The Ooze

by R. L. Stine

  The purple crystals spilled from the test tube and scattered all over the worktable.

  “You can’t mix chemicals without knowing what will happen, Colin! Those two could have caused an explosion!” I yelled.

  “Oh,” Colin replied. “Does that mean no stink bomb—just because you’re scared of blowing up the house?”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Like I said, Colin knows how to crack me up.

  “Okay, okay. No stink bomb.” Colin gave in. “Let’s go to the mall.”

  We started to pack up the chemistry set. “Hey! What’s this?” Colin asked as he tried to shove the test tube rack back into the carton.

  He pulled out a single sheet of paper from the bottom of the carton. “Ha! Is this good enough for you?” he exclaimed.

  I peered over his shoulder and read the paper. Directions—directions for how to make a stink bomb. Weird.

  The instructions were handwritten on a bright orange piece of paper—nothing like the plain white paper the manual was printed on. Very weird.

  “Let’s do it,” Colin urged. “We have all the stuff.”

  “Well, okay,” I finally agreed. How could I pass up the chance to embarrass Michelle?

  We measured the chemicals carefully and combined them in a clean beaker. “We’ll leave this one out until we’re in position upstairs,” I told Colin. I showed him a test tube filled with yellow powder.

  “Good idea,” he answered.

  We tiptoed up the stairs and into the kitchen. I peeked into the living room. Jonathan Muller stood by the fireplace, talking about some chess tournament they were organizing.

  I spotted Michelle on the sofa. She leaned forward, gazing at Jonathan across the room. The other kids were all focused on Jonathan, too. Perfect.

  “Come on,” I whispered. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled into the living room. Crawled to the back of the couch and hid behind it. Colin followed.

  “Ready?” Colin mouthed, holding out the beaker.

  “Yes,” I whispered, holding up the test tube. “Hold your breath.”

  “Don’t you mean your nose?” Colin snickered.

  I snickered, too. Then I poured the yellow powder into the beaker.

  We scrunched farther down behind the couch and waited. But nothing happened.

  “Take a whiff,” I whispered.

  Colin put the tube up to his nose. “It doesn’t smell at all.” He sighed.

  “You jerks! What are you doing back there?” Michelle leaned over the back of the sofa, looking meaner than usual. “What is in that beaker, Al?” she demanded.

  “It’s nothing,” I lied. “Honest!”

  “You’re not supposed to use your chemistry set until I show you how,” she snapped. “Don’t you ever follow directions?”

  “But we did follow the directions!” Colin exclaimed, holding up the orange paper. “It’s not our fault the stink bomb didn’t go off!”

  Thanks, Colin, I thought. Thanks a lot.

  “You were trying to stink bomb my meeting?” Michelle screeched. “Wait till I tell Mom and Dad. Just wait.”

  Colin and I took off into the kitchen.

  “And leave that chemistry set alone,” Michelle called after us.

  “Your little brother can’t even figure out how to make a stink bomb?” I heard someone say to Michelle. “Are you sure you two are related?”

  I felt like a total jerk. Getting caught using the chemistry set was bad enough. But it was worse knowing Michelle and her friends thought I was too dumb to make a stink bomb.

  “What should we do with this gunk?” Colin asked when we returned to the basement.

  “Throw it out, I guess.”

  “In the garbage?” Colin asked.

  “No, I’ll pour it down the sink.” I reached for the beaker and noticed that the solution was turning a funny orange color. Neon orange.

  “It’s working now?” Colin groaned.

  I smelled the gloppy mess. “No. No, it’s not working. It still doesn’t stink,” I told him.

  I placed the beaker on the table. “Let’s put the chemistry set away, before my mom gets home. She’ll go ballistic if she knows I fooled around with it—without Michelle’s help.”

  “Why bother?” Colin asked. “Michelle’s going to tell on you anyway. You know she will.”

  He had a point. She probably would.

  Chester still sat in the corner of the basement. I had forgotten he was even there. He let out a long meow. Then stood up—and leaped onto the table.

  He strolled toward the beaker, his tail flicking back and forth.

  “Shouldn’t you be doing your math problems, Chester?” I asked. Chester padded closer to the beaker.

  “Off the table. Off!” I gave the cat a little push—and knocked over the stink bomb.

  The orange goo poured out. It oozed across the table. Thick and slimy.

  Some of it slid over one of Chester’s front paws.

  All his hair stood straight up.

  He arched his back. Flattened his ears.

  He hissed at the gooey stuff, baring his sharp white teeth.

  Then he leaped off the table, raced up the stairs, and cowered near the door.

  “Look at it!” Colin said, amazed. “It’s oozing everywhere.”

  Colin was right. The stuff had oozed across the table. Down the table legs. Onto the floor.

  Now it started oozing across the room.

  “My mom will kill me if we don’t have this stuff cleaned up by the time she gets home!”

  I hurried over to the sink and pulled out a big roll of paper towels. I ripped off a long sheet and handed it to Colin.

  “Don’t get any of it on you,” I instructed. “I don’t know what these chemicals do to skin.”

  Colin wrapped the paper towels around his left hand until it was covered with a wad as big as a catcher’s mitt.

  Then we went after the ooze.

  It didn’t soak into the paper towels the way I expected it to. Every time I touched it, it broke into little balls and rolled away.

  “This stuff is weird!” Colin exclaimed. “Really weird!”

  “Try it like this,” I suggested. With a paper towel in each hand, I trapped some ooze between them. Even through the toweling the stuff felt spongy and squishy.

  “I’ll finish the table. You wipe up the floor,” I ordered as I captured another neon-orange glob.

  “We’re never going to clean up all this gunk! It keeps running away!” Colin made another paper towel catcher’s mitt. He crawled across the floor. Trying to wipe up the runny goop.

  “We have to,” I told him. “We have to clean it up. No way Mom can see this mess. No way!” I opened up a second roll of paper towels and started a fresh attack on the ooze.

  We chased the stuff around the room until there was only one puddle left—on the table. It slid away as soon as the paper towel touched it. But I had my other hand ready to stop it.

  “Done!” Colin cried. “What should we do with all the paper towels? Flush them?”

  I stared at the floor. At the mountain of paper towels heaped there.

  “No. No. We can’t do that. They’ll clog up the toilet,” I answered.

  “Okay,” Colin replied. “I’ll just throw them in the garbage.”

  “No. No. We can’t do that, either. They don’t pick up garbage until Thursday,” I explained. “I don’t want any sign of this stuff around.”

  My eyes searched the basement. I spotted a big red chest—an old cooler that Dad used when he went fishing. Perfect.

  “We’ll stuff them in here,” I said. “And we’d better hurry. Mom will be home any second.”

  I lifted the top of the chest. It was filled with kitty litter. Bags and bags of kitty litter.

  “Al? Are you down there? Al?” Mom called from the top of the basement steps. “I’m home!”

  5

  “Help me, Colin!” I whispered as I started tossing the bags out.

&nb
sp; Click. Click. Click.

  The sound of Mom’s high-heeled shoes clicked down the basement steps.

  “Hurry, Colin. Hurry!”

  I gathered up huge bunches of paper towels, careful not to get any of the ooze on my hands.

  Chester yowled. “What’s wrong, kitty cat?” Mom said on the way down. “It’s just me. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  Mom’s heels clicked down the stairs louder—closer.

  I yanked the lid off the cooler and crammed the paper towels inside. Colin shoved his on top and slammed on the lid.

  We did it! With my left foot I kicked the cooler under the table—just as Mom stepped into the room. “Having fun?” she asked.

  “Just hanging out,” I answered, trying to sound normal.

  Mom studied me suspiciously. “I see you have the chemistry set out. Did Michelle give you the safety lesson yet, Al?”

  “Not yet. But she will,” I said. “When the chess club leaves.”

  Oh, no! I noticed a big drop of the ooze on the worktable. I leaned against the table—trying to look casual. I placed my right hand on top of the orange glob.

  “I really don’t want you using the chemistry set until you know all the safety rules,” Mom warned.

  Good. She didn’t notice the ooze. “Honest, Mom,” I answered. “We were just looking at the test tubes.”

  I could feel the ooze under my palm. It was growing warm. And it started to slide up between my fingers.

  “Okay. If you boys want a snack, there’s still plenty of birthday cake left,” Mom told us.

  The ooze seeped out some more. I slammed my left hand down on top of my right one to cover it. I wasn’t going to be able to hide the gooey stuff much longer.

  “Awesome, Mrs. Sterner,” Colin said. “We will most definitely come up for some cake later.”

  The ooze started to crawl up through my left hand now. Go, I silently begged my mom. Go upstairs.

  “All right,” Mom said, and headed back up to the kitchen.

  I didn’t move until I heard the basement door shut behind her. Then I peered down at my hands. The ooze covered both my palms. And it was spreading up onto my wrists.

  “Help me get this gunk off!” I told Colin.

  “That stuff is gross,” Colin complained. But he made another towel mitt and wiped and wiped—cleaning away the last sign of the weird slimy goo.

  * * *

  When I woke up the next morning, I felt really tired. As if I hadn’t slept at all.

  I forced myself to sit up. Clothes. What clothes should I wear to school? I couldn’t decide. Finally I pulled on a pair of jeans and the first shirt I found when I reached into the closet.

  Now I needed socks and shoes. Mom just did the laundry, I remembered. So where did she put my socks?

  Forget it, I told myself. I was already running late. The socks I wore yesterday weren’t too dirty. And they were in my shoes, so I didn’t have to hunt all over for them.

  I sat down on the bed and pulled on my socks. Then I reached down for a shoe.

  I held it for a while, just staring at it. What was wrong with me this morning? Why was I moving so slowly?

  I stuffed my foot into the shoe. It felt kind of weird. It didn’t hurt exactly. It just felt weird.

  “Al, hurry up,” Mom called.

  I shoved on my other shoe and hurried down the hall. As I walked through the kitchen door, I tripped.

  Of course, Michelle didn’t miss that one! She laughed so hard she almost choked on her granola.

  I looked down to see what I had tripped over, but there was nothing there.

  “You idiot!” Michelle laughed as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “Al could have hurt himself, Michelle!” Mom scolded.

  “That’s right, Michelle,” Dad added. “It’s not polite to laugh.”

  “But his shoes! Look at his shoes!”

  “These are the shoes I always wear,” I said. “What’s wrong with them?”

  Dad snorted. I could tell he was trying not to laugh now.

  “Oh, my gosh!” Mom exclaimed. “Michelle’s right!”

  I looked down at my shoes—and gasped!

  6

  My left shoe was on my right foot!

  And my right shoe was on . . . well, I guess you can figure the rest out for yourself.

  “No wonder they felt weird,” I mumbled. I couldn’t believe I had put my shoes on the wrong feet. I must really be tired, I thought.

  Feeling a little stupid, I kicked off my shoes and put them on the right feet.

  “When are you going to learn to dress yourself, Al?” Michelle teased.

  “Now, Michelle,” Dad said. “Your brother has been dressing himself since—”

  “Since he was ten,” Michelle hooted.

  “Since he was two,” Dad finished.

  “Maybe Al better check out summer school—a Getting Dressed for Beginners class,” Michelle suggested, still not letting up.

  “Has Chester learned any new tricks?” Dad asked, changing the subject to get Michelle off my back. Michelle could talk all day about how smart her cat was.

  Chester was snoozing by the stove. “Come here, Chester,” Michelle called. “Show Dad how you can add. What is one and one?”

  Chester jumped into Michelle’s lap and collapsed. “Come on, Chester!” Michelle coaxed. “One and one.”

  Chester didn’t move.

  “I’ll get a can of cat food,” Dad suggested. “That will get him thinking.”

  Dad slid the can into the electric can opener. “Come on, Chester,” he said. “Jump on the lever!”

  Chester didn’t move.

  “I wonder if something is wrong with him.” Michelle sounded worried.

  “He probably isn’t hungry.” Dad tried to make her feel better.

  Chester might not be hungry. But I was. Hungry and late.

  I shoveled down some oatmeal and a piece of toast. Then I grabbed my backpack and headed out the door. “Bye!” I yelled on my way out.

  We live only two blocks from Shadyside Middle School. I ran all the way there and made it before the bell rang.

  A girl with curly red hair raced up the front steps ahead of me.

  “Hey, Al!” I shouted.

  She looked over her shoulder. “Hey, Al!” she shouted back at me.

  I’m Albert, of course, and her name is Alix. But we kid around, pretending we have the same name. This year we were going to be partners in the Science Bowl.

  “You know when Louis Pasteur was born?” I asked.

  “1822,” she shot back at me. “You know what elements are in water?”

  I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Peanut butter and jelly.”

  She laughed.

  “So do you think we’ll win?” I asked her.

  “Are you kidding?” Alix grinned. “We’re the team to beat! No sweat!”

  We ran down the hall together and made it to class just as the bell rang.

  “Oooh, Al-vin. You almost got a tardy slip,” Eric Rice whispered.

  He likes to call me Alvin because he thinks it makes me mad. He’s a total jerk.

  But he’s also the toughest kid in the sixth grade. And he sits right behind me. So I try not to get into any arguments with him.

  “Who did their memorization?” Miss Scott, our teacher, asked.

  All the kids raised their hands. Even Eric. As if he ever does his homework!

  I raised my hand, too. Then I realized I couldn’t remember what we were supposed to have memorized.

  “Who can tell me what the capital of Peru is?” Miss Scott asked, glancing around the class.

  As usual Toad waved his hand the hardest. We all called him Toad—even the teachers. But no one could remember how his nickname got started. He was on one of the Science Bowl teams Alix and I would be competing against.

  A fly landed on my desk. I watched it rub its front legs over its head again and again.

  “How about y
ou, Melanie?” Miss Scott asked.

  “It’s Lima, isn’t it?” Melanie answered.

  “Are you asking me or telling me?” Miss Scott replied.

  “Well, maybe a little of both,” Melanie admitted.

  To that fly, I bet my desk is like a huge desert, I thought. I wished I had a little crumb to give it.

  “Well, you are right,” Miss Scott said. “The capital of Peru is Lima.”

  “Boy, did she ever luck out,” Eric muttered.

  Huh? I hadn’t really been paying attention.

  “Eric?” Miss Scott asked. “Did you have something to add?”

  “No, Miss Scott,” Eric answered.

  “Well, maybe you can tell us the capital of Brazil,” Miss Scott said.

  There was a pause. We all waited for Eric to say something.

  I peered out the window—and noticed some little kids playing dodgeball outside. I used to love to play dodgeball.

  “The capital of Brazil, Eric,” Miss Scott repeated.

  “Now?” Eric asked. “You mean like right now?”

  “Well, soon, Eric,” Miss Scott said. “The school year ends in June!”

  Everyone in the class laughed.

  Except Eric, of course.

  I kept staring out the window again. That kid in the yellow sweater is going to get creamed, I thought. He is way too slow for dodgeball.

  “Eric, the capital of Brazil, please.”

  “Well, let’s see,” Eric said slowly.

  “You did memorize the capitals over the weekend, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, sure,” Eric said. “Could you repeat the name of the country, please?”

  The kids laughed harder.

  “Eric, if you didn’t study over the weekend, I’ll have to ask you to stay after school today,” Miss Scott said.

  “I have baseball this afternoon,” Eric said. “You can’t keep me after school today.”

  Baseball is a good game, too, I thought. Which do I like better—dodgeball or baseball?

  “Schoolwork before baseball,” Miss Scott declared. “You know the rules, Eric.”

  There was a knock at the door. Mr. Emerson, the principal, stood in the doorway.

  “Excuse me, class,” Miss Scott said. “I’ll be back in a minute.” As soon as Miss Scott joined Mr. Emerson in the hall, Eric turned to me.

  “Okay, Al, what’s the answer?” he demanded.