by R. L. Stine
“Can’t talk now,” he said. “I have to make some important phone calls on my watch. Then I’m going to download some new music files.”
“I have an idea for a little fun,” I said. “A contest between our dorms?”
Sherman’s pal from Nyce House, Wes Updood, stepped up to us.
“Whussup, Updood?” I said.
It hurts, but I have to admit it: Wes is definitely the coolest guy in the fourth grade.
He works out. And he knows all the new music. He plays saxophone and blues guitar. And he’s the star of Mr. Farrhowt’s rap class.
Wes is so cool, he even looks good in a vest!
That’s bold.
“Whussup, dude?” Wes Updood said.
“Bernie wants to have a contest,” Sherman told him. “Between Nyce House and Rotten Stinking House.”
Wes laughed at Sherman’s pitiful insult. “Yo, what’s up with that? What kind of contest, dude?”
“Well…” I rubbed my chin. “How about a pie-eating contest? That would be fun for everyone, wouldn’t it? We all like to watch guys stuffing their face with pies, don’t we?”
They stared at me. “He’s way crazy,” Wes told Sherman.
“No. Give it a chance,” I said. “We’ll make it totally fair. Sherman, you pick a guy from my dorm to compete for Rotten House. And I’ll pick a guy from Nyce House.”
I slapped Wes on the back. “How about Wes here? Wes is a definite winner. You like pie, don’t you?”
“Yo, I like winning,” Wes said, flashing a double thumbs-up.
“Okay, so Wes will go for Nyce House. That means you’ll probably win. I don’t stand a big chance. But, okay. You pick a guy from my dorm,” I said. “Any guy at all. And we’ll…uh…have prizes. You know. Just for fun. A nice prize for the winner.”
“What kind of prize?” Sherman asked.
“Well…”
I tried to look as if I was thinking hard. “How about if my dorm wins…I get your watch?”
“I KNEW it!” Sherman screamed. “I knew it. It’s a cheap trick to take away my watch. No way! No way, Bernie! No contest!”
“But, Sherman, old pal—” I started.
“I’m not falling for it,” Sherman cried. “No pie contest. Beat it, Bernie. Beat it!”
Wes stepped up to me and waved a fist in my face. “Dude, I think Sherman wants you to beat it.”
“Okay, okay.” I turned around and walked to the door.
April-May June stood in the doorway. “Hi,” I said. “Have you been thinking about those dance lessons Saturday night?”
“Sherman wants you to beat it,” she said.
“Is that a yes?” I asked.
She pointed to the door.
I stepped through the doorway and headed back to Rotten House.
You might think I was defeated. You might think I was a loser tonight. You might think I didn’t have a plan to get that pie fight going.
If so, you don’t know Bernie B.
Chapter 10
ALLERGIC TO PIE
At lunch the next day, I pulled Beast to the Dining Hall. We stopped at the dessert table. I glanced around the crowded room.
The table where the Nyce House kids always sit was empty. No sign of Sherman Oaks yet.
“Beast, are you ready?” I whispered. I grabbed him by his huge ears to get his attention. “Do you remember what you’re supposed to say?”
Beast nodded. “No problem, Big B.”
“Okay, buddy. Remember, don’t start till Sherman is listening. You sure you remember what to do?”
He grunted. “Ha-ha. We’ll put on a little play.”
I petted his head. “That’s right. A little play.”
Was I tense? Yes. Beast and I had rehearsed all morning. But would he remember what to do? Or would he start gobbling blueberry pie?
“Sssh. Here he comes,” I whispered. “Here comes Sherman. Get ready, Beast.”
He grunted again.
Sherman Oaks picked up a lunch tray and got into the line. I knew he could hear Beast and me. So I started our little play.
I picked a small plate of blueberry pie off the dessert table and handed it to Beast. “Here you go, pal,” I said, loud enough for Sherman to hear. “Have some pie.”
“Oh, no!” Beast said, shoving the pie back at me. “I can’t. Don’t make me eat that, Bernie. I’m allergic to blueberry pie.”
I acted surprised. “Huh? You’re allergic to blueberry pie?”
“Yeah. Allergic,” Beast said.
“Come on. Just have a tiny taste,” I said.
“No way. If I eat just a tiny taste, I’ll get sick and hurl my guts out.”
“Too bad, Beast,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s really too bad.”
I turned and saw Sherman striding over. He had a big grin on his face. “Okay, Bernie,” he said. “Maybe I will have that pie-eating contest with you. I’ll pick Beast to be on your side. Beast against Wes Updood. And it has to be blueberry pie.”
“But—but—” I sputtered, clapping my hands to my cheeks.
Sherman rubbed his chin. “If I win…let me see…I need a slave. That’s it. If I win, you’ll be my slave for a month. If you win, you can have my watch.”
“No way!” I said. “That’s not fair. You heard Beast say he’s allergic to blueberry pie. Let me pick another guy, Sherman. Give me a break. Let me pick someone else for the contest.”
Sherman shook his head. He had the biggest grin on his face. “No. It has to be Beast,” he said. “Only Beast. Beast against Wes Updood. And all blueberry pies.”
“But I’ll lose. I’ll lose big-time,” I said, shaking my head. “How about cherry pie? Maybe banana cream pie?”
“All blueberry pies,” Sherman said. “Shake on it.” He stuck out his hand.
I started to shake his hand, then pulled it back. Started to shake, then pulled back. Finally, I shook his hand. “You’ve got a sure thing going,” I told Sherman. “You can’t lose.”
Sherman tossed back his blond head and laughed. “Know what I like my slaves to do, Bernie?” he said. “I like them to carry me on their backs to Mrs. Heinie’s class.”
“B-but that’s on the fifth floor!” I stammered. “I have a bad back, Sherman. All those stairs—”
“Better start working out,” Sherman said. He spun away and walked off, laughing his head off.
When Sherman was out of sight, I turned back to Beast. “Good work,” I said. “The trap is set. Hey—where’s that pie?”
The whole pie was gone from the tray.
Beast rubbed his stomach. He had blueberry stains all over his face.
“Good work,” I said again. “This contest is a cinch. The watch is mine! Now I just have one little problem…. How do I come up with the pies?”
Chapter 11
25 CHOCOLATE CAKES
Our classroom building looks like an old-fashioned school house. I guess that’s how it got its name—the School House.
It’s an old, red brick building with a white door in front and long vines of poison ivy clinging to the walls.
Some kids call it Mouse House. Yeah, you guessed why. The mice outnumber the students two to one. You can’t fall asleep in class. The mice will crawl up your legs.
The next afternoon, I was walking out of the School House when I saw April-May by the front door. “Hey, hi!” I called. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” she said. She kicked a mouse out of the way and started up the front stairs.
I chased after her. “Looking good,” I said. “I like what you did to your hair.”
“You can’t see my hair. I’m wearing a cap,” she replied.
“How about a walk? Or maybe we could hang out at the Student Center?”
“No way,” she said. “I have my cooking class now. With Ms. Monella. It’s going to be very cool. We’re getting everything ready to bake chocolate cakes tomorrow.”
I stepped in front of her. “Chocolate cakes? How man
y kids are in your class?”
“Twenty-five,” April-May said. “We’re baking twenty-five chocolate cakes. Get out of my way, Bernie.”
My brain was spinning. “Why not blueberry pies?” I said.
She squinted at me. “Are you crazy? It’s chocolate cakes.” She pushed me out of the way and started into the classroom kitchen.
“About those dance lessons Saturday night—” I said.
She slammed the door in my face.
“Is that a maybe?” I shouted.
I stood there, thinking hard. Chocolate cakes…chocolate cakes…Why not PIES?
There’s gotta be a way….
Chapter 12
JENNIFER ECCH
I booted a fat mouse from my path and stepped outside. It was a cool, gray afternoon. But my brain was steaming hot. I was picturing twenty-five cakes turning into pies.
“Hey, Big B—what’s up?”
Feenman and Crench were calling to me. We started walking across the Great Lawn toward Rotten House.
I explained the problem to them. “The pie-eating contest is a lock,” I said. “But how do we get the pies? Any ideas?”
“Run,” Feenman said.
“Yeah. Run,” Crench said.
“Run? Why?” I asked.
Crench pointed across the lawn. His finger trembled. “Here comes Jennifer Ecch!” he cried.
I turned and saw Nightmare Girl running at me full speed, like a tiger ready to pounce.
“Jennifer Ecch!” I shouted. “RUN!” I took off, my sneakers slapping the ground.
Behind me, I saw Jennifer Ecch soaring across the grass, her brown hair flying behind her head.
She’s a big, strong girl, about a foot taller than me. I mean, she’s a really big girl. Her knees are as big as my head!
Someone told me that she’s here on an Arm Wrestling scholarship.
I cut around a flower bed and darted into a bunch of bushes. I glanced back.
Jennifer was gaining on me. She had her hands outstretched, ready to grab me.
Sweat poured down my face as I dove through the bushes and dashed through a clump of apple trees. It’s so embarrassing to be in fourth grade and have a girl who’s madly in love with me.
What could be worse?
I was panting now. I picked up speed as I tore through another clump of bushes.
Behind me, I heard Jennifer’s loud cry. She leaped and flew through the air. She tackled me from behind.
I went down hard, landing on my elbows and my knees. My glasses went flying.
Jennifer landed hard on top of me. We were both gasping for breath.
It was a struggle. But I finally pulled her off me. I climbed to my feet and brushed myself off.
“Hey, Jen—” I said. “I was looking for you!”
Chapter 13
THE HORRIBLE ACCIDENT
“Huh? Looking for me?” Jennifer Ecch pulled herself to her knees. She wiped grass stains off her hands. She squinted at me with her one blue eye, one brown eye.
“Yeah. I was looking all over for you,” I said. I pulled a clump of leaves from my hair. I picked up my glasses.
“Is that why you ran so fast?” she asked.
She stood up and straightened her denim skirt. She had grass stains on those giant knees.
I flashed her my famous, five-star, fifty-two-tooth, dimpled grin.
Jennifer swooned. She gave me a dreamy look.
The dimples get them every time. Sometimes I push a pencil eraser into my dimples to make them deeper.
“Why were you looking for me, Sweet Cakes?” Jennifer asked.
I started to gag. “Please—please don’t ever call me Sweet Cakes,” I begged. “It makes my ears sweat. Really. Look how they’re sweating.”
“Well, why were you looking for me, Bernie?”
I reached into my pocket for an order form. “Would you like to buy a Bernie Bridges T-shirt? They’re made out of rope. But they’re very comfortable.”
Jennifer let out a roar. She lowered her head, rushed forward, and rammed her head into my stomach.
Ohh. I couldn’t breathe! I felt like I’d been hit by a garbage truck. Moaning and groaning, I dropped to the ground. I sprawled on my back, struggling to breathe.
And Jennifer Ecch sat on my chest.
“Is that a no?” I asked.
“I bought two of them,” she said. “They scratched my skin until I bled. Three days after I stopped wearing them, I was still itching like crazy.”
I groaned some more. “Get off me, Jen. You’re breaking my ribs. I need my ribs. They keep my chest on.”
Jennifer didn’t budge. “I’ll make you a deal, Bernie.”
“A deal?”
“I’ll get up—if you take dance lessons with me at the Student Center Saturday night.”
I choked. “D-d-d-dance lessons? With y-you?”
“Bernie, why are you stuttering?”
“Because I think it’s a great idea,” I said. “D-dance lessons with you. Awesome.”
Jennifer let out a squeal. She jumped to her feet. “Really? You want to do it?”
Holding my aching stomach, I stood up slowly. “Yeah. Only I can’t do it, Jen. I can’t dance. I may never dance again.”
I lowered my head sadly. I forced some tears to drip from my eyes.
Jennifer Ecch gazed at me. “Why, Bernie?” she cried. “What’s wrong, Sweet Cakes?”
“My knees,” I said.
I started to stagger and stumble around, pressing my knees together. “See? See how I’m walking? Isn’t this terrible? I hurt my knees…in a horrible skiing accident.”
She squinted at me. “You ski?”
“Well…yeah. And I was caught in an avalanche. A huge snowdrift fell on my knees. Two tons of solid ice. My knees are still frozen stiff! I haven’t been able to dance ever since.”
I staggered around some more.
“Oh, Honey Bunch, that’s so sad!” Jennifer cried. She tried to wrap me in a hug, but I ducked away.
She glanced at her watch. “Oh, no. I’m late for Cooking class. We’re getting ready to make cakes.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “Hey, Jen—do you know any way I could get Ms. Monella to bake pies instead?”
She squinted at me. “Bake pies?”
I nodded.
“If I tell you how, Bernie, will you take the dance lessons with me?”
“Sure,” I said. “Dance lessons. No problem.” I didn’t really hear myself. I was thinking about blueberry pies.
Jennifer smiled at me. “Just ask her. That’s all.”
“That’s your big idea?” I cried. “Just ask her? No way. She’ll know it’s for one of my schemes. She’s much too smart to do anything I ask.”
“Not true,” Jennifer said. “Sally Monella is a pushover. She’s totally soft-hearted. Last week, a kid started crying his eyes out because he missed his mother’s hamburgers. So guess what? We all made hamburgers.”
My brain started hissing and steaming again. “Crying, huh? Crying worked on her?”
“Yes. Crying always works with Ms. Monella. Gotta run, Sweet Cakes.” Jennifer took me by surprise. She grabbed my head and planted a big kiss on my forehead.
Ecch. I took off, running to the dorm to wash it off.
Chapter 14
25 BLUEBERRY PIES
“Okay, Chipmunk—here she comes,” I whispered.
We were huddled outside the classroom kitchen. Chipmunk sat on the floor with his head in his lap. I saw Ms. Monella coming down the hall.
“Okay, start crying,” I said. “Make it look good, Chipmunk. Don’t forget to sob real loud. And move your shoulders up and down.”
Chipmunk started to whimper.
“No. No good!” I said, shaking him. “No whimpering—crying. Sobbing. Hurry. Get going. Make it good, dude!”
Chipmunk started to sob, shaking his shoulders up and down.
Ms. Monella trotted up to us. “Why, good afternoon, Bernie. How are
y’all today?” She has a very soft voice and speaks in a sweet Southern drawl.
“I’m fine,” I said. “But…” I pointed to Chipmunk, sobbing his heart out.
“Oh, my goodness!” Ms. Monella exclaimed. “What’s wrong with your friend?” she asked me.
“It’s because of his birthday,” I said. “His birthday is coming up. His mom always bakes him a blueberry pie for his birthday. It’s the first year he won’t have one.”
I nudged Chipmunk in the back, and he let out some really loud sobs. He kept his head down, weeping hard.
Ms. Monella shook her head. “Ah think ah have an idea,” she told me.
She turned to my sobbing friend. “Chipmunk, don’t cry,” she said. “We were going to bake chocolate cakes for the School Bake Sale—but forget that. I’ll go buy a bushel of blueberries. And I’ll have everyone in my class bake a blueberry pie.”
She patted his quivering shoulders. “Cheer up, Chipmunk,” she said. “We’ll bake twenty-five blueberry pies tomorrow, and you can come choose one for your birthday!”
I grabbed Chipmunk by the back of the neck and pulled his head up. “Look. He’s smiling already!” I said. “You’ve made him so happy, Ms. Monella.”
She smiled, too. “Well, that’s just wonderful. I’d better get to the store and buy up all their blueberries.”
“Yes. Definitely. Go to the store,” I said. A grin crossed my face. “Yes. Twenty-five pies. That should be about right.”
I felt my wrist. It started to tingle.
Whoa! Of course my wrist was tingling. Tomorrow night I’d be wearing the watch on that wrist!
Chapter 15
EAT PIE!
The next night, we waited till midnight. Then we snuck out of the dorm.
Belzer, Feenman and Crench, Chipmunk, Beast, and a bunch of other Rotten House guys followed me to the School House.
It was a cold, windy night. No moon or stars in the sky. I knew I wasn’t shaking from the cold. I was shaking with excitement. And my wrist was tingling stronger than ever.