In the Land of the Lawn Weenies

by David Lubar

  To my surprise, the girl opened her eyes again. They still didn’t open very wide—they were barely more than slits. “I never burn,” she said. Then she closed her eyes.

  “Everyone burns,” Stacy said.

  The girl didn’t answer.

  “Everyone burns,” Stacy said again.

  Oh boy. I could hear it in her voice. Stacy was probably about to lose her temper. She didn’t like being ignored. I was pretty sure something would happen, but I didn’t know what.

  “I said, everyone burns!” Stacy shouted. She kicked the leg of the chair, jolting it.

  The girl didn’t open her eyes. For an instant, her tongue flicked over her lips, but her face remained emotionless.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you.” Stacy kicked the chair again. Sunlight flashed off of it as it shook, cutting streaks through my eyes. But the girl didn’t seem to notice or care about the disturbance.

  Normally, I try to calm Stacy down when she gets like this. But I was angry, too. The girl was rude. She had no right to treat us this way. We were just trying to be friendly.

  I waited to see what Stacy would do next. Motioning for me to be quiet, she took another of the metal chairs and set it so the sunlight was reflecting on the girl. Then she went over and did the same thing on the other side. Both chairs bounced the harsh sunlight against the girl.

  “Well,” Stacy said as she stepped away from the chairs, “I guess we’ll be on our way now. Bye-bye.”

  She walked off.

  I watched the girl for another moment. She was bathed in light. She must have felt the increase in heat. Still, she didn’t open her eyes. Unbelievable. I turned and followed Stacy back down the hill.

  “Was she for real?” Stacy asked when we reached my porch.

  “Who knows. I sure hope she doesn’t go to our school.”

  “Maybe she just sleeps all winter,” Stacy said. Then she giggled.

  I laughed, to. And we said some more nasty and funny things about the girl on the hill. But later, as the sun was moving well past its highest and hottest position, I started to worry.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have done that,” I told Stacy. “She might get a bad burn.” I imagined her sizzling like a strip of bacon, slowly curling up in a pan.

  “Hey, you heard her. She never burns.”

  “Still …” I felt bad. “Look, she wasn’t nice to us, but that doesn’t mean we should let her get hurt.” I knew I had to go back and make sure she was okay.

  “Coming?” I asked Stacy.

  “No thanks.”

  So I went up the hill by myself this time. As I walked, I kept getting images of a slab of burned meat lying on a metal chair. Despite the heat, I started to jog, then run. I had a feeling something terrible had happened.

  I made noise and called out, like before, just to make sure nobody thought I was sneaking around.

  She wasn’t in front. She wasn’t inside.

  She was still in the back. It looked like she hadn’t moved. It looked like not one single hair had shifted.

  She was exactly as she had been before—except that her skin had turned red. For a moment, I couldn’t even speak. From the times I’d been sunburned, I knew that this was the start of something awful.

  “Hey, wake up. Come on. You got burned.” I reached to shake her shoulder, but stopped. I was afraid to touch her—afraid of the agony it would bring. Her shoulder was worse than just red. There were blisters and small cracks with black edges. How could she just lie there?

  She opened her eyes. Then she smiled. “I told you, I never burn.”

  She reached up and grabbed my wrist. Her whole arm was red and cracked. “But look at you,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t burn,” she told me again.

  Something was happening to her skin. First along her arm, then all over her body, her skin was crinkling and curling and flaking off.

  “None of us burns,” she said.

  There was something underneath her skin, just beginning to show itself.

  “But if I get too much sun, I do shed,” she said as the flesh dropped from her body and her face. Beneath, there were soft scales, not yet hardened by exposure to the sun.

  I tried to pull away. She was too strong.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” she said. “Shedding doesn’t hurt at all.”

  Her eyes locked with mine. I couldn’t move.

  “But it really builds up an appetite.”

  She must have squeezed my wrist harder, because I heard a crunch. But I didn’t feel anything. I just looked at those eyes, and the tongue, split and slithery, that flickered out from between her lips.

  Her eyes, now fully opened, gleamed in the sunlight.

  THIN SILK

  Steven had been in the vacation cabin for a week, and he’d finally run out of things to do. It wouldn’t have been so bad if this was the last day, but his parents had rented the place for a month—a whole, incredibly mind-numbing, endless month.

  “I’m bored, Mom,” Steven said.

  “But there’s so much out here,” his mother told him. “Why don’t you go fishing with your father?”

  Steven just stared at his mother. His father wasn’t any fun when he fished. He was so intent on catching a stupid fish that he never stayed in one spot for more than a minute or two. He’d stop the boat, cast out, then reel in his line right away if he didn’t get a bite. Then he’d zoom the boat over to another spot that seemed exactly like the spot he’d just left. Needless to say, he never caught anything. Steven didn’t think he could stand a dose of that kind of excitement.

  “Well,” his mother said, looking around the cabin, “maybe you could do some sort of outdoor craft.”

  “What?” Steven asked.

  “You know. A Scout thing. Make a tepee. Trap a beaver. I don’t know, Steven. You’re smart. You’ll think of something.”

  At that moment, Steven did think of something. He thought how wonderful it would be to go back home. Yeah, home sounded perfect. There was a key hidden under the mat by the front door. Steven could just see himself going home and hanging out with a bowl of ice cream and three weeks of uninterrupted television. It would be just like that movie where the kid was left home by his parents. “Maybe I’ll take a walk,” he said.

  “Now that’s a wonderful idea,” his mother said. “Go enjoy the woods.”

  Steven stepped out of the cabin and glanced around. As far as he could remember, the dirt road in front of the cabin ran for miles, twisting and turning and then finally reaching a gravel road that eventually went to the highway. That was too long a trip. Steven was pretty sure he could get to the highway a lot faster by cutting through the forest.

  He hadn’t gone more than five steps into the woods when something thin and fine fell across his face, touching him so lightly that it almost wasn’t there at all.

  “Yuck,” Steven said, wiping at the strand of spider’s silk. “I hate that stuff.”

  A few more steps and he ran into another strand. “I hope this messes up your stupid web,” he said as he rubbed his face. He smiled as he thought of himself crashing like a giant through the world of the tiny spiders, wiping out hours of their work with a single step.

  Steven managed to avoid the next strand. It was part of a larger web. He ducked under it, then paused for a moment to watch a trapped beetle struggling against the sticky threads. “Tough luck,” he said as he walked on—right into another unseen piece.

  This place must be Lousy with spiders, Steven thought, wiping at his face again. Good thing I’m not a little bug. He kept walking.

  Every two or three steps, he felt another strand break across his face or arms. It was starting to annoy him, but he knew it would all be worth the effort once he got out of the wilderness and made his way back home.

  The bushes rustled far behind him. Steven spun around and scanned the woods. There was nothing in sight. He walked on, breaking through more strands.

  He heard the sound again�
��louder and closer. Steven picked up his pace, walking faster. At this higher speed, he ran into more strands. He didn’t even bother wiping all of them away now. He just wanted to get to the road.

  The sound grew closer. Steven glanced back. Something large was scurrying along the forest floor. He started to run. The thing behind him scurried faster.

  “Leave me alone!” he said.

  He ran.

  It followed.

  Steven glanced back again. He almost stumbled as he caught sight of the spider. It was huge—as big as a dog. “Get away from me!” he screamed, recoiling from the sight. He ran full out. Behind, the scurrying seemed to drop back.

  He was whipping through the woods now, hitting fine strands of silk with almost every stride. With one hand, he kept wiping at his face. The sounds were growing dimmer. I beat it, he thought. I’m faster.

  He shuddered at the idea of being anywhere near such an unnatural insect. But he knew now that he’d be able to escape.

  Without slowing, Steven risked a look back. He’d gained some distance. The spider was nearly out of sight. He stared at it for an instant. It was an instant too long. As Steven looked ahead again, he stumbled toward a tree.

  He thrust a hand out to protect himself. It stuck.

  His shirt, covered with thousands of thin strands, was glued to the tree. Steven pushed with his other hand. It stuck, too.

  He tried to turn to see the spider. He couldn’t get his head around far enough. But that didn’t matter. Steven knew exactly where the spider was. He could hear it. And it wasn’t rushing anymore. It was coming slowly, taking its time. There was no hurry. Steven wasn’t going anywhere.

  THE WITCH’S MONKEY

  I’ve always loved monkeys. I don’t mean chimps—everyone likes chimps. I mean mon-keys. All of them. I love the cute ones with their little paws and adorable faces. And I love the ugly ones, the ones that look like nature made a mistake or was playing a joke. I’ve got all kinds of toy monkeys; stuffed, wood, plastic, even ceramic. I’ve got a whole shelf of monkey books. I watch The Wizard of Oz every single time it’s on TV, just for those fabulous flying monkeys. My parents seem to be amused by all this, though I suspect it’s their hope that I’ll outgrow my fascination sooner or later. I won’t.

  The nearest zoo is pretty far from here, so I don’t get to see live monkeys very often. I’m lucky if I get there twice a year. That’s why my ears perked up when I overheard Sarah Morton on the playground saying, “She’s got a monkey in a cage.”

  “Who?” I asked, feeling my pulse grow faster as I pushed into the ring of girls clustered around Sarah.

  She glared at me for interrupting her. I was afraid she wasn’t going to answer my question. But I guess she couldn’t resist showing off her knowledge. “The Crow Lady,” Sarah said.

  “No way.” I shook my head, feeling a tingle like someone had brushed a feather across my shoulder blades.

  “It’s true,” Sarah said. “Tommy Lucas told me. His brother saw it. He went up on her porch on a bet. He looked in the window and saw a monkey in a cage.” She stared down at me, daring me to call her a liar.

  I walked away. Behind my back, I heard Sarah making monkey sounds. They all liked to make fun of me. I didn’t care. They’re jealous because I have something I really cherish. Maybe they’d be nicer to me if I didn’t talk so much about monkeys and wear earrings shaped like monkeys and T-shirts with pictures of monkeys, but I’m not going to change just because of them. I have a passion. All they have is toys and dolls and dress-up and stupid stuff like that. All they have for pets are cats or dogs. Those aren’t any good. Cats and dogs are always running off and disappearing. I wouldn’t want one even if someone gave it to me.

  I thought about Sarah’s words. The Crow Lady. Could she really have a monkey? It was possible. But there were so many stories—all kinds of stories. She lived by herself in a spooky old house. No one ever saw her in town. There were crows all over the property. Hundreds of crows hung out there—it was like a mall for birds. The house was falling apart, the yard was a mess of weeds, and the whole place was decorated with crow droppings.

  Kids said lots of different things about her. So did our parents. I’d heard that she’d shot her husband. I’d also heard that she’d poisoned him. I’d heard that she’d had five children and they’d all vanished. Other kids claimed she’d always lived alone.

  But if she really had a monkey, none of that mattered. I had to see it. Chores and homework kept me from going there right after school. I guess I needed time to work up the courage, too. But tomorrow was Saturday. I promised myself I would visit the Crow Lady’s house in the morning.

  I didn’t sleep much that night. I was too excited, knowing there was a monkey not far from me.

  Morning finally came. After a quick bowl of cereal—despite what everyone might say, I don’t live on bananas—it was time to see the monkey. Maybe, I told myself as I headed out, the Crow Lady is just a nice, lonely old woman. Maybe she’ll be thrilled to have company and will let me play with her monkey. Maybe it’s becoming too much for her to care for and she’ll give it to me.

  Wrapped in my thoughts, I reached the Crow Lady’s house at the end of Spruce Street. There was an iron fence in front, but the gate had rusted off its hinges long ago. I went up the walkway. Leaves and small twigs crunched beneath my feet. Tall grass and weeds crept from the yard onto the cracked concrete. Ahead, the porch was coated in chipped and blistering gray paint. The railing leaned out, waiting for the next strong wind to shove it over.

  Crows gathered on every inch of the walkway. They hopped aside when I came close, then scuttered back to where they’d been. It was odd—there didn’t seem to be any squirrels. Everywhere else there were lots of squirrels. Here, nothing but crows.

  I took a deep breath and put my foot on the first step. I paused there for an instant, but I knew that if I waited to find more courage I would never reach the door. Here goes. I pushed myself up the steps. The old wood creaked beneath my feet. One board tilted, rocking slightly under my shoe.

  I was on the porch, right in front of the door. There were small windows to the right of the door, running from the floor to the ceiling. A couple of the panes were cracked. One was missing, replaced by a piece of cardboard and old, yellowing tape.

  I wasn’t sure whether to peek through a window or knock on the door. If I tried to look and she caught me, she would never let me inside. But if I knocked and she told me to go away, I wouldn’t get a chance to see the monkey, either.

  The door opened.

  A hand snaked out and clamped around my wrist. I gasped as I felt the finger bones grating against my flesh like a trap made of dried sticks. I looked up into the face of the Crow Lady. This close, I couldn’t even tell her age. She might have been the same age as my mom; she might have been older than my grandmother. But her face was hard; it was full of meanness, like someone who was always looking for a reason to be angry.

  “What do you want?” she asked. Her voice was barely louder than the crackle of dead leaves on the ground.

  “I … uh …”

  “Are you selling cookies? I don’t want any cookies. I hate cookies.”

  “Yeah, cookies …” I looked past her and forgot everything else. Behind her, across the room in the far corner, was the most wonderful, gorgeous, beautiful monkey I had ever seen—a gibbon with dark fur and white paws. My heart melted. The poor creature was crammed into a cage just big enough for a large dog. It looked at me and bared its teeth. I tried to take a step toward it, but the Crow Lady tightened her grip on my wrist.

  “I said I don’t want any cookies.”

  “Sure, okay.” I pulled back. She held on to me for an instant, then let go. I stumbled, almost falling off the porch. The door slammed. I turned and ran. Crows scattered and took flight all around me in an explosion of frantic wings and wild caws. I didn’t slow down until I reached home.

  That poor monkey. I had to do something for it. It must
be miserable in that small cage. I had to set it free. I couldn’t wait. I’d do it tonight.

  A million endings wove through my mind as I waited for evening. I saw myself setting the wonderful monkey free. I saw myself bringing it home. I saw myself running away with it to the jungle, far from the people who didn’t understand, far from the ignorant kids who laughed at my devotion. I would hug it and it would hug me back, and we would be happy.

  When I returned an hour after sunset, the house was dark except for one light on the second floor. I waited. At least the crows had gone to sleep. Finally, that last light went out.

  I must have spent half an hour making my way to the door. Every step I took, leaves crackled beneath my feet. Every board creaked, every twig snapped. I kept waiting for the light to flare back on.

  It didn’t.

  Finally, I had my hand on the knob. It turned. I pushed, but the door didn’t open. It was locked. I looked at the piece of cardboard that was taped where the window had been and realized it was at the same height as the doorknob.

  I don’t believe I’m doing this, I thought as I pressed my fingers against the cardboard. It fell free with barely a protest as the old tape pulled loose.

  Inside, across the room, the monkey made a quiet sound—almost a sob.

  “I’m coming,” I whispered as quietly as I could.

  I reached through the window frame and turned the lock. The click echoed through the house like an explosion. I waited a minute, then opened the door.

  I felt as if I had stepped into a cave, but the whimpers of the monkey guided me to the cage. My eyes began to adjust. My lovely monkey gripped the bars and stared at me, still crying those sad sobs.

  I stuck a finger through the bars and scratched its head. “You’ll be out in a minute,” I whispered. It almost seemed to purr.

  I lifted the latch, flinching at the light scrape of metal against metal. The door flipped open. “Come here,” I whispered.