The Big One-Oh

by Dean Pitchford

  “How,” Garry wondered, “do you make black napkins scary?”

  “Aha. Good point. But how’s this? The punch could be red, like blood! Or green, like slime!”

  See what I mean? The ideas were just pouring out of me.

  “And, if you’d like,” Garry offered, “I could lend you my DVD of My Principal Is a Maniac! to show at the party.”

  I sat up. “Get out!”

  “Sit back!” Garry ordered, and pushed me down in the chair. “Are you gonna sit still?”

  “I will. I promise. And you know why?” I said, settling down. “Because I’ve got a theme. Whoo-hoo!”

  And then Garry covered my smiling face with goo.

  I don’t know how long I sat there—unable to see or speak—but from the way the goo warmed and tightened around my face, I could tell that Garry would have a really good mold to cast a mask from. I could hear him puttering around in his workshop, and when he’d ask, “You okay?” I would hold up my fingers in an “okay” circle.

  I must have drifted off into a little nap, but I sure snapped wide awake the instant somebody started pounding at Garry’s front door.

  “Who in the world . . . ?” I heard Garry say. Then the pounding came again.

  I guess when Garry opened his front door and found Mom standing there, he wasn’t exactly looking spiffy. His hair was all in his eyes and his glasses were crooked. He had on his rubber apron and rubber gloves, and those were covered with the white goo that was hardening on my face at that very moment.

  I could hear the whole conversation.

  “I saw Boing Boing tied up on your porch. Is Charley here?”

  “Huh? Oh, Charley. Yeah. He’s . . . uh . . . he’s sorta . . .”

  “IS HE HERE?”

  “He is. Yes.”

  “Charley?” Mom called into the house.

  “But he’s not . . . he can’t . . .”

  “Can you make a complete sentence?” When Mom asks something like that, you can tell she’s about to lose it.

  “He . . . can’t come to the door right now.”

  “He what? Why not?”

  “He’s . . . well . . . it’s about his head, see . . . ?”

  “What about his head?”

  “Not his head, actually. His face . . . it’s covered up right now. But don’t worry,” Garry rushed to add, “cuz he’s got straws up his nose.”

  “He’s got WHATS up his nose?” And that’s when I heard Mom push her way into the house. “Charley? Charley, where are you?” Her voice was getting closer. “Where is he?”

  “In the garage,” Garry was saying. “But when you see him, don’t get upset . . .”

  “Don’t get upset? Why would I . . . OMIGOD!”

  I figure that’s when Mom saw me. I waved one hand in a friendly “hello,” hoping to show her that I was okay, but it probably looked to her like Garry had buried me—with straws up my nose—under a mountain of mashed potatoes.

  “What have you done to my son? Get him out of there!” I heard Mom shriek.

  Garry pleaded, “He just needs another minute . . . !”

  “NOW! Get him out now!”

  And suddenly there were hands all over my face. “Oh, please don’t! NO!” Garry shouted. I guess Mom was scratching and clawing at the hardened cast, as Garry was trying to save his work by peeling it up off my face from the edges.

  I couldn’t tell either one of them, “Stop! That hurts!” because my mouth was sealed shut; but, between their yelling and pushing and pulling and tearing, the mold finally released with a big sucking sound, and I saw daylight.

  But “Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow!” was all I could manage to say.

  “He wasn’t hurting me!” I tried to explain as Mom dragged me and Boing Boing on his leash back to our house.

  “Do you know how you scared me?” she wailed.

  “But that’s an effect! That’s what Garry does! I told you—he’s an artist.”

  “I don’t care if he’s the President of the United States! I don’t want you going over there. Never, ever again!”

  “What? Why?!”

  “Because!” Mom huffed. “That stuff is dangerous, and that man . . . that man is . . .”

  “He’s what?” I challenged her. “He might be my friend. And you said, ‘You should make some friends.’ ”

  “Well, then I object to your friend,” Mom said.

  “Oh, yeah? What about Vince? I object to your friend!” I responded.

  Mom whipped around like I had poked her with a straight pin.

  “Do you want a birthday party?!” she hissed at me, her face bright red. “Do you?”

  I stopped breathing for a second, and my stomach flip-flopped. “You haven’t sent out invitations yet!” Mom continued. “It would be so easy to just call the whole thing off. Just like that!” She snapped her fingers in front of my eyes.

  And I swear I almost passed out.

  18

  I didn’t feel like cooking that evening, so I boiled some hot dogs. Mom and I ate in silence.

  As I chewed, I realized that she was right: it would be so easy to cancel a party that nobody’s ever heard of. So what could I possibly do to prevent that?

  And then an idea popped into my head that excited me so much I almost choked on my last bite of hot dog. In one blinding flash, I realized what I had to do to prevent Mom from cancelling my party.

  I had to invite people.

  In my bedroom after dinner I prepared to write my invitations. I would have liked to use black paper to announce my House of Horrors Birthday theme, but I didn’t have any. And even if I did, none of my pens or pencils would have shown up on it.

  So, instead, I cut up sheets of yellow and purple construction paper that I had left over from an Easter project our class did last year. I had eight squares of paper before I accidentally ripped one, but I told myself that was okay. Seven guests plus me made eight, and eight is enough. I didn’t think Mom could object to that number.

  With a red pen (which I hoped that people would understand was supposed to be blood) I drew lines on the invitations, and, with a thick black crayon, I started to write: “YOU ARE INVITED TO A HOUSE OF HOR—”

  Then Mom tapped on my door.

  I barely had time to slide the invitations under my school-books before she poked her head in and handed me the birthday card that Dad had sent.

  “This fell out of your backpack.”

  I took the card, but I didn’t say anything, hoping she’d get the hint and leave me alone.

  “He thinks you’re going to be eleven,” she said with a little smile.

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “And he always gets the date wrong.”

  “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you,” she was quick to point out.

  I shrugged and looked away, and that worked, because after a moment, she left and shut the door.

  I pulled out the invitations along with my Birthday Notebook, which I opened to the page where I had written:

  3. FIND A THEME

  Under that, I wrote with great pride: HOUSE OF HORRORS.

  At the top of the page, however, under—

  1. MAKE FRIENDS.

  —there were still no names. I sighed.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I told myself; my invitations were going to change all that. The next day seven of my classmates were going to receive an invitation to my birthday party.

  Those seven would thank me with tears in their eyes.

  Those seven would rush home to shout the news to their amazed families.

  I just didn’t know which seven they would be.

  19

  As I skateboarded to school the next morning with the invitations in my backpack, I knew I was going to have to be very careful about who I invited to my party. That way I could pick the perfect mix of personalities.

  But things didn’t work out that way.

  And it was all Donna’s fault.

  I turned a corner in the hall and saw Donna at her lock
er, giggling and gossiping with Dana and Dina.

  As always, she looked amazing.

  I don’t know what came over me; without even thinking about who the other six party-goers would be, I just stepped up and nervously held out an invitation to her.

  “Oh. Hi, Charley,” she said when she noticed me. Then she saw my piece of paper. “What’s this?”

  She took it, opened the folded purple page and, with Dina and Dana looking over her shoulder, she read what I had written.

  “ ‘A House of Horrors Birthday Party’?”

  I nodded, tongue-tied.

  Donna turned to Dina and Dana and chirped, “Whaddya think?”

  Dana wrinkled her nose. “Mmm. I dunno.”

  Dina rolled her eyes and whined: “Sounds . . . weird.”

  So Donna made up their minds for them. “Sounds like fun to me!” she announced. And then you won’t believe what she did. She plucked two more invitations from my pile and handed them to her girlfriends! She slammed her locker, said, “Thanks, Charley!” and they all walked away, laughing and tossing their hair.

  It all happened so fast!

  Even though I was just getting started, I had only four invitations left. And once Donna and Dina and Dana started blabbing, everybody, I was sure, would be after me. So my original plan—to pick my party-mates carefully—would have to be tossed right out the window.

  Now I had to act quickly.

  I caught up to Leo, limping along on his crutches. I held out a yellow page to him and babbled: “It’s my birthday. I mean, it’s gonna be. So, come, okay?”

  Leo balanced on his crutches, took the paper, and shook my hand.

  “Well, thanks, Charley. I’ll do my best.”

  That went well, I thought.

  I found Darryl Egbert in the upstairs boys’ room. He unfolded the purple sheet and read my black crayon printing.

  “Horrors has two R’s,” he said.

  “Oh. Right,” I muttered. “But what do you think?”

  Darryl slipped the invitation into one of his books and pushed his glasses back on his nose. “I’ll consult my parents, who will have to check their schedules,” he said. “Saturdays are very busy days in our house.”

  And then he walked out. I’ll admit I was expecting a more enthusiastic reaction.

  But he didn’t say “no.”

  Two.

  I had two invitations left, and I intended to be very choosy about who was going to get them.

  I could tell that word was spreading. As I stood at the door of the cafeteria at lunchtime, holding those two invitations and gazing out over the wide sea of possible party-goers, I felt that I, too, was being studied by hundreds of eyes, all eager to see my next move.

  Then I heard: “Hi, Charley,” and my stomach dropped.

  Jennifer Mobley was suddenly standing next to me, and her eyes were darting between me and the pieces of paper in my hand.

  This was awkward.

  But while I stood there, unable to think of what to say to Jennifer, the last two invitations were suddenly snatched from my hand!

  “We checked our schedules, and we are free to party!” Cougar cackled. “I don’t like onions on my hamburgers. And this guy,” he said as he handed the last invitation to Scottie, “this guy’s allergic to ice cream.”

  Cougar clapped me on the back. “But don’t worry; we know how to have a good time!” Then they ran off, hooting.

  And just like that, my party list was complete.

  I was stunned.

  Jennifer was as stunned as I was.

  I gave a little shrug, as if to say, “Oh, well.” She took a deep breath, smiled a tight little smile, and, without a word, she walked off. I knew her feelings were probably hurt, but what could I do? She saw what had happened!

  So now, due to circumstances beyond my control, I was certain that I had just invited all the wrong people. My head was pounding as I kept seeing the same horrible picture in my mind:

  Cougar and Scottie?!

  In the same room with Darryl?

  And DONNA?!

  A House of Horrors Birthday Party?

  I was scared already.

  20

  I almost caused about a dozen traffic accidents on my skateboard that afternoon because I was thinking so hard about the strange and, possibly, dangerous mix of people I would be bringing together for my party. When I turned onto our street, I was so distracted that I didn’t notice Mom pulling up alongside me in her car. But I sure noticed when she rolled down her window and yelled, “Charley Maplewood!”

  I tumbled off my skateboard, and we came to a stop in the street.

  “What?”

  “Did you hand out invitations at school today?” Mom didn’t give me a chance to answer before she blasted ahead: “Because I got about a dozen calls at work. The parents of the kids you did invite are asking what their child should wear. And the parents of those you didn’t invite are calling to say, ‘You’ve ruined my kid’s childhood!’ ”

  Now, although I would never be happy about ruining somebody’s childhood, I have to admit that I got a kick out of having created such a commotion.

  “I am very upset,” Mom was saying as she inched her car forward. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do with you. I’m actually inclined to . . .”

  And I almost yelled, “Please don’t say you’re going to cancel my party!” But at that very moment, Mom leaned forward and squinted through her windshield.

  “Now, what is he doing?” she asked.

  I looked where she was looking, and I saw what she saw.

  Garry was in our yard, down on his knees, and it looked like he had just finished replacing the mangled, dead bushes that Pincushion—I mean, Stacy—left behind when she ran over them on the night they broke up.

  The new bushes were green and healthy, but that didn’t matter to Mom. She pulled up in our driveway and got out of her car.

  “This is our property, you know,” she said sternly as she crossed to Garry.

  He got to his feet and stuttered, “I . . . yeah. I feel bad about . . . y’know . . .” and he waved his hands at the hedge, “. . . so I’ve been meaning to . . . but . . .”

  “That really isn’t your concern,” Mom cut him off.

  He looked her in the eye and said very quietly, “But it was my fault.”

  That stopped Mom. After spending time with Garry, I already knew that he could make full sentences, but I think Mom was shocked that he could speak without tripping on his tongue.

  “Oh? Oh. Okay. Well. Thank you,” Mom stammered. She and Garry looked at each other in silence until finally Mom nodded and turned for home. But then she turned right back around.

  “About that thing that happened in your garage yesterday . . .” she said to Garry while waving toward me, “. . . with Charley and the mask and my yelling and . . .”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve asked,” Garry said in a rush.

  “Yes, you should have, but, still, I’m . . . ,” and here Mom took a big breath, “I’m sorry I ruined your work. Charley tells me that’s what you do.”

  “Used to do,” he corrected her. Then he smiled. “But I might do it again!”

  Which caused both Mom and me to say, “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Yeah,” Garry nodded, excited. “The Fresno . . . whatchamacallit . . . the Fresno Theater . . . place . . .”

  “The Fresno Community Theater?” Mom suggested.

  Garry pointed to her. “Them! Yeah. It’s an interview. They want to see my work. For a play. It’s not movies, but it’s . . . y’know. What I do.”

  “That’s nice. Congratulations,” Mom said, and from the way she said it, I could tell she really meant it. “But I ruined some of your materials,” she said, opening her purse, “and I’m sure that they’re expensive, so I insist on paying for . . .”

  “No!” Garry held up both hands. “Please. I had to order more anyway. Because of this interview I’m having. They asked me to make some scars.�
�

  Mom stopped digging through her purse and looked up.

  “Scars?”

  “Mmm,” Garry confirmed. “Scars. And a large stab wound. Who knows?” he shrugged. “Maybe I’ll finally scare someone.”

  Mom nodded slowly as she backed away, “Oh. Okay. Well, good luck with that.” And then she went into our house.

  “I thought that went well,” I said to Garry.

  “Y’think?”

  “Yeah. At least up to the part about the stab wound.”

  As soon as I got into the house, Mom made me sit down at the kitchen table and write out a list of the people I had invited to my party.

  “Seven,” I said as I finished. “That’s not a lot.”

  She wagged her head as she looked over the list. “I just wish you had talked to me before you did this.” Then she looked up. “But the cat’s out of the bag, so we’d better get cracking. Did we decide on a theme? Because the last I heard, it was cowboys, and . . .”

  “No!” I stopped her. “Not cowboys.”

  “Then what?”

  I hesitated. Something told me that I couldn’t just blurt out about the House of Horrors.

  “There are . . . several ideas on the table,” I said carefully.

  “Get rid of all but one,” she said. “And then go see Vince.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Can’t I go to another cake store?”

  “Do you know how much he’s saving us by doing your cake?” Mom said sharply. But she could tell that I was upset, so she pulled out a chair and sat down with me.

  “Look, Charley. I know how you feel about Vince. But he’s just a lonely, divorced man, looking for a friend. Like I am. Offering to make your cake . . . that’s just his way of reaching out. So. Will you go see him?”

  Mom tilted her head in that way that says, “Please?” So I nodded.

  “Thank you,” Mom whispered. She stood, kissed me on the forehead, and started out of the kitchen.

  I stopped her with, “See? Garry’s not so creepy.”

  She took a breath and held it as she tried to decide what to say. “Honey. He made a nice gesture. But he’s still a profoundly strange man.” Then she left.