by R. L. Stine
“Oh, nooooo.” I opened my mouth in a long, low moan.
The collar of the pajama shirt dug tightly into my neck. I tried to loosen it—and both sleeves ripped at the shoulder!
My heart pounding, I straightened up and crossed the room to the mirror.
My whole body was trembling as I stepped up to the mirror.
I shut my eyes. I couldn’t bear to look.
But I had no choice. I had to see. I had to know.
Slowly, slowly, I opened one eye, then the other. I took a deep breath and gazed at my reflection.
Had the snapshot come true? Did I weigh four hundred pounds?
17
I leaned into the mirror and stared at myself.
No. Not four hundred pounds.
I didn’t look too different. A little puffy. My cheeks were a little rounder. My shoulders were broader.
I stepped back to check out the rest of my body—and Mom came walking into the room. “Greg, what are you doing? You’re going to be late for school.”
I spun away from the mirror. “Mom—I grew last night!” I blurted out. “I—I ripped my pajamas.”
She narrowed her eyes at the torn pajama top. “Greg, you didn’t grow overnight,” she said calmly. “Those pajamas always were a little small on you.”
I turned back to the mirror. “They were?”
Maybe Mom was right. Maybe I wasn’t growing huge. Maybe it was all in my imagination.
I turned back to her. “How do I look?”
She shrugged. “You look fine.”
“I mean, do I look fatter to you?”
She studied me for a moment. “Well, actually…” Her voice trailed off.
“Actually what?” I demanded.
“Maybe I’ll put skim milk on your cereal this morning,” she replied.
“Hi, Greg. Putting on a little weight?”
That’s how Mr. Saur greeted me when I hurried up to his desk before English class.
His words sent a cold shiver down the back of my neck. But I ignored them. I held up the camera. “Mr. Saur, I want to show you something.”
He lowered his eyes to the camera and frowned at it. “You want to take my picture? I already had my photo taken for the yearbook, Greg.”
“No,” I replied. “This is the camera, Mr. Saur. This is the camera that—”
He raised a hand to tell me to stop talking. “Not right now, Greg,” he said, climbing up from his desk chair.
“But, Mr. Saur—” I protested.
He was gazing over my shoulder. I turned and saw Mr. Grand standing in the classroom doorway. Mr. Saur hurried over to talk to him.
They talked until the bell rang. Then Mr. Saur returned to the front of the room to begin class. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here yesterday,” he announced. “I understand you had a wonderful time learning the subjunctive tense.”
I was still standing beside his desk, the camera in my hands. He stepped up to the chalkboard, turned, and saw me.
“Greg, take your seat, please,” he said. “We have a lot to do today.”
“But, Mr. Saur—” I protested. I raised the camera.
“Take your seat,” he insisted.
I had no choice. I sighed and trudged to my chair near the back of the room.
How can I prove that my report was true if he won’t even listen to me? I asked myself unhappily.
“Today, we’re going to hear more of your reports about true things that happened to you,” Mr. Saur told the class. He turned to a girl in the front row. “Marci, I believe it is your turn. What is your report about?”
Marci Ryder stood up. “It’s about my cat, Waffles. It’s about all the funny things Waffles does around the house.”
I groaned. Bor-ring! I thought. A few other kids groaned, too.
But Mr. Saur actually smiled. The first time ever!
He practically purred! “I like cats,” he told Marci. “I have six of them myself.”
Oh, yuck! I thought. Six cats!
I can’t sit through a boring report about a boring cat! I told myself.
I shot my hand into the air and waved it frantically. “Mr. Saur? Mr. Saur?”
The teacher’s smile faded. “Greg—now what?” he demanded.
“Uh… before Marci starts,” I said, “can I show you the camera? You know. The one from my report? You said if I brought it in and proved that it’s evil, you’d change my grade.”
Mr. Saur rubbed his chin and frowned at me. “It’s Marci’s turn,” he replied coldly. “I know we all want to hear about Waffles.”
“But, Mr. Saur—you promised!” I cried.
A few kids snickered. My voice was so high, only dogs could hear it.
“Greg, you’re not going to change my mind,” Mr. Saur insisted.
“But I can prove it!” I pleaded. “I can prove the camera is evil.”
A few more kids snickered.
“Greg is evil!” Donny shouted.
It got a big laugh.
“Greg is baaaaad!” some other kid shouted.
Another big laugh.
Mr. Saur slammed the chalkboard with his wooden pointer. “Quiet, everyone.” He sighed and motioned me forward. “Okay, Greg. One minute. It isn’t fair to the others to give you extra time. But I’ll give you one minute to show off your camera.”
One minute!
I knew that’s all I needed.
I felt my shirt pocket to make sure I had the snapshot of Jon inside. I knew that once Sourball saw that photo and heard what happened to Jon that night, he’d believe me.
“Come on, Greg,” the teacher urged. “Get up here. One minute.”
“Coming,” I said. I eagerly tried to stand up.
Tried again.
Again.
We have those chairs with the desk attached to the front.
And I was stuck in the chair. Too fat to get out!
18
What is happening to me? I wondered, feeling panic creep up from my stomach. My big blobby stomach.
I climbed into this chair without any problem. That was less than an hour ago. And now I’m stuck in here. I must have put on a hundred pounds while I was sitting here!
“Greg, we’re waiting.” Mr. Saur rolled his eyes and tapped the chalkboard impatiently with the pointer.
On the fourth try, I finally managed to slide out of the seat. Carrying the camera carefully, I tromped up to the front of the room.
“This is the camera,” I told Mr. Saur. “My friends and I found it in a deserted house. Just as I said in my report. The camera has a curse on it, and—”
He took the camera from my hands and examined it. He rolled it over and over. He brought it up close to his face. He raised the viewfinder to his eye.
“No—don’t!” I shrieked. “Don’t take a picture!”
He lowered the camera. “If I don’t take a picture, how will I know if the camera is evil or not?”
I reached into my shirt pocket. “I brought a photo,” I told him. “This will prove I’m telling the truth.”
My fingers were so fat, I had trouble poking them into the pocket. My hands felt like squishy balls of dough. They were too blobby to make a fist!
I nearly pulled the pocket off as I struggled to take out the snapshot of Jon.
Finally, I pulled it out and shoved it in Mr. Saur’s face. “Here. Look!”
He took the snapshot and studied it.
“That boy is named Jon,” I told him. “I took his picture two nights ago. He was perfectly okay. But the photo showed him with a nail through his foot. Two minutes later, it came true. Jon got a nail in his foot, and his dad had to rush him to the hospital.”
Mr. Saur burst out laughing.
Another first. The first time he’d ever laughed in class!
“It’s not funny,” I insisted. “Poor Jon was in so much pain. He—”
“I’ve seen those trick nails,” Mr. Saur said, his eyes on the photo.
“Huh?” I didn’t understan
d him.
He handed the photo back to me. “I used to have a fake arrow,” he said. “When I slid it on, it looked as if I had an arrow going straight through my head. So I understand how you made it appear that this boy has a nail through his foot.”
“No! It’s real! It’s real!” I cried. “Look how much pain Jon is in! Look at his face!”
“Your friend is a good actor,” Mr. Saur replied.
“No!” I shrieked. “He isn’t my friend! I don’t even know him! You’ve got to believe me! You’ve got to!”
Mr. Saur glanced up at the clock. “Your minute is up.”
“But you promised—!” I cried.
“Greg, go sit down,” he ordered. “You’re not going to fool me with an old camera and a joke snapshot.”
“You lose, Greg!” Donny shouted.
“You’re evil, Greg!” Brian chimed in.
Everyone laughed. I could feel my face growing hot. I knew I must be beet-red.
I felt ready to explode. I was embarrassed and hurt and angry—all at the same time.
“I’d give you an A for effort,” Mr. Saur said cruelly. “But I’m still giving you an F for your report. F for fake!”
Everyone laughed again.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I let out a cry of fury—and went running for the door.
At least, I tried to run. But I was too heavy to move fast. I could only waddle.
“Greg—where are you going?” I heard Mr. Saur call.
I pretended I didn’t hear him and lumbered to the door. I had the camera tucked under one flabby arm. I pulled the door open with the other.
And bounced out into the silent, empty hall.
I could hear Mr. Saur calling me from the classroom. And I could hear the kids laughing and talking excitedly.
I slammed the door shut behind me and kept moving.
I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t have a plan. I was so angry. I wanted to scream and cry and punch the walls.
I turned the corner—and saw Shari down the hall.
“Greg!” she called, surprised to see me. “What’s going on?”
She was wearing a short black skirt over blue tights. She started to run down the hall toward me.
She took about four steps—and then cried out as her skirt fell down!
19
“I don’t believe this!” Shari wailed.
We both stared down at her skirt, which had fallen around her ankles.
She dropped her books and bent to pull it up.
Normally, I would have burst out laughing. But she seemed so upset, I just stood there.
“I—I’m losing weight,” she stammered, straightening the skirt around her waist. “I weighed myself this morning. I’ve lost eight pounds!”
“Oh, wow!” I shook my head. Why was she losing weight?
I tried to cheer her up. “Uh… eight pounds isn’t so much,” I said. I knew it was lame. But I couldn’t think of anything else.
“Greg—I only weighed ninety to start!” she replied sharply. “Now I’m down to eighty-two. I can’t keep my skirt up. All my clothes hang on me!”
“Maybe if you eat a really big lunch…” I started.
“You’re no help!” she snapped.
“Look at me!” I cried, holding my arms out so she could see my big stomach. “I think I put on two hundred pounds overnight! A few minutes ago, I couldn’t get out of my chair!”
Her eyes checked me out. She was so upset about being skinny, she hadn’t even looked at me.
She squinted hard at me. Then she burst out laughing. “Oh, gross. You look really weird!”
“Thanks a bunch,” I sighed.
“What are we going to do?” she demanded. “Why is this happening to us?”
I started to answer—but I heard footsteps approaching from down the hall.
Shari heard them, too. “Let’s go,” she urged. “Quick—help me pick up my books.”
I bent to pick up the books—and the back of my jeans burst open with a loud rrrrrrip.
After school, Bird and Michael and some other kids started up a softball game on the diamond behind school. I didn’t want to play. I didn’t want them to see how huge I was getting.
But they pulled me onto the diamond and forced me to play first base.
Maybe they won’t notice anything different, I thought. I crossed my fingers and hoped. Maybe they won’t notice that I’ve filled out a bit—since this morning!
My T-shirt was stretched against my bulging stomach. The shirt was so tight, I could barely move my arms. My ripped jeans fit over my legs like tights.
Maybe they won’t notice, I told myself as I tried to trot out to first base. Maybe they won’t notice.
“Hey, Greg—” Bird called from the pitcher’s mound. “Have you been super-sizing all your meals?”
Everyone whooped and laughed. A few guys rolled around on the grass, giggling like hyenas.
Michael pointed at me. “Hey—it’s Sumo Three!” he yelled.
“It’s Sumo Three and Four!” someone else called out.
More loud whooping and laughing.
“Give me a break,” I muttered angrily.
“Give him a lunch break!” Michael called.
It wasn’t funny. But everyone laughed, anyway.
They gathered around me in a wide circle. They shook their heads. “Weird,” Bird muttered. “How did you put on two hundred pounds since yesterday?”
I didn’t want to talk about it. “Are we going to play ball or what?” I demanded.
I had a strong urge to tell Bird and Michael why I was ballooning up so fast. I wanted to tell them that I had taken out the evil camera. That Shari had taken my picture. That it showed me weighing at least four hundred pounds.
And now it was coming true.
But I didn’t dare tell them. They had warned me not to go back to the Coffman house. And they had begged me not to take out the camera.
If I told them the truth, they’d think I was a total jerk.
So I kept my mouth shut and tried to concentrate on the game.
I did pretty well until I went to bat in the third inning. I hit the ball over the second baseman’s head and trotted to first base with a single.
I was totally out of breath by the time I reached the base. But the ball was still rolling around in the outfield. “Keep running!” my teammates shouted. “Greg—go to second!”
So, huffing and puffing, I lifted my heavy legs and made my way to second.
“Slide! Slide!” everyone was shouting.
So I slid into second. Safe!
And then I couldn’t get off my back.
I wasn’t strong enough to pick up my heavy body. I must look like Humpty-Dumpty! I realized.
I tried rolling. I tried rocking back and forth.
And then I tried calling my friends for help.
* * *
I was exhausted by the time I pulled my huge body to my house. Sweat poured off my forehead and rolled down my round cheeks and chins.
My clothes were stretched so tight, I could barely breathe. My jeans were ripped. My shirt pressed against my skin. Even my sneakers pinched my feet!
This is horrible! I’ve got to get into something comfortable, I decided.
I remembered my huge, baggy shorts. The ones I wore to go bike riding the other day.
I carried my bulky body over to the dresser. Bent over with a groan and pulled out the big shorts.
I tugged them on, eager to get comfortable.
Tugged. Tugged harder. Then gasped in horror.
The huge, baggy shorts were skintight!
20
I put on nearly three hundred pounds that day. By evening, I could barely walk.
“It’s an allergic reaction,” Mom said.
I stared at her. “Excuse me? What’s that?”
“You ate something you’re allergic to,” she answered. “A person doesn’t swell up like a balloon overnight.”
>
Dad squinted at me. He was trying to look calm, but I could see how worried he was. “Do you eat a lot of candy bars after school?” he asked.
Mom shook her head at Dad. “He could eat a thousand candy bars a day! They wouldn’t make him this huge!” she declared.
“We’d better take him to an allergy doctor,” Dad murmured, rubbing his chin.
“We’ll take him to Dr. Weiss first,” Mom argued. “Dr. Weiss can tell us what kind of doctor to take him to.”
They started to argue about what kind of doctor I needed.
I waddled out of the room. It took all my strength just to raise my enormous legs. My chins sagged down over my neck. My big stomach bounced out of the room ahead of me.
I knew that no doctor could help me. I knew I didn’t have an allergy. And I knew I didn’t become a blimp because of candy bars.
The snapshot from the evil camera made me look as big as a mountain. And the snapshot had come true.
No doctor could slim me down. No diet would work.
Later, I begged Mom and Dad to let me stay home. “Please don’t make me go to school tomorrow like this,” I pleaded. “The kids will laugh at me. I’ll be so embarrassed.”
“You can’t miss school,” Dad insisted. “What if it takes weeks and weeks to get you back to normal?”
“The kids won’t laugh at you,” Mom added. “Your friends will understand that you’re sick.”
I begged and whined. I even got down on my fat knees to plead with them.
But would they listen? No.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Dad said as I waddled out the door to go to school the next morning.
Don’t be embarrassed?
I wore one of his baggy running suits—and it was tight on me!
I felt embarrassed just walking down the street. When cars drove past, I knew the people inside were staring at me. Laughing at the big mound of Jell-O bouncing along the sidewalk.
I didn’t want to walk to school. But my parents have a Honda Civic—and I didn’t fit in the car!
Kids were staring as I squeezed through the front door of Pitts Landing Middle School. But everyone was kind. No one made jokes. In fact, no one said a word to me.
