by R. L. Stine
“Well, call him and tell him you’ll see him tomorrow,” Mr. Banks said, slicing his veal. “That’s no problem.”
“Well, I’m kind of not feeling very well, either,” Greg said.
“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Banks asked with instant concern. “Do you have a temperature? I thought you looked a little flushed when you came in.”
“No,” Greg replied uncomfortably. “No temperature. I just feel kind of tired, not very hungry.”
“Can I have your chicken—I mean, veal?”
Terry asked eagerly. He reached his fork across the table and nabbed the cutlet off Greg’s plate.
“Well, a nice ride might make you feel better,” Greg’s dad said, eyeing Greg suspiciously. “You know, some fresh air. You can stretch out in the back if you want.”
“But, Dad—” Greg stopped. He had used up all the excuses he could think of. They would never believe him if he said he needed to stay home and do homework on a Saturday night!
“You’re coming with us, and that’s final,” Mr. Banks said, still studying Greg closely. “You’ve been dying for this new wagon to arrive. I really don’t understand your problem.”
Neither do I, Greg admitted to himself.
I don’t understand it at all. Why am I so afraid of riding in the new car? Just because there’s something wrong with that stupid camera?
I’m being silly, Greg thought, trying to shake away the feeling of dread that had taken away his appetite.
“Okay, Dad. Great,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’ll come.”
“Are there any more potatoes?” Terry asked.
10
“It’s so easy to drive,” Mr. Banks said, accelerating onto the entry ramp to the freeway. “It handles like a small car, not like a station wagon.”
“Plenty of room back here, Dad,” Terry said, scooting low in the backseat beside Greg, raising his knees to the back of the front seat.
“Hey, look—there’s a drink holder that pulls out from the dash!” Greg’s mother exclaimed. “That’s neat.”
“Awesome, Mom,” Terry said sarcastically.
“Well, we never had a drink holder before,” Mrs. Banks replied. She turned back to the two boys. “Are your seat belts buckled? Do they work properly?”
“Yeah. They’re okay,” Terry replied.
“They checked them at the showroom before I took the car,” Mr. Banks said, signaling to move into the left lane.
A truck roared by, spitting a cloud of exhaust behind it. Greg stared out the front window. His door window was still covered by the new-car sticker.
Mr. Banks pulled off the freeway onto a nearly empty four-lane highway that curved toward the west. The setting sun was a red ball low on the horizon in a charcoal-gray sky.
“Put the pedal to the metal, Dad,” Terry urged, sitting up and leaning forward. “Let’s see what this car can do.”
Mr. Banks obediently pressed his foot on the accelerator. “The cruising speed seems to be about sixty,” he said.
“Slow down,” Mrs. Banks scolded. “You know the speed limit is fifty-five.”
“I’m just testing it,” Greg’s dad said defensively. “You know. Making sure the transmission doesn’t slip or anything.”
Greg stared at the glowing speedometer. They were doing seventy now.
“Slow down. I mean it,” Mrs. Banks insisted. “You’re acting like a crazy teenager.”
“That’s me!” Mr. Banks replied, laughing. “This is awesome!” he said, imitating Terry, ignoring his wife’s pleas to slow down.
They roared past a couple of small cars in the right lane. Headlights of cars moving toward them were a bright white blur in the darkening evening.
“Hey, Greg, you’ve been awfully quiet,” his mother said. “You feeling okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay,” Greg said softly.
He wished his dad would slow down. He was doing seventy-five now.
“What do you think, Greg?” Mr. Banks asked, steering with his left hand as his right hand searched the dashboard. “Where’s the light switch? I should turn on my headlights.”
“The car’s great,” Greg replied, trying to sound enthusiastic. But he couldn’t shake away the fear, couldn’t get the photo of the mangled car out of his mind.
“Where’s that stupid light switch? It’s got to be here somewhere,” Mr. Banks said.
As he glanced down at the unfamiliar dashboard, the station wagon swerved to the left.
“Dad—look out for that truck!” Greg screamed.
11
Horns blared.
A powerful blast of air swept over the station wagon, like a giant ocean wave pushing it to the side.
Mr. Banks swerved the station wagon to the right.
The truck rumbled past.
“Sorry,” Greg’s dad said, eyes straight ahead, slowing the car to sixty, fifty-five, fifty…
“I told you to slow down,” Mrs. Banks scolded, shaking her head. “We could’ve been killed!”
“I was trying to find the lights,” he explained. “Oh. Here they are. On the steering wheel.” He clicked on the headlights.
“You boys okay?” Mrs. Banks asked, turning to check them out.
“Yeah. Fine,” Terry said, sounding a little shaken. The truck would have hit his side of the car.
“I’m okay,” Greg said. “Can we go back now?”
“Don’t you want to keep going?” Mr. Banks asked, unable to hide his disappointment. “I thought we’d keep going to Santa Clara. Stop and get some ice cream or something.”
“Greg’s right,” Mrs. Banks said softly to her husband. “Enough for tonight, dear. Let’s turn around.”
“The truck didn’t come that close,” Mr. Banks argued. But he obediently turned off the highway and they headed for home.
Later, safe and sound up in his room, Greg took the photograph out of his dresser and examined it. There was the new station wagon, the driver’s side caved in, the windshield shattered.
“Weird,” he said aloud, and placed the photo in the secret compartment in his headboard, where he had stashed the camera. “Definitely weird.”
He pulled the camera out of its hiding place and turned it around in his hands.
I’ll try it one more time, he decided.
He walked to his dresser and aimed at the mirror above it.
I’ll take a picture of myself in the mirror, he thought.
He raised the camera, then changed his mind. That won’t work, he realized. The flash will reflect back and spoil the photo.
Gripping the camera in one hand, he made his way across the hall to Terry’s room. His brother was at his desk, typing away on his computer keyboard, his face bathed in the blue light of the monitor screen.
“Terry, can I take your picture?” Greg asked meekly, holding up the camera.
Terry typed some more, then looked up from the screen. “Hey—where’d you get the camera?”
“Uh… Shari loaned it to me,” Greg told him, thinking quickly. Greg didn’t like to lie. But he didn’t feel like explaining to Terry how he and his friends had sneaked into the Coffman house and how he had made off with the camera.
“So can I take your picture?” Greg asked.
“I’ll probably break your camera,” Terry joked.
“I think it’s already broken,” Greg told him. “That’s why I want to test it on you.”
“Go ahead,” Terry said. He stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes.
Greg snapped the shutter. An undeveloped photo slid out of the slot in front.
“Thanks. See you.” Greg headed to the door.
“Hey—don’t I get to see it?” Terry called after him.
“If it comes out,” Greg said, and hurried across the hall to his room.
He sat down on the edge of the bed. Holding the photo in his lap, he stared at it intently as it developed. The yellows filled in first. Then the reds appeared, followed by shades of blue.
“Whoa,�
� Greg muttered, as his brother’s face came into view. “There’s something definitely wrong here.”
In the photo, Terry’s eyes weren’t crossed, and his tongue wasn’t sticking out. His expression was grim, frightened. He looked very upset.
As the background came into focus, Greg had another surprise. Terry wasn’t in his room. He was outdoors. There were trees in the background. And a house.
Greg stared at the house. It looked so familiar.
Was that the house across the street from the playground?
He took one more look at Terry’s frightened expression. Then he tucked the photo and the camera into his secret headboard compartment and carefully closed it.
The camera must be broken, he decided, getting changed for bed.
It was the best explanation he could come up with.
Lying in bed, staring up at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, he decided not to think about it anymore.
A broken camera wasn’t worth worrying about.
* * *
Tuesday afternoon after school, Greg hurried to meet Shari at the playground to watch Bird’s Little League game.
It was a warm fall afternoon, the sun high in a cloudless sky. The outfield grass had been freshly mowed and filled the air with its sharp, sweet smell.
Greg crossed the grass and squinted into the bright sunlight, searching for Shari. Both teams were warming up on the sides of the diamond, yelling and laughing, the sound of balls popping into gloves competing with their loud voices.
A few parents and several kids had come to watch. Some were standing around, some sitting in the low bleachers along the first-base line.
Greg spotted Shari behind the backstop and waved to her. “Did you bring the camera?” she asked eagerly, running over to greet him.
He held it up.
“Excellent,” she exclaimed, grinning. She reached for it.
“I think it’s broken,” Greg said, holding on to the camera. “The photos just don’t come out right. It’s hard to explain.”
“Maybe it’s not the photos. Maybe it’s the photographer,” Shari teased.
“Maybe I’ll take a photo of you getting a knuckle sandwich,” Greg threatened. He raised the camera to his eye and pointed it at her.
“Snap that, and I’ll take a picture of you eating the camera,” Shari threatened playfully. She reached up quickly and pulled the camera from his hand.
“What do you want it for, anyway?” Greg asked, making a halfhearted attempt to grab it back.
Shari held it away from his outstretched hand. “I want to take Bird’s picture when he comes up to bat. He looks just like an ostrich at the plate.”
“I heard that.” Bird appeared beside them, pretending to be insulted.
He looked ridiculous in his starched white uniform. The shirt was too big, and the pants were too short. The cap was the only thing that fit. It was blue, with a silver dolphin over the bill and the words PITTS LANDING DOLPHINS.
“What kind of name is Dolphins for a baseball team?” Greg asked, grabbing the bill and turning the cap backward on Bird’s head.
“All the other caps were taken,” Bird answered. “We had a choice between the Zephyrs and the Dolphins. None of us knew what zephyrs were, so we picked Dolphins.”
Shari eyed him up and down. “Maybe you guys should play in your street clothes.”
“Thanks for the encouragement,” Bird replied. He spotted the camera and took it from her. “Hey, you brought the camera. Does it have film?”
“Yeah. I think so,” Greg told him. “Let me see.” He reached for the camera, but Bird swung it out of his grasp.
“Hey—are you going to share this thing, Greg?” he asked.
“Huh? What do you mean?” Greg reached again for the camera, and again Bird swung it away from him.
“I mean, we all risked our lives down in that basement getting it, right?” Bird said. “We should all share it.”
“Well…” Greg hadn’t thought about it. “I guess you’re right, Bird. But I’m the one who found it. So—”
Shari grabbed the camera out of Bird’s hand. “I told Greg to bring it so we could take your picture when you’re up.”
“As an example of good form?” Bird asked.
“As a bad example,” Shari said.
“You guys are just jealous,” Bird replied, frowning, “because I’m a natural athlete, and you can’t cross the street without falling on your face.” He turned the cap back around to face the front.
“Hey, Bird—get back here!” one of the coaches called from the playing field.
“I’ve got to go,” Bird said, giving them a quick wave and starting to trot back to his teammates.
“No. Wait. Let me take a fast picture now,” Greg said.
Bird stopped, turned around, and struck a pose.
“No. I’ll take it,” Shari insisted.
She started to raise the camera to her eye, pointing it toward Bird. And as she raised it, Greg grabbed for it.
“Let me take it!”
And the camera went off. Clicked and then flashed.
An undeveloped photo slid out.
“Hey, why’d you do that?” Shari asked angrily.
“Sorry,” Greg said. “I didn’t mean to—”
She pulled the photo out and held it in her hand. Greg and Bird came close to watch it develop.
“What the heck is that?” Bird cried, staring hard at the small square as the colors brightened and took shape.
“Oh, wow!” Greg cried.
The photo showed Bird sprawled unconscious on his back on the ground, his mouth twisted open, his neck bent at a frightening angle, his eyes shut tight.
12
“Hey—what’s with this stupid camera?” Bird asked, grabbing the snapshot out of Shari’s hand. He tilted it from side to side, squinting at it. “It’s out of focus or something.”
“Weird,” Greg said, shaking his head.
“Hey, Bird—get over here!” the Dolphins’ coach called.
“Coming!” Bird handed the picture back to Shari and jogged over to his teammates.
Whistles blew. The two teams stopped their practicing and trotted to the benches along the third-base line.
“How did this happen?” Shari asked Greg, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, holding the photo close to her face with the other. “It really looks like Bird is lying on the ground, knocked out or something. But he was standing right in front of us.”
“I don’t get it. I really don’t,” Greg replied thoughtfully. “The camera keeps doing that.”
Carrying the camera at his side, swinging it by its slender strap, he followed her to a shady spot beside the bleachers.
“Look how his neck is bent,” Shari continued. “It’s so awful.”
“There’s something definitely wrong with the camera,” Greg said. He started to tell her about the snapshot he took of the new station wagon, and the snapshot of his brother, Terry. But she interrupted him before he could get the words out.
“And that picture of Michael. It showed him falling down the stairs before he even fell. It’s just so strange.”
“I know,” Greg agreed.
“Let me see that thing,” Shari said, and pulled the camera from his hand. “Is there any film left?”
“I can’t tell,” Greg admitted. “I couldn’t find a film counter or anything.”
Shari examined the camera closely, rolling it over in her hands. “It doesn’t say anywhere. How can you tell if it’s loaded or not?”
Greg shrugged.
The baseball game got under way. The Dolphins were the visiting team. The other team, the Cardinals, jogged out to take their positions on the field.
A kid in the bleachers dropped his soda can. It hit the ground and spilled, and the kid started to cry. An old station wagon filled with teenagers cruised by, its radio blaring, its horn honking.
“Where do you put the film in?” Shari asked impatiently.
/> Greg stepped closer to help her examine it. “Here, I think,” he said, pointing. “Doesn’t the back come off?”
Shari fiddled with it. “No, I don’t think so. Most of these automatic-developing cameras load in the front.”
She pulled at the back, but the camera wouldn’t open. She tried pulling off the bottom. No better luck. Turning the camera, she tried pulling off the lens. It wouldn’t budge.
Greg took the camera from her. “There’s no slot or opening in the front.”
“Well, what kind of camera is it, anyway?” Shari demanded.
“Uh… let’s see.” Greg studied the front, examined the top of the lens, then turned the camera over and studied the back.
He stared up at her with a surprised look on his face. “There’s no brand name. Nothing.”
“How can a camera not have a name?” Shari shouted in exasperation. She snatched the camera away from him and examined it closely, squinting against the bright afternoon sunshine.
Finally, she handed the camera back to him, defeated. “You’re right, Greg. No name. No words of any kind. Nothing. What a stupid camera,” she added angrily.
“Whoa. Hold on,” Greg told her. “It’s not my camera, remember? I didn’t buy it. I took it from the Coffman house.”
“Well, let’s at least figure out how to open it up and look inside,” Shari said.
The first Dolphin batter popped up to the second baseman. The second batter struck out on three straight swings. The dozen or so spectators shouted encouragement to their team.
The little kid who had dropped his soda continued to cry. Three kids rode by on bikes, waving to friends on the teams but not stopping to watch.
“I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t figure out how to open it,” Greg admitted.
“Give it to me,” Shari said, and grabbed the camera away from him. “There has to be a button or something. There has to be some way of opening it. This is ridiculous.”
When she couldn’t find a button or lever of any kind, she tried pulling the back off once again, prying it with her fingernails. Then she tried turning the lens, but it wouldn’t turn.
