Marty Pants 2

by Mark Parisi

  The responsible thing to do is make a list of characteristics that relate to werewolfism and see how many of the telltale signs I’m already showing.

  I come up with the 12 Werewolf Symptoms.

  I totally outran Peach Fuzz, and I totally made out with that dog, so I can check off the first two items right away.

  But this is a long list. I still might be okay.

  If this entire list gets crossed off, then it becomes official. I’m on a one-way trip to werewolfville.

  In the meantime, I need to keep an open mind. And there’s one other thing that needs to be opened.

  Something I’ve only seen from a distance.

  CHAPTER 9

  smarty pants

  Erica is spouting random facts at the dinner table because she’s going to participate in a History Trivia Contest in another city. She just needs to raise money for the entry fee.

  The winner gets a college scholarship. Or a beach towel—I can’t remember.

  Amazing how my sister can sit calmly next to me, all the while knowing I’m a werewolf.

  I suppose there’s a minuscule chance that I’m not really a werewolf, and there’s another explanation for everything.

  I need to check when the next full moon is. That’s kind of important!

  And my bike is still at Parker’s. What will her dad do if he finds a boy’s bike on the side of his house?

  My first priority should be to read Erica’s diary. That’s what I need to focus on.

  “Marty? Marty?”

  Gurk! Apparently, my mom’s been talking to me and expects an answer.

  Now it’s my turn to impress everyone with my knowledge.

  CHAPTER 10

  bite off more than you can chew

  I need to know what Erica wrote about me. I spend my Sunday developing a plan to make Erica leave the house so I can steal* her diary.

  There are four simple steps to my plan.

  Then I’ll run to her room!

  It’s the perfect plan to get Erica outside the house!

  That works, too.

  Once I’m sure Erica is gone, I tiptoe down the hall to her door.

  As you can see, she’s always changing the spelling of her name. No one knows why.

  I quietly turn the knob and peek inside.

  It’s inconceivable how neat she keeps her room. So, of course, I notice her backpack right away.

  If she kept her room like mine, it would have been much harder to spot.

  There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

  I enter her room and quietly put one foot in front of the other.

  Soon, I’m standing directly over her backpack. Is her diary still inside?

  I take a deep breath and unzip the main compartment slowly and dramatically.

  And there it is!

  Erica’s book of secrets!

  I have it in my hands!

  I can finally read everything she wrote about me. Except . . . Gurk! It’s locked!

  Pretty sneaky, sis.

  But all she’s done is make me want to read it even more.

  I glance around the room, wondering where Erica would hide an important key.

  That’s too obvious.

  That’s the last place you’d put something valuable.

  Honestly, I’m afraid of what’s in there.

  I decided to start my search here.

  I check underneath the first candy bar.

  I don’t see a key. But it could be under that next candy bar.

  Not there, either.

  But I need to be thorough. It could be under any of these candy bars.

  Through the process of elimination, I determine the key is not in the box.

  Next stop: Erica’s desk drawer.

  CHAPTER 11

  truthiness

  My brain freezes for a moment. Should I just tell my dad the truth?

  Should I say I’m here to steal Erica’s diary? To find out if I’m a werewolf?

  In first grade, my teacher had a theory.

  She even had us do an assignment on the subject. This was mine:

  I didn’t do very well on that assignment.

  I turn to face my dad and casually drop Erica’s diary into the nearest hiding place.

  I cover it with the empty wrappers.

  “Just cleaning up,” I say.

  “You ate all of Erica’s candy?!”

  “I’ll pay for it, Dad. Now, tell me about the awesome music they had when you were a kid!”

  This is the easiest way to get my dad off any subject.

  My dad instantly launches into long, detailed descriptions of the concerts he went to, the albums he bought, the bands he . . .

  Next thing I know, I wake up in my bed. And my dad’s still talking!

  I’m too groggy to sit up. “Dad, I surrender.”

  “I paid Erica for all those candy bars, Marty, but it’s coming out of your allowance.”

  “Firm, but fair,” I say.

  “Good night, Marty,” my dad says. “And stay out of Erica’s room.”

  Gurk! The diary is still in the box!

  “Dad?” I say sweetly. “Can I have the empty candy box? For Jerome?”

  “That’s up to Erica. Good night, Marty.”

  CHAPTER 12

  over a barrel

  Next morning, I wake up earlier than usual. This may be the first time I’ve ever beaten Erica to the bathroom.

  I’m about to brush my teeth and notice that four of them look awfully pointy.

  Erica bangs on the door. “DAD! MARTY’S HOGGING THE BATHROOM!”

  “Stop hogging the bathroom, Marty,” my dad says automatically.

  I open the door a crack and point to my mouth. “Erica, do these teeth look pointier than the others?”

  Maybe I can trick Erica into spilling some pertinent information.

  “Duh. Those are your canine teeth, weirdo,” she says. Then she grabs my arm and yanks me out of the bathroom.

  Canine teeth?

  So that’s how she figured out I’m becoming a werewolf. She noticed I have the teeth of a canine!

  Her advanced ability to notice things might rival my own.

  Time to check another item off my list of The 12 Werewolf Symptoms.

  As soon as I hear the shower go on, I scoot over to Erica’s room. Time to fish her diary out of the candy box.

  But there’s one problem.

  I sprint downstairs. “Dad! Candy box! Where?”

  “Erica threw it away, Marty.”

  “But I WANTED that!”

  I hear loud noises coming from the street and peer out the window.

  Our trash barrel is lying on the sidewalk. Empty.

  And a garbage truck is driving off!

  I can see the candy box half buried in the back of the truck!

  “NOOOOOO! THE BOX! THE BOX!!” I scream.

  My dad looks up from his cereal.

  “Aren’t you overreacting a bit? We’ll get you a different box.”

  “But . . . that particular box . . . it should be RECYCLED!” I answer back. “I MUST SAVE THE PLANET!”

  I zip over to the front door.

  I’m so frazzled, I push instead of pull. I turn the bolt and lock the door instead of unlocking it.

  When I finally remember how a door works, I dash outside.

  But the garbage truck is finished with our neighborhood, and it’s already out of sight!

  I bet I can catch it with my superhuman werewolf speed!

  I’ve fallen down many times in my life. Too many to count. But I don’t think I’ve ever made that sound before.

  I limp back into the house and update my list.

  CHAPTER 13

  listlessness

  Time to face facts. The diary is gone! And Erica won’t stop reminding me.

  So rude of her. She has no consideration for how important it was to me!

  At least I still have my list. And the evidence is mounting.

  I meet Roon
grat on the way to school and wonder if he notices anything different about me.

  I sure notice something different about him.

  “Why are you dressed in a tux?” I ask.

  “It’s picture day, Marty.”

  “That’s today?”

  “It’s the most important day of our school experience,” Roongrat goes on. “The better dressed you are, the more cash you’ll make as a adult.”

  Here he goes. Typical Roongrat.

  “Bosses make monetary salary decisions based on the neatness quotient of your school photographs,” he adds. “It’s an established fact.”

  Roongrat is my know-it-all friend who just makes stuff up. But he says things so confidently, I think he really believes everything he says.

  “I’ll obviously receive a plethora of job offers,” he tells me. “As for you, Marty . . .”

  “I don’t need to dress well,” I say proudly. “I’m going to be a professional artist.”

  “Not one that makes money,” he says.

  As usual, Roongrat doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’ll be one of the all-time greats, so my art will bring in gobs of money.

  Van Gogh’s paintings sell for millions.

  Wait! I’m having another epiphany!

  I might be able to figure out if I’m a werewolf right here and now.

  Roongrat is so full of baloney that I basically believe the opposite of whatever he says.

  Therefore, if he says werewolves are real, that’s practically a guarantee that werewolves are not real!

  “Roongrat,” I say. “What do you have to say on the subject of werewolves?”

  How he answers this question could be crucial to my future.

  “Well,” Roongrat starts. “There was a food industry scandal a few years back. Scientists found chunks of werewolf DNA in hamburger meat. Unicorn DNA, too. It was all kept hush-hush, so you’ve probably never heard about it.”

  “Right, right,” I say slowly. “So, just to be clear, Roongrat, in your mind werewolves totally exist and are totally real?”

  “Totally,” he says confidently. “It’s a fact.”

  Sweet!

  If Roongrat thinks werewolves are real, then ipso facto werewolves are not real!

  This logic has never failed me before.

  So, that settles it. As of right now, I don’t believe in werewolves.*

  Guess I won’t be needing this list anymore.

  CHAPTER 14

  being human

  Before class starts, I dig something out of my backpack and hand it to Parker.

  “Got a minute?” I ask.

  “Sure thing, Marty! What’s up now?”

  I get into position.

  “Believe it or not,” I whisper so the other students can’t overhear, “I’m not a werewolf.”

  “Good to know! Did you actually read your sister’s diary?”

  “No. It’s probably being eaten by worms as we speak.”

  “Worms?”

  “It accidentally got tossed in the garbage,” I tell her. “And, surprisingly, chasing garbage trucks isn’t as fun as it sounds. I fell.”

  “Ah, so that explains it,” Parker says.

  “Explains what?”

  She’s right.

  And then I notice I’m the only one in class who’s not dressed up.

  And Parker looks especially nice today. I should say something.

  Gurk! Simon stole my line!

  “Thanks, Simon!” Parker says.

  Yeah, thanks a lot, Simon! Now I need to think of a completely different compliment to give Parker.

  I don’t think she heard my sweet talk, though, because Simon won’t shut up. He’s interrupting my session time!

  Simon’s not exactly my favorite person. In fact, I loathe Simon.

  Why do I say loathe? Because my mom doesn’t like it when I say hate.

  To me, loathe means the same thing, but for some reason my mom’s okay with it.

  Simon’s trying to show off by drawing on Parker’s notebook.

  Without even looking, I know exactly what he’s drawing. It’s a well-known cartoon character.

  That’s right. AnemoneBob TrapezoidShorts.* How do I know?

  Am I a mind reader? No.

  It’s because that’s all Simon ever draws!

  Need proof? Here are the doodles in his notebook.

  This is the jersey he designed for our soccer team.

  And this is his caricature of our teacher, Mr. McPhee.

  That looks nothing like McPhee! This is what McPhee looks like.

  CHAPTER 15

  all you need is loathe

  Simon is a one-trick pony. Yet, for reasons I’ll never understand, he’s considered the school artist.

  That title should rightfully be mine! And it almost was.

  I got a big break and was supposed to paint a mural in the front hall of the school.

  Of course, Simon loathed the idea, so he came by to discuss my health.

  “Are you feeling okay, Marty?” he asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  He didn’t stop there.

  “You’ll always be an amateur, Marty.”

  “You don’t have what it takes to be a pro, Marty.”

  “No one will ever pay you for your crap, Marty.”

  “That looks like something I stepped in, Marty.”

  When I’d finally had enough of Simon the Stupid Art Critic, I snapped and let him have it.

  “GO WASH A MONKEY!” I yelled.

  I still have no idea what that means, but it captured how I felt.

  “Ha-ha! That makes no sense!” Simon sneered. “Just like your art!”

  He laughed and walked away. But he wasn’t done.

  “You know your problem, Marty?” he said from down the hall. “You don’t understand art!”

  That had to be the dumbest thing I’d ever heard. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s art!

  Art is about expressing yourself. So I decided to express myself.

  Unfortunately, not everyone understands art as well as I do.

  McPhee was not amused by my artistic expression, and I lost my mural privileges.

  Because of Simon. That monkey washer.

  Even now, as I sit here at my desk, it’s like I can still hear McPhee shouting my name.

  “MARTY!”

  It sounds so clear.

  “MARTY! Stop daydreaming!”

  CHAPTER 16

  picture yourself

  “Snap out of it, Marty!”

  “What?”

  “Join us over here, please!” McPhee insists.

  There’s a single-file line at the door, and I’m the only one not in it.

  “Come on!” calls Roongrat. “Time to get our pictures taken.”

  Simon doesn’t even notice when I cut in front of him because he’s too busy chatting with Parker.

  We walk down the hall to the gym, and there’s the picture guy all set up and ready. We sit and wait for our names to be called.

  Everything moves along just fine until it’s Roongrat’s turn. He takes forever because this is very serious business to him.

  He tries out his expressions.

  Now I wonder what my expression should be when it’s my turn.

  I decide I want to look artistic.

  I try to remember some of the self-portraits that famous artists have painted. What were their facial expressions?

  Unfortunately, the only self-portrait I can think of at the moment is Magritte’s.

  And I didn’t bring any apples.

  Suddenly, my shoulder hurts.

  Simon! Figures! Is it any wonder I loathe the guy?

  “It’s your turn, idiot!” Simon says. “The picture guy’s calling you!”

  “LAST CALL FOR PANTS! MARTY PANTS!”

  So he is. I hurry over to the stool.

  “Hey, howya doin’, chief? Nice day. Turn your body. Not that much. Face this way. You like sports? Put your hand
s like this. Try to act normal.”

  The picture guy always talks too much.

  “Really dressed up for the occasion, didn’t cha, chief?” he says.

  “This is pretty much how I always look,” I say.

  “I have a cat,” I tell him.

  “So do I, but I’m not covered in fur.”

  “Maybe your cat doesn’t love you,” I explain.

  “Okay, say ‘CHEESE,’ chief!” he tells me.

  I decide not to.

  “If you don’t like cheese, say ‘Bumblebees squeeze breezy fleas and sneeze on their sleazy knees!’”

  He’s trying to make me smile, but I don’t find him very amusing. And I’m not going to force it.

  There’s nothing worse than a fake smile.

  The Mona Lisa faked a smile, and that’s all people talk about.

  I want to look intense. I want to look like I’m having deep thoughts about something important.

  Like art.

  Or the meaning of life.

  Or the fact that my nose is itchy.

  “NEXT! SIMON CARDIGAN!”

  “Hey!” I say.

  “What’s the problem, chief?”

  “I wasn’t ready!” I tell him.

  “Relax, chief,” he says. “You’ll get a bunch of photos to choose from. I’m behind schedule, so move along, chief.”

  “But . . .”

  “You heard the man,” Simon says. “Move along. It’s my turn now!”

  “But . . .”

  “Listen to your friend, chief. He seems like a smart young fella.”