneezed on my dinner plate, and they told me to leave the table.
Typical.
Up in my room, I started to unload my backpack — and there they were. The two rare comic books.
I knew I had to return them to the museum tomorrow. Kahuna would understand that I didn’t mean to take them.
I carefully spread the comics on my desk and began to read the first one.
Even though the hero was a monkey, the art was very realistic. The intro said that no one knew the origin of the Masked Monkey. His power is in his mask. He may be as small as a chimp, but he has the strength of ten gorillas.
“That’s a mean monkey!” I murmured to myself.
Downstairs, I heard my parents arguing over the best way to load the dishwasher. And then I heard another, closer sound. The THUD of running footsteps.
I spun around as Ernie came bursting into my room. He let out a cry and ran straight to my desk.
“Stop!” I cried. I tried to shove him away.
Too late. He grabbed the two comics and took off with them.
The little thief is always taking my things. But this time he’d gone too far.
I jumped to my feet. “Give those back!” I shouted. “Now! I’m not going to play around with you!”
He stopped in the hall and stuck his tongue out at me.
I took a few steps toward him. I kept my eyes on the comics. I was trembling, so angry I thought I could explode.
“Those are valuable,” I said. “They belong to the museum. They are very rare. Give them back to me.”
Ernie shook his head. He had a sick grin on his weasel face. “They’re mine now,” he said.
“GIVE THEM BACK!” I shrieked.
Mom stuck her head into the doorway. “What’s all the racket?”
“Ernie stole my comic books,” I said breathlessly. “They’re not mine. They belong to the museum. He stole them. Make him give them back. Make him. Make him!”
Mom glanced at Ernie. Ernie pressed the comics to his chest.
“Calm down, Richard,” Mom said. “Why are you being so mean to your brother?”
“HUH?” I cried. “Me? Being mean to him?”
Mom smiled at Ernie. “Richard, don’t you see how cute that is? Ernie wants to be just like you. That’s so sweet.”
“But — but — but —” I sputtered. “I — I can’t believe you’re taking his side. Why do you always take his side?”
“I’m not taking sides,” Mom said. “I just think you should stop picking on your little brother.”
Ernie stuck his tongue out at me again. Then he tossed the comic books into my room.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream and rip something to pieces. Anything.
I waited till Mom and Ernie went downstairs. Then I opened my mouth wide to utter an angry cry. But I sneezed instead. I sneezed three or four times.
The allergy shot was worthless. “Dr. Root is a quack,” I muttered.
I wiped my nose with my sleeve. I carefully placed the comic books back on my desk.
My anger faded. I suddenly felt sad. Sad and lonely.
I wish I had the strength of ten gorillas, I thought.
The characters in comic books have such exciting lives. They have all kinds of action and thrills all day and night. People don’t laugh at them because they have allergies. They have good friends who come to their rescue when they’re in danger.
It’s no wonder I daydream about superheroes and comic books. If you had my life, you’d daydream, too.
“I’m the Masked Monkey!” I suddenly shouted. I pictured myself covered in fur, big, powerful, rippling muscles, a black mask over my head to protect my identity.
“I have the strength of ten gorillas!”
I began running around my room, thumping my chest with both fists. I howled and bellowed and made furious gorilla groans and cries. I leaped onto my bed. Jumped up and down, beating my chest and howling.
And then my breath caught in my throat. I gasped. My eyes bulged. I froze there on the bed — and stared at Bree Birnbaum, watching me from the doorway.
My knees wobbled. I almost fell off the bed.
Bree tossed her blond hair behind her shoulder. She tilted her head and squinted at me. “Richard? What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Uh …”
What could I say? No way I could tell her I was the Masked Monkey with the strength of ten gorillas.
“Well … it’s a special exercise,” I said. “It’s supposed to help me get rid of my allergies.”
I couldn’t tell if she believed me or not. She just kept squinting at me with those clear, beautiful green eyes.
She wore a green sweater that matched her eyes, and a short pleated skirt over dark jeans.
I jumped off the bed. I brushed back my hair with one hand. My face was sweaty. Being a gorilla was hard work.
Bree stepped into the room and glanced around. She studied the Mamba Mama poster over my bed. “Ooh, sick,” she said. “That woman is part snake?”
“Well, she’s a teacher in a nursery school. But she can transform into a deadly, venomous snake when she wants to,” I explained.
Bree rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
I sat down on the edge of my bed. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes again. “Good question. I guess it’s just my lucky day.”
Bree is very sarcastic. I’m kind of used to it. We’ve been in the same class since kindergarten. I think I had a crush on her when we were five. Even after she dumped the class ant farm on my head.
She plopped down on my desk chair. “Richard, you know Mrs. Callus teamed partners up for museum projects,” she said.
“She did?”
“You have to stop daydreaming in class, Richard. She did — and you’re my museum partner. I was the lucky one to get you.”
“Cool,” I said.
I knew she was being sarcastic again. But so what? Bree and I working on a project together? How awesome was that?
“So, I guess we have to do this project together,” she said. “But you have to promise me one thing.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“You have to promise you won’t tell anyone we’re working together.”
I thought about it for a few seconds. “Okay.”
“Raise your right hand and swear.”
I raised my right hand and swore. “I won’t tell anyone we’re working together.”
“Okay.” She settled back on the chair. She picked up the little statue of my favorite comic villain, the Scab. She rolled it around in her hand. “Oh, sick. Why is it so scratchy?”
“He has a lot of scabs,” I said. “Be careful with that. It was a birthday present.”
She squinted at me. “You’re not normal, are you?”
That made me laugh.
“I’m not joking,” she said. She set the Scab down next to my autographed photo of the Caped Wolf. Then she jumped to her f
eet. “I have to get out of here. This room is making me nauseous.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to do our project in the Comic Book Museum?” I asked.
She stuck her finger down her throat and made a barfing sound. I guessed that meant no.
I followed her to the door. “Bree, do you want to get an A?”
“Of course.”
“Then we’ll do the Comic Book Museum,” I said. “I know everything about it. Every corner. Every display. Every everything.”
“So?”
“So, I’ll do all the work. I’ll do the whole project. It will be fun for me. And I promise we’ll get an A.”
She crossed her arms in front of her and squinted at me for a long time. “You’ll do all the work?”
I raised my right hand again. “I swear.”
She thought about it a while. Then she tossed back her blond hair. “Okay, I guess.”
“Awesome,” I said. “So you’ll take the bus with me to the museum after school tomorrow?”
“No. I’ll meet you there. I don’t want anyone from school seeing us together.” She spun away and hurried down the stairs.
This is going to work out great! I thought.
The next morning, my head felt like a water balloon. And I was a total snot machine. I sneezed so hard, I thought I would blow my head off. And my eyes were running so badly, I could barely see.
I started to brush my teeth and sneezed all over the bathroom mirror. I tried to wipe my eyes with a towel, but they kept running like the water fountain at school that you can’t turn off.
I pulled on some clothes and went down to breakfast. Mom and Dad were already arguing, something about whether it was a windy day or not.
I sat down in my place across from Ernie. He had oatmeal smeared all over his chin. He opened his mouth wide, showing me the mushed-up oatmeal inside.
Is he gross enough?
I picked up the Pop-Tart on my plate and took a bite of it. My favorite. Cherry.
“We’re supposed to have thirty-mile-per-hour winds,” Dad said.
“You call that wind? Barry, that’s no wind at all,” Mom replied.
