Egg Monsters from Mars

by R. L. Stine

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

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  TEASER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  COPYRIGHT

  My sister, Brandy, asked for an egg hunt for her tenth birthday party. And Brandy always gets what she wants.

  She flashes her smile, the one that makes the dimples pop up in her cheeks. And she puts on her little baby face. Opens her green eyes wide and tugs at her curly red hair. “Please? Please? Can I have an egg hunt at my party?”

  No way Mom and Dad can ever say no to her.

  If Brandy asked for a red, white, and blue ostrich for her birthday, Dad would be out in the garage right now, painting an ostrich.

  Brandy is good at getting her way. Real good. I’m her older brother, Dana Johnson. And I admit it. Even I have trouble saying no to Brandy.

  I’m not little and cute like my sister. I have straight black hair that falls over my forehead. And I wear glasses. And I’m a little chubby. “Dana, don’t look so serious.” That’s what Mom is always telling me.

  “Dana has an old soul,” Grandma Evelyn always says.

  I don’t really know what that means. I guess she means I’m more serious than most twelve-year-olds.

  Maybe that’s true. I’m not really serious all the time. I’m just curious about a lot of things. I’m very interested in science. I like studying bugs and plants and animals. I have an ant farm in my room. And two tarantulas.

  And I have my own microscope. Last night I studied a toenail under the microscope. It was a lot more interesting than you might think.

  I want to be a research scientist when I’m older. I’ll have my own lab, and I’ll study anything I want to.

  Dad is a kind of chemist. He works for a perfume company. He mixes things together to make new smells. He calls them fragrances.

  Before Mom met Dad, she worked in a lab. She did things with white rats.

  So both of my parents are happy that I’m into science. They encourage me. But that doesn’t mean they give me whatever I ask for.

  If I asked Dad for a red, white, and blue ostrich for my birthday, do you know what he’d say? He’d say, “Go play with your sister’s!”

  Anyway, Brandy asked for an egg hunt for her birthday. Her birthday is a week before Easter, so it wasn’t a crazy idea.

  We have a very large backyard. It stretches all the way back to a small, trickling creek.

  The yard is filled with bushes and trees and flower beds. And there’s a big old doghouse, even though we don’t have a dog.

  Lots of good egg-hiding places.

  So Brandy got her egg hunt. She invited her entire class.

  You may not think that egg hunts are exciting.

  But Brandy’s was.

  * * *

  Brandy’s birthday came on a warm and sunny day. Only a few small cumulus clouds high in the sky. (I study clouds.)

  Mom hurried out to the backyard after breakfast, lugging a big bucket of eggs. “I’ll help you hide them,” I told her.

  “That wouldn’t be fair, Dana,” Mom replied. “You’re going to be in the egg hunt, too — remember?”

  I almost forgot. Brandy usually doesn’t want me hanging around when her friends come over. But today she said that I could be in the egg hunt. And so could my best friend, Anne Gravel.

  Anne lives in the house next door. My mom is best friends with Anne’s mom. Mrs. Gravel agreed to let Mom hide eggs all over their backyard, too. So it’s only fair that Anne gets to join in.

  Anne is tall and skinny, and has long red-brown hair. She’s nearly a head taller than me. So everyone thinks she’s older. But she’s twelve, too.

  Anne is very funny. She’s always cracking jokes. She makes fun of me because I’m so serious. But I don’t mind. I know she’s only joking.

  That afternoon Anne and I stood on the driveway and watched the kids from Brandy’s class arrive at the party. Brandy handed each one of them a little straw basket.

  They were really excited when Brandy told them about the egg hunt. And the girls got even more excited when Brandy told them the grand prize — one of those expensive American Girl dolls.

  Of course the boys started to grumble. Brandy should have had a prize a boy might like. Some of the boys started using their baskets as Frisbees. And others began wrestling in the grass.

  “I was a lot more sophisticated when I was ten,” I muttered to Anne.

  “When you were ten, you liked Ninja Turtles,” Anne replied, rolling her eyes.

  “I did not!” I protested.

  “Yes, you did,” Anne insisted. “You wore a Ninja Turtle T-shirt to school every day.”

  I kicked some gravel across the driveway. “Just because I wore the shirt doesn’t mean I liked them,” I replied.

  Anne flung back her long hair. She sneered at me. I hate it when Anne sneers at me. “You had Ninja Turtle cups and plates at your tenth birthday party, Dana. And a Ninja Turtle tablecloth. And we played some kind of Ninja Turtle Pizza Pie–throwing game.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I liked them!” I declared.

  Three more girls from Brandy’s class came running across the lawn. I recognized them. They were the girls I call the Hair Sisters. They’re not sisters. But they spend all their time in Brandy’s room after school doing each other’s hair.

  Dad moved slowly across the grass toward them. He had his camera up to his face. The three Hair Sisters waved to the camera and yelled, “Happy Birthday, Brandy!”

  Dad tapes all our birthdays and vacations and big events. He keeps the tapes on a shelf in the den. We never watch them.

  The sun beamed down. The grass smelled sweet and fresh. The spring leaves on the trees were just starting to unfurl.

  “Okay — everyone follow me to the back!” Brandy ordered.

  The kids lined up in twos and threes, carrying their baskets. Anne and I followed behind them. Dad walked backwards, busily recording everything.

  Brandy led the way to the backyard. Mom was waiting there. “The eggs are hidden everywhere,” Mom announced, sweeping her hand in the air. “Everywhere you can imagine.”

  “Okay, everyone!” Brandy cried. “At the count of three, the egg hunt begins! One —”

  Anne leaned down and whispered in my ear. “Bet you five dollars I collect more eggs than you.”

  I smiled. Anne always knows how to make things more interesting.

  “Two —”

  “You’ve got a bet!” I told her.

  “Three!” Brandy called.

  The kids all cheered. The hunt for hidden eggs was on.

  They all began hurrying through the backyard, bending down to pick up eggs. Some of them moved on hands and knees through the grass. Some worked in groups. Some searched through the yard on their own.

  I turned and saw Anne stooping down, moving quickly along the side of the garage. She already had three eggs in her basket.

  I can’t let her win! I told myself. I sprang into action.

  I ran past a cluster of girls around the old doghouse. And I kept moving.

  I wanted to find an area of my own. A place where
I could grab up a bunch of eggs without having to compete with the others.

  I jogged across the tall grass, making my way to the back. I was all alone, nearly to the creek, when I started my search.

  I spotted an egg hidden behind a small rock. I had to move fast. I wanted to win the bet.

  I bent down, picked it up, and quickly dropped it into my basket.

  Then I knelt down, set my basket on the ground, and started to search for more eggs.

  But I jumped up when I heard a scream.

  “Aaaaaiiiiii!”

  The scream rang through the air.

  I turned back toward the house. One of the Hair Sisters was waving her hand wildly, calling to the other girls. I grabbed up my basket and ran toward her.

  “They’re not hard-boiled!” I heard her cry as I came closer. And I saw the drippy yellow yolk running down the front of her white T-shirt.

  “Mom didn’t have time to hard-boil them,” Brandy announced. “Or to paint them. I know it’s weird. But there just wasn’t time.”

  I raised my eyes to the house. Mom and Dad had both disappeared inside.

  “Be careful,” Brandy warned her party guests. “If you crack them —”

  She didn’t finish her sentence. I heard a wet splat.

  Then laughter.

  A boy had tossed an egg against the side of the doghouse.

  “Cool!” one of the girls exclaimed.

  Anne’s big sheepdog, Stubby, came running out of the doghouse. I don’t know why he likes to sleep in there. He’s almost as big as the house.

  But I didn’t have time to think about Stubby.

  Splat.

  Another egg exploded, this time against the garage wall.

  More laughter. Brandy’s friends thought it was really hilarious.

  “Egg fight! Egg fight!” two boys started to chant.

  I ducked as an egg went sailing over my head. It landed with a craaack on the driveway.

  Eggs were flying everywhere now. I stood there and gaped in amazement.

  I heard a shrill shriek. I spun around to see that two of the Hair Sisters had runny yellow egg oozing in their hair. They were shouting and tugging at their hair and trying to pull the yellow gunk off with both hands.

  Splat! Another egg hit the garage.

  Craaack! Eggs bounced over the driveway.

  I ducked down and searched for Anne. She probably went home, I figured. Anne enjoys a good laugh. But she’s twelve, much too sophisticated for a babyish egg fight.

  Well, when I’m wrong, I’m wrong.

  “Think fast, Dana!” Anne screamed from behind me. I threw myself to the ground just in time. She heaved two eggs at once. They both whirred over my head and dropped onto the grass with a sickening crack.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” I heard Brandy shrieking desperately. “It’s my birthday! Stop it! It’s my birthday!”

  Thunk! Somebody hit Brandy in the chest with an egg.

  Wild laughter rang out. Sticky yellow puddles covered the back lawn.

  I raised my eyes to Anne. She was grinning back at me, about to let me have it again.

  Time for action. I reached into my basket and pulled out the one and only egg I had picked up.

  I raised it high above my head. Started to throw — but stopped.

  The egg.

  I lowered it and stared at it.

  Stared hard at it.

  Something was wrong with the egg.

  Something was terribly wrong.

  The egg was too big. Bigger than a normal egg. About the size of a softball.

  I held it carefully, studying it. The color wasn’t right either. It wasn’t egg-colored. That creamy off-white. And it wasn’t brown.

  The egg was pale green. I raised it to the sunlight to make sure I was seeing correctly.

  Yes. Green.

  And what were those thick cracks up and down the shell?

  I ran my pointer finger over the dark, jagged lines.

  No. Not cracks. Some kind of veins. Blue-and-purple veins crisscrossing the green eggshell.

  “Weird!” I muttered out loud.

  Brandy’s friends were shouting and shrieking. Eggs were flying all around me. An egg splattered over my sneakers. The yellow yolk oozed over my laces.

  But I didn’t care.

  I rolled the strange egg over and over slowly between my hands. I brought it close to my face and squinted hard at the blue-and-purple veins.

  “Ooh.” I let out a low cry when I felt it pulsing.

  The veins throbbed. I could feel a steady beat.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  “Oh wow. It’s alive!” I cried.

  What had I found? It was totally weird. I couldn’t wait to get it to my worktable and examine it.

  But first I had to show it to Anne.

  “Anne! Hey — Anne!” I called and started jogging toward her, holding the egg high in both hands.

  I was staring at the egg. So I didn’t see Stubby, her big sheepdog, run in front of me.

  “Whooooa!”

  I let out a cry as I fell over the dog.

  And landed with a sickening crunch on top of my egg.

  I jumped up quickly. Stubby started to lick my face. That dog has the worst breath!

  I shoved him away and bent down to examine my egg.

  “Hey!” I cried out in amazement. The egg wasn’t broken. I picked it up carefully and rolled it in my hands.

  Not a crack.

  What a tough shell! I thought. My chest had landed on top of the egg. Pushed it into the ground. But the shell hadn’t broken.

  I wrapped my hands around the big egg as if soothing it.

  I could feel the blue-and-purple veins pulsing.

  Is something inside getting ready to hatch? I wondered. What kind of bird was inside it? Not a chicken, I knew. This was definitely not a hen’s egg.

  Splat!

  Another egg smacked the side of the garage. Kids were wrestling in the runny puddles of yolk on the grass. I turned in time to see a boy crack an egg over another boy’s head.

  “Stop it! Stop it!”

  Brandy was screaming at the top of her lungs, trying to stop the egg fight before every single egg was smashed. I turned and saw Mom and Dad running across the yard.

  “Hey, Anne!” I called. I climbed to my feet, holding the weird egg carefully. Anne was frantically tossing eggs at three girls. The girls were bombarding her. Three to one — but Anne wasn’t retreating.

  “Anne — check this out!” I called, hurrying over to her. “You won’t believe this egg!”

  I stepped up beside her and held the egg out to her.

  “No! Wait!” I cried.

  Too late.

  Anne grabbed my egg and heaved it at the three girls.

  “No — stop!” I wailed.

  As I stared in horror, one of the three girls caught the egg in midair — and tossed it back.

  I dove for it, making a headfirst slide. And grabbed the egg in one hand before it hit the gravel.

  Was it broken?

  No.

  This shell must be made of steel! I told myself. I pulled myself to my feet, gripping the egg carefully. To my surprise, it felt hot. Burning hot.

  “Whoa!” I nearly dropped it.

  Throb. Throb. Throb.

  It pulsed rapidly. I could feel the veins beating against my fingers.

  I wanted to show the egg to Mom and Dad. But they were busy breaking up the egg fight.

  Dad’s face was bright red. He was shouting at Brandy and pointing to the yellow stains up and down the side of the garage.

  Mom was trying to calm down two girls who were crying. They had egg yolk stuck to their hair and all over their clothes. They even had it stuck to their eyebrows. I guess that’s why they were crying.

  Behind them Stubby was having a feast. He was running around in circles, lapping up egg after egg from the grass, his bushy tail wagging like crazy.

  What a party!

  I decided
to take my weird egg inside. I wanted to study it later. Maybe I’d break off a tiny piece of shell and look at it under the microscope. Then I’d make a tiny hole in the shell and try to see inside.

  Throb. Throb.

  The veins pounded against my hand. The egg still felt hot.

  It might be a turtle egg, I decided. I walked carefully to the house, cradling it in both hands.

  One morning last fall, Anne found a big box turtle on the curb in front of her house. She carried it into her backyard and called me over. She knew I’d want to study it.

  It was a pretty big turtle. About the size of a lunch box. Anne and I wondered how it got to her curb.

  Up in my room I had a book about turtles. I knew the book would help me identify it. I had hurried home to get the book. But Mom wouldn’t let me go back out. I had to stay inside and have lunch.

  When I got back to Anne’s backyard, the turtle had vanished. I guess it wandered away.

  Turtles can be pretty fast when they want to be.

  As I carried my treasure into the house, I thought it might be a turtle egg. But why was it so hot? And why did it have those yucky veins all over it?

  Eggs don’t have veins — do they?

  I hid the egg in my dresser drawer. I surrounded it with my balled-up socks to protect it. Then I closed the drawer slowly, carefully, and returned to the backyard.

  Brandy’s guests were all leaving as I stepped outside. They were covered in sticky eggs. They didn’t look too happy.

  Brandy didn’t look too happy, either. Dad was busy shouting at her, angrily waving his arms, pointing to the gloppy egg stains all over the lawn.

  “Why did you let this happen?” he screamed at her. “Why didn’t you stop it?”

  “I tried!” Brandy wailed. “I tried to stop it!”

  “We’ll have to have the garage painted,” Mom murmured, shaking her head. “How will we ever mow the lawn?”

  “This was the worst party I ever had!” Brandy cried. She bent down and pulled chunks of eggshell from her sneaker laces. Then she glared up at Mom. “It’s all your fault!”

  “Huh?” Mom gasped. “My fault?”

  “You didn’t hard-boil the eggs,” Brandy accused. “So it’s all your fault.”

  Mom started to protest — but bit her lip instead.

  Brandy stood up and tossed the bits of eggshell to the ground. She flashed Mom her best dimpled smile. “Next year for my birthday, can we have a Make Your Own Ice-Cream Sundae party?”