Blair’s Nightmare

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  “I’d rather not . . . ,” he started to say, but Mrs. Baldwin ignored him and started telling the class what they should be working on while she was gone. Then she was standing beside David’s desk and picking up his books. “Just bring your things up to my desk, David. All you’ll have to do is keep an eye on things and jot down the name of anyone who starts wasting the taxpayers’ money.” Mrs. Baldwin always called any kind of fooling around “wasting the taxpayers’ money.”

  He tried once more to protest, but she didn’t seem to hear him. A few seconds later she was gone, and David was sitting in her chair in front of everybody. He huddled down as low as he could get, wishing he could disappear and thinking up all the things he should have said to Mrs. Baldwin.

  “Look,” he should have said, “this is ridiculous. Someone’s in charge of this class, all right, when no teachers are around, but it isn’t me. It is definitely, absolutely, positively not David Stanley. Look at me, Mrs. Baldwin. Do I look like the in-charge type?”

  Over the top of the book he was hiding behind, David stole a glance at the five rows of eighth graders. What Mrs. Baldwin didn’t seem to have noticed was that people in the eighth grade tend to come in a great variety of sizes, and most of them were a lot bigger than David Stanley.

  At one time, only a couple of years ago, in fact, David had been of about average classroom size, but that was no longer true. He didn’t think he was actually shrinking, but it was obvious that he hadn’t been doing nearly enough growing. Nearly everyone was bigger than he was now, even the girls. Particularly the girls. There were, as a matter of fact, about ten people in the room who were about a foot taller than he was, and nine of them were girls. The other one was Pete Garvey. Pete Garvey was fourteen, almost six feet tall, and at the moment he was talking in a loud voice.

  He started out by asking his friends questions about the assignment, and then he began to make comments about Holly’s new sweater. Everyone laughed about the comments, and Pete got louder.

  David couldn’t decide what to do. At first he kept his head down and his eyes on his book, pretending he hadn’t noticed. His face was hot and his teeth were clamped together so tightly his jaws ached. It wasn’t any of his business what Garvey did, and Mrs. Baldwin had no right to try to make it his business. But the laughter kept getting louder, and David finally realized how funny he must look pretending not to notice. So he started laughing, too. Or, at least trying to.

  “That sweater sure looks good from back here,” Garvey said. After a second or two he stood up and said, “Think I’ll just check to see if Holly needs any help with the assignment. You need any help, Holly? I’m real good at this metric stuff.”

  The class cracked up. Pete was very good at some things, but none of them had anything to do with schoolwork. If Pete had been good at schoolwork, he obviously would have been in the ninth grade at least. Grinning at David, he got out of his seat, sauntered up the aisle to Holly’s seat, and leaned over it. Holly ducked and giggled, and the whole class laughed—and watched David to see what he was going to do. Pete looked around the room, and then he swaggered on up to Mrs. Baldwin’s desk. He leaned on the desk staring at David.

  “Hey, Stanley,” he said. “You put down my name like the teacher said?”

  David stopped pretending to laugh. “Not me,” he said. “I didn’t ask to . . .”

  But Garvey drowned him out. “Hey, lookee here,” he said. “Old Stanley didn’t jot me down like the teacher told him. I’m real shocked, Stanley. A good kid like you, not doing what the teacher says.” He stared at David, and David forced himself to stare back.

  “I told you . . . ,” he was trying to say, but Garvey went on.

  “You know what I think? I think a good kid like you would of put me down if he wasn’t afraid. You afraid to write me down, Stanley?”

  Suddenly it was very quiet. David’s whole face seemed to be throbbing. “No,” he heard himself saying. “I’m not afraid.” He picked up his pen and tried to keep his hand from shaking as he wrote Garvey’s name on Mrs. Baldwin’s tablet.

  “Hey, hey,” Garvey was saying, “look what Davy’s doing,” when the door opened and Mrs. Baldwin walked in.

  The nightmare was over—for the time being. Garvey tried to argue, but Mrs. Baldwin wouldn’t listen to him. She buzzed the principal’s office and said she was sending Pete Garvey over immediately. Then she took Garvey’s arm and led him out of the room. He went quietly. When Mrs. Baldwin put people out of her room, they went quietly—even Pete Garvey. Mr. Prentice, the principal, was very rough on people who got sent to the office. Garvey was, obviously, going to be in a lot of hot water. But, even more obviously, so was David. He knew it even before one of Garvey’s friends, Ace Maillard, cornered him and told him so.

  Mrs. Baldwin’s class ended at ten o’clock in the morning, so when it was finished, there were still about five and a half hours until time to catch the bus for home. It seemed more like five and a half centuries. David’s head was so full of what had happened, and what was going to happen, that what was actually happening couldn’t seem to get through to him. He got yelled at in P.E. for not being on his toes in the outfield and called down in English for having to say, “What was the question?” when Mr. Edmonds called on him. Toward the end of the day, he spent most of the time thinking about what was going to happen at the bus stop.

  All the bus riders from the high school as well as the junior high waited in the parking lot. The buses were usually late coming back from taking the little kids home, and all kinds of things went on during the waiting. Classes were over for the day, and everybody was in the mood to let off steam. Amanda said waiting for the bus was the best part of her day, and there had been times when David felt the same way. He was pretty sure today wasn’t going to be one of them.

  Last period was almost over when he finally had a good idea. He would visit Mrs. Parker. Mrs. Parker had been his sixth-grade, and all-time favorite, teacher, and he hadn’t been over to visit her for a long time. The elementary school was just across the parking lot from the junior high, and you could see the bus stop area from the windows of her room.

  There was still the locker problem. Right after the dismissal bell rang, he usually went to his locker, and that was probably where Garvey would look for him first. So he wouldn’t be there. Asking the teacher for a pass to the restroom, he stopped off at his locker and got out everything he needed to take home—so, when the final bell rang, he’d be able to go in the opposite direction. Out the north door, around behind the building, and across the parking lot—and fast.

  It worked. No one had arrived at the bus stop when David hurried across the far end of the parking lot. Mrs. Parker was glad to see him. She was feeding the animals—Mrs. Parker was famous for her menageries—and David offered to help. While they chatted about old times, he cleaned out the guinea pigs’ cage and fed the tropical fish—and kept an eye on the parking lot. Pete Garvey was there, all right, clowning around as usual—barging in and out of groups and slapping people on the back.

  “It’s really nice to see you again,” Mrs. Parker said while David was doing an extra thorough job of cleaning out the baby chickens’ pen, “but I don’t want to make you miss the bus. Isn’t it about due?”

  On his way to the sink to scrub out the water dish, David looked out the window. “The bus isn’t there yet. I’ve got plenty of time,” he was saying, when suddenly there it was, pulling into the lot. He filled the dish and ran back to the cage, sloshing water, and then dashed out the door, yelling a few final remarks on the way. Garvey was already on the bus, and the driver was Mr. Hobbs, who didn’t stand for any fooling around, so everything was all right—for the moment.

  Amanda had been busy flirting when David scrambled on the bus, just as Mr. Hobbs was reaching for the door handle. He didn’t think she’d even noticed him arriving late. But that night, while they were doing their homework, he discovered that she had.

  They were working at the dinin
g room table. In the evening the dining room was a Quiet Zone—reserved for homework. As usual, Dad was there too, reading the newspaper, in order to get away from the TV, which was in the living room.

  “Hey,” Amanda leaned forward and whispered. “Did you have to stay after school today, or what? You almost missed the bus.”

  David had almost figured out what formula to use to solve the algebra problem he was working on. He tried to keep what he had almost remembered in mind as he answered. “No. I just went over to visit Mrs. Parker, and she asked me to clean out some cages.”

  “Oh yeah. Well, someone was looking for you.”

  The formula disappeared. “Who?” he asked, knowing what the answer would be.

  “Pete Garvey. He said he wanted to tell you something. He asked me where you were. He said he had something he wanted to tell his old buddy, David.” Amanda looked curious. “I didn’t know you were friends with Pete Garvey.”

  David’s grin was sarcastic, but Amanda didn’t seem to notice. “Neither did I,” he said.

  “Why don’t you ask him over sometime,” Amanda said.

  There was something about the sound of her voice that clued him in. He stared at her. Sure enough. She had that glazed look in her eyes that she always got when she was starting to flip out. Ever since the seventh grade when Amanda’s favorite hobby switched from the supernatural to the opposite sex, she’d been flipping out over a new guy about every other week.

  “Don’t tell me you’re interested in an eighth grader,” he said. “An eighth grader with the brains of a kindergartener.”

  Amanda grinned. “I don’t care what grade his brains are in. What Eloise and I like are his muscles. We think he’s a real hunk.”

  “Ye gods,” David said.

  Chapter Four

  FOR THE NEXT DAY OR two David spent a great deal of time and energy on planning. Like a general mapping out the movements of an army, he plotted and charted, arranging advances and retreats according to where Pete Garvey wasn’t likely to be at any particular moment. It was, he thought, a lot like the riddle about the man with a small boat and a fox, a goose and a bag of corn. The goose-David had to be separated from the fox-Garvey, except when a boatman-teacher was present.

  He made sure to arrive at math and art, the only classes he shared with Garvey, very early or very late. Between classes he moved quickly and alertly, and by unusual routes. But catching the bus for home continued to be the biggest problem. On the second afternoon he went again to visit Mrs. Parker. This time the cages were still pretty clean, and Mrs. Parker was busy helping a sixth grader named Scooter with his long division.

  “Well, David,” she said, looking surprised. “Back so soon. How nice,” and then, “No, Scooter, subtract. The next step is subtract, isn’t it?” Scooter grinned at David, obviously grateful for the interruption. Mrs. Parker tapped sharply on the desk.

  “Subtract?” the kid said, and bent over his paper, but his eyes kept slipping sideways to steal curious glances at David.

  “I—er—I,” David stammered, and then, “I didn’t leave a library book here, did I? I mean, I think I had this library book with me when—”

  “I don’t believe so,” Mrs. Parker said. “I didn’t notice it. What was the title?”

  “The title? Oh, you mean—the title. I don’t exactly remember the title but it was about—dogs. It was a book about dogs.”

  Mrs. Parker looked at him strangely. He had a strong feeling that she knew he was lying, but she didn’t say so. Instead she invited him to look around for his book.

  For a few minutes he poked around among the animal cages pretending to search, but the kid kept staring at him, and Mrs. Parker kept having to say, “Scooter. Pay attention.” So he didn’t stay very long.

  Out in the hall, he spent some time examining the works of art on the bulletin boards. The ones near the door to the parking lot were self-portraits by kindergarteners. Two teachers, a parent, and five or six kids walked by while David stood around pretending to be fascinated by a lot of round heads with U-shaped smiles and arms coming out of their ears. He felt ridiculous. It wasn’t worth it, he decided. He was going to stop hiding and dodging and get it over with. After all, it wouldn’t actually kill him if Garvey did beat him up. At least, he didn’t think it would. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and marched out the door—just as the bus was turning into the parking lot.

  Garvey was there all right, playfully twisting one of his friend’s arms. The friend, a skinny guy named Jerry, was yelling and pleading. Garvey looked right at David, but he was having such a good time breaking his friend’s arm that he didn’t stop in time, and David got safely onto the bus.

  That night David had a terrible dream about being chased all over Steven’s Corners by Pete Garvey. The dream woke him up, and while he was lying awake thinking about it, he changed his mind about getting it over with. If that meant a couple of black eyes and a split lip, it seemed worthwhile to try all other possibilities first. Maybe, if he could stay out of Garvey’s way long enough for somebody else to do something Garvey didn’t like, that person would take over the top spot on his hit list. In the meantime, David decided, he would solve the bus problem by riding his bike to school. It was a long ride, but if he got up extra early and rode very fast, he thought he could make it.

  It wasn’t easy. He arrived at school tired and sweaty, and in the afternoon he got home very late. Worst of all, the second day it rained. There had only been a few clouds in the sky that morning, but by afternoon there were a lot more. A few minutes after David started for home it began to drizzle. By the time he got home, he was soaked and freezing and very tired. As he turned down the driveway of the Westerly House, the rain started coming down in torrents.

  Inside the garage, a tall, squarish building that had once been a stable, he climbed stiffly off his bike and shook himself like a wet dog. Water sprayed all around him. As he crossed the floor, pushing the bike, he left a wide wet trail, like some kind of giant snail. He was looking around for something to dry his hands on before he got his books out of the bike bag, when he heard voices.

  He stood very still listening. Overhead the rain roared on the wooden shingles, but mingling with the rain sound was the steady rise and fall of a human voice. For just a moment he wondered if he were cracking up, or if . . . The back of his neck began to tingle as he thought of Blair’s mysterious friend Harriette, who supposedly was still hanging around the premises from time to time. The tingle got stronger and began to creep down his spine.

  He was just about to dump his bicycle and get out of there when the rain let up a little, and in the comparative quiet, the voice came through more clearly. It was Janie’s. Only Janie yakking away in the hayloft, directly over his head. He tiptoed toward the ladder.

  When his head and shoulders were above the level of the loft floor, David stopped. Janie, Blair and Esther were sitting in the middle of the loft on a pile of old gunny sacks. Janie was facing away from the ladder, and the twins were so wrapped up in what she was saying that they didn’t notice David either. He stood very still and listened.

  “No, they wouldn’t.” Janie was shaking her head. “They’d never let us. Remember those guinea pigs Jennifer was going to give me? We’re just going to have to keep him an absolute secret. Absolute, Tesser. And you’re going to have to stop talking about him, Blair.”

  “Can’t we even tell David?” Esther said.

  “I don’t know.” Janie paused for a minute and then shook her head slowly. “I don’t think we’d better. He’s a very bad liar.”

  “Who’s a bad liar?” Esther said.

  “David is,” Janie said.

  “David is not a bad liar,” Esther said.

  “Hi, David,” Blair said.

  Janie and Esther whirled around, big-eyed and guilty-looking.

  “Well, well,” David said. “What’s the big secret? And who says I’m a bad liar?”

  Janie jumped to her feet.

/>   “Hi, David,” Esther said. “We were just talking about Blair’s—ouch! You stepped on me. That hurt, Janie.” She jumped up and gave Janie a push, and Janie shoved her back. They were still pushing each other and yelling when Dad’s car drove into the garage and, of course, he heard the yelling and made them all come down out of the loft and explain themselves.

  Janie and Esther were both trying to explain without telling him anything when, luckily, Dad noticed how wet David was. By the time he got through with his lecture on how chills could lead to colds and flu and pneumonia, he’d forgotten about the yelling. And David had forgotten all about what he’d overheard in the loft. At least for the time being. He remembered, though, a little later that night, when Dad started in about Mrs. Bowen’s letter.

  David was in the dining room nodding out over his homework—the bicycle routine was really getting to him—when Dad came in and asked him to come into the living room for a few minutes for a family conference. About Blair, he said.

  “About Blair? What’s the matter with Blair?”

  Dad smiled. “Nothing new. Come on. It’ll be faster to tell everyone at the same time.”

  The whole family was in the living room, except for Blair, who apparently had conked out a few minutes before and been carried up to bed, as usual. Blair had always needed a lot of sleep, but lately he seemed to be falling asleep even earlier than usual. Janie and Esther were watching TV, Amanda was curled up in her favorite chair, and Molly was standing by the fireplace looking worried. As soon as he had turned off the TV and asked everyone for their attention, Dad sat down and took an envelope out of his jacket pocket. He looked at it for a minute before he started in about how he’d just gotten the letter from Blair’s teacher.

  “Mrs. Bowen is very concerned about Blair,” he said. “Apparently he’s been sharing some of his fantasies with the class, and Mrs. Bowen feels he’s too wrapped up in them. Out of touch with reality, she calls it. She sees it as a real problem. And she seems to think we can all help.”