by R. L. Stine
“Is it working?” I asked her. “Do you feel any different?”
“Not yet,” she replied softly.
“Neither do I,” I moaned.
We stared at the new prints. And waited.
We stood on that corner for at least half an hour. Staring and waiting.
Waiting to feel different. Waiting for our bodies to change.
But nothing happened.
We didn’t change at all.
“We’re doomed,” I murmured sadly. “Doomed.”
A chunk of skin peeled off my forehead and dropped to the sidewalk.
The next morning, I woke up early, before my alarm. I stretched and yawned. Then I turned and struggled to pull my huge body out of bed.
“Heave-ho!” I cried, straining every muscle.
And I went flying across the room!
“Oww!” I groaned as I hit the wall. I bounced off. Dropped to the floor. Bounced up again.
“What’s going on?” I cried out loud.
And scrambled to the mirror. And stared at the reflection of my old face. My old body.
No lizard skin. No giant head or huge body.
Me!
I was back!
I squeezed my arms. I rubbed my face. I pulled my hair.
I felt so happy to see myself!
I leaped onto the bed and started jumping up and down, tossing up my arms, and whooping and cheering at the top of my lungs.
“It worked! It worked!”
Reversing the photo had reversed me!
“Yaaaaay!” I let out a cheer for myself.
Mom and Dad burst into the room, still in their bathrobes. Frightened expressions on their faces. “Greg—what’s wrong?”
And then they both froze with bulging eyes and opened mouths.
Mom uttered a squeak of surprise. Dad goggled at me in shocked silence.
“You—you’re you again!” Mom stammered finally.
“You—you—you—” Dad struggled to say something, but he couldn’t. He pointed a finger at me and stuttered.
And then they both rushed over and wrapped me in a tight hug.
“I knew it was something you ate,” Mom said happily. “Some kind of food poisoning.”
“Just an allergic reaction,” Dad added, finally able to speak. “I knew you’d be fine in a day or two.”
“We knew you’d be fine,” Mom declared.
“Yeah. Me, too,” I said.
What a lie!
“You were very good during all this trouble, Greg,” Mom said, wiping away a tear from her eye with the back of her hand. “You had such a good attitude.”
“Yeah. Well … I always try to think positive,” I told her.
I gobbled down my breakfast and hurried next door to Shari’s house. As I ran up to the back door, she stepped out, grinning, waving her arms in the air in triumph.
“It worked! It worked, Greg!” she cried happily.
She came running toward me, her black hair flying behind her head, laughing and cheering. Back to normal.
Back to normal!
Whooping and shouting, the two of us did a wild “Back to Normal” dance in her backyard.
When we stopped to catch our breath, Shari turned to me. “We’d better hurry. We’re going to be late for school. I can’t wait to show everyone that I’m me again.”
“Me, too!” I cried. “But wait right here. I have to get something in my room. I’ll be right back.”
I turned and started jogging quickly across the grass to my house.
“What are you getting?” Shari called, following me.
“The camera,” I shouted back.
She ran faster. Caught up with me. Grabbed my shoulders and pulled me to a stop. “Greg—the camera? Why do you need the camera?”
I narrowed my eyes at her. My expression turned serious. I lowered my voice to a whisper.
“For revenge,” I replied.
“Greg—don’t!” Shari pleaded.
I ignored her. I knew what I wanted to do. I knew what I had to do.
I ran into the house. Took the stairs two at a time up to my room. Pulled the camera from its hiding place. And hurried back outside.
Shari was waiting for me on the sidewalk. “Greg—this is ridiculous,” she insisted. “What are you going to do?”
I couldn’t stop an evil smile from spreading across my face. “I’m going to take Mr. Saur’s picture,” I told her.
“NO!” she gasped. “Greg—you can’t!”
“Watch me,” I replied, still grinning.
“But—but—but—” she sputtered.
I started walking toward school, taking long strides. I gripped the camera tightly in both hands.
“Greg—something terrible will happen!” Shari protested.
“I know,” I said, unable to stop grinning. “Old Sourball deserves it.”
“But, Greg—” She tried to stop me. But I jogged faster, moving away from her.
“He deserves it,” I repeated. “He refused to believe a true story. He called me a liar in front of the whole class. And he gave me an F. An F for a really good report.”
“But, Greg—” Shari started.
I didn’t let her get a word in. I was too worked up. The closer we came to school, the more excited I got about my revenge plan.
“He’s going to ruin my whole summer,” I continued. “And he’s wrong, wrong, wrong! And then, when I got so huge, Sourball was really cruel. He made jokes about me in front of everyone. He embarrassed me, Shari. He totally embarrassed me.”
“Greg—”
“He wanted to hurt my feelings,” I declared. I could see our school through the trees in the next block. “He wanted to embarrass me in front of the whole class. He deserves what he’s going to get.”
“So what are you going to do?” she demanded breathlessly.
I stopped at the corner. “He dared me to prove that the camera is evil. So I’m going to prove it—and get my revenge at the same time.”
I slipped into class just as the final bell rang. The other kids were already in their seats, just getting quiet.
Mr. Saur had his back turned. He was writing something on the board.
I stepped up behind him. And waited for him to turn around.
My heart thudded in my chest. My hands were shaking so much, I could barely hold the camera.
I took a deep breath and held it.
This was my big moment. My big chance.
“Mr. Saur—?” I called softly.
He spun around, as if I had shouted. “Greg!” he cried. “You’re looking like yourself again.”
I ignored his words. I raised the camera to my eye.
Time for revenge, I thought.
“I brought the camera,” I told him. My voice came out high and shrill. “Remember? The camera from my report? You asked me to prove that it’s evil. So here goes!”
I centered his startled face in the viewfinder.
I raised my finger over the shutter button.
He grabbed the camera from my hands.
“Oh, yes! The evil camera!” he declared, staring down at it. “Don’t waste it on me. Let’s take everyone’s picture!”
“No!” I cried.
He waved his hand. “Donny and Brian—move in closer.” Then he shoved me in front of him. “Get in the shot, Greg.”
“No!” I pleaded. “Mr. Saur—no!”
“Say cheese, everyone!”
The camera flashed.
The white square photo slid out.
Mr. Saur smiled at me. “I think I got everyone in class in the shot,” he said. “Now what’s going to happen?”
I swallowed hard. “Uh … we’ll see,” I replied. “We’ll see.”
R.L. Stine’s books are read all over the world. So far, his books have sold more than 300 million copies, making him one of the most popular children’s authors in history. Besides Goosebumps, R.L. Stine has written the teen series Fear Street and the funny series Rotten S
chool, as well as the Mostly Ghostly series, The Nightmare Room series, and the two-book thriller Dangerous Girls. R.L. Stine lives in New York with his wife, Jane, and Minnie, his King Charles spaniel. You can learn more about him at RLStine.com.
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Goosebumps book series created by Parachute Press, Inc.
Copyright © 1996 by Scholastic Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, GOOSEBUMPS, GOOSEBUMPS HORRORLAND, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First printing, June 1996
e-ISBN 978-1-338-34021-1
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
