by R. L. Stine
REVENGE OF THE
LAWN GNOMES
Goosebumps - 34
R.L. Stine
(An Undead Scan v1.5)
1
Clack, Clack, Clack.
The Ping-Pong ball clattered over the basement floor. “Yes!” I cried as I watched Mindy chase after it.
It was a hot, sticky June afternoon. The first Monday of summer vacation. And Joe Burton had just made another excellent shot.
That’s me. Joe Burton. I’m twelve. And there is nothing I love better than slamming the ball in my older sister’s face and making her chase after it.
I’m not a bad sport. I just like to show Mindy that she’s not as great as she thinks she is.
You might guess that Mindy and I do not always agree on things. The fact is, I’m really not like anyone else in my family.
Mindy, Mom, and Dad are all blond, skinny, and tall. I have brown hair. And I’m kind of pudgy and short. Mom says I haven’t had my growth spurt yet.
So I’m a shrimp. And it’s hard for me to see over the Ping-Pong net. But I can still beat Mindy with one hand tied behind my back.
As much as I love to win, Mindy hates to lose. And she doesn’t play fair at all. Every time I make a great move, she says it doesn’t count.
“Joe, kicking the ball over the net is not legal,” she whined as she scooped out the ball from under the couch.
“Give me a break!” I cried. “All the Ping-Pong champions do it. They call it the Soccer Slam.”
Mindy rolled her huge green eyes. “Oh, puh-lease!” she muttered. “My serve.”
Mindy is weird. She’s probably the weirdest fourteen-year-old in town.
Why? I’ll tell you why.
Take her room. Mindy arranges all her books in alphabetical order—by author. Do you believe it?
And she fills out a card for each one. She files them in the top drawer of her desk. Her own private card catalog.
If she could, she’d probably cut the tops off the books so they’d be all the same size.
She is so organized. Her closet is organized by color. All the reds come first. Then the oranges. Then the yellows. Then come the greens, blues, and purples. She hangs her clothes in the same order as the rainbow.
And at dinner, she eats around her plate clockwise. Really! I’ve watched her. First her mashed potatoes. Then all her peas. And then her meat loaf. If she finds one pea in her mashed potatoes, she totally loses it!
Weird. Really weird.
Me? I’m not organized. I’m cool. I’m not serious like my sister. I can be pretty funny. My friends think I’m a riot. Everyone does. Except Mindy.
“Come on, serve already,” I called out. “Before the end of the century.”
Mindy stood on her side of the table, carefully lining up her shot. She stands in exactly the same place every time. With her feet exactly the same space apart. Her footprints are worn into the carpet.
“Ten-eight and serving,” Mindy finally called out. She always calls out the score before she serves. Then she swung her arm back.
I held the paddle up to my mouth like a microphone. “She pulls her arm back,” I announced. “The crowd is hushed. It’s a tense moment.”
“Joe, stop acting like a jerk,” she snapped. “I have to concentrate.”
I love pretending I’m a sports announcer. It drives Mindy nuts.
Mindy pulled her arm back again. She tossed the Ping-Pong ball up into the air. And…
“A spider!” I screamed. “On your shoulder!”
“Yaaaiiii!” Mindy dropped the paddle and began slapping her shoulder furiously. The ball clattered onto the table.
“Gotcha!” I cried. “My point.”
“No way!” Mindy shouted angrily. “You’re just a cheater, Joe.” She smoothed the shoulders of her pink T-shirt carefully. She picked up the ball and swatted it over the net.
“At least I’m a funny cheater!” I replied. I twirled around in a complete circle and belted the ball. It bounced once on my side before sailing over the net.
“Foul,” Mindy announced. “You’re always fouling.”
I waved my paddle at her. “Get a life,” I said. “It’s a game. It’s supposed to be fun.”
“I’m beating you,” Mindy replied. “That’s fun.”
I shrugged. “Who cares? Winning isn’t everything.”
“Where did you read that?” she asked. “In a bubble gum comic?” Then she rolled her eyes again. I think someday her eyes are going to roll right out of her head!
I rolled my eyes, too—back into my head until only the whites showed. “Neat trick, huh?”
“Cute, Joe,” Mindy muttered. “Really cute. You’d better watch out. One day your eyes might not come back down. Which would be an improvement!”
“Lame joke,” I replied. “Very lame.”
Mindy lined up her feet carefully again.
“She’s in her serve position,” I spoke into my paddle. “She’s nervous. She’s…”
“Joe!” Mindy whined. “Quit it!”
She tossed the Ping-Pong ball into the air. She swung the paddle, and—
“Gross!” I shouted. “What’s that big green glob hanging out of your nose?”
Mindy ignored me this time. She tapped the ball over the net.
I dove forward and whacked it with the tip of my paddle. It spun high over the net and landed in the corner of the basement. Between the washing machine and the dryer.
Mindy jogged after the ball on her long, thin legs. “Hey, where’s Buster?” she called out. “Wasn’t he sleeping next to the dryer?”
Buster is our dog. A giant black Rottweiler with a head the size of a basketball. He loves snoozing on the old sleeping bag we keep in the corner of the basement. Especially when we’re down here playing Ping-Pong.
Everyone is afraid of Buster. For about three seconds. Then he starts licking them with his long, wet tongue. Or rolls onto his back and begs to have his belly scratched.
“Where is he, Joe?” Mindy bit her lip.
“He’s around here somewhere,” I replied. “Why are you always worrying about Buster? He weighs over a hundred pounds. He can take care of himself.”
Mindy frowned. “Not if Mr. McCall catches him. Remember what he said the last time Buster chomped on his tomato plants?”
Mr. McCall is our next-door neighbor. Buster loves the McCalls’ yard. He likes to nap under their huge, shady elm tree.
And dig little holes all over their lawn. And sometimes big holes.
And snack in their vegetable garden.
Last year, Buster dug up every head of Mr. McCall’s lettuce. And ate his biggest zucchini plant for dessert.
I guess that’s why Mr. McCall hates Buster. He said the next time he catches him in his garden, he’s going to turn him into fertilizer.
My dad and Mr. McCall are the two best gardeners in town. They’re nuts about gardening. Totally nuts.
I think working in a garden is kind of fun, too. But I don’t let that get around. My friends think gardening is for nerds.
Dad and Mr. McCall are always battling it out at the annual garden show. Mr. McCall usually takes first place. But last year, Dad and I won the blue ribbon for our tomatoes.
That drove Mr. McCall crazy. When Dad’s name was announced, Mr. McCall’s face turned as red as our tomatoes.
So Mr. McCall is desperate to win this year. He started stocking up on plant food and bug spray months ago.
And he planted something that nobody else in North Bay grows. Strange orange-green melons called casabas.
Dad says that Mr. McCall has made a big mistake. He says the casabas will never grow any bigger than tennis balls. The growing season in Minneso
ta is too short.
“McCall’s garden loses,” I declared. “Our tomatoes are definitely going to win again this year. And thanks to my special soil, they’ll grow as big as beach balls!”
“So will your head,” Mindy shot back.
I stuck out my tongue and crossed my eyes. It seemed like a good reply.
“Whose serve is it?” I asked. Mindy was taking so long, I lost track.
“It’s still my serve,” she replied, carefully placing her feet.
We were interrupted by footsteps. Heavy, booming footsteps on the stairs behind Mindy.
“Who is that?” Mindy cried.
And then he appeared behind her. And my eyes nearly bulged right out of my head.
“Oh, no!” I screamed. “It’s… McCall!”
2
“Joe!” he roared. The floor shook as he stomped toward Mindy.
All the color drained from Mindy’s face. Her hand grasped her paddle so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She tried to swing around to look behind her, but she couldn’t. Her feet were frozen in her Ping-Pong-ball footprints.
McCall’s hands balled into two huge fists, and he looked really, really angry.
“I’m going to get you. And this time I’m going to win. Throw me a paddle.”
“You jerk!” Mindy sputtered. “I-I knew it wasn’t Mr. McCall. I knew it was Moose.”
Moose is Mr. McCall’s son and my best friend. His real name is Michael, but everyone calls him Moose. Even his parents.
Moose is the biggest kid in the whole sixth grade. And the strongest. His legs are as thick as tree trunks. And so is his neck. And he’s very, very loud. Just like his dad.
Mindy can’t stand Moose. She says he’s a gross slob.
I think he’s cool.
“Yo, Joe!” Moose bellowed. “Where’s my paddle?” His big arm muscles bulged as he reached out to grab mine.
I pulled my hand back. But his beefy hand slapped my shoulder so hard that my head nearly rolled off.
“Whoaaa!” I yelped.
Moose let out a deep laugh that shook the basement walls. And then he ended it with a burp.
“Moose, you’re disgusting,” Mindy groaned.
Moose scratched his dark brown crew cut. “Gee, thanks, Mindy.”
“Thanks for what?” she demanded.
“For this.” He reached out and snatched the paddle right out of her hand.
Moose swung Mindy’s paddle around wildly in the air. He missed a hanging lamp by an inch. “Ready for a real game, Joe?”
He threw the Ping-Pong ball into the air and drew his powerful arm back. Wham! The ball rocketed across the room. It bounced off two walls and flew back over the net toward me.
“Foul!” Mindy cried. “That’s not allowed.”
“Cool!” I exclaimed. I dove for the ball and missed. Moose has an amazing serve.
Moose slammed the ball again. It shot over the net and whacked me in the chest.
Thwock!
“Hey!” I cried. I rubbed the stinging spot.
“Good shot, huh?” He grinned.
“Yeah. But you’re supposed to hit the table,” I told him.
Moose pumped his fat fists into the air. “Super Moose!” he bellowed. “Strong as a superhero!”
My friend Moose is a pretty wild guy. Mindy says he’s a total animal. I think he’s just got a lot of enthusiasm.
I served while he was still throwing his arms around.
“Hey! No fair!” he declared. Moose charged the table and clobbered the ball. And flattened it into a tiny white pancake.
I groaned. “That’s ball number fifteen for this month,” I announced.
I grabbed the little pancake and tossed it into a blue plastic milk crate on the floor. The crate was piled high with dozens of flattened Ping-Pong balls.
“Hey! I think you broke your record!” I declared.
“All right!” Moose exclaimed. He leaped on top of the Ping-Pong table and began jumping up and down. “Super Moose!” he yelled.
“Stop it, you jerk!” Mindy screamed. “You’re going to break the table.” She covered her face with her hands.
“Super Moose! Super Moose!” he chanted.
The Ping-Pong table swayed. Then it sagged under his weight. He was even starting to get on my nerves now. “Moose, get off! Get off!” I wailed.
“Who’s going to make me?” he demanded.
Then we all heard a loud, sharp craaaaack.
“You’re breaking it!” Mindy shrieked. “Get off!”
Moose scrambled off the table. He lurched toward me, holding his hands straight out like the zombie monster we’d seen in Killer Zombie from Planet Zero on TV. “Now I’m going to destroy you!”
Then he hurled himself at me.
As he smashed into me, I staggered back and fell onto the dusty cement floor.
Moose jumped onto my stomach and pinned me down. “Say ‘Moose’s tomatoes are the best!’ ” he ordered. He bounced up and down on my chest.
“Moo… Moose’s,” I wheezed. “Tomat… I can’t… breathe… really… help.”
“Say it!” Moose insisted. He placed his powerful hands around my neck. And squeezed.
“Ugggggh,” I gagged. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.
My head rolled to the side.
“Moose!” I heard Mindy shriek. “Let him go! Let him go! What have you done to him?”
3
“M-Miiindy,” I moaned.
Moose pulled his hands from my throat and lifted his powerful body off my chest.
“What did you do to him—you big monster?” Mindy shrieked. She knelt down by my side and bent over me. She brushed my hair from my eyes.
“Y-you’re a… a…” I stopped and coughed weakly.
“What, Joe? What is it?” Mindy demanded softly.
“You’re a SUCKER!” I exclaimed. And burst out laughing.
Mindy jerked her head back. “You little weasel!”
“Tricked you! Tricked you!” I cheered.
“Way to go, dude!” Moose grinned.
I scrambled to my feet and slapped Moose a high five. “Suc-ker! Suc-ker!” we chanted over and over.
Mindy folded her skinny arms in front of her and glared at us. “Not funny,” she snapped. “I’m never going to believe another word you say! Never!”
“Oh, I’m sooooo scared!” I said. I knocked my knees together. “See? My knees are trembling.”
“I’m shaking, too,” Moose joined in, wiggling his whole body.
“You guys are totally juvenile,” she announced. “I’m out of here.”
She slid her hands into the pockets of her white shorts and stomped away. But then she suddenly stopped a few feet from the stairs.
In front of the high basement window.
The window that looked out onto Mr. McCall’s front yard.
She stared up through the window’s sheer white curtain for a second. She squinted her eyes. Then she cried out, “No! Oh, no!”
“Nice try,” I replied, flicking a dust ball from the carpet in her direction. “There’s nothing out there. I’m not falling for your lame trick!”
“No! It’s Buster!” Mindy cried. “He’s next door again!”
“Huh?” I sprinted to the window. And jumped onto a chair. I yanked the filmy curtain aside.
Yes. There sat Buster. In the middle of the vegetable patch that covered Mr. McCall’s front yard. “Oh, wow. He’s in the garden again,” I murmured.
“My garden! He’d better not be!” Moose declared, stomping up behind me. He shoved me off the chair to take a look. “If my dad catches Buster in his vegetables, he’ll turn that big mutt into mulch!”
“Come on! Hurry!” Mindy pleaded, tugging on my arm. “We have to get Buster out of there. Right away. Before Moose’s dad catches him!”
Moose, Mindy, and I raced upstairs and out the front door. We charged across our front lawn, toward the McCalls’ house.
At the edge of ou
r lawn, we leaped across the line of yellow and white petunias that Dad had planted. It separates our yard from the McCalls’ garden.
Mindy squeezed her fingernails deep into my arm. “Buster’s digging!” she cried. “He’s going to destroy—the melons!”
Buster’s powerful front paws worked hard. He scraped at the dirt and green plants. Mud and leaves flew everywhere.
“Stop that, Buster!” Mindy pleaded. “Stop that—now!”
Buster kept digging.
Moose glanced at his plastic wristwatch. “You’d better get that dog out of there fast,” he warned. “It’s almost six o’clock. My dad comes out to water the garden at six sharp.”
I’m terrified of Mr. McCall. I admit it. He’s so big, he makes Moose look like a shrimp! And he’s mean.
“Buster, get over here!” I begged. Mindy and I both shouted to the dog.
But Buster ignored our cries.
“Don’t just stand there. Why don’t you pull that dumb mutt out of there?” Moose demanded.
I shook my head. “We can’t! He’s too big. And stubborn. He won’t budge.”
I reached under my T-shirt and searched for the shiny metal dog whistle I wear on a cord around my neck. I wear it day and night. Even under my pajamas. It’s the only thing Buster will obey.
“It’s two minutes to six,” Moose warned, checking his watch. “Dad will be out here any second!”
“Blow the whistle, Joe!” Mindy cried.
I brought the whistle up to my mouth. And gave a long, hard blow.
Moose snickered. “That whistle’s broken,” he said. “It didn’t make a sound.”
“It’s a dog whistle,” Mindy replied in a superior tone. “It makes a really high-pitched sound. Dogs can hear them, but people can’t. See?”
She pointed to Buster. He had lifted his nose out of the dirt and pricked up his ears.
I blew the whistle again. Buster shook the dirt from his fur.
“Thirty seconds and counting,” Moose told us.
I blew the silent dog whistle one more time.
Yes!
Buster came trotting slowly toward us, wagging his stumpy tail.
“Hurry, Buster!” I pleaded. “Hurry!” I held my arms open wide.