31 - Night of the Living Dummy II (3 page)

I reached my hand inside the dummy’s back. “How do you make his eyes move?” I
asked.

“The man showed me,” Dad said. “It’s not hard. First you grab the string that
works the mouth.”

“I’ve got that,” I told him.

“Then you move your hand up into the dummy’s head. There is a little lever up
there. Do you feel it? Push on it. The eyes will move in the direction you
push.”

“Okay. I’ll try,” I said.

Slowly I moved my hand up inside the dummy’s back. Through the neck. And into
his head.

I stopped and let out a startled cry as my hand hit something soft.

Something soft and warm.

His brain!

“Ohhh.” I uttered a sick moan and jerked my hand out as fast as I could.

I could still feel the soft, warm mush on my fingers.

“Amy—what’s wrong?” Dad cried.

“His—his brains—!” I choked out, feeling my stomach lurch.

“Huh? What are you
talking
about?” Dad grabbed the dummy from my
hands. He turned it over and reached into the back.

I covered my mouth with both hands and watched him reach into the head. His
eyes widened in surprise.

He struggled with something. Then pulled his hand out.

“Yuck!” I groaned. “What’s
that!”

Dad stared down at the mushy, green and purple and brown object in his hand.
“Looks like someone left a sandwich in there!” he exclaimed.

Dad’s whole face twisted in disgust. “It’s all moldy and rotten. Must have been in there for months!”

“Yuck!” I repeated, holding my nose. “It really stinks! Why would someone
leave a sandwich in a dummy’s head?”

“Beats me,” Dad replied, shaking his head. “And it looks like there are
wormholes in it!”

“Yuuuuuck!” we both cried in unison.

Dad handed Slappy back to me. Then he hurried into the kitchen to get rid of
the rotted, moldy sandwich.

I heard him run the garbage disposal. Then I heard water running as he washed
his hands. A few seconds later, Dad returned to the living room, drying his
hands on a dish towel.

“Maybe we’d better examine Slappy closely,” he suggested. “We don’t want any
more surprises—
do
we?”

I carried Slappy into the kitchen, and we stretched him out on the counter.
Dad examined the dummy’s shoes carefully. They were attached to the legs and
didn’t come off.

I put my finger on the dummy’s chin and moved the mouth up and down. Then I
checked out his wooden hands.

I unbuttoned the gray suit jacket and studied the dummy’s painted shirt.
Patches of the white paint had chipped and cracked. But it was okay.

“Everything looks fine, Dad,” I reported.

He nodded. Then he smelled his fingers. I guess he hadn’t washed away all of the stink from the rotted sandwich.

“We’d better spray the inside of his head with disinfectant or perfume or
something,” Dad said.

Then, as I was buttoning up the jacket, something caught my eye.

Something yellow. A slip of paper poking up from the jacket pocket.

It’s probably a sales receipt, I thought.

But when I pulled out the small square of yellow paper, I found strange
writing on it. Weird words in a language I’d never seen before.

I squinted hard at the paper and slowly read the words out loud:

“Karru marri odonna loma molonu karrano.”

I wonder what that means? I thought.

And then I glanced down at Slappy’s face.

And saw his red lips twitch.

And saw one eye slowly close in a wink.

“D-d-dad!” I stuttered. “He—moved!”

“Huh?” Dad had gone back to the sink to wash his hands for a third time.
“What’s wrong with the dummy?”

“He moved!” I cried. “He
winked
at me!”

Dad came over to the counter, wiping his hands. “I told you, Amy—he can’t
blink. The eyes only move from side to side.”

“No!” I insisted. “He winked. His lips twitched, and he winked.”

Dad frowned and picked up the dummy head in both hands. He raised it to
examine it. “Well… maybe the eyelids are loose,” he said. “I’ll see if I
can tighten them up. Maybe if I take a screwdriver I can—”

Dad didn’t finish his sentence.

Because the dummy swung his wooden hand up and hit Dad on the side of the
head.

“Ow!” Dad cried, dropping the dummy back onto the counter. Dad grabbed his cheek. “Hey—stop it, Amy! That hurt!”

“Me?”
I shrieked. “I didn’t do it!”

Dad glared at me, rubbing his cheek. It had turned bright red.

“The dummy did it!” I insisted. “I didn’t touch him, Dad! I didn’t move his
hand!”

“Not funny,” Dad muttered. “You know I don’t like practical jokes.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came out. I decided I’d better just
shut up.

Of course Dad wouldn’t believe that the dummy had slapped him.

I didn’t believe it myself.

Dad must have pulled too hard when he was examining the head. Dad jerked the
hand up without realizing it.

That’s how I explained it to myself.

What other explanation could there be?

I apologized to Dad. Then we washed Slappy’s face with a damp sponge. We
cleaned him up and sprayed disinfectant inside his head.

He was starting to look pretty good.

I thanked Dad again and hurried to my room. I set Slappy down on the chair
beside Dennis. Then I phoned Margo.

“I got a new dummy,” I told her excitedly. “I can perform for the kids’
birthday parties. At The Party House.”

“That’s great, Amy!” Margo exclaimed. “Now all you need is an act.”

She was right.

I needed jokes. A lot of jokes. If I was going to perform with Slappy in
front of dozens of kids, I needed a long comedy act.

The next day after school, I hurried to the library. I took out every joke
book I could find. I carried them home and studied them. I wrote down all the
jokes I thought I could use with Slappy.

After dinner, I should have been doing my homework. Instead, I practiced with
Slappy. I sat in front of the mirror and watched myself with him.

I tried hard to speak clearly but not move my lips. And I tried hard to move
Slappy’s mouth so that it really looked as if he were talking.

Working his mouth and moving his eyes at the same time was pretty hard. But
after a while, it became easier.

I tried some knock-knock jokes with Slappy. I thought little kids might like
those.

“Knock knock,” I made Slappy say.

“Who’s there?” I asked him, staring into his eyes as if I were really talking
to him.

“Jane,” Slappy said.

“Jane who?”

“Jane jer clothes. You stink!”

I practiced each joke over and over, watching myself in the mirror. I wanted to be a really good ventriloquist. I wanted to
be excellent. I wanted to be as good with Slappy as Sara is with her paints.

I practiced some more knock-knock jokes and some jokes about animals. Jokes I
thought little kids would find funny.

I’ll try them out on Family Sharing Night, I decided. It will make Dad happy
to see how hard I’m working with Slappy. At least I know Slappy’s head won’t
fall off.

I glanced across the room at Dennis. He looked so sad and forlorn, crumpled
in the chair, his head tilted nearly sideways on his shoulders.

Then I propped Slappy up and turned back to the mirror.

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Wayne.”

“Wayne who?”

“Wayne wayne, go away! Come again another day!”

On Thursday night, I was actually eager to finish dinner so that Sharing
Night could begin. I couldn’t wait to show my family my new act with Slappy.

We had spaghetti for dinner. I like spaghetti, but Jed always ruins it.

He’s so gross. He sat across the table from me, and he kept opening his mouth
wide, showing me a mouth full of chewed-up spaghetti.

Then he’d laugh because he cracks himself up. And spaghetti sauce would run
down his chin.

By the time dinner was over, Jed had spaghetti sauce smeared all over his
face and all over the tablecloth around his plate.

No one seemed to notice. Mom and Dad were too busy listening to Sara brag
about her grades. For a change.

Report cards were being handed out tomorrow. Sara was sure she was getting
all A’s.

I was sure, too. Sure I
wasn’t
getting all A’s!

I’d be lucky to get a C in math. I really messed up the last two tests. And I
probably wasn’t going to do real well in science, either. My weather balloon
project fell apart, so I hadn’t handed it in yet.

I finished my spaghetti and mopped up some of the leftover sauce on my plate
with a chunk of bread.

When I glanced up, Jed had stuck two carrot sticks in his nose. “Amy, check
this out. I’m a walrus!” he cried, grinning. He let out a few
urk urks
and clapped his hands together like a walrus.

“Jed—stop that!” Mom cried sharply. She made a disgusted face. “Get those out
of your nose.”

“Make him eat them, Mom!” I cried.

Jed stuck his tongue out at me. It was orange from the spaghetti sauce.

“Look at you. You’re a mess!” Mom shouted at Jed. “Go get cleaned up. Now!
Hurry! Wash all that sauce off your face.”

Jed groaned. But he climbed to his feet and headed to the bathroom.

“Did he eat anything? Or did he just rub it all over himself?” Dad asked,
rolling his eyes. Dad had some sauce on his chin, too, but I didn’t say
anything.

“You interrupted me,” Sara said impatiently. “I was telling you about the
State Art Contest. Remember? I sent my flower painting in for that?”

“Oh, yes,” Mom replied. “Have you heard from the judges?”

I didn’t listen to Sara’s reply. My mind wandered. I started thinking again
about how bad my report card was going to be. I had to force myself to stop
thinking about it.

“Uh… I’ll clear the dishes,” I announced.

I started to stand up.

But I stopped with a startled cry when I saw the short figure creep into the
living room.

A dummy!

My dummy.

He was crawling across the room!

I let out another cry. I pointed to the living room with a trembling finger.
“M-mom! Dad!” I stammered.

Sara was still talking about the art competition. But she turned to see what
everyone was gaping at.

The dummy’s head popped out from behind the armchair.

“It’s Dennis!” I cried.

I heard muffled laughter. Jed’s muffled laughter.

The dummy reached up both hands and pulled
off
his own head. And Jed’s
head popped up through the green turtleneck. He still had spaghetti sauce
smeared on his cheeks. He was laughing hard.

Everyone else started to laugh, too. Everyone but me.

Jed had really frightened me.

He had pulled the neck of his sweater way up over his head. Then he had
tucked Dennis’ wooden head inside the turtleneck.

Jed was so short and thin. It really looked as if Dennis were creeping into
the room.

“Stop laughing!” I shouted at my family. “It isn’t funny!”

“I think it’s
very
funny!” Mom cried. “What a crazy thing to think
of!”

“Very clever,” Dad added.

“It’s not clever,” I insisted. I glared furiously at my brother. “I always
knew you were a dummy!” I screamed at him.

“Amy, you really were scared,” Sara accused. “You nearly dropped your teeth!”

“Not true!” I sputtered. “I knew it was Dennis—I mean—Jed!”

Now everyone started laughing at me! I could feel my face getting hot, and I
knew I was blushing.

That made them all laugh even harder.

Nice family, huh?

I climbed to my feet, walked around the table, and took Dennis’ head away
from Jed. “Don’t go in my room,” I told him through clenched teeth. “And don’t
mess with my stuff.” I stomped away to put the dummy head back in my room.

“It was just a joke, Amy,” I heard Sara call after me.

“Yeah. It was just a joke,” Jed repeated nastily.

“Ha-ha!” I shouted back at
them. “What a riot!”

My anger had faded away by the time we started Family Sharing Night. We
settled in the living room, taking our usual places.

Mom volunteered to go first. She told a funny story about something that had
happened at work.

Mom works in a fancy women’s clothing store downtown. She told us about a
really big woman who came into the store and insisted on trying on only tiny
sizes.

The woman ripped every piece of clothing she tried on—and then bought them
all! “They’re not for me,” the woman explained. “They’re for my sister!”

We all laughed. But I was surprised Mom told that story. Because Mom is
pretty chubby. And she’s very sensitive about it.

About as sensitive as Dad is about being bald.

Dad was the next to share. He brought out his guitar, and we all groaned. Dad
thinks he’s a great singer. But he’s nearly as tone deaf as I am.

He loves singing all these old folk songs from the sixties. There’s supposed
to be some kind of message in them. But Sara, Jed, and I have no idea what he’s
singing about.

Dad strummed away and sang something about not working on Maggie’s farm anymore. At least, I
think
that’s what he
was saying.

We all clapped and cheered. But Dad knew we didn’t really mean it.

It was Jed’s turn next. But he insisted that he had already shared. “Dressing
up like Dennis—that was it,” he said.

No one wanted to argue with him. “Your turn, Amy,” Mom said, leaning against
Dad on the couch. Dad fiddled with his glasses, then settled back.

I picked up Slappy and arranged him on my lap. I was feeling a little
nervous. I wanted to do a good job and impress them with my new comedy act.