Sploosh! He felt the jelly from the doughnut in his back pocket ooze out onto his pants, instantly reminding him that his pocket was a dumb place to put a doughnut, jelly or any other kind. He pictured the gooey mess on his butt and knew that was the least of his problems.
From his hiding spot Craz could see Mrs. Bentz’s thick ankles and ugly black shoes as she walked past the couch and then out of sight.
He didn’t dare take another peek. Instead he sat listening for clues, wondering what Mrs. Bentz was doing. The clinking of coffee cups told Craz that she was probably pouring herself a cup of the brown sludge that he imagined had been sitting in the coffeepot all morning.
After a long moment of silence, he suddenly felt the couch shift under her weight. She was right on top of him! Looking up, he could see her gray-streaked hair that was always pulled into a tight bun. His nostrils filled with her sick perfume that reminded him of the ocean . . . at low tide. He almost gagged on the stench.
The couch shook again as Mrs. Bentz settled into the soft cushions. “Ah, now that’s cozy,” she said to no one.
Craz was trapped, but he peered slowly around the arm of the couch and could see the copier just fifteen feet away. If only he could get rid of her, he thought. At least he felt safe in his hiding place. As long as she just sat there, he’d be okay. Unless . . .
Ffffft.
Did his English teacher really just let a ripe one rip? Oh, man—it was foul. It combined with the gross smell of her perfume, and Craz had to do everything in his power not to puke.
Meanwhile, Matt was hiding in the boys’ bathroom, feeling helpless and just a little silly that he’d run away. Pacing back and forth in front of the row of sinks, he tried to come up with a plan to rescue Craz. After all, wasn’t that exactly what Craz would do for him? He had to come up with a way to get Mrs. Bentz out of the teachers’ lounge and do it before the bell rang and the hallway filled back up with students and worse—teachers on their way to the lounge.
Matt checked his watch. 11:20. He still had five minutes. Plenty of time, if he’d had half a clue what to do next.
Craz wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand being surrounded by all of Mrs. Bentz’s odd odors, and just as he was deciding to simply stand up, say hello, and then bolt out the door and into some breathable air, there was a repeated loud knock at the door.
Mrs. Bentz rose up from the couch. “Hold your horses. I’m coming.”
Finally breathing again, Craz peeked around the couch and watched his English teacher open the door. He couldn’t believe who was standing there.
“H-hello, Mrs. Bentz,” Matt stammered. “I was wondering if I could ask you a question?”
Mrs. Bentz wrinkled her nose into an uncomfortable shape. “Come see me during class time, Matthew.”
She started closing the door. Matt had to act fast, and so he took the surest shot he could. “It’s about Treasure Island, ma’am. And the symbolism of the one-legged Long John Silver.”
Students never wanted to discuss her favorite book, and so Mrs. Bentz smiled and opened the door wide. “Treasure Island! How wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Come in, Matthew. Come in.”
Oh, no, Matt thought. He wanted to get her out of the room, not be invited to come in. Thinking fast, Matt said, “Would it be too much trouble if we go to my locker first? All my notes are there. I hope.”
Faster than you could say “Jim Hawkins,” Mrs. Bentz was out the teachers’ lounge door and walking side by side with Matt, lecturing him on the merits of Robert Louis Stevenson’s prose. Matt did his best to pretend to listen, but really he was just hoping Craz could now escape unseen.
Craz was impressed with Matt’s quick thinking. He stood up and took a deep breath, then ran to the copy machine and hit the green button. The machine hummed for a second, and then the bright light flashed from under the glass. Normally that would have been it—the copy would have been made. But something different happened. As soon as the original had been copied, a second flash of light filled the room, this one even brighter, so bright that Craz had to cover his eyes with his hand.
“What was that?” Craz asked as the copy of the cartoon was finally spit from the machine.
The bell rang, and Craz realized he had to get out of the teachers’ lounge before he got caught. If he timed it right, he could just melt into the sea of hallway kids before any of the teachers came into the room.
He stood by the door and waited until the hallway was full, and then simply opened the door and walked away with the copy of Matt’s cartoon in his hands.
Piece of cake, Craz thought, totally forgetting that he had nearly suffocated on Mrs. Bentz’s body odor . . . and that he’d left the original cartoon inside the copy machine.
13
LOCKER SURPRISE
CRAZ WAS IN LINE FOR A HOT LUNCH, WHILE Matt sat at their usual table, which was wedged in between the overflowing garbage cans and the air-conditioning unit that always dripped.
Matt’s Friday “sandwich surprise” lay mysteriously wrapped in front of him, but for once he didn’t care what was for lunch. He was too busy staring off at Cindy Ockabloom, who was wearing a perfect gold and blue skirt and a yellow top the color of ripe bananas. She sat, as she always did, at the “Middles” table, located (of course) in the center of the lunch table universe. The Middles were kids who weren’t popular. They weren’t losers. They were just kids who got decent grades, didn’t play sports, and never wound up in detention or stuck washing teachers’ cars as punishment for wasting valuable classroom time.
Len Bruddle sat down next to Matt and Sammy Kinsella. He immediately recognized the far-off look in his friend’s face. “Cindy?”
Matt didn’t blink. “Cindy.”
“Dude, just go up and say hi to her. The suspense is killing you.”
Matt snapped out of his trance and turned to his friends. “It’s not that easy, Len. Look at her. She’s perfect.”
Sammy removed his retainer so he could eat his lunch. Bologna and yellow mustard on rye bread—no crusts. “She’s not perfect, Matt. I sit behind her in Spanish class. She picks her fingernails and then smells her fingers.”
“Smells them? No way!” Matt pictured Cindy and her stinky nails. He sighed. “That’s so cute.”
Sammy shook his head and took a bite from his sandwich. “Cute? Really? We definitely have different definitions.”
Matt sighed. “She’s just so . . . so . . .”
“Out of your galaxy?” Len smiled. “Look, Matt, you’ve really got nothing to lose. She already doesn’t talk to you. It can’t get any worse.”
Matt looked over at Cindy’s table. She was laughing hysterically at something Gretchen Gosling had said. Amazing, Matt thought. She looks great even with milk spurting out of her nose. Maybe Len is right. Just go say hi. Break the ice. Maybe even crack a little joke.
“You really think I should?” Matt asked.
“Definitely,” said Len. “You’ll thank me later. Trust me.”
Matt took a deep breath and then pushed his chair away from the lunch table. Defiant, he was going to walk over to Cindy’s table and act as casually as his nervous system would allow. No problemo, he told himself as he crossed the cafeteria with butterflies in his stomach.
THE LUNCH LINE MOVED AT A TURTLE’S PACE, and hungry kids were getting impatient. Craz didn’t really care. He was busy staring at the “Cartoon Kings” comic that he’d successfully copied in the teachers’ lounge. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something really different about this cartoon. It had Matt’s loose line style, but there was something else going on in the drawing. Something he couldn’t quite describe. Maybe that new pen really was making a
difference.
“What’s the holdup?” shouted Paulie Frick, who wasn’t used to waiting for anything. “Come on, speed it up!”
Bobby “Bruno” Brunell, the barrel-shaped linebacker for the Killer Bees, mimicked Paulie and pounded his fist against the wall. “Yeah, speed it up. I’m hungry!”
The two football players pushed past kids and easily cut their way through the long line. It was the junior high pecking order that placed jocks above mere mortals, and so Craz just stood in line and watched as smaller kids got knocked against the wall and reshuffled like cards.
Craz finally arrived at the hot food station run by Mrs. Murtha, the lunch lady with the nickel-size mole on her chin who had the best spoon control in the cafeteria. Mrs. Murtha could scoop out a helping of peas and then drop a perfect dab of mashed potatoes dead center onto your plate with her eyes closed.
“Next!” she called out, her one lazy eye pointing just slightly off to the left.
Craz slid his plate beneath her heaping spoon and watched as an ice cream scoop of macaroni and hamburger fell with a loud Splat.
The food looked inedible, which didn’t really bother Craz. “And toss in a chocolate milk,” he said to the cashier, knowing a carton of the chocolate drink would wash down even the worst that the cafeteria had to dish out.
“Two-fifty,” the cashier said.
Craz was busy scoping out the cafeteria scene and so he wasn’t looking at the cashier. He automatically held out his money as he spotted Matt making his move over at Cindy’s table. “Way to go, buddy,” Craz said a second before Paulie Frick and Bruno tripped Matt, who bumped into Gary McMillan, whose lunch tray shot through the air, spilling mashed potatoes, meatballs, and grape juice all over Cindy Ockabloom.
The whole cafeteria erupted in applause and hoots and hollers. Craz cringed as he watched Matt stand helplessly in front of food-covered Cindy.
“Here’s your change,” the cashier said as two coins dropped into Craz’s open palm. “By the way, tell your friend nothing removes grape juice stains like baking soda, seltzer water, and a little elbow grease.”
Craz now looked at the cashier and just stared with his mouth hanging open. Instead of the usual cashier, who looked like his grandmother and smelled like a dog, this new cashier was the spitting image of Boyd T. Boone, the cartoonist from the Internet who’d sold him and Matt the cartooning supplies.
Of course, this version of the cartoonist wore a white dress-smock, black knee socks, and a hairnet—but, come on. Look at that mustache! Craz was positive it was the strange dude from the website.
“Oh, and if you ask me, chocolate milk is the nectar of the gods,” the cashier said, and then winked at Craz, who finally picked up his tray and slowly walked off to join his friends.
“That was weird,” Craz said as he looked back over his shoulder and was even more dismayed to see that Boyd T. Boone was no longer there. The cashier was her usual old-lady self again.
“O-kay,” Craz said as he decided to keep to himself what he’d just seen. “No more four-cupcake breakfasts for me.”
THE SCHOOL DAY WAS FINALLY OVER, AND MATTwas on his way to his locker when Craz caught up to him.
“There he is. Mr. Smooth.”
Even though it had been a few hours, the memory of his lunchroom spill was still too fresh. Matt was in no mood for any of Craz’s jokes.
“Can we just drop it?” Matt hoped he wouldn’t have to see Cindy again. Not today. Not ever.
“Absolutely,” said Craz. “I’m just saying there are other ways to get a girl to like you. You don’t have to ruin her clothes. I’m pretty sure that’s the opposite of what works.”
Matt shook his head. Why had he listened to Len and tried to have an actual conversation with her? He was perfectly happy keeping his crush a one-way street that only he knew about.
“Like you’re the expert, huh, Craz?” Matt said. “The only girls you actually talk to are the ones who tell you to keep a five-foot radius from them.”
“True that, my friend. I do seem to have a toxic effect on the ladies.”
“It’s not easy being us,” Matt sighed.
“Nope,” added Craz as he threw a friendly arm around Matt’s shoulder. “But at least we got each other.”
They walked down the crowded hall and stopped by Matt’s locker.
“So, gonna take your new cartoon pen out for another test drive?” Craz asked. “Your ‘Cartoon Kings’ comic was pretty great.”
Matt took the new pen out of his shirt pocket and again admired how cool it looked. “Yeah, I plan on starting a new ‘Cyclops Cops’ comic when I get home. Got to fill up the pen with ink first, but then, doodle madness!” Matt put the pen away and then fumbled with his locker combination. “I’m really glad you suggested we get some good supplies. This new pen does make me feel like a real cartoonist.”
Matt opened his locker, and both boys gasped.
Sitting on the bottom of the locker was a cloth bag with a large dollar sign scribbled on the side. Craz reached down and pulled on the bag. It was heavy.
Matt was so shocked, he could barely talk. “You know what it looks like, don’t you?”
Craz reached into his backpack and whipped out the copy of Matt’s “Cartoon Kings” cartoon. Sure enough, the bag in the locker looked just like the bag of money that Matt had drawn.
“But how—” Matt started to ask, but Craz cut him off.
“Forget how.” Craz opened the bag. Both boys peered inside and saw that it was full of dollar bills. “How much? That’s the question!”
“Is it real?” Matt reached into the bag and pulled out one of the bills. He held it up to the light. He rubbed it between his fingers. He even crumpled it up and then smoothed it back flat. “It sure looks real.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Craz said as he stuffed his pockets with cash. “Let’s go spend it!”
“I don’t know, Craz. Maybe it’s not really ours.”
Craz put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Live a little, okay? You drew a cartoon where a bag of money shows up in your locker. I don’t know how this happened, but wouldn’t you rather spend now and ask questions later?”
Matt looked at the cartoon again. The money bag in his locker did look exactly like the one in his cartoon.
“Besides,” Craz added, “I sure could go for something to eat. What do you say, buddy?” He pulled a handful of bills from his pocket and waved them in Matt’s face. “My treat!”
14
THE SHACK
THE SHACK WAS THE AFTER-SCHOOL HANGOUTplace. Crammed between the Bran & Tan natural-food store and the town post office, the cozy burger joint was decorated like a rock-and-roll diner, with red vinyl booths, and jukeboxes at every table. Junior high and high school kids liked to stop by on their way home and grab an ice cream or orders of fries. It was a spot popular kids liked to go to, which made it pretty much off-limits to Craz and Matt.
“Oh, man. We are so gonna buy stuff with this loot!” Craz jammed a fistful of french fries into his mouth. His other hand rested on his backpack, where the bag full of money was safely hidden. “I’m guessing there’s, like, a hundred bucks in there. At least!”
Matt was too confused to eat anything, which hadn’t stopped Craz from ordering everything. French fries, cheeseburgers, two milk shakes, one order of onion rings, and a couple of Shack brownie super sundaes with extra hot fudge were scattered around the table, as if a junk food bomb had just exploded.
Craz’s older brother, Hank, was working his busboy/waiter/dishwasher job, and when he saw the huge amount of food that Craz had ordered, he got all detective on him.
“Where’d you get that much money, Larry
?” Hank asked as he cleaned a pile of dirty dishes from the booth behind them.
“None of your business, that’s where,” Craz shot back. “And bring us a couple of ice cream sodas. Big ones.”
“You’ll spoil your appetite for dinner, you know.”
Craz rolled his eyes. “We both know Mom’s cooking is inedible. Might as well fill up now while the getting is good.”
Hank scribbled the order on his notepad and trudged off, leaving Craz to shake his head. “My brother is such a lump of mud!”
Matt looked at the “Cartoon Kings” comic again. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Look, it doesn’t really matter how this happened,” Craz said between bites of his cheeseburger. “Isn’t it enough that it did happen?”
“But I don’t believe in magic,” Matt said. “There’s got to be some other explanation.”
“I dunno, man. You draw a cartoon where there’s a bag of money in your locker, and the next thing you know, there’s a bag of money in your locker. Sounds pretty magical to me!”
Craz grabbed his milk shake and took a long swig, which left a strawberry stripe above his lip. “This is the greatest day ever!”
“And you’re sure the money is real? I mean, this isn’t some lame joke that Diesel and Skip pulled, right?”
Craz eased his hand into the money sack and pulled out a wad of dollar bills. “Do these look like fake bucks to you?”
Matt had to admit the facts: The money looked real, and only an idiot would give away a bag full of real money as a practical joke. Besides, Craz’s logic might have been weird, but it did sort of make sense. Matt had used the new pen to draw a cartoon where money was in his locker. Could that really be the answer?
“Two ice cream sodas,” Hank said as he placed the tall glasses on the already crowded table. “And I’m still wondering how you plan on paying for all this.”
The Awesome, Almost 100% True Adventures of Matt & Craz Page 5
