31 - Night of the Living Dummy II (2 page)

But I knew that this time he had gone too far.

After all, Sara is the star of the family. She’s the talented one. The one
with the painting that hung in a museum. Messing with Sara’s precious painting was bound to get Jed in major trouble.

Sara is so stuck-up about her paintings. A few times, I even thought about
painting something funny on one of them. But of course I only
thought
it.
I would
never
do anything that horrible.

“You don’t have to be jealous of your sister’s work,” Dad was telling Jed.
“We’re all talented in this family.”

“Oh, sure,” Jed muttered. He has this weird habit. Whenever he’s in trouble,
he doesn’t say he’s sorry. Instead, he gets really angry. “What’s
your
talent, Dad?” Jed demanded, sneering.

Dad’s jaw tightened. He narrowed his eyes at Jed. “We’re not discussing me,”
he said in a low voice. “But I’ll tell you. My talent is my Chinese cooking. You
see, there are all kinds of talents, Jed.”

Dad considers himself a Master of the Wok. Once or twice a week, he chops a
ton of vegetables into little pieces and fries them up in the electric wok Mom
got him for Christmas.

We pretend it tastes great.

No point in hurting Dad’s feelings.

“Is Jed going to be punished or not?” Sara demanded in a shrill voice.

She had opened her box of watercolor paints and was rolling a brush in the
black. Then she began painting over the smile face with quick, furious strokes.

“Yes, Jed is going to be punished,” Mom replied, glaring at him. Jed lowered
his eyes to the floor. “First he’s going to apologize to Sara.”

We all waited.

It took Jed a while. But he finally managed to mutter, “Sorry, Sara.”

He started to leave the room, but Mom grabbed his shoulders again and pulled
him back. “Not so fast, Jed,” she told him. “Your punishment is you can’t go to
the movies with Josh and Matt on Saturday. And… no video games for a week.”

“Mom—give me a break!” Jed whined.

“What you did was really bad,” Mom said sternly. “Maybe this punishment will
make you realize how horrible it was.”

“But I
have
to go to the movies!” Jed protested.

“You can’t,” Mom replied softly. “And no arguing, or I’ll add on to your
punishment. Now go to your room.”

“I don’t think it’s enough punishment,” Sara said, dabbing away at her
painting.

“Keep out of it, Sara,” Mom snapped.

“Yeah. Keep out of it,” Jed muttered. He stomped out of the room and down the
long hall to his room.

Dad sighed. He swept a hand back over his bald head. “Family Sharing Night is
over,” he said sadly.

* * *

I stayed in Sara’s room and watched her repair the painting for a while. She
kept tsk-tsking and shaking her head.

“I have to make the rocks much darker, or the paint won’t cover the stupid
smile face,” she explained unhappily. “But if I make the rocks darker, I have to
change the sky. The whole balance is ruined.”

“I think it looks pretty good,” I told her, trying to cheer her up.

“How could Jed do that?” Sara demanded, dipping her brush in the water jar.
“How could he sneak in here and totally destroy a work of art?”

I was feeling sorry for Sara. But that remark made me lose all sympathy. I
mean, why couldn’t she just call it a watercolor painting? Why did she have to
call it “a work of art”?

Sometimes she is so stuck-up and so in love with herself, it makes me sick.

I turned and left the room. She didn’t even notice.

I went down the hall to my room and called my friend Margo. We talked for a
while about stuff. And we made plans to get together the next day.

As I talked on the phone, I could hear Jed in his room next door. He was
pacing back and forth, tossing things around, making a lot of noise.

Sometimes I spell the word “Jed” B-R-A-T.

Margo’s dad made her get off the phone. He’s real strict. He never lets her talk for more than ten or fifteen minutes.

I wandered into the kitchen and made myself a bowl of Frosted Flakes. My
favorite late snack. When I was a little kid, I used to have a bowl of cereal
every night before bed. And I just never got out of the habit.

I rinsed out the bowl. Then I said good night to Mom and Dad and went to bed.

It was a warm spring night. A soft breeze fluttered the curtains over the
window. Pale light from a big half-moon filled the window and spilled on to the
floor.

I fell into a deep sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

A short while later, something woke me up. I’m not sure what.

Still half asleep, I blinked my eyes open and raised myself on my pillow. I
struggled to see clearly.

The curtains flapped over the window.

I felt as if I were still asleep, dreaming.

But what I saw in the window snapped me awake.

The curtains billowed, then lifted away.

And in the silvery light, I saw a face.

An ugly, grinning face in my bedroom window. Staring through the darkness at
me.

The curtains flapped again.

The face didn’t move.

“Who—?” I choked out, squeezing the sheet up to my chin.

The eyes stared in at me. Cold, unblinking eyes.

Dummy eyes.

Dennis.

Dennis stared blankly at me, his white eye catching the glow of the
moonlight.

I let out an angry roar, tossed off the sheet, and bolted out of bed. To the
window.

I pushed away the billowing curtains and grabbed Dennis’ head off the window
ledge. “Who put you there?” I demanded, holding the head between my hands. “Who
did it, Dennis?”

I heard soft laughter behind me. From the hallway.

I flew across the room, the head still in my hands. I pulled open my bedroom
door.

Jed held his hand over his mouth, muffling his laughter. “Gotcha!” he
whispered gleefully.

“Jed—you creep!” I cried. I let the dummy head drop to the floor. Then I
grabbed Jed’s pajama pants with both hands and jerked them up as high as I
could—nearly to his chin!

He let out a gasp of pain and stumbled back against the wall.

“Why did you do that?” I demanded in an angry whisper. “Why did you put the
dummy head on my window ledge?”

Jed tugged his pajama pants back into place. “To pay you back,” he muttered.

“Huh? Me?” I shrieked. “I didn’t do anything to you. What did
I
do?”

“You didn’t stick up for me,” he grumbled, scratching his red curly hair. His
eyes narrowed at me. “You didn’t say anything to help me out. You know. About
Sara’s painting.”

“Excuse me?” I cried. “How could I help you out? What could I say?”

“You could have said it was no big deal,” Jed replied.

“But it
was
a big deal!” I told him. “You know how seriously Sara
takes her paintings.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Jed. But you deserve to be
punished. You really do.”

He stared at me across the dim hallway, thinking about what I’d said. Then an
evil smile spread slowly over his freckled face. “Hope I didn’t scare you too much, Amy.” He snickered. Then he picked Dennis’ head up off the
carpet and tossed it at me.

I caught it in one hand. “Go to sleep, Jed,” I told him. “And don’t mess with
Dennis again!”

I stepped back into my room and closed the door. I tossed Dennis’ head onto
a pile of clothes on my desk chair. Then I climbed wearily back into bed.

So much trouble around here tonight, I thought, shutting my eyes, trying to
relax.

So much trouble…

Two days later, Dad brought home a present for me. A new ventriloquist’s
dummy. That’s when the
real
trouble began.

Margo came over the next afternoon. Margo is real tiny, sort of like a
mini-person. She has a tiny face, and is very pretty, with bright blue eyes, and
delicate features.

Her blond hair is very light and very fine. She let it grow this year. It’s
just about down to her tiny little waist.

She’s nearly a foot shorter than me, even though we both turned twelve in
February. She’s very smart and very popular. But the boys like to make fun of
her soft, whispery voice.

Today she was wearing a bright blue tank top tucked into white tennis shorts.
“I bought the new Beatles collection,” she told me as she stepped into the
house. She held up a CD box.

Margo loves the Beatles. She doesn’t listen to any of the new groups. In her
room, she has an entire shelf of Beatles CDs and tapes. And she has Beatles
posters on her walls.

We went to my room and put on the CD. Margo settled on the bed. I sprawled on
the carpet across from her.

“My dad almost didn’t let me come over,” Margo told me, pushing her long hair
behind her shoulder. “He thought he might need me to work at the restaurant.”

Margo’s dad owns a huge restaurant downtown called The Party House. It’s not
really a restaurant. It’s a big, old house filled with enormous rooms where
people can hold parties.

A lot of kids have birthday parties there. And there are bar mitzvahs and
confirmations and wedding receptions there, too. Sometimes there are six parties
going on at once!

One Beatles song ended. The next song, “Love Me Do”, started up.

“I
love
this song!” Margo exclaimed. She sang along with it for a
while. I tried singing with her, but I’m totally tone deaf. As my dad says, I
can’t carry a tune in a wheelbarrow.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t have to work today,” I told Margo.

“Me, too,” Margo sighed. “Dad always gives me the worst jobs. You know.
Clearing tables. Or putting away dishes. Or wrapping up garbage bags. Yuck.”

She started singing again—and then stopped. She sat up on the bed. “Amy, I
almost forgot. Dad may have a job for you.”

“Excuse me?” I replied. “Wrapping up garbage bags? I don’t think so, Margo.”

“No. No. Listen,” Margo pleaded excitedly in her mouselike voice. “It’s a
good job. Dad has a bunch of birthday parties coming up. For teeny tiny kids.
You know. Two-year-olds. Maybe three- or four-year-olds. And he thought you
could entertain them.”

“Huh?” I stared at my friend. I still didn’t understand. “You mean, sing or
something?”

“No. With Dennis,” Margo explained. She twisted a lock of hair around in her
fingers and bobbed her head in time to the music as she talked. “Dad saw you
with Dennis at the sixth-grade talent night. He was really impressed.”

“He was? I was terrible that night!” I replied.

“Well, Dad didn’t think so. He wonders if you’d like to come to the birthday
parties and put on a show with Dennis. The little kids will love it. Dad said
he’d even pay you.”

“Wow! That’s cool!” I replied. What an exciting idea.

Then I remembered something.

I jumped to my feet, crossed the room to the chair, and held up Dennis’
head. “One small problem,” I groaned.

Margo let go of her hair and made a sick face. “His head? Why did you take
off his head?”

“I didn’t,” I replied. “It fell off. Every time I use Dennis, his head falls
off.”

“Oh.” Margo uttered a disappointed sigh. “The head looks weird all by itself.
I don’t think little kids would like it if it fell off.”

“I don’t think so,” I agreed.

“It might frighten them or something,” Margo said. “You know. Give them
nightmares. Make them think their own head might fall off.”

“Dennis is totally wrecked. Dad promised me a new dummy. But he hasn’t been
able to find one.”

“Too bad,” Margo replied. “You’d have fun performing for the kids.”

We listened to more Beatles music. Then Margo had to go home.

A few minutes after she left, I heard the front door slam.

“Hey, Amy! Amy—are you home?” I heard Dad call from the living room.

“Coming!” I called. I made my way to the front of the house. Dad stood in the
entryway, a long carton under his arm, a smile on his face.

He handed the carton to me. “Happy Un-birthday!” he exclaimed.

“Dad! Is it—?” I cried. I tore open the carton. “Yes!” A new dummy!

I lifted him carefully out of the carton.

The dummy had wavy brown hair painted on top of his wooden head. I studied
his face. It was kind of strange. Kind of intense. His eyes were bright blue—not faded like Dennis’. He had bright red painted lips, curved up into an eerie smile. His lower lip had a chip on one side so that it didn’t quite match the
other lip.

As I pulled him from the box, the dummy appeared to stare into my eyes. The
eyes sparkled. The grin grew wider.

I felt a sudden chill. Why does this dummy seem to be laughing at me? I
wondered.

I held him up, examining him carefully. He wore a gray, double-breasted suit
over a white shirt collar. The collar was stapled to his neck. He didn’t have a
shirt. Instead, his wooden chest had been painted white.

Big, black leather shoes were attached to the ends of his thin, dangling
legs.

“Dad—he’s great!” I exclaimed.

“I found him in a pawnshop,” Dad said, picking up the dummy’s hand and
pretending to shake hands with it. “How do you do, Slappy.”

“Slappy? Is that his name?”

“That’s what the man in the store said,” Dad replied. He lifted Slappy’s
arms, examining his suit. “I don’t know why he sold Slappy so cheaply. He
practically
gave
the dummy away!”

I turned the dummy around and looked for the string in his back that made the
mouth open and close. “He’s excellent, Dad,” I said. I kissed my dad on the
cheek. “Thanks.”

“Do you really like him?” Dad asked.

Slappy grinned up at me. His blue eyes stared into mine. He seemed to be waiting for an answer, too.

“Yes. He’s awesome!” I said. “I like his serious eyes. They look so real.”

“The eyes move,” Dad said. “They’re not painted on like Dennis’. They don’t
blink, but they move from side to side.”