by Greyson Mann
Copyright © 2017 by Hollan Publishing, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Special thanks to Erin L. Falligant.
Cover illustration by Amanda Brack
Cover design by Brian Peterson
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-5107-1821-0
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-1830-2
Printed in the United States of America
DAY 1: TUESDAY (MORNING)
I was just a kid when I started Mob Middle School a month ago. I’ve gotta say, I’ve grown a lot since then.
I somehow made it through the first month in one piece. Well, EXCEPT for the day I exploded in the cafeteria, taking out the vending machine and a bully named Bones. But that’s another story.
See, I had all these dreams when school started. I thought I could give myself this cool new nickname, and make friends with an Enderman, and be the fastest creeper in sprinting class.
Well, things didn’t go exactly how I thought they would. I might have dreamed a little TOO big. But I still think a creeper should have a plan.
My real dream plan is to be a famous rapper someday, like Kid Z. I’m only in sixth grade now, so I’ve got like six years to make that happen. I think that’s pretty realistic.
Meanwhile, I’ve got a shot at being a famous rapper RIGHT HERE at Mob Middle School. These fliers were posted all over school last night talking about a talent show. It’s a month from now.
That seems like a long way away, but it gives me plenty of time to plan.
I can picture it already: me on stage, rapping, with mobs falling at my feet. All those eighth-grade witches will be BEGGING for my autograph.
That’s where everything kind of falls apart, because no one knows my real name. It’s Gerald, which is a weird name for a creeper. I tried to change it when I started school, but that plan backfired and kids started calling me Itchy. (Don’t ask—it’s a long story.)
So I’m trying to turn moldy mushrooms into mushroom stew. That’s what Mom says we should do with bad situations—find a way to make something good out of them. So if I can’t lose my new nickname, I gotta find a way to make it cool.
I think the talent show could help me out there. If I win, everyone will want something signed by Itchy. They’ll be making T-shirts with my name on them and everything!
The way I see it, only TWO things stand in my way of winning.
The first one is Bones and his gang. That skeleton has pretty much left me alone the last couple of days—you know, after the blowing-up-in-his-face incident. But I overheard him say to his buddies that they should enter their band in the talent show.
I didn’t know Bones even HAD a band. I didn’t think that nasty skeleton had a musical bone in his body.
But if he does, he’ll be hard to beat. When he decides to do something (like make my life miserable), he’s pretty good at making it happen.
Here’s the second thing that might stand in my way of winning the show. It’s possible that I MIGHT have a teeny-tiny problem with stage fright.
I wasn’t worried about that at first, because I figured my friend Sam and I would do the act together. Having that big, bouncy slime onstage with me would make things a whole lot better.
So, at lunchtime, I met Sam in the cafeteria by the new vending machine. I have to say, I kind of did the school a favor by blowing up the old one. This new machine ALWAYS takes my emeralds, and food actually comes out instead of getting stuck.
Sam likes the new machine because it has hot chocolate. I guess it’s made from cocoa that comes all the way from the jungle. But anyway, Sam can’t get enough of it. And let me just say, that slime does NOT need caffeine. He’s bouncy enough. And when he has caffeine, he wiggles constantly.
But now he’s kind of addicted. So while he got his hot chocolate, I asked him about the talent show. Turns out, he’s already doing an act with his girlfriend, Willow.
Personally, I don’t think a sixth-grade slime should be going out with an eighth-grade witch. But I learned a long time ago (last month) not to get involved. I do NOT need that kind of drama in my life.
So I guess Willow Witch is doing some kind of potion-brewing act, and Sam is going to be her assistant. I don’t really get it. Why would a slime want to be a witch’s assistant when he could be a creeper’s backup musician?
But, whatever. I guess I’m on my own.
So when I got home after school this morning, I talked to Mom about it. Well, I had to wait until she was done working out first.
Mom is on this fitness kick. Last month, it was an “eat green foods” kick, so this is a definite improvement—at least, for me.
The green-foods thing was an epic fail. Mom was trying to look younger and greener, but that didn’t really happen. Plus, Mom found out that Dad was sneaking dinners at the Creeper Café.
He just couldn’t take any more brussels sprouts.
I couldn’t either. Like I told Mom once, I blame those brussels sprouts for my blow-up at school. But she doesn’t really want to discuss that anymore. She says it’s time to move on.
So when Mom finished her workout DVD, I told her about the talent show.
BIG MISTAKE.
She said I should ask my twin sister, Chloe, to be my partner in the show. See, Mom has all these hopes and dreams for Chloe and me, now that we’re not fighting all the time.
I used to call her my Evil Twin. But Chloe has actually been nice to me lately because I saved her butt at school last week. I gotta say, though, I don’t see us being BFFs anytime soon. And trying to do a talent show act with her would be a COMPLETE disaster. So Mom really has to start being more realistic.
Anyway, I told Mom I’d figure it out on my own. I have a whole month, and I just need to make a plan.
The first thing I have to do is finish my new rap. I started over the weekend, but I haven’t worked on it since. See, I’m doing this sprinting thing after school, and that extracurricular is really cramping my style.
Turns out, sprinting is NOT my talent. I tried practicing in the backyard once. But, for some reason, that didn’t really improve my speed. And I haven’t been able to talk Sam into joining sprinting. So it’s just me and Ziggy Zombie.
The only thing worse than having to run for an hour is running with a zombie chasing you. And the other day, Ziggy actually caught up with me. I’m afraid he might pass me pretty soon. And when a ZOMBIE is a faster runner than you, it’s DEF
INITELY time to quit.
Dad won’t want me to quit sprinting. He’s big on sticking with what you started. But I think Mom will help me out there—especially when I bring up the fact that she quit the “going green” thing. (Parents really love it when you bring up examples to back up your argument.)
So I think I have a good plan going. Here’s what I’ve got so far:
30-Day Plan for Winning the Talent Show
• Find a partner—or another way to lose my stage fright. (Is there a potion for that?)
• Quit sprinting class.
• Finish writing my rap song.
I think that’s a pretty realistic plan. And I’m going to start right away.
At dinner, I’ll ask Mom and Dad about quitting sprinting. It’s always good to do these things after parents have had a good day’s sleep.
Like I said, a month ago, I was just a kid with big dreams. But I’m a whole lot smarter now. I’m a creeper with a plan.
DAY 1: TUESDAY (NIGHT)
Well, dinner was pretty much a disaster.
I mean, the eating part was good. Scorched salmon, roasted potatoes, and not a single green thing on my plate. But everything tasted so good that I didn’t want to ruin it by talking about sprinting class. So I waited until dessert.
As soon as Mom brought out the burnt apple crisp, I made my big announcement. I said I was quitting sprinting class because I had to focus on my career as a rap artist. Dad opened his mouth just like I knew he would, so I quickly passed him the apple crisp and served him up a big heaping.
Then I pulled out my secret weapon. I said, “I really think a creeper should know when to quit. Take Mom here, for example. When that whole brussels sprout thing didn’t pan out, she decided to throw it out the window and move on. Right, Mom?”
I was pretty proud of the way I’d just taken Dad’s attention off me and put it on Mom. But, boy, did THAT backfire.
Before I could even take one bite of my burnt apple crisp, Mom slid my plate away and put her green face right in front of mine.
She said, “For your information, I didn’t QUIT the brussels sprout thing. I replaced my plan to eat green with my new and improved plan to become an exercise machine. Which happens to be going very well, thanks for asking. I’ve already lost three pounds of gunpowder. You should ALL try it. In fact, I think we should start jogging as a family. Every night before dinner.”
“Hey, there’s an idea!” said Dad. “Gerald can run with you!”
I don’t know how “family” turned into “Gerald,” but I guess Dad thought I should take one for the team.
Right away, I asked why my sisters weren’t part of this family-jogging plan. But I wished I hadn’t said that, because it reminded Mom about the talent show. And she got in my face again and asked if I’d invited Chloe to be my partner in the show.
I played dumb and pretended she was talking about one of my OTHER sisters. Did I mention I have three?
“Isn’t Cate a little too old?” I said.
My teenaged sister, the Fashion Queen, glared at me. Cate hasn’t had much of a sense of humor since Dad said she couldn’t date this guy named Steve. She’s been wearing a black wig and dark lipstick and moping around the house.
It’s kind of bringing me down, actually. I almost wish Dad would let her and Steve hiss and make up.
So then Mom was like, “Not THAT sister.”
So I said, “Oh, you mean Cammy?”
My baby sister, Cammy, is talented, all right. I call her the Exploding Baby because she blows up ALL the time. She could be my partner in the talent show if I could just get her to explode on cue—like right at the end of my rap song.
For half a second, I actually considered it.
But Mom had zero patience left by then. She used my whole name, which is never a good sign. “You’re not funny, Gerald Creeper, Jr. You know perfectly well that I’m talking about Chloe.”
Chloe looked up from the burnt apple crisp that she’d been inhaling. She had a big chunk of charred apple stuck to her cheek. I wondered if anyone was going to mention it.
When she said she was already working on her own act—something about a cannon—I was SO relieved.
But then she said I could help her, if I wasn’t afraid of a little gunpowder. I didn’t like the way she smiled when she said that. I saw a hint of my old Evil Twin.
“Yeah, no, thanks,” I said. “I’m doing a rap song. I don’t need a partner for that.”
Except I kind of do. What’s a rapper without a backup musician?
If I were still dreaming big, I’d ask Eddy Enderman. He’s the coolest kid at school, and all he’d have to do is stand there on stage and my act would take first place, for sure.
But Eddy and I aren’t exactly friends. At least, not yet.
I can count my friends on two feet.
There’s Sam, of course. And I guess I have to count Ziggy, even though I swore we’d never be friends. He’s kind of growing on me—like a mushroom on a log. But I can’t picture him rapping. That dude has NO rhythm. Things would have to be pretty bad before I’d ask him.
Who else? Well, there’s always Sticky, my loyal pet squid. But squids don’t have that many talents. Don’t get me wrong—he’s pretty cute. And he’s stuck by my side through a lot of rough times.
But I don’t think Sticky can help me up there onstage.
So if I have to do this on my own, I’m going to need to get a grip on my stage fright. But HOW??
Can Willow Witch brew me up a potion of Courage?
I might have to be a whole lot nicer to her from now on.
DAY 2: WEDNESDAY (MORNING)
Okay, so now I’m seriously worried about the talent show.
See, we had music class last night at school. Yeah, you heard me right—MUSIC. Art class turned into music class this month. I guess there aren’t enough emeralds in the budget to have both classes, so we have to alternate.
Well, that’s okay by me, except our music teacher is the SAME teacher we had for art: Ms. Wanda. And I really think that crafty witch should stick to teaching art.
She asked us today who our favorite musicians are. When I jumped up and said Kid Z, she said, “Kid who?”
REALLY? How can a music teacher not know the most famous rapper in the Overworld?
Then she told us she was bringing in “visiting musicians” to help teach the class. I’m pretty sure that’s just another way of saying, “I don’t really know how to teach this class.”
The first thing we were going to learn about was percussion. And guess who our visiting musician was?
BONES.
Yeah, THAT Bones. The skeleton with the attitude.
I just about fell out of my chair when I saw him. He came in with a pair of drumsticks and sat down by the drum set in the corner. And I really, really, REALLY hate to say this, but he was pretty good.
I tried not to watch—or even listen. But let’s face it, that was a losing battle. Everything in the room was vibrating to the beat of the drums. My desk. The floor under my feet. And across the aisle? Sam the Slime.
That slime was wiggling and jiggling so much, I thought he was going to slide right out of his seat.
And the whole time, he had this goofy grin on his face. That guy does NOT know how to play it cool.
When Bones was done, people actually clapped, which made me want to throw up. Then, as he walked out of class, he shot me this smirk. I know exactly what he was thinking. It was like I could read the words in a speech bubble above his bony head.
And you know what? He might be right about that. Because at the end of class, Ms. Wanda told us she had good news. SHE was going to be in charge of the talent show.
Great.
I really hope she’s not the only judge. If she is, Bones is gonna win for sure. And I’ll be lucky not to get booed off the stage.
I couldn’t get the beat of Bones’s drums out of my head after that. During social studies class, I could still hear it—like th
e way my heart thuds in my ears when I watch a scary movie or get anywhere near a cat.
I could feel the vibrations of those drums, too, like silverfish running across my skin. And I started to itch.
Just in case I didn’t mention it yet (and I probably didn’t, because I really don’t like to talk about it), I have this skin thing called psoriasis. It’s pronounced SORE-EYE-A-SIS.
It sounds like a deadly disease, I know. But it really just means itchy skin. And sometimes a rash. And you know what makes it worse?
STRESS.
Which I’m feeling a lot of right now.
The other thing that makes it worse is sweating. So by the time I got to sprinting class after school, I was determined not to sweat. I was running so slowly, I was practically walking. I didn’t even mind when Ziggy Zombie zoomed by me and left me in his stinky, green dust.
But then I glanced over at the spider riding class in the field next to ours, and the first spider jockey I saw was Bones. He was pretty much galloping across the field on his red-eyed spider. Is there nothing that skeleton can’t do?
While I was watching him, I started to think about the talent show again. And I started to sweat. Not the sweating that happens when you run fast, but the sweating that happens when you’re sure something bad is going to happen.
I tripped on a shoelace and landed flat on my face. Of course, Bones saw me do it—and about a half dozen of his bony buddies. He shouted, “Jeepers, Creeper. Walk much?”
But after my face-plant, I sat there, thinking and sweating. And that was when it came to me—the perfect way to get out of sprinting class.
I decided to tell Mom that my psoriasis was acting up again because I’ve been sweating WAY too much in sprinting class. It’s genius!
Before I got home this morning, I rolled around in the grass and gave myself a full-body scratch so that she could see the rash. By the time I walked through our front door, my itchy skin was glowing like redstone.
