by Mark Tatulli
Mr. Needles smiles an ugly smile and leans forward on his shrinking desk.
I swear I see bits of yesterday’s Sloppy Joe between his teeth.
“The point is this, Mr. Pucket: clever creative writing has no place in any newspaper. Only the cold, hard, uninteresting facts!
“But the deed is done. And so are you—with the school newspaper, boy! And since current events are the subject of the day, let me bring you up to speed . . .”
“One more strike and—but I won’t say it! You still have time to make things right! You can turn things around! I have faith in you. But I also think pigs will fly!”
Mr. Needles laughs, but the smile doesn’t make it to his eyes. And he hands me a new slip . . .
I leave Mr. Needles’s office, and the same thing keeps turning over in my brain: One more chance to stay on the straight and narrow. One more chance to get this right, or Mr. Needles packs me off to Wood Hook Junior High and I miss the field trip to Crab Shell Pier and—
In my troubled daze I crash right into . . . Janitor DeWicky! He stares at me angrily.
“Thanks a heap, kid! You had my daughter freaking out, thinking she ate me for lunch yesterday!”
There’s a sentence you don’t hear every day.
“Ever wonder what happens to all the mixed vegetables that nobody eats? You’re gonna find out, kid! I know which locker is yours.”
I’ve got two strikes. And one more chance.
16
the me nobody
saw coming
Ta-da! What do you think?
OK, here’s the breakdown:
And don’t forget the footwear!
You ever hear of “Goody Two-Shoes”? Well, this is it . . .
. . . penny loafers!
I even got rid of my . . .
. . . and replaced it with the very un-scary . . .
Because nothing says teacher’s pet like a colorful notebook covered with dinggy zoo animals.
Yep, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. And I’m joining ’em, full blast and in your face!
Of course, there are some who think my change is only skin-deep and not for real.
“Mr. Pucket, while a leopard might succeed in sponging off his spots, he will remain a leopard just the same,” says a suspicious Mr. Needles.
Yes, that’s right. I say things like “duly noted” now.
“I assure you I am in earnest, Mr. Needles,” I continue, using my new mature-speak. “And I will take great pleasure in proving to you what an asset I can be to the entire Cloverfield scholastic system.”
He’ll probably never use it again!
And then there’s Ricky.
Ricky and I have been number-one buds forever. We’ve never kept any secrets. Now I have to hit him with the new me, and it’s going to pack a wallop.
“Hey, Desmond, you gotta see this machine I got! It makes fart sounds that come in eight different languages! Wait until you hear—”
Yep, it’s hammer time.
This is going to be the hardest thing . . .
17
later, ricky
“You look like you just stepped out of Today’s Modern Dorkus magazine! Did somebody steal your clothes in gym?”
“Richard, if you will accompany me to the theater for drama club—”
“Is that a zoo animal notebook?!”
“Nobody is gonna believe you really changed this much!”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Richard. I have changed. And I have to make some other changes, too . . .”
I pull Ricky around the corner, push him against the lockers, and look right in his face.
“And you know how bad I want to go on the field trip! I’ve been waiting forever! I have to change everything! Not just the way I look, but my whole entire game!”
“I can’t mess this up, Ricky! Mr. Needles connects you with the old me! I’ve got to make him think I’m totally serious! Then, once he backs off and we go to Crab Shell Pier, we can be friends again!”
“Whatever, dude! I won’t screw it up for you, Desmond. I’m done. Before and after Crab Shell Pier.”
A crumpled piece of paper falls out of Ricky’s pocket as he walks off.
A Ricky cartoon.
Probably the last one I’ll see for a long time.
Hard.
Hard hurts.
I hope this is worth it.
18
gobsmacked by
the drama club
“Let’s all give a big hi-dee-ho welcome to the drama club’s newest member, Desmond Pucket!”
I hope not.
I make a small wave from my seat in the back of the theater . . .
. . . and the Drammies all turn to look at me, clapping politely.
“Aw, c’mon, Desmond!” booms Mr. Bramfield. “You can do better than that!”
Ugh. “Brammie’s Drammies.” That’s even worse. I hope they don’t make us wear T-shirts that say that.
Mr. Bramfield bounces on one foot, waving enthusiastically for me to stand.
“Why don’t you get up and tell the gang why you joined the drama club?”
I’m starting to wish Mr. Needles had kicked me out of school. I rise from my seat and . . .
“No, Desmond, up here, where we can see you!” Mr. B says, pointing to the space next to him.
In front of everybody.
Some kids snicker as I walk to the front. Mr. Bramfield must’ve taken advanced college courses in child humiliation.
My hand is in my pocket and I can feel a pair of monster teeth, a leftover from the old me . . .
For a second I think about popping them in my mouth, lunging at Mr. B, and scaring my way out of this. So easy . . .
But I remember the mission. Crab Shell Pier—must stay focused. I let go of the fangs and turn to face the audience.
And then I see her. In the third row. Is she actually glowing?
Tina Schimsky. The cutest girl in the sixth grade. Tina Schimsky is in the drama club.
I have no idea what I say next, because my brain is suddenly off in a daydream, just like in one of those corny old musicals my mom always watches.
The brick walls and curtains melt away, and . . . Tina and I dance off together . . .
. . . right into a sunset shot of Crab Shell Pier . . .
. . . to the very tippy-top of the Mountain Full of Monsters ride and—
I shake the goofy fantasy out of my head. The kids are all laughing, including Tina, who whispers something to Sheila Cutter.
“Like us all, you want to drink deeply of the elixir that is musical theater!”
Not exactly what I was going to say, but . . .
“And you’ll all be happy to know,” continues Mr. B, “that I’ve already picked this year’s musical!”
Mr. Bramfield is famous for picking the lamest of lame-o musicals,
. . . and he’s a sucker for a theme show.
He dances row to row, handing out scripts.
“Tryouts start tomorrow, gang! Anyone who doesn’t get a part is still on the stage crew or lighting! There’s always something for everyone to do!”
I look at the script.
Guh! I just know that, somewhere, Mr. Needles is laughing his butt off.
And waiting for me to fail again.
19
desmond the
striped and
colorful
It’s been two weeks since I made the transformation to supergalactic nerdboy, and it’s all going according to plan. Everybody likes the new me, which really makes me wonder . . .
Mom loves buying clothes for the new me.
I used to be a basic-black guy (a good effects man is always ready to blend into the shadows), but now I’m all about bright oranges and reds and lime green. I didn’t even know they made boys’ pants in those colors! And striped shirts of every kind. Some days I go to school looking like a giant dish of birthday cake ice cream with a side order of jelly beans.
Dad is
really happy to see the change in me, too.
He is so encouraged by my turning to the dweeb side that he leaves a couple brochures on my bed . . .
Speaking of acting, Mr. Bramfield likes the dorky Desmond so much that he makes me captain of Brammie’s Drammies.
Putting my special-effects expertise to good use, I rewire the theater lights, and now we can make it rain or snow or flash lightning onstage with a flick of a button. Mr. B even gives me a small part in the circus musical. My big scene is selling a balloon to the female lead, Tina Schimsky.
So life is good right now. There are only two problems: Ricky and Mr. Needles.
My friendship with Ricky is the one thing I really miss! Whenever I have a cool new idea or draw an awesome cartoon, I have nobody to show it to. Ricky is the one person who really gets me.
I hate ignoring Ricky, but Mr. Needles is watching me so closely that I can’t make any mistakes.
Now that things are going so good with the drama club, it’s like Mr. Needles is watching from around every corner, waiting for the tiniest slip-up so he can nail me.
Every day I get one step closer to the field trip to Crab Shell Pier and the Mountain Full of Monsters ride! I just have to hold on a little longer. I’m so close! Everything is working perfectly!
So of course, that’s when things start going wrong . . .
20
the slimy
setup
This could be trouble . . .
Somebody slimed Tina Schimsky.
I look at Tina standing center stage, every bit of her covered in green, drippy goop. Her mouth is frozen in a silent scream. Her eyes are half rolling up into her lids.
Tina Schimsky even makes Gak look good!
I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds like a compliment.
“Thanks! But it wasn’t me this time, Mr. B! I don’t do that stuff anymore! I’m captain of Brammie’s Drammies! I’m clean! I swear! I didn’t—”
Just then, a high-pitched scream shatters our eardrums. That can only be Sheila Cutter. Even though Sheila pretty much screams all the time, this one sounds especially horrified.
Sheila bolts out from behind the curtains and onto the stage, covered in cottony webs and hundreds of fake spiders.
She’s so wildly out of control, flinging her arms and spinning and knocking over set pieces, that she crashes right into Tina Schimsky. They both end up on the stage floor, a mass of gloppy slime, tangled webs, and plastic creepy-crawlers . . .
. . . and much screaming.
All of a sudden, another bucket of purple goo dumps . . .
. . . right onto Mr. Bramfield’s comb-over, and he joins in the girls’ screaming.
As the slime-drenched Mr. B reaches out to grab me, I back away and trip . . .
. . . falling off the stage and into the orchestra pit!
Thankfully, I land on the softness of Thomas Proll, the tuba player. But my fall sets off a chain reaction of music stands crashing into other music stands. Sheet music flies everywhere. Metal and wood instruments clatter across the floor.
As I run from the theater, I think about what Mr. B just said . . .
Somebody is trying to make the whole drama club think I want to sabotage the musical! But who would set me up?
Then I remember the other word Mr. B said earlier: “prankster.”
And there’s only one prankster I can think of who would want to see me get kicked out of the drama club . . .
21
attack of
the ricky
I knew that atomic-wedgie training would come in handy one day . . .
I just never thought I’d be using it on my ex–best friend.
“What the—!” sputters Ricky. “First you say you can’t be seen near me, and next thing you’re pulling my underwear over my head!”
“You set me up by pulling all those pranks on the drama club just to get me kicked out!”
“What are you talking about, dipstick?!”
“I know it was you,” I sputter. “Who else knows I use that brand of high-gloss superstick spider webs?”
“You’re combing your hair too tight, Pucket! It’s affecting your brain!”
I notice a crowd is forming around us—and it’s growing. I snap right back at Ricky: “Yeah, well, at least I wash and comb my hair!”
OK, you’re definitely not dealing with master insulters here. We’re in way over our heads. But the crowd doesn’t care. And it isn’t long before Scott Seltzer yells . . .
. . . and the mob joins in.
Ricky suddenly dives . . .
. . . knocking me to the ground.
We roll around, swinging wildly at each other, neither of us getting any shots in.
The truth is out: Ricky and I stink at insulting and fighting. But we try to put on a good show.
Suddenly, the crowd scatters . . .
. . . and we’re lifted up by a strong grip on our collars.
“Mr. Bramfield, I swear I didn’t—”
“Mr. Pucket, I am prepared to take you at your word and give you another chance at the drama club . . .”
“And since I suspect your friend here may have had a hand in the recent theater slimings, I think he will be a nice addition to our stage crew . . . or face Mr. Needles!”
Ricky and I frown at each other. Mr. B is forcing us to work together in the drama club!
Well, at least now I can keep an eye on my ex–best friend. And if he tries any funny stuff, I’ll catch him in the act!
22
last
chance
I’m an outcast in the drama club. I can feel my last chance to go on the class field trip to Crab Shell Pier slipping away.
Everybody blames me for yesterday’s slime-a-thon, and now that Ricky has been forced into the stage crew, they all expect me and him to team up.
So now I have to work twice as hard to convince them all I’m still captain of Brammie’s Drammies!
So I bake cookies for the drama club fundraiser.
I work late painting backdrops. I help Mrs. DeNeen with the costumes, listening to her endless stories about her three poodles.
I even volunteer to fold and staple the programs, the worst drama club job of all.
And most importantly, I steer clear of Ricky.
If he’s on one side of the room, I’m on the other. Slowly but surely, I’m winning back the trust of the drama club.
And then, just as suddenly, it starts happening again.
Little things at first . . .
Then it gets worse: itching powder in the costumes, stink bombs in the dressing rooms, Mr. Bramfield’s special stash of wintergreen breath mints switched out for garlic flavor . . .
(And Mr. Bramfield likes to get right up in your kitchen when he talks, so this last thing is pretty much the worst.)
Once again, everybody thinks it’s me. The Drammies all start giving me the silent treatment, and Mr. Bramfield, sick of all the interruptions, threatens to report me to Mr. Needles.
“OK, Desmond, you have twenty-four hours to prove all these shenanigans are not your doing! Our show opens in a few days!”
OK, so Mr. B has given me a day to clear myself. And I’m going to use it. I’m going to get the creep who’s trying to frame me.
I smell a Ricky rat. And it’s time to set a trap . . .
23
trapping
the rat
I’m getting tired.
I’ve been crouching near the stage in the shadows of the curtains for hours, waiting for something to happen. To pass the time, I imagine myself on the Mountain Full of Monsters ride with Tina Schimsky.
Of course, the main thing keeping me here is the big payoff . . .
I smile thinking about Ricky standing in front of Mr. B and Mr. Needles, confessing and being totally humiliated that his trick to get me kicked out of drama club didn’t work. And then suddenly . . .
. . . I hear a noise in the hallway!
This is it!
The dummy has returned to the scene of the crime! What a dope! I ready myself as the stage door starts to open . . .
“Got ya!”
OK, so it’s not the perfect net . . .
I made it out of one of my old Zombie Boy bedsheets, but it did the trick! I caught a rat, just like I thought!
I can see the rat is totally shocked and confused as he fights with the bedsheet net. I run over and grab the sheet to pull it off, because I can’t wait to see the look on Ricky’s face . . .
“Jessup and Jasper!” I gasp. “What’s going on?! I don’t get it! Are you the guys who’ve been trying to set me up?”
“Yep, it was us, all right,” says Jasper. “Guess it’s time to come clean . . .”
24
the story of
jasper and
jessup