by Tom Birdseye
“Yeah,” another voice chimed in.
I looked up and forced a smile. “Don’t worry,” I told the packed tent—eleven paying customers. “He’ll eat.”
But he didn’t. Not even after I nudged the cricket again, and it jumped so close to Fang their noses almost touched. Then the cricket jumped again, this time on its own, and actually landed on Fang’s back for a second before hopping off.
“We paid to see Fang the Killer,” someone in the crowd said.
“That’s right!” came another voice.
Panic crept up my spine. I grabbed the cricket and shoved it in front of Fang.
Again, nothing.
“I want my money back,” a girl in the second row said, holding out her hand toward me.
“Me, too,” a little boy beside her demanded.
I faced the crowd. “No. He’ll eat. He’s just … uh …” My mind was racing. I had to come up with something fast. In desperation, I looked around for anything to save the show. “Uh …”
Then I saw a piece of cardboard on the tent floor, left over from the sign making. I grabbed it and held it up. “Fang just needs some of his favorite exercise first!” I blurted out. “You know, to work up an appetite!”
I quickly lifted Fang out of his terrarium and held him up for everyone to see. With my other hand, I rested one end of the cardboard on the table, and held the other up in the air. In my best ringmaster voice, I announced, “Fang happens to be the only spider in the world that likes to go down a slide. Right before I caught him, I saw him sliding down a steep bank deep in the heart of the Arizona wilderness, like a kid at the playground.”
“Oooh!” said Amy from Charleston, eyes wide. “I like slides.”
I smiled at her. But Bobbie Jo said, “I’ve never heard of any spider that goes down a slide.”
This I did not need.
“Oh yeah?” I said, and started to push Fang down the cardboard just to show her how dumb people like her can be.
But before I could, Bobbie Jo jumped up and said, “You’re going to hurt that poor thing!”
I glared at her. “I am not! You don’t know anything about tarantulas! You’re from Mississippi!”
Bobbie Jo stopped, and for a second I thought I’d shut her up. But then her green eyes seemed to turn as gray as steel. “I ran to the library after your last show,” she said, drawing her words out like they were knives. “And I found this.”
Bobbie Jo pulled a small book from her back pocket. “It’s called A Kid’s Guide to Tarantulas. See?” She held it up so everyone would be sure she was telling the truth. There was the title, just like she’d said. “Nowhere in this book,” she continued, “does it say that tarantulas like to go down slides. Nowhere.”
“Well … uh …,” I stuttered, “Fang is different, see. I told you that he is the only one in the world that—”
“Nowhere in this book,” Bobbie Jo cut in, “does it say that tarantulas are deadly poisonous like you’ve been advertising, either. Their bite would hardly hurt a human, and they aren’t likely to bite, anyway. And Fang couldn’t be the largest one in captivity like the sign says. Sonoran tarantulas are not nearly as big as the ones that live in Brazil.” She opened up A Kid’s Guide to Tarantulas and quickly flipped the pages until she found what she wanted. “Right here on page eighteen it says, ‘The largest tarantulas live in South America. The Lasiodora is found in Brazil and has a leg span of up to ten inches!’ ” She looked over at me. “That’s twice as big as Fang!”
The crowd ooohed and ahhhed as they imagined a spider that big.
I shuffled around for a moment. “Uh … I knew that,” I said, which was partly true. I hadn’t known that the spider from Brazil was called Lasiodora. I’d studied Arizona tarantulas, but most of what I knew was from watching Fang and talking to people about him.
Still, I didn’t want to admit that in front of Bobbie Jo and everybody else. They were all staring, waiting to hear my comeback. “What I meant on the sign was that Fang is the largest North American tarantula in captivity,” I said. “And he is deadly poisonous to a cricket.”
There! That would put an end to that. Not bad on such short notice.
But Bobbie Jo snorted and said, “You’ve been telling some big ones, Ryan. Admit it.”
I put on my best angry look and stared at Bobbie Jo. (Dad says that the best defense is a good offense.) “Well,” I said, making my voice gruff.
“Well, what?” Bobbie Jo shot back, her eyes drilling into me. “We get our money back?”
A chorus of voices rang out. “Yeah! We want our money back!”
I scooped Fang up and quickly returned him to his terrarium. The thought of running for it crossed my mind. Then the thought of all those kids chasing me down Sycamore Street crossed my mind, too.
“We want our money back!” a kid began to chant. “We want our money back!” Another kid joined in, then more picked up the chorus. “We want our money back! We want our money back!”
Bobbie Jo continued to stare at me, and then I saw a flicker of something in her eyes. She thought this was funny! She actually enjoyed watching me squirm!
“We want our money back!” the crowd yelled. “We want our money back!”
I had absolutely no idea what to do.
CHAPTER 13
The Human Basketball
It’s amazing what some people will do in a panic—stupid, crazy things that they wouldn’t even consider on a normal afternoon. But that Sunday P.M. wasn’t normal, and the idea I suddenly got wasn’t normal, either. It just popped into my head.
“And now for the second act of this really great show!” I yelled above all the noise. “Follow me to the driveway, where for the first time in history you will witness a human basketball slam-dunk itself for two points!”
Telly’s eyes went wide. “Do what?”
“Right this way! See the human basketball!” I screeched before anybody could ask for a refund again. I bolted out of the tent and around the house, with everybody following me. I ran into the garage and got Dad’s extension ladder. Quickly, I leaned it up against the backboard and climbed out of even Telly’s tall reach.
Not that kids were grabbing for me. I just wanted to be sure that they didn’t. All the money for two shows was in my pants pocket. I climbed up and over the backboard and perched like a red-tailed hawk on the rim of the basketball hoop.
“Right before your very eyes!” I shouted.
“Don’t jump, Ryan!” Ellie called up, her voice trembling. “You could get hurt!”
Justin looked at her, then took off for the back door of the house yelling. “Mom! Mom! Ryan is acting crazy!”
Standing on the rim, the soles of my shoes ten feet off the ground, I had to admit that this did seem a little crazy and that a person could indeed get hurt pretending to be a basketball.
But I gulped back my fear and announced, “Ryan O’Keefe for two!”
Mom swung open the back door. “What in the world?” she said, then, “Ryan, NO!”
It was a good idea—that NO!—but too late. I’d already jumped.
My feet made it through. My legs made it through. My body made it through. But my elbows didn’t. I must have had them sticking out like I do when I’m eating a hamburger, because they both got tangled in the net and I was left dangling like a fish on a line.
“Cool, Ryan,” Telly said, looking up at me.
I looked down from where I hung—my head just under the rim, my feet swinging back and forth five feet off the ground—and tried to smile. “I think I was fouled.”
Telly laughed. “Good one! Definitely a good one!”
Bobbie Jo stepped up beside Telly. “I’ve seen a lot of really dumb things in my life,” she said, shaking her head in disgust, “but this has got to be the dumbest. You must have been at the end of the line when they handed out brains, Ryan.”
I hate to admit it, but considering the position I was in, I couldn’t argue the point.
Stupid or no, though, n
o one was yelling for their money back, and I wasn’t hurt. Shaken up a bit, maybe. Tangled and dangling, maybe. But not much more than a scratch, I could tell.
Mom got me down, with some help from Telly. “What has gotten into you, Ryan?” she asked once she was sure I didn’t need to go to the emergency room.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“It’s peer pressure,” she mumbled, ushering me into the house. “I’ve been warned about junior high behavior, but what were you thinking?”
Mom decided that I wasn’t thinking at all and sent me to my pink bedroom to do a little of it.
But first I brought in Fang from where I’d left him in the tent so I wouldn’t worry about him out there all alone. Then I could really think.
Not about why I’d jumped through the net, though. That was clear enough—for the money! What I needed to think about was what to do next. This time I’d been lucky with the human basketball trick. But if Fang stopped cooperating for good, my show was a goner. And so were my pair of Slam Dunk Sky Jumpers. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to eat every time I wanted him to, just when he wanted to. Which could be only two or three times a week. Which wouldn’t do at all if I was going to make money fast. And after everything Miss-Know-It-All Bobbie Jo had said, waving A Kid’s Guide to Tarantulas around, I couldn’t keep using the same signs. So then how was I going to keep the shows going?
As I was considering all of this, Fang walked over to the corner of his terrarium. He put one leg on the glass, then two, then all but one of his eight legs, and reached for the top.
I leaned closer. “Hey, old buddy,” I whispered, “you’re okay, aren’t you? You’ll perform for Ryan, right?”
Fang moved back from the corner toward the center of the terrarium, as if it were the center ring of the big-top and he was ready to perform again.
“Good boy!” I said, and reached into the terrarium to stroke my spider the way you would a dog. He reared up and tried to bite me.
I jerked my hand back so fast, I hit myself in the face.
“Whoa!” I leaned close to the glass. Fang was back down on all eight legs as if nothing had happened. “What was that all about?” I said. “I’ve picked you up bunches of times and you’ve never done that before.”
I slowly reached back into the terrarium, this time with my hand in front of Fang. He walked up onto my fingers, then back onto the sand.
“Hmmm, what’s the deal here?” I reached in again, coming straight down toward Fang’s back.
He reared up and batted at my fingers with his front legs. I pulled my hand back, shaking my head. Why was he doing that?
Then I remembered. A tarantula’s worst enemy out in the desert is the tarantula wasp. It paralyzes poor little spiders like Fang with its sting and then buries them alive after laying its eggs on their body. Yuck! When the eggs hatch, the wasp larvae eat the fresh body. Aiyeee! Talk about terrible. Tarantula wasps attack from above. No wonder Fang was ready to bite my finger!
I did it again. And Fang reared up again, looking like a great monster fighting off the enemy.
“Cool,” I said. And it was. As cool as watching him eat a cricket. Maybe even cooler!
I sat back down on my bed. I could already see the new signs announcing the incredible attraction: ALL NEW SHOW! SEE THE FIGHTING TARANTULA! Sure! All I had to do was put my finger over his back and Fang would rear up every time, even if he wasn’t hungry. It would work. Who needed Gordon to come up with good ideas? I was as good a businessman as he was. I could make all the money I needed, no matter what Bobbie Jo said.
I jumped up and did a little dance in the middle of my bedroom floor. Yes! Yes! The show would go on!
CHAPTER 14
Yahoo!
I promised Mom that I would never be a basketball again.
She said, “I’m relieved to hear that.”
Then I told her about the new signs. “He really will fight,” I assured her. “You want to see?”
“No thank you,” Mom said. “Remember, Fang is your pet, not a boxing glove.”
I said, “I know. Don’t worry.”
Mom looked at me for a long moment and said, “I’ll try.”
I went to bed early, thinking about Monday, the last day before school started, and all I had to do before then. That night, I dreamed that I was sitting on top of a huge pile of Slam Dunk Sky Jumpers, and they were all mine.
In the morning, I put up the new signs—four of them—in front of the house. I also made ten fliers and posted them around the neighborhood and down at the Stop and Go Mini-Mart like Gordon had suggested.
And it worked. The tent was packed for the first three shows. Nobody mentioned the day before. I guess they figured they’d get their money’s worth, one way or the other, even if it was watching me jump through the hoop.
Gordon showed up again, wanting a piece of the action. But this time I just told him no. Four-Star Sports closed at six o’clock. School started tomorrow. I needed every quarter I could get my hands on. Let me get my pair of Slam Dunk Sky Jumpers, then maybe we could talk about some kind of a partnership. But no free admission now. No way.
Gordon went stomping off, yelling, “If it wasn’t for me, you’d be sitting on the front porch feeling sorry for yourself!” He shook his fist. “You can’t get away with this, O’Keefe! Just you wait! I’ll … I’ll do something!”
I wanted to go after Gordon, but just then Telly came back, with Aaron this time. Aaron had bet Telly that he really wasn’t a chicken. He’d prove it by sitting in the front row, right next to Fang’s terrarium, and not even flinch when I took Fang out.
The twins showed up again, too, but this time didn’t want to get into the show. Instead, they wanted me to go with them to the doctor’s office to get their school shots. “Could you hold our hands when he sticks us with the needle, Ryan?”
I said, “Nope.”
Ellie looked around at the tent and sign and all the kids. “You never help us anymore, Ryan,” she said. “Or play with us, either.”
Justin nodded. “Or read The Cat in the Hat. Or let us ride on your back. Or give us good-night hugs and kisses. Why don’t you like us anymore?”
A kid came up wanting to buy a ticket. “I don’t have time for this,” I said to the twins, shooing them away. “Can’t you see that I’m busy? I’m making money here.”
And by the end of the day, I had indeed. Things went perfectly.
Well, nothing is completely perfect. Telly kept poking Aaron in the ribs during the first show and saying, “You’re afraid of Fang, aren’t you?”
When Aaron started ignoring him, Telly put his hand on Aaron’s shoulder and yelled, “Tarantula!” Aaron jumped up, and I thought he was going to make his own door in the tent on the way out. Instead of running, though, he got mad and pushed Telly over. From the look on Telly’s face, I was sure there was going to be a fight right there in the middle of my show. But Telly just laughed like it was all a big joke. He acted as if he wasn’t angry. But I heard him say under his breath, “I’ll get Aaron back for that.”
Like I said, nothing is completely perfect. But other than the kid named Billy who came to the third show and kept pretending he was picking buggers out of his nose and flicking them on the tent ceiling, the rest of the day went great.
Fang reared up and acted like he was fighting every time I put my finger over his back. He even decided he was hungry in the fourth show. It was great. He pounced on a cricket I had put in the corner of his terrarium, just as I was saying, “Despite all that has been written about tarantulas in books, many things are still unknown and unexpected.” Pounce! Gotcha! You should have seen everyone jump.
By the fourth show, kids were beginning to line up outside the tent for the next performance. As soon as I was done dazzling one group, I rushed them out and flung back the tent door for the next group to come in. By four o’clock I had done seven packed shows. I was exhausted but also rich. I sat down on the front porch and counted my
money. I knew I had done well, but not that well. I counted once, then twice, then even a third time. I’d made it! I had enough to buy my very own pair of Slam Dunk Sky Jumpers at the regular price!
“YAHOO!” I yelled so loud, Mom and Dad came running out onto the front porch to see if something was wrong.
I begged them to let me go get the shoes right away. “Pleeease! I’ve got the money! The store closes at six!”
“Sure,” Dad said so quickly that I instantly forgave him for moving us to Kentucky. “You deserve that. You’ve worked hard for your money.”
Mom shook her head and let out a big sigh. Then she said, “If that’s how you really want to spend what you’ve earned, then go ahead. Just don’t get into such a hurry you forget to be careful, okay?”
“Okay!” I said, already halfway off the porch, headed toward the garage. I jumped on my bike and raced down Sycamore Street hill so fast, the wind was screaming in my ears. I flew around the curve at the bottom, scattering a bunch of ducks waddling toward the creek. It felt like I was going at least a hundred miles an hour.
“YAHOO!” I shouted for the whole world to hear. A few more minutes and a pair of Slam Dunk Sky Jumpers would be MINE, MINE, ALL MINE!
CHAPTER 15
Genuine Marvels
After all the trouble I’d had saving the money to buy my Slam Dunk Sky Jumpers, I thought it would be pretty complicated actually buying a pair.
It wasn’t, though. Mrs. Marcosa said, “Why, yes, we got in the new shipment right after lunch, and I have your size.” She went into a storeroom and brought out a box. She pulled out the size-seven Slam Dunk Sky Jumpers, slipped them on my feet, and they fit.
I said I wanted to wear them home, of course. Mrs. Marcosa put my old shoes in a bag that I could sling over my bicycle handlebars. And before I knew it, I was at the cash register giving her nearly every penny I had in the world. Just like that! Money may be hard to come by, but it sure goes fast.
Riding my bike back up the Sycamore Street hill, I quickly forgot about the money, though. Despite the hot, humid afternoon, having a pair of Slam Dunk Sky Jumpers on my feet made me feel cool. And I was positive they made me stronger, too. The hill seemed less steep, the pedaling almost easy. In no time at all I was at the top.