by David Lubar
"No way," Max agreed.
"We have to tell someone." If I called the police, they'd want to know how I knew. They'd never believe the truth. I realized I had to go to the bridge first. Max didn't want to go, but I talked him into it.
"I don't see anything," he said, when we reached the bridge.
I searched the rippling surface. There had to be something in the water. For the second time that day, I felt my blood freeze. I could barely make out the shape deep below me. I knew it wasn't a tree branch or anything like that.
"Come on," I told Max. We walked off the bridge and went to find a policeman.
That evening, the police recovered a skeleton from the river. I heard them say whoever it was must have been there for at least seventy years.
"Funny thing," the policeman told me when it was over. "You'd think the rescue workers would have spotted something when they pulled that car out last week.
"What car?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Some guy was more interested in talking on his cell phone than on watching the road. He went right into the water." He pointed over to the guardrail.
I could see that a spot looked newer, like it had just been replaced. "Was he hurt?"
The policeman shook his head. "Nope. Just wet. But even after we rescued him, all he could do was complain that he'd lost his phone. It's probably still sitting on the bottom. If you ask me, that's the best place for it. Those things will get you killed if you're not careful." He shrugged and walked back to his patrol car.
Max and I stood for a while and watched the water running beneath the bridge. When we were ready to leave, I reached into my pocket and took out the beeper. It beeped once. Then it was silent. It never beeped again. But I kept it. I'm not sure, but I think it brings me luck.
Growing Pains
I would have enjoyed the assembly a lot more if I wasn't sitting next to Augie Blockner. He's the biggest kid in our school, and he liked to make sure everyone knew it. When I took my seat, he poked me in the arm and said, "Hey, shrimp."
Okay — I'm short for my age. But I'm not so short I'd be mistaken for seafood. I looked over at him and said, "Hi." It was the safest thing to do. If I ignored him, he'd get mean. If I tried some sort of wise-guy answer, he'd get even meaner.
Luckily, the assembly started before Augie could think of some way to make my life miserable. The program was actually pretty cool. They had a five real football players on stage. These guys made Augie look like — well, they made him look like he made me look. That's how big they were.
They talked about stuff like studying hard and staying in school. It wasn't really a message I needed to hear. I did okay in school, and I didn't have any plans to drop out of seventh grade to enter a life of crime.
They also talked about eating good food, and paying attention to nutrition. The biggest player in the group held up a sack of oranges in one hand and a head of lettuce in the other.
"This is what your body needs."
Another guy lifted a two-liter bottle of cola. "This isn't what you need."
The third guy showed us a picture of a cow. "Balanced meals are important," he said.
I zoned out as they went over all the food groups. I knew that stuff. They also warned us about steroids and other dangerous substances.
"Kids," one of the players said, picking up a small bottle of clear liquid, "this will do all sorts of evil things to your body. It just isn't worth it."
"Your young bodies are still growing and changing," another of the player said. "There's no telling how much this stuff could mess you up."
When the assembly ended, I realized I'd survived 45 minutes sitting right next to Augie. For the first time in my life, I was actually eager to get back to my class. Before I could stand, Augie grabbed my shoulder and said, "Come on. Let's meet them."
"What?"
He pointed to the stage. "Let's sneak back there and meet the players. I've never met a real football star."
"But we'll get in trouble." I didn't feel like spending the next week in after-school detention, or writing a three-page essay.
Augie tightened his grip enough to let me know I'd find myself in even more trouble — or at least, more painful trouble — if I didn't do what he wanted.
"Why do you care if I come?"
"I might need a distraction."
I didn't like the sound of that. I could picture him ripping my arm off and batting me to the ground with it. Then he could stroll past the teachers who were busy trying to stop the spurting blood. As I was imagining various ways I could be used as a distraction, Augie dragged me out the side exit and down the hall to the door that led back-stage.
After we slipped in without getting caught, I relaxed a bit. It would be amazing to see the players face to face — okay, face to bellybutton — even if I got in trouble later. Maybe this would turn out all right. It would definitely be cool to get an autograph.
Except, there was nobody there. The players must have headed out the instant the assembly ended. Oh boy — Augie was going to be unhappy about that. But at least it meant I'd be able to get to my class quickly enough to avoid trouble.
"Hey, wait," Augie said. He lumbered over to the far corner of the room, where all the music stands had been shoved. "Someone forgot a bag. Cool. Maybe there's a football or something in there."
Augie slid a large canvas bag out from under a folding chair. He unzipped it and started pulling stuff out. I wanted to tell him to stop, but I was pretty happy he was distracted.
He tossed out a bunch of clothes, and some posters like the ones that they'd put up in the classrooms.
"Anything interesting?" I guess I was sort of curious.
He shook his head. "Nothing good." He started to pull his hand out, then reached in again. "Wait. What's this?"
He pulled out a small bottle. There was one word on the label, right beneath where his thumb curled around it. GROWTH. Augie looked at it the way a starving kid looks at a whole pepperoni pizza.
"Be careful," I said. 'You don't know what's in there. And you don't know how much to take. You're a lot smaller—"
"I'm what?" Augie said. "Are you calling me small?"
I managed to gulp and say, "No," at the same time. It hurt my throat. I'd just wanted to warn him that the right dose might depend on how much he weighed.
Augie unscrewed the cap and raised the bottle to his lips. I had a tough decision to make. I could try to talk him out of it, and maybe get hurt. Or just keep my mouth shut. One bottle couldn't do all that much harm, could it? It was a pretty small bottle, and he was a pretty big kid.
Yeah, it could a whole lot of harm. It could be super concentrated. For all we knew, there might be 100 doses.
I walked over and grabbed Augie's arm. "Stop!" It was like grabbing a fence post.
Augie stared at me the way I'd stare at a chihuahua that was tugging at me sneaker laces. "What are you doing?"
"Don't drink it. You don't know what'll happen. They're all grown up already. This stuff is for them. You're still growing normally. Why mess with that?"
A strange expressions flashed across Augie's face. I could almost see him thinking. I shuddered as he nodded. "Yeah. You're right. I'm growing. But you're not. You need this more than I do." His grin was pure evil now.
"Why don't we share it?" I couldn't believe my mind was still working well enough to find a way to stall him. Half the bottle would do less damage to me than a whole bottle.
"Not a bad idea." Augie drank down his share of the liquid. Then he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
I tried to spin away, but he grabbed my jaw with his free hand. "Open wide."
"No!"
As he moved the bottle toward my mouth, I kicked him in the shin as hard as I could. I think he was more startled than hurt. Either way, the kick was enough loosen his grip. I raced for the door. Augie was right behind me. Just when I was about to grab the knob, I felt myself rise into the air. Augie had me by the back of my neck.
I braced myself for a flood of pain. Then I started to move away from Augie. Which made no sense, since I was dangling from his grip like a cheap sweater on a clothes hook. But I was definitely moving. Somehow, my body was inching away from his.
I looked around for an explanation. When I found it, I was even happier that I hadn't drank any of that liquid.
Augie's arm was getting longer. The growth stuff was working. I was also moving higher. I guess his legs were growing, too. Everything was growing.
No. Not everything.
That's the second thing I realized. As I watched his fingers curl around the bottle and his arm extend from his sleeve, I knew it wasn't his whole body that was reacting to the stuff he drank. Not his flesh, veins, or muscles. It was just his bones.
Augie wasn't all that smart, but I guess he knew something was wrong. And I guess he forgot all about me, because he let go of my neck. I dropped from his grip and hit the ground hard, but I was happy to be free, and really happy that I hadn't taken a swig of that liquid.
He was staring at his hands now, as his fingers grew even longer. He still had the bottle. When his thumb shifted, I saw another word above GROWTH. I guess I already knew what it was. BONE. Yeah, Augie hadn't found the football guys growth formula. He'd found one for bone growth.
His bones were sure growing.
His head was swelling, too. The flesh stretched tight on his face as his skull got bigger. He looked like one of those really old celebrities who'd made too many visits to the plastic surgeon.
When he opened his mouth to scream, I noticed that even his teeth were growing.
Well, I guess Augie got his wish. He was a lot bigger. But the growth seemed to have stopped, now. It's good for him he didn't drink the whole bottle. I don't think his skin could have stretched that far without tearing. He was pretty much pushed to the limit. I shuddered at the thought of his bones bursting through his flesh.
He was still staring at his hands, but I don't think he was seeing anything right now. I was pretty sure he was numbed by the shock.
"Augie? Hey, Augie?" I didn't bother to add, "Are you okay?" because that would have been one of the top ten stupidest questions of all time.
He didn't answer me.
"I'll go get the nurse," I said. It was the only thing I could think to do. Not that it would help much. I opened the door, then stopped and went back. I pried the bottle from his hand, found the cap, screwed it back on, and put the bottle in my pocket.
The stuff was obviously dangerous. But what if I just took one drop? Yeah, one little drop at a time. Just enough to make me grow a little bit. That would work. I knew I could handle it. I was a lot smarter than Augie. And one day, I'd be just as big.
Art Is a Matter of Taste
Duchamp Elementary School was crammed. The population had grown so rapidly over the past few years that students swallowed up every available space. Even the cafeteria fell victim to the overcrowding. With the help of a temporary wall, it had been turned into four cramped classrooms at the beginning of the marking period. Because of this, Keenan ate his lunch in Mrs. Ferule's class. Room 103. The art room. Keenan didn't mind. Instead of desks, there were large tables. And there were lots of interesting pictures on the wall. Keenan liked looking at art. Especially other people's art. He didn't think he drew or painted very well, himself.
"Whatcha got?" Howard asked as lifted the lid on his lunch box. A whiff of peanut butter flavored the air.
"Don't know." Keenan flipped his own lunch box open. "Phooey. Looks like mom was in a rush this morning." Usually, his mom made him a sandwich. Today, he found himself staring at a handful of crackers and a small package of cream cheese, along with a plastic knife and a paper plate.
"I got peanut butter and jelly," Howard said. "And a chocolate cupcake." He unwrapped the cupcake and ate it, starting at the top and working his way down.
Keenan took out his lunch and spread the cream cheese on the crackers. Since he had a long lunch period and a little bit of food, he took his time. For fun, he swirled patterns into the surface of the cream cheese, like he did with ice cream when it got soft. He'd just finished spreading cream cheese on the last cracker and placed it with the others when Mrs. Ferule walked past and glanced down at his plate.
She let out a gasp. Keenan let out a sigh, figuring he was about to get a lecture on the importance of a balanced meal. That didn't seem fair, especially when he was sitting next to Howard, who was wearing half a cupcake on his face.
But Mrs. Ferule didn't mention fruits, vegetables, or nutrition pyramids. Instead, she snatched the plate from the table. "Keenan, that's fabulous!"
He spun around in his seat. "Huh?"
"I've tried and tried to get my classes to understand art. I was sure I'd failed. But this — Keenan — this is true art." She rushed to the front of the room and put the plate on her desk.
"That's not art," Keenan said. "That's my lunch."
Mrs. Ferule ignored him and continued to gush with enthusiasm. "Look at the majestic sweep of the strokes, the simple yet complex use of pure white against a textured field. You have the boldness of a young Picasso, and a style that could rival Van Gogh. Brilliance! Genius!" she shouted.
"Lunch...?" Keenan said, his stomach rumbling.
"I must tell the world!" Mrs. Ferule grabbed the plate and dashed from the room.
Keenan leaned out the art-room window and watched Mrs. Ferule skitter across the street to the KDDA TV building. A moment later, she rushed back, followed by a camera crew from the six o'clock news.
The room filled with people. Someone thrust a microphone in Keenan's face and started asking him questions that didn't make any sense at all. He made up some answers, but he had no idea what he was saying. It didn't matter. The reporters seemed happy.
More people showed up — this time from the newspaper. Then a group from the local radio station crammed into the classroom. Keenan heard the principal boasting to them about the school's dedication to the arts.
There was no telling how long the excitement might have lasted, but one of the reporters shouted something about the bank being robbed and everyone raced out of the school and zoomed down Broad St. toward the center of town. Keenan checked the room. Mrs. Ferule was nowhere in sight. Neither were the crackers. Far down the hall, he heard her saying something about taking this treasure to the museum.
Someone tugged at his sleeve.
"Can I have your autograph?" Howard asked, holding out a pen and napkin. "I never knew anyone famous before."
"Only if I can have half your sandwich," Keenan said. He still didn't understand art, but he'd already learned that fame was nowhere near as satisfying as food.
De-Fence
Greg was the only kid in Potterstown who really hated the Ulmeyer dogs. A lot of the kids in town were afraid of the three huge, snarling mixed breeds that guarded the lawn in front of Mr. and Mrs. Ulmeyer's house. Most of the kids didn't like the dogs. But, as far as he knew, Greg was the only one who really hated the dogs.
He hated them because of what had happened the very first time he'd seen them. The Ulmeyers had just moved into the neighborhood. The house was brand new. There were a lot of houses being built in that part of town. Greg had been walking down Perry Street, right past Ulmeyer's house, when the three dogs charged from the back yard. They'd raced around the house like a hunting pack, bursting into the front yard with an anger and fury that had made Greg jump. He'd actually leaped into the air — like some kind of scared little kid. Then he'd run. As he tore off, he looked over his shoulder. The three dogs had started to chase him. But they'd stopped at the edge of the yard. They wouldn't go into the street.
Greg's relief at his escape was quickly washed away by anger. The dogs had made him jump. They'd startled him. For a moment, he'd been less than cool. He'd run. Greg looked around. Nobody had seen him jump and run. But that didn't matter
. Greg knew what he'd done. And he knew he wanted to get even.
The next time he came down Perry street, Greg braced himself. The dogs charged from the back yard again. This time, Greg didn't jump. It wasn't easy. But as he stood there, he saw something that made him smile. There was a small sign stuck in the grass at the edge of the front yard. It said "De-Fence Electronic Pet Barrier." Then Greg noticed that each of the dogs wore a collar with a small box on it.
"You can't get me," Greg said. He knew about these fences. They were some kind of electronic thing, with a wire around the edge of the yard. There was a signal running through the wire. The collar shocked the dog if it came too close. The dogs wouldn't cross the line.
"Can't get me," Greg said again. This was going to be fun. He jumped up and down, waving his arms and laughing. The dogs snarled. Saliva dripped from their mouths.
But they couldn't leave the yard.
From that moment, Greg had a new purpose in life. Whenever he had to go anywhere, he made sure he walked down Perry street. He learned exactly how close he could get to the edge of the Ulmeyer lawn. He knew how far the dogs would lunge as they snapped at him with their angry jaws.
Greg figured out ways to drive the dogs crazy. One day, he brought a piece of hamburger he'd saved from dinner. He held it close to them. "Mmmmmm, can't you just taste it?" Greg said. Then, slowly, he moved it toward his mouth and ate it.
Another day, he brought an old tennis ball he'd found. He held it up for the dogs to see, then threw it down the street. "Fetch!" he shouted.
The dogs went crazy.
Nobody ever came to see what all the barking was about. Greg knew both Ulmeyers worked all day. In the evening, they often went out. It was easy to tell when they were out — they always put on the light next to the garage. They turned it off when they got home. So Greg had total freedom to taunt the dogs. Most of the other houses on the street were still empty. Some weren't even finished yet. There was little chance that anyone would interfere with Greg's revenge.
But it wasn't enough. Greg felt he wasn't getting the dogs back for what they had done to him. And he knew they still wanted to hurt him. He could tell. Whenever he came close to them, they got that wide eyed look, with lips curled back and ears flattened. They wanted to rip him apart and fight over his liver.
