by David Lubar
His mother was still talking. She’d mentioned something about a pump, but Jeremy hadn’t caught it. Now, she was talking about clogged drains. “We can’t even use drain cleaner,” she explained. “It would kill the bacteria. I can’t have a garbage disposal, either, but that’s really not a problem since . . .”
Jeremy tuned her out. He didn’t care about pumps or disposals. But drain cleaner—now that was a different story. That was nasty stuff. He wondered where he could find some. “Got it,” he said to himself. Down in the basement there was a bunch of boxes that hadn’t been unpacked after the move last year.
His parents never threw anything out. Jeremy could just see his father grabbing the drain cleaner and saying, “Who knows? We might be able to use it some day.” Then he’d throw it in a box along with half-empty cans of hardened paint, parts for a car he no longer owned, and a microphone from a tape recorder that had broken four or five years ago.
It took a half hour of searching, but Jeremy knew the bottle as soon as he saw it. CAUTION—KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN, it read in big red letters. WARNING—CAUSES IRREVERSIBLE EYE DAMAGE. HARMFUL OR FATAL IF SWALLOWED. Best of all, the bottle felt nearly full.
Jeremy took the drain cleaner over to the sink in the laundry room. He started to open it, then looked again at the words on the label. “No point in me getting hurt,” he said. He grabbed his mother’s gardening gloves. Then he found the safety glasses his father used when he sprayed bug killer on the trees.
As Jeremy opened the cap, he paused for a moment. The part of him that had been told to be kind and thoughtful, to avoid being mean or cruel, that part of him whispered thoughts of peace and mercy. The whispers were drowned out by a thudding, pounding pulse from outside. Jeremy shook his head. There would be no mercy.
“Have a nice bath.” Jeremy dumped the entire bottle of drain cleaner into the sink. As it swirled down the drain, the fumes burned his nose.
Jeremy turned on the water to wash all the drain cleaner into the septic tank. “There,” he said. “That should take care of you.”
As he walked away from the laundry room, he heard one loud thud echo through the pipes. Then, faintly, a roar of pain.
Then silence.
Jeremy went upstairs, knowing he’d beaten whatever beast lived in the tank. There was no more pounding that day, or the next.
But there was a faint odor drifting through the house, as if someone across the room had unpeeled a hard-boiled egg. Jeremy noticed his father sniffing the air. His parents talked about the problem. Then his father searched through the phone book and made a call.
The next day, Jeremy looked out his bedroom window and saw a large truck drive to the side of the house. He heard a man talking to his parents.
After he got dressed, Jeremy wandered into the backyard. There was a fresh hole near the rear corner of the house on the side away from the road. The man had a long, thick hose running from the truck to the hole.
“What are you doing?” Jeremy asked.
“Pumping the septic tank,” the man said.
Jeremy moved next to the man and looked down. About a foot beneath the ground, he saw a large opening. The cover for the opening—a round slab of concrete, shaped like a manhole cover—was off to the side.
A deep, rotting smell rose from the hole. Jeremy wondered what would be revealed when the tank was pumped. He wanted to see the creature he’d destroyed.
“Do you pump out everything?” he asked.
“As much as we can,” the man said, “but if—” He stopped talking as the hose jerked. “What in the world . . . ?” he said, picking up the hose from the ground.
The man looked at the hose, then back at the truck. “It can’t be clogged. No way . . .” He looked back down toward the hole and wiggled the hose back and forth.
The hose jerked again. This time it was yanked forward. The man stumbled against the pull. He bumped into Jeremy.
Jeremy staggered and took a step that ended in emptiness.
Jeremy fell.
Unimaginably, unbearably, he plunged into the half-empty pit of decomposing sewage.
He grabbed for the hose, his eyes squeezed tightly shut against the stench that washed around him, his stomach churning in disgust beyond anything he had ever imagined.
He wanted to scream, but he didn’t dare open his mouth.
His hand met the hose. He grabbed on and started to pull himself up to the world of clean air and pure water.
It was easy. Like climbing a rope in gym class.
The roar, unmuffled by the cushion of soil and cement and pipes, was deafening in the chamber of the septic tank. The roar was followed by a splash as something massive burst from beneath the surface behind him. Jeremy froze as a huge arm wrapped around his chest and yanked him from the hose.
In an instant, he was dragged down and swallowed by the murk. He clawed at the slimy arm, but it was far too strong. There was no chance of escape.
Just as Jeremy was about to give up all hope, the arm loosened for a moment, as if the creature was considering mercy. Jeremy nearly cried out in relief. He remembered his own brief pause, his hesitation before pouring the drain cleaner.
Then the grip tightened again.
No sign of mercy from below.
No sign of Jeremy from above.
ANYTHING YOU WANT
If I’d found the bottle, I’d be sitting on a mountain of chocolate right now. I’d be counting my billion dollars right now. That’s right—I’d be counting my billion dollars, eating my chocolate, and flying around the world with the aid of my superpowers.
But Stevie found the bottle.
Not only that, he found it when I was with him, so I got to watch him make his stupid wishes, and that was even worse.
Stevie’s three, which is part of the problem. Mom stuck me with him for the afternoon. We went to the park and took a walk through Sherman’s Woods. It’s not really a woods—just a bunch of trees that happened to be in the same area. There weren’t as many trees as usual. A big windstorm had swept through town last night, knocking over stuff like trees, phone poles, and small cars.
“Look!” Stevie shouted as we walked through the woods. He ran over to a fallen tree. The roots had been pulled from the ground and were spread out like a real bad hairdo that had been combed by a nervous stylist. Stevie reached down under the roots. “Look, Sissie, look!” He calls me that because I’m his sister and he has a hard time saying Rebecca.
“Careful,” I warned him. I could just see him getting his finger chomped by a gopher or muskrat, or whatever lived under the ground.
“Pretty,” Stevie said, holding something up. That’s basically how he talks—one word at a time, sometimes two or three words. But I wasn’t thinking about language—I was looking at what Stevie had found.
“Wow. Let me see.” I walked over and held my hand out.
“Mine,” Stevie said. He clutched the bottle close to his chest. From the glimpse I’d gotten, I knew it was something unusual. It was made out of shiny metal, and there were jewels all around it.
“Come on, just let me see it . . .”
Stevie shook his head. “Bottle mine.”
That’s when the bottle glowed. It shined so brightly, the metal seemed almost like glass. Then the cork popped out and this burst of steam shot up.
The steam turned into a genie.
I knew he was a genie because he looked at Stevie and said, “I grant thee three wishes.”
“Wishes?” Stevie asked.
“Stevie, let me tell you what to ask for.” I was sure a kid his age would get the wrong things. Not me. I could make perfect wishes.
“Silence!” the genie said, glaring at me.
I wasn’t going to argue. His eyes had that same look Mom and Dad get before they stop trying to reason with me and send me to my room.
“Make your wishes, mortal,” the genie said to Stevie. “You may have anything your heart desires.”
Wouldn’t you kn
ow it? When he could have anything in the world, what does Stevie do? My brilliant younger brother opens his mouth and asks for his favorite food. “Peas,” he told the genie. “Want peas.”
Yuk. I shook my head. This was disgusting. Stevie loved those peas that come in the can—the soft, squishy ones that are the color of old paint. Mom makes them for him almost every night. I wondered how many peas the genie would give him. I could almost see him being buried in tons of peas while the genie laughed.
But, apparently, this wasn’t that kind of genie. I found that out right away. I also found out that I can understand Stevie a lot better than other people—or genies.
“A noble wish,” the genie said. “I have not granted such a request in many centuries. You have asked for peace, and I will grant you peace. The whole world will know a period of peace. No wars for one hundred years.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and said, “It is done.”
“Peas?” Stevie asked, looking around.
I could tell he was disappointed.
“Your next wish?” the genie asked.
“Liver,” Stevie said, shaking his head. “Never.”
I groaned. He was wishing that Mom would never make liver again. What a waste. All he had to do was feed it to the dog like I did.
But I guess Stevie really didn’t speak very clearly this time, either. The genie said, “Very well, you shall live forever.” He closed his eyes again, then opened them and said, “It is done.”
I couldn’t stand it. I had to say something. “Careful, Stevie, this is your last wish. Don’t waste it.”
The genie glared at me again. “Sorry,” I said, very quietly. I tried to guess what Stevie would wish for next. It could be anything. And there was no way to know what the genie would think Stevie said.
Before Stevie could open his mouth, I tried to catch his attention. I waved my hand, making sure the genie didn’t see. It worked. Stevie looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. I think Stevie got the idea.
He looked up at the genie and said, “Sissie wish.”
Phew. Good job, Stevie, I thought. He’d asked the genie to give me his last wish. Well, it was just one out of three, but I figured that was better than nothing.
The genie frowned for a moment, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Then he said, “Very well, I will make your sister a fish.”
He closed his eyes.
“Wait!” I shouted.
The next thing I knew, I was flopping on the ground, gasping for breath. At least Stevie knew enough to pick me up and toss me into the stream.
So now I’m a fish. That’s the bad part. But I don’t have to watch Stevie anymore. That’s the good part. All in all, I guess it worked out about even.
LINES
Stay in line, please,” Mrs. Epstein shouted as her students shuffled down the hallway toward their music class.
Andrea, walking in the other direction after running an errand for her teacher, Mr. Sutcliff, smiled as she passed the squirming, shoving gang of kids. She remembered her own days in Mrs. Epstein’s kindergarten. The little kids always seemed to be lining up. Whatever they did, wherever they went, they went in a line.
It hasn’t changed, Andrea realized. Even now that she was older, she still spent so much time going from place to place in a line. It wasn’t quite as bad as back then, but there still were so many lines.
She reached her class just in time to hear Mr. Sutcliff say, “Okay kids, line up. We’re going to the auditorium to see a film.”
Andrea got into line with the others. But as soon as the line started moving down the hall, she stepped aside and waited for her friend Nichole to reach her. Then she started walking along next to Nichole.
“Hey,” Nichole asked, “what are you doing?”
“Going to the auditorium,” Andrea told her.
“But you aren’t in line,” Nichole said. She looked ahead as if checking to see whether Mr. Sutcliff had noticed.
Andrea shrugged. “So? I don’t see what the big deal is. I’ll still get there, right? I’m not making trouble. I’m not doing anything bad. I’m just not in the line. Do you really care?”
Nichole didn’t answer.
“Okay, be like that,” Andrea said. “But I’m not getting into the line.”
She walked next to Nichole as they went to the end of the side hall and turned into the front hall that led to the auditorium. Mr. Sutcliff looked back at the line as the last of the kids came around the corner.
Andrea was a little surprised. She figured that her teacher would say something. But he didn’t.
“See,” Andrea said when the front of the line had reached the auditorium. “Nothing bad happened.”
Nichole didn’t even look at her.
“In you go, kids,” Mr. Sutcliff said. “One, two, three, four,” he counted as the class filed into the auditorium. He was a compulsive counter. Andrea couldn’t help thinking of the Count on Sesame Street every time Mr. Sutcliff began numbering the students.
Nichole started to go through the door. “Wait up,” Andrea said.
Her friend didn’t even look over.
“Come on, don’t be like that.” Andrea reached out and pushed Nichole’s shoulder.
Her hand went through her friend as if one of them wasn’t real.
Andrea froze.
“Eighteen, nineteen, and twenty makes everyone,” Mr. Sutcliff said as the last of the students went through the door.
“It’s just a line,” Andrea said weakly. She realized she was fading. She’d fallen out of the system when she stepped out of the line. Andrea watched the auditorium door drift shut.
There was only one chance. She waited. When the film was over, the students filed out. Andrea joined the line, walking behind Nichole, who was the last one to leave.
With each step, she felt a bit more solid. As she passed down the familiar halls, she felt reality grow firm again. This was her school. This was where she belonged. This was her line.
As they reached the classroom and broke the line, Andrea tapped Nichole’s shoulder.
Solid flesh.
“Hi,” Nichole said, turning and smiling.
“Hi,” Andrea said back, feeling a relief beyond anything she could describe. That had been close. But she’d escaped disaster.
“You like it here?” Nichole asked.
“What?” Andrea didn’t know what she was talking about.
“You’re the new girl, right?” Nichole asked. “You must have just moved here. I don’t think we’ve met yet. My name’s Nichole. Hey, maybe we can be friends. Want to come over to my house after school?”
Andrea nodded and wondered what else she’d lost when she’d stepped out of the line.
WANDERING STU
MINE!” Stuart screamed, ripping the baseball out of his little brother’s hands. “It’s mine. Get your own baseball.”
Billy ran into the house, crying hard enough to drown his sneakers. Stuart stood clutching the ball for a moment, then dropped it back on the lawn where it had been lying before Billy picked it up. He didn’t want to play with it at the moment—he just didn’t want someone else to play with it. After all, it was his ball.
Stuart turned to go inside, but his path was blocked by the stranger.
“One thousand times,” the stranger said.
Stuart took a step back. “Get off my property. You’re trespassing. My dad has a gun. You’d better get going.”
The man didn’t seem to care about Stuart’s dad’s imaginary gun. “One thousand days of uninterrupted selfishness,” the stranger said. “Not one break. Not one single day when you didn’t act as if you were the only person living on this planet. Congratulations, Stuart. That’s a record.”
“Record?” Stuart asked, suddenly interested in hearing more from the stranger. “Did I win a prize or something?”
The stranger nodded. “Indeed you did.” He raised his arms and clapped his hands together.
Stuart shut his eye
s as a bright flash filled the air. When he looked, all he could do for a moment was stare. His house had vanished.
“Hey!” Stuart shouted. “What did you do with my house?”
“Mine, mine, mine,” the stranger said. “See? That’s all you ever think about. You need to learn to think about other people. You need to be taught a lesson.”
“But I—”
Before Stuart could finish his sentence, the stranger vanished, just like the house.
“Might as well go over to Joey’s house,” Stuart muttered as he walked down the block. He didn’t really like Joey, but he hung out there sometimes because Joey’s mother was always buying big bags of candy.
There was nobody home at Joey’s house. But the door was open. Stuart went in and grabbed a sack of Snickers. Then he wandered down the block.
There was nobody in any of the houses.
Stuart wandered into town. He didn’t find a single person. But that was fine with him. He ran wild through the mall, playing with all the cool stuff in the sporting goods stores, trying the drums in the music store, and checking out all the new video games in the game store.
It was fun. For a while.
After several days, Stuart started to get bored.
“Hey!” he called. “Where are you?” He figured that anyone who could make his house disappear could probably hear him, too.
“Yes?” the stranger asked, popping out of the air in front of him.
“Look,” Stuart said. “You made your point. I’ve been selfish. That’s what this is all about. Right?”
“Right,” the stranger said.
“I acted like I was the only person on the planet. So that’s what you did. You made me the only one here—for real.”
The stranger grinned. “Pretty fitting, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah. Great. I have to admire you. Really wonderful,” Stuart said. “So like what do I have to do to get things back the way they were? I mean, I realized that I’ve been selfish. I’m cured. I learned my lesson. Isn’t that enough?”
