31 - Night of the Living Dummy II (5 page)

Sara and Mom both turned accusing eyes on me.

“How could you?” Sara screamed, walking around the big paint puddle. “How
could
you?”

“Whoa! Wait! I didn’t! I didn’t!” I cried frantically.

“I asked Amy why she was going in here,” Jed chimed in. “And she said it was
none of my business.”

“Amy!” Mom cried. “I’m horrified. I’m truly horrified. This—this is
sick!”

“Yes, it’s sick,” Sara repeated, shaking her head. “All of my poster paint.
All of it. What a mess. I know why you did it. It’s because you’re jealous of my
perfect report card.”

“But I didn’t do it!”
I wailed. “I didn’t! I didn’t! I didn’t!”

“Amy—no one else could have,” Mom replied. “If Jed didn’t do it, then—”

“But I only came in here to borrow markers!”

I cried in a trembling voice. “That’s all. I needed markers.”

“Amy—” Mom started, pointing to the huge paint puddle.

“I’ll show you!” I cried. “I’ll show you what I borrowed.”

I ran to my room. My hands were shaking as I scooped Sara’s markers off my
desk. My heart pounded.

How could they accuse me of something so terrible? I asked myself.

Is that what everyone thinks of me? That I’m such a monster?

That I’m so jealous of my sister, I’d pour out all her paints and ruin her
rug?

Do they really think I’m crazy?

I ran back to Sara’s room, carrying the markers in both hands. Jed sat on
Sara’s bed, staring down at the thick red, blue, and yellow puddle.

Mom and Sara stood over it, gazing down and shaking their heads. Mom kept
making clucking noises with her tongue. She kept pressing her hands against her
cheeks.

“Here! See?” I cried. I shoved the markers toward them. “That’s why I came in
here. I’m not lying!”

Some of the markers fell out of my hands. I bent to pick them up.

“Amy, there were only three of us home this afternoon,” Mom said. She was
trying to keep her voice low and calm. But she spoke through gritted teeth. “You, me, and Jed.”

“I know—” I started.

Mom raised a hand to silence me. “I certainly didn’t do this horrible thing,”
Mom continued. “And Jed says that he didn’t do it. So…” Her voice trailed
off.

“Mom—I’m not a sicko!” I shrieked. “I’m not!”

“You’ll feel better if you confess,” Mom said. “Then we can talk about this
calmly, and—”

“But I didn’t do it!”
I raged.

With a cry of anger, I flung the markers to the floor. Then I spun around,
bolted from Sara’s room, and ran down the long hall to my room.

I slammed the door and threw myself facedown onto my bed. I started sobbing
loudly. I don’t know how long I cried.

Finally, I stood up. My face was sopping wet, and my nose was running. I
started to the dresser to get a tissue.

But something caught my eye.

Hadn’t I turned Slappy around so that his back was turned to me?

Now he was sitting facing me, staring up at me, his red-lipped grin wider
than ever.

Did I turn him back around? Did I?

I didn’t remember.

And what did I see on Slappy’s shoes?

I wiped the tears from my eyes with the backs of my hands. Then I took a few
steps toward the dummy, squinting hard at his big leather shoes.

What
was
that on his shoes?

Red and blue and yellow… paint?

Yes.

With a startled gasp, I grabbed both shoes by the heels and raised them close
to my face.

Yes.

Drips of paint on Slappy’s shoes.

“Slappy—what is going on here?” I asked out loud. “What is going on?”

When Dad came home and saw Sara’s room, he nearly exploded.

I was actually worried about him. His face turned as red as a tomato. His
chest started heaving in and out. And horrible gurgling noises came up from his
throat.

The whole family gathered in the living room. We took our Sharing Night
places. Only, this wasn’t Family Sharing Night. This was What Are We Going To Do
About Amy Night.

“Amy, first you have to tell us the truth,” Mom said. She sat stiffly on the
couch, squeezing her hands together in her lap.

Dad sat on the other end of the couch, tapping one hand nervously against the
couch arm, chewing his lower lip. Jed and Sara sat on the floor against the
wall.

“I
am
telling the truth,” I insisted shrilly. I slumped in the
armchair across from them. My hair fell over my forehead, but I didn’t
bother to brush it back. My white T-shirt had tear stains on the front, still damp. “If
you would only listen to me,” I pleaded.

“Okay, we’re listening,” Mom replied.

“When I went into my room,” I started, “there were splashes of paint on
Slappy’s shoes. And—”

“Enough!” Dad cried, jumping to his feet.

“But, Dad—” I protested.

“Enough!” he insisted. He pointed a finger at me. “No more wild stories,
young lady. Storytime is over. We don’t want to hear about paint stains on
Slappy. We want an explanation for the crime that was committed in Sara’s room
today.”

“But I am giving an explanation!” I wailed. “Why did Slappy have paint on his
shoes? Why?”

Dad dropped back onto the couch with a sigh. He whispered something to Mom.
She whispered back.

I thought I heard them mention the word “doctor”.

“Are you—are you going to take me to a psychiatrist?” I asked timidly.

“Do you think you need one?” Mom replied, staring hard at me.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Your father and I will talk about this,” Mom said. “We will figure out the
best thing to do.”

The best thing to do?

They grounded me for two weeks. No movies.

No friends over. No trips to the mall. No trips anywhere.

I heard them talking about finding me a counselor. But they didn’t say
anything about it to me.

All week, I could feel them watching me. Studying me as if I were some kind
of alien creature.

Sara was pretty cold to me. Her room had to be emptied out and a new rug
installed. She wasn’t happy about it.

Even Jed treated me differently. He kind of tiptoed around me and kept his
distance, as if I had a bad cold or something. He didn’t tease me, or tell me
that I reek, or call me names.

I really missed it. No kidding.

How did I
feel?
I felt miserable.

I wanted to get sick. I wanted to catch a really bad stomach flu or something
so they’d all feel sorry for me and stop treating me like a criminal.

One good thing: They said I could perform with Slappy at The Party House on
Saturday.

Whenever I picked Slappy up, I felt a little weird. I remembered the paint on
his shoes and the mess in my sister’s room.

But I couldn’t come up with one single explanation. So I practiced with
Slappy every night.

I had put a lot of good jokes together. Silly jokes I thought little
three-year-olds would find funny.

And I studied myself in the mirror. I was getting better at not moving my
lips. And it was getting easier to make Slappy’s mouth and eyes move correctly.

“Knock knock,” I made Slappy say.

“Who’s there?” I asked.

“Eddie.”

“Eddie who?” I asked.

“Eddie-body got a tissue? I hab a teddible cold!”

And then I pulled back Slappy’s head, opened his mouth really wide, and
jerked his whole body as I made him sneeze and sneeze and sneeze.

I thought that would really crack up the three-year-olds.

Every night, I worked and worked on our comedy act. I worked so hard.

I didn’t know that the act would never go on.

On Saturday afternoon, Mom dropped me off at The Party House. “Have a good
show!” she called as she drove away.

I carried Slappy carefully in my arms. Margo met me at the door. She greeted
me with an excited smile.

“Just in time!” she cried. “The kids are almost all here. They’re total
animals!”

“Oh, great!” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

“They’re total animals, but they’re so cute!” Margo added.

She led me through the twisting hallway to the party room in back. Clusters
of red and yellow balloons covered the ceiling. I saw a brightly decorated table, all yellow
and red. A balloon on a string floated up from each chair around the table. Each
balloon had the name of a guest on it.

The kids really were cute. They were dressed mostly in jeans and bright
T-shirts. Two of the girls wore frilly party dresses.

I counted ten of them, all running wildly, chasing each other in the huge
room.

Their mothers were grouped around a long table against the back wall. Some of
them were sitting down. Some were standing, huddled together, chatting. Some
were calling to their kids to stop being so wild.

“I’m helping out, pouring the punch and stuff,” Margo told me. “Dad wants you
to do your act first thing. You know. To quiet the kids down.”

I swallowed hard. “First thing, huh?”

I had been excited. I could barely choke down my tuna fish sandwich at lunch.
But now I began to feel nervous. I had major fluttering in my stomach.

Margo led me to the front of the room. I saw a low wooden platform there,
painted bright blue. That was the stage.

Seeing the stage made my heart start to pound. My mouth suddenly felt very
dry.

Could I really step up on that stage and do my act in front of all these
people? Kids and mothers?

I had forgotten that the mothers would all be there. Seeing adults in the
audience made me even more nervous.

“Here is the birthday girl,” a woman’s voice said.

I turned to see a smiling mother. She held the hand of a beautiful little
girl. The girl gazed up at me with sparkling blue eyes. She had straight black
hair, a lot like mine, only silkier and finer. She had a bright yellow ribbon in
her hair. It matched her short yellow party dress and yellow sneakers.

“This is Alicia,” the mother announced.

“Hi. I’m Amy,” I replied.

“Alicia would like to meet your dummy,” the woman said.

“Is he real?” Alicia asked.

I didn’t know how to answer that question. “He’s a real dummy,” I told
Alicia.

I propped Slappy up in my arms and slipped my hand into his back. “This is
Slappy,” I told the little girl. “Slappy, this is Alicia.”

“How do you do?” I made Slappy say.

Alicia and her mother both laughed. Alicia stared up at the dummy with her
sparkling blue eyes.

“How old are you?” I made Slappy say.

Alicia held up three fingers. “I’m fffree,” she told him.

“Would you like to shake hands with Slappy?” I asked.

Alicia nodded.

I lowered the dummy a little. I pushed forward Slappy’s right hand. “Go
ahead,” I urged Alicia. “Take his hand.”

Alicia reached up and grabbed Slappy’s hand. She giggled.

“Happy Birthday,” Slappy said.

Alicia shook his hand gently. Then she started to back away.

“We can’t wait to see your show,” Alicia’s mother said to me. “I know the
kids are going to love it.”

“I hope so!” I replied. My stomach fluttered again. I was still really
nervous.

“Let go!” Alicia cried. She tugged at Slappy’s hand. She giggled. “He won’t
let go!”

Alicia’s mom laughed. “What a funny dummy!” She grabbed Alicia’s other hand.
“Let go of the dummy, honey. We have to get everyone in their seats for the
show.”

Alicia tugged a little harder. “But he won’t let go
of me,
Mommy!” she
cried. “He wants to shake hands!”

Alicia gave a hard tug. But her tiny hand was still wrapped up inside
Slappy’s. She giggled. “He likes me. He won’t let go.”

“Oh, look,” her mother said, glancing to the door. “Phoebe and Jennifer just arrived. Let’s go say hi.”

Alicia tried to follow her mom, but Slappy held tight to her hand. Alicia’s
smile faded. “Let
go!”
she insisted.

I saw that several kids had gathered around. They watched Alicia tug at
Slappy’s hand.

“Let go! Let me go!” Alicia cried angrily.

I leaned over to examine Slappy’s hand. To my surprise, it appeared that his
hand had clenched tightly around hers.

Alicia gave a hard tug. “Ow! He’s hurting me, Mommy!”

More kids came over to watch. Some of them were laughing. Two little
dark-haired boys exchanged frightened glances.

“Please—make him let go!” Alicia wailed. She tugged again and again.

I froze in panic. My mind whirred. I tried to think of what to do.

Had Alicia gotten her hand caught somehow?

Slappy’s hand couldn’t really close around hers—could it?

Alicia’s mother was staring at me angrily. “Please let Alicia’s hand out,”
she said impatiently.

“He’s hurting me!” Alicia cried. “Ow! He’s squeezing my hand!”

The room grew very quiet. The other kids were all watching now. Their eyes wide. Their expressions confused.

I didn’t know what to do. I had no control for Slappy’s hands.

My heart pounded in my chest. I tried to make a joke of it. “Slappy really
likes you!” I told Alicia.

But the little girl was sobbing now. Little tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Mommy—make him stop!”

I pulled my hand out from Slappy’s back. I grabbed his wooden hand between my
hands. “Let go of her, Slappy!” I demanded.

I tried pulling the fingers open.

But I couldn’t budge them.

“What is wrong?” Alicia’s mother was screaming. “Is her hand caught? What are
you doing to her?”

“He’s hurting me!” Alicia wailed. “Owwww! He’s squeezing me!”

Several kids were crying now. Mothers rushed across the room to comfort them.

Alicia’s sobs rose up over the frightened cries of the other three-year-olds.
The harder she tugged, the tighter the wooden hand squeezed.

“Let go, Slappy!” I shrieked, pulling his fingers. “Let go! Let go!”