Attack of the Vampire Weenies (5 page)

It didn't matter. I didn't need to take them out. They felt great. I set my player on
SHUFFLE
, closed my eyes, and let the music swallow me. Fast songs. Slow songs. Everything sounded unbelievably good. I thought about how I'd act tomorrow if Everet reported his loss and the teachers started asking about the earbuds. It's hard to act innocent when you're guilty, but I knew I could do it. I could do a lot if it meant I got to keep these earbuds. And I was definitely keeping them. They were just too awesome to give back.

A shadow fell over me.

I opened my eyes.

Everet.

I tried to think of the best way to deal with this. I could just hand back the earbuds. What could he do? There weren't any witnesses, so there was no way he could get me in trouble for taking them. Or I could pretend they weren't his. That would be sort of cool, since I was growing really attached to them. There was no way he could prove they were his.

Yeah. That's what I'd do. Why should he have such nice ones when I enjoyed them so much? All he did with them was drive me crazy in study hall. Well, he wouldn't be doing that anymore.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“My earbuds,” he said.

I could barely hear him over the music. I lowered the volume a little.

“These aren't yours,” I said.

“Yes, they are. Bodztech Three-Sixty Organic Headphones.”

I grinned at him. “What a coincidence. That's the same brand as mine. Bodz-whatever three something.”

“Then I guess you read the warnings,” he said.

“Nice try.” I wasn't going to fall for any trick.

He shrugged. “Great sound. Amazing engineering. One problem.” Then he smiled. It was a creepy smile. “If you leave them in your ears for more than five minutes, the buds start to grow together.”

He glanced at his watch. “Wow—you've been here longer than that. A lot longer. I know. I've been watching you. I guess I'll come back and get them after they're finished. Enjoy the music while you can. It's the last thing you'll ever hear.”

He turned and walked away. Idiot. Did he really think I was going to fall for— “Ouch!”

I felt a sharp pain in my head.

“Ahhgg!”

Another pain.

I reached up to yank out the earbuds.

“Aaiiieee!!!!”

The slightest pull sent a wave of agony through my head. I held the wires, clueless about what to do. The pain was steady now, like someone was slowly drilling into both my ears. I swear I could feel the buds moving toward each other, digging through my brain.

I yanked both hands as hard as I could.

The pain was unbearable.

The buds ripped free from my ears. The ends had something wet and gray smeared over them.

The pain got even worse.

The music had stopped. I couldn't hear anything. I knew I was screaming, but I couldn't even hear that.

I saw Everet strolling back toward me. I couldn't stand up. He said something. I couldn't hear the words, but I could tell what he said from the way his lips moved.

“I guess you won't be needing these anymore.”

He reached out and took the earbuds from me. He unplugged my music player, dropped it in my lap, and wiped the earbuds on his shirt.

He started to walk off. Then he turned and came back. When he reached me, he leaned over and picked up my music player. Once again, I was pretty sure I knew what he was saying, even though I couldn't hear the words.

“I guess you won't need this anymore, either.”

I guess not.

He walked away, leaving me alone in my pain and silence.

 

FOURTH AND INCHES

“Go for it!” Willy
screamed, nearly bouncing out of his seat and into the aisle as he stomped his feet. “Come on—get the first down!”

His team was just inches short of a first down. All they had to do was move the ball five or six inches and they'd keep possession. They were trailing by nine points with only six minutes left in the fourth quarter, so a chance to score was pretty important.

Way down below him on the field, he saw the team move into punt formation. The bad news was repeated larger than life across the stadium on the JumboTron. Willy howled in rage. Next to him, his older brother, Ken, screamed, too.

“You idiots!” he yelled.

Willy shook his head. “I don't know why we root for those guys.” He winced as he watched the punt. “I knew they'd blow it.”

The kick was a short one. No hang time at all. The other team ran the ball all the way back to the fifty-yard line. This was not good.

“They're total losers,” Ken said.

Willy just shook his head. He couldn't believe that the team hadn't tried for a first down. How hard could it be to move the ball a couple of inches?

At least the defensive squad was half decent. They put the pressure on and managed to hold the other side at the fifty, so the team got the ball back.

But the quarterback blew two passes in a row. The first sailed out of bounds. The second got swatted down during a blitz. Then he ran, but came up short.

“Fourth and inches again. Please don't punt.” Willy thought his head would pop. He knew they wouldn't go for it.

“I can't stand this!” Ken shouted. He shoved Willy on the shoulder.

Willy shoved him back. “This was your idea.”

“No, it wasn't. You're the one who wanted to come.” Ken shoved Willy way too hard.

“Hey!” Willy toppled out of his seat, into the aisle.

The crowd roared.

Willy looked up. He wasn't sprawled across the stadium steps. He was in the huddle. He looked down at his chest. He was wearing the quarterback's number. Ten pairs of eyes were fastened on him, waiting for his call. There was no time to think about anything. They couldn't afford a delay-of-game penalty. Not when they were just inches from a first down. It was time for action.

“Let's go for it,” Willy said.

The other players all nodded.

Willy pointed to the halfback. “I'll fake a handoff. All receivers go short and cut hard. On fourteen.”

The huddle broke. Willy crouched behind the center and held his hands out. He called some numbers. “Five, eleven, twenty, fourteen!”

The ball was in his hands. He spun, then faked a handoff as the halfback ran past him and dived over the blockers and defenders.

Willy looked ahead as he backpedaled. Three enormous guys had broken through the line and were charging at him like boulders rolling down a hill. He looked to his left for a receiver. He looked to his right. He looked down the field.

All he could see were helmets and shoulder pads. Everyone was moving. It looked like there were fifty or sixty players on the field. As far as Willy could tell, none of his receivers was open. For all he knew, they'd sneaked out for a hot dog.

The three big guys were almost on top of him. It seemed like a good time to change his plans.

I just need a couple inches.

Willy put his head down and tried to run to the side. The three big guys slammed into him, clamping down like bear traps.

Willy bounced off the stadium steps. He felt like he'd just spent a month in a rock tumbler.

“Those idiots!” Ken shouted, pointing to the field. “What kind of fool calls a play like that when it's fourth and inches?”

Willy crawled back into his seat and glanced at the field. The quarterback was getting up. Slowly.

“Can you believe that quarterback?” Ken asked.

“Yeah. I think I can.” As everyone around him exploded in boos and hisses, Willy stood up and shouted, “Good effort! Nice try! Don't give up!”

People turned and glared at Willy, but he didn't care. They had no idea how hard it was to be the guy with the ball.

 

M
ut
A
nts

“Die!”

Brian kicked the anthill. Then he stomped it. Then he got the hose from the side of the house and flooded it.

Soon, there was no sign of the anthill. All that remained was a puddle of mud on the bare patch of ground beneath his swing set. Brian was too old for the swing set, but he still liked to play in the backyard.

There was another anthill in the same spot the next day. Brian stomped it again.

A day later, the anthill reappeared.

“You stupid insects never learn.” Brian got an old board from the basement and put it over the bare spot.

There was a hole the size of a softball in the wood the next day. A half-formed anthill jutted up through the opening. Ants swarmed around the ragged gap. Brian bent down to get a better look. Each ant carried a small piece of wood in its mouth.

He shivered as he watched. This wasn't natural. He'd seen ants carry a crumb of bread or some other spilled food. But not wood. He went to the family computer and asked a search engine,
DO ANTS EAT WOOD?

The computer told him that carpenter ants ate wood. Brian looked at the picture. It was a different ant. The carpenter ant was big, black, and scary. Blown up on the computer screen, it looked like a monster. But it didn't look like the ants in his yard. They were small and brown. Brian didn't care what kind they were. He only cared about killing them.

He went to the yard and kicked the piece of wood off the bare spot. He raised his foot to stomp the hill, but then he got a better idea. He unhooked one of the metal swing seats from the rusted chains and placed it across the anthill.

“Eat this,” he said as he stomped down on the seat. Little bits of wood and sawdust flew out from under the seat. Brian stomped again and again, until the anthill was flattened, the seat was jammed into the ground, and he was panting and sweating.

He stayed out of the backyard for a week.

When he finally went to check, the seat was gone. So was one whole leg of the swing set. Ants swarmed over the three remaining legs. The anthill was back, taller than ever.

“No! Die!” Brian kicked the anthill. Then he stamped on the nearest mass of ants. He raised his foot, hoping to see a smeared mess of dead insects.

Instead, he saw living ants.

He stomped again. He screamed. He kept stomping until his sneaker fell apart.

“What?”

Brian raised his leg and stared at the laced-together pieces that dangled from his foot. The sneaker was shredded. As the sun moved out from behind a cloud, a flash of light caught Brian's attention. He bent over.

The ants shone like steel, reflecting the sun.

As he stood there, they swarmed up his legs.

Brian brushed at them. Their sharp edges cut his fingers. They clung to his pants. He brushed harder. More ants swarmed.

Brian turned to run. He couldn't. The weight of the metal ants pulled him to the ground.

He fell, screaming, as hundreds more ants swarmed over him.

The screams didn't last long.

The sun moved back behind a cloud. Right before it disappeared, some of the ants flashed and glistened. Others seemed to grow duller, colored almost like flesh. The metallic ants returned to the remains of the swing set, hungry for more metal. The flesh ants milled toward the rear door of the house. They were hungry, too.

 

CAT GOT YOUR NOSE?

“Can I have a
cat?” Emily asked.

“No, sweetie,” her mom said. “I'm sorry.”

“No way,” her dad said. “Cats stink.”

Most kids would have worked on Mom, since she was the softer of the two parents. But Emily was stunningly clever, and knew it was much easier to hit a target you could see. Mom hadn't given any real objection. Dad had lobbed a softball right over the plate.

“Cats don't stink,” Emily said.

“Sure they do,” Dad said. “You know what it's like at Miss Reaker's house.”

Miss Reaker lived on the next block. She loved animals, and was always happy to take in stray cats. And though Miss Reaker's house did smell a bit catty, this was exactly the answer Emily was hoping for, because it allowed her to keep her argument going.

“That doesn't count. Miss Reaker has fifteen cats. I just want one. It won't stink.”

“It will stink less,” Dad said. “But it will still stink. A big stink divided by fifteen is still a stink.”

Emily opened her mouth. Her dad held up his hand. “Cats stink. End of discussion.”

End of discussion, perhaps, but the beginning of Emily's quest. She went to the library to read every book and magazine article she could find about smells, odors, aromas, and scents. It took her five months to learn what she needed, and another two months to perfect her anti-stink formula.

During that whole agonizing time, she never even uttered the word
cat
in the presence of either of her parents. But now the time had come.

“Dad, if cats didn't stink, could I have one?” she asked after she'd put the final version of the formula into a small squirt bottle.

He laughed. “Sure.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely. I think it's a safe promise, because cats stink. And there's nothing you can do about it.”

“Can we go visit Miss Reaker?” Emily asked.

Dad wrinkled his nose, but then said, “Okay. But just a quick visit.”

Emily liked visiting Miss Reaker. She made wonderful cookies, as long as you didn't mind a bit of cat hair among the chocolate chips, and the occasional little crunchy thing that was better left unidentified.

When they reached Miss Reaker's house, she greeted them with a cat clutched in each of her arms. “Come in. It's been so long since I've had visitors. I'll go make tea.” She scurried off toward the kitchen. A half-dozen cats raced after her, meowing, and three more strays slipped inside through the open door.

Emily and her dad went in. Emily had to admit that the place did stink more than a little bit. She could see her dad wrinkling his nose. But not for long. She whipped the spray bottle from her pocket and gave it a squeeze, squirting the formula on a passing Siamese cat. She scooped up the cat and thrust it under her dad's nose.