Welcome to Smellville

by R. L. Stine

  “He has a putrid aroma that stinks!” Luke replied.

  “That’s much better,” our teacher said.

  FIFTEEN

  Mrs. Hooping-Koff was carrying red and green square blocks, and she dropped one off in front of every student. “This is modeling clay,” she said. “I thought we would work in clay today.”

  I picked up my clay and sniffed it. I liked the smell, but my hand started to shake.

  “Do I have to?” I asked the teacher. “I don’t think I’ll be any good at it.”

  “I’m sure you won’t be, Rex,” Mrs. Hooping-Koff replied. “But you have to overcome your fear.”

  She frowned at me. “Look at you. Your hands are shaking.”

  “My hands are shaking, too!” Luke Puke cried and held up his hands. “Look. I have chills. I have to see the nurse.”

  “The nurse quit,” Mrs. Hooping-Koff told him. “She said you made her sick.”

  “But I have the chills!” Luke insisted.

  “Work with the clay,” our teacher said. “It will warm you up.”

  “But clay gives me a rash,” Luke said.

  Mrs. Hooping-Koff ignored him. “Listen up, class,” she said. “Soften the clay with your hands. Then form it into anything you want. Anything at all. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

  Junkfood John raised his hand. “Mrs. Hooping-Koff, can I have another piece of clay?”

  “Why do you need another piece of clay, John?”

  “I ate mine,” he said.

  Junkfood John had green stuff on his lips and a chunk of clay stuck to his chin.

  “Try not to eat this one, too,” Mrs. Hooping-Koff said, giving him some more clay.

  “Oh no. My nose dripped again,” Rob Slob said. “My clay is all wet and sticky. Can I have another piece?”

  Mrs. Hooping-Koff dropped another chunk of clay on the table in front of him. “Use a handkerchief, Slob,” she said.

  “I don’t have one,” Rob said. “But it’s no problem.” Then he pulled the front of Wacky Jackie’s shirt to him and blew his nose into it.

  We all worked with the clay for a while. My hands were shaking. I always get nervous when I can’t decide what to make.

  My clay slipped off the table and landed on top of my shoe. I tried to pull it off, but it stuck to the laces.

  What if I can’t get it off? What if everyone sees it and laughs at me? What if I can’t walk?

  I have a lot of nervous thoughts.

  “Hey, check it out!” Wacky Jackie called, and held up her clay creation.

  “What is that?” Mrs. Hooping-Koff asked.

  Jackie grinned. “It’s a body part! Guess what it is?”

  “Put that away!” our teacher screamed. She grabbed it from Jackie’s hands and frantically smushed it back into a ball.

  Cranky Frankie chuckled. “Good one, Jackie.”

  The teacher stood behind Brainy Janey. “What are you making, Janey?”

  Janey held up her clay. It was a perfect square cube.

  “It’s a pyramid,” Janey said. “The ancient Egyptonians used modeling clay to build their pyramids.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Mrs. Hooping-Koff said.

  “I looked it up once,” Janey replied. “I believe they kept their chariots inside the pyramids. You know. Like a garage. So the chariots wouldn’t be out in the rain.”

  “Rain in the desert. Very interesting,” our teacher said. “But, Janey, you’re holding a cube. It isn’t shaped like a pyramid.”

  “It’s a hidden pyramid,” Janey replied. “The Egyptonians hid their pyramids inside giant cubes so the pyramids wouldn’t get wet.”

  She’s such a brainiac.

  It’s no wonder she gets straight C-minuses on her report cards. Janey is tops in our class.

  SIXTEEN

  I know I’d do a lot better in school if I didn’t get so nervous. Sometimes I’m so tense when I take a test, I chew both ends off my pencil. Then I have nothing to write with, and I just have to sit there while everyone else finishes.

  Mrs. Hooping-Koff turned to me. “What did you make, Rex? Let me see it.”

  I held up my clay. It looked like a thin cigar.

  “It’s my favorite toy,” I said. “A thermometer.”

  “Interesting,” our teacher said.

  Luke Puke grabbed the clay thermometer and jammed it into his mouth. He pulled it out quickly and read it. “I think I have a high fever,” he said. “Can I see the nurse?”

  “No. I told you, she quit,” Mrs. Hooping-Koff repeated. “She said she was going home to stick pins into a voodoo doll she made of you.”

  Luke nodded. “That’s sweet.”

  Across the table from me, Peter and Patty Perfect had been working silently on their projects. They both had their faces lowered to the art table. Their eyes narrowed, and their hands worked quickly, pushing and pulling at their clay.

  Our teacher walked up behind them. “Let’s see what you two have been working on so intently,” she said.

  Peter worked his clay a moment longer. Then he raised it off the table. “It’s a stallion,” he said. “You can tell by the markings that it’s two years old. The mane and tail have been braided and groomed. And this is a western riding saddle on its back.”

  “Why, Peter, that’s perfect!” Mrs. Hooping-Koff exclaimed.

  “And this is the rider that goes with Peter’s horse,” Patty Perfect said. “The crease in his cowboy hat shows that he’s worn it forever. And I’ve carved buckskin chaps over his legs. And, as you can see, the boots I gave him are European leather.”

  “Perfect,” Mrs. Hooping-Koff said, nodding.

  Patty slid the rider onto the saddle of her brother’s horse. He fit perfectly, and they pushed their sculpture to the center of the table so everyone could see it.

  “If you’d like to see more of our clay work,” Peter said, “you can visit our exhibit at the Youth Art Museum. Our sculptures will be on display until next September.”

  “The exhibit is titled Perfect Works in Clay,” Patty added.

  Peter turned to Mrs. Hooping-Koff. “Do we get extra credit for having a museum exhibit? We also have a website.”

  Before our teacher had a chance to answer, Rob Slob called out, “I’m finished! Check mine out!”

  He pointed to a lumpy thing on the table in front of him.

  “What is that?” Mrs. Hooping-Koff asked.

  Rob Slob grinned. “It’s an armpit.” He started to raise it off the table.

  “No! Please don’t raise your arm!” I cried.

  “Please! Please keep your arm down!” Mrs. Hooping-Koff pleaded.

  “No! No armpit! Don’t open your armpit!” Adam Bomb shouted.

  But the alarmed cries around the table didn’t stop Rob.

  He raised his clay model above his head. And that meant his own real armpit was open.

  And the stench swept over the room like a tsunami of stink. In seconds, we were all choking, gagging, and holding our noses and our breath.

  Mrs. Hooping-Koff stumbled to the corner of the room and had dry heaves.

  Kids began to cry.

  The clay sculptures on the table wilted under the weight of the aroma.

  “Hey—someone in here stinks!” Rob exclaimed.

  I told you, the lucky guy can’t smell his own smell.

  My eyes were watering. I couldn’t breathe. The odor came in waves, pushing me off my stool.

  Just before I hit the floor, I heard Adam Bomb choke out, “We have to do something about Rob.”

  “I . . . have . . . a plan,” Brainy Janey whimpered.

  And then she began choking and gagging, and we didn’t get to hear the rest of what she had to say.

  SEVENTEEN

  Brainy Janey here. If I may . . .

  After dinner that night, we had a meeting about what to do with Rob Slob. We sat around the dining room table and talked. Rob was at the table, too. But he had no idea we were tal
king about him.

  Wacky Jackie had a good idea. “We fill a barrel with honey and lower him into it,” Jackie said. “He would come out smelling as sweet as honey.”

  “Why don’t we fill the barrel with horse manure?” Cranky Frankie said. “He would still come out smelling better than he does now.”

  Rob Slob laughed. “Ha ha. That’s funny. Who are we talking about?”

  “You don’t know him,” I said, thinking quickly.

  I turned to the others. “There are two problems with Jackie’s plan. One, we don’t have a barrel. And two, we don’t have any honey.”

  “We could use the bathtub,” Babbling Brooke said. “And fill it with water.”

  “I think that’s called a bath!” Handy Sandy said.

  “A bath! Brilliant idea!” I exclaimed.

  “We have a bathtub?” Rob Slob asked.

  “I think it’s somewhere in the bathroom,” Wacky Jackie said.

  I nodded and turned to Rob. “Rob, how do you feel about baths?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Bath? What’s a bath?”

  “We’ll show you,” I said. “Would you like a hot bath or a cold bath?”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “What kind of soap do you like?”

  “I don’t remember,” Rob said.

  “How about shampoo?” I asked.

  “How about it?” he replied.

  We all stared at him in silence. This was a big moment in our house. Rob Slob was willing to take a bath. This would improve our lives forever!

  “Can we give you a bath right now?” I asked. My heart was pounding with excitement.

  “Sure,” Rob answered. “Why wait?”

  Suddenly, I had a hunch. “Rob, stand up,” I said.

  He pushed his chair back from the table and climbed to his feet.

  “Turn around,” I said. “Turn around and take your T-shirt off.”

  “Whoa. Wait,” Babbling Brooke cried. “Are you sure you want him to do this right here? The smell—”

  “Rob, pull off your T-shirt,” I insisted.

  “Okay, Janey.”

  Rob Slob obediently lifted his shirt and tugged it off over his head.

  “Just as I suspected,” I said.

  I reached over and pulled a live snapping turtle off Rob’s back.

  “Rob, look at this. You have so much vegetation on your skin, you had a turtle living on your back!”

  I held the turtle up for everyone to see. Some gasped. Others made gulping noises.

  “Didn’t you feel it back there?” I asked.

  Rob shrugged. “I guess it itched a little,” he said.

  “I hate to think what’s living in his pants!” Cranky Frankie said.

  EIGHTEEN

  Luke Puke uttered a sick groan and climbed to his feet. “Where’s the best place to throw up my dinner?” he said.

  “At the Perfects’ house next door!” Wacky Jackie joked.

  “No time for that,” I said and turned to Handy Sandy. “Sandy, start the water going in the tub.”

  “I’ll need pliers for that,” Sandy said. “Someone stole the knobs off the faucet.”

  “Just get it going,” I said. “Make the water real deep. We want Rob to stay in there a long time.”

  “Not too hot,” Rob said. “I have sensitive skin.” He scratched his arm and several ants fell off and scurried away.

  I gave Rob a gentle shove. “Go get undressed. Adam and Luke will escort you.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him underwater for a long time,” Luke said. “He needs to soak the stink off.”

  “But he has to br-breathe!” Nervous Rex said.

  “He can breathe after his bath,” Luke said.

  “Find him some soap,” I told Sandy.

  Rob looked thoughtful. “I saw a photo of soap once,” he said.

  A few minutes later, I heard the water running in the tub in the bathroom across the hall. Then I saw Rob Slob, in a ragged brown bathrobe, trotting to the bathroom. Adam Bomb and Luke Puke were behind him, holding their noses.

  We all listened until we heard the splash of Rob plopping into the tub. It was a seriously awesome sound. It meant the air was going to smell a lot sweeter.

  Everyone—and I mean everyone—was smiling. Except for Cranky Frankie. He had the usual scowl on his face.

  “Frankie, what’s your problem?” I asked. “Rob is finally taking a bath.”

  “A bath isn’t going to help,” he muttered. “Rob smells from the inside!”

  “That’s not n-nice!” Nervous Rex exclaimed.

  Cranky Frankie turned to him. “Haven’t you noticed? I’m not nice. But I’m honest.”

  We were all listening to the sounds of Rob splashing around in the tub when Adam Bomb poked his head out of the bathroom.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “It’s going okay,” Adam reported. “But as soon as Rob got into the tub, the water turned a yucky green. Algae, I think.”

  “Just make sure he soaps himself up,” I said.

  “Anyone care for some Mulch Chunks?” Junkfood John asked. He held up a bag. “Very crunchy. And they really do taste like mulch.”

  No one took John up on his offer.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  I blinked in surprise, then glanced at the clock over the mantel: it read 8:30.

  Who would come to see us at this time of night?

  I pulled open the door—and let out a cry.

  NINETEEN

  Adam Bomb again. I’ll take things from here . . .

  Brainy Janey jumped back from the door. I saw the startled look on her face, and a second later, I knew why.

  Parker and Penny Perfect stepped into the house. They were dressed perfectly. Their clothes didn’t have a single wrinkle, and their shoes were brilliantly polished.

  As Janey stepped back, the Perfects immediately began looking around the room, studying each of our faces.

  “Sorry to stop by so late,” Mrs. Perfect said. “But we brought your parents a little treat.”

  That’s when I saw the little white cake box in her hand. “Does your mother like baloney cake?” Penny Perfect asked.

  “Uh . . . yes . . . no,” Brainy Janey answered. “She . . . uh . . . doesn’t like baloney, but she likes cake.”

  “My wife makes a perfect baloney cake,” Parker Perfect said. “She uses only organically grown baloney. That’s how you know it’s good.”

  The Perfects had smiles pasted on their faces. But we knew why they had come to visit, and it didn’t have anything to do with cake . . . or baloney.

  They wanted to prove we didn’t have parents.

  That way they could get us out of the house, and out of their neighborhood.

  Mrs. Perfect raised the cake box in front of her and dangled it. “Can I give this to your mother?” she asked.

  “Well . . .” I could see that Brainy Janey was stumped. So I stepped up to the Perfects. “You see . . .” I started. “Mom isn’t home right now.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Parker Perfect said. “Where is she?”

  “She’s on her way home,” I said.

  “But she was in an accident,” Wacky Jackie chimed in.

  The Perfects gasped.

  “An accident? Oh my, what happened?” Mr. Perfect asked.

  “She drove into a puddle,” Jackie said.

  “A puddle?” Mrs. Perfect repeated. “What kind of accident is that?”

  Jackie blinked. “Did I say puddle? I meant poodle.”

  Mr. Perfect squinted at her. “Your mother ran into a poodle?”

  “But which was it?” his wife asked. “A poodle or a puddle?”

  “Both,” Jackie said. “That’s why she’s late. The poodle was in the puddle.”

  Penny Perfect shook her head. “I don’t understand. She didn’t see the poodle in the puddle?”

  “It was a mud puddle,” Jackie said.

  “The poodle had to piddle,” Ba
bbling Brooke chimed in.

  “Yes, it had to piddle in the puddle,” Jackie agreed.

  The Perfects stared at each other for a moment, then turned back to us.

  “I don’t understand at all,” Mrs. Perfect said. “The poodle had to piddle? In the puddle?”

  “It was standing in the middle,” Brooke said.

  “And your mother drove into the poodle with her car?” Mr. Perfect asked.

  “Mom doesn’t have a car,” I said.

  “She was on her bike,” Jackie said. “And she pedaled into the poodle in the puddle.”

  Mrs. Perfect blinked several times. “I’m . . . not getting this,” she stammered.

  “It’s simple,” Brooke replied. “We wanted to play ping-pong. So Mom went out to buy us paddles. But she pedaled into the puddle and hit the poodle, and dropped the paddles in the puddle.”

  “And then the poodle had to piddle,” Jackie added. “Mom called and said it piddled on the paddles.”

  “And that’s why Mom isn’t here,” I said.

  Mr. Perfect shut his eyes for a minute. “I’m beginning to understand this,” he said. He opened his eyes and narrowed them at me. “You don’t have a mother—or a father—do you? You’re living here by yourselves. And you’re making up all this nonsense to fool us!”

  “You mean there’s no poodle?” his wife asked.

  “There’s no poodle and no puddle and no parents, either,” Parker Perfect said. “You are trying to get us to leave by making up some crazy story. You think that will get rid of us?”

  The Perfects were smarter than I’d thought. I think they were beginning to catch on.

  “Let me be honest with you,” I said. (That’s what I always say when I’m about to tell a lie.) “Our mom is dying to meet you. And when we tell her she missed your visit, she’ll be very disappointed.”

  As I reached for the box, they both stared, studying me. They were trying to decide if I was a good liar or a really good liar.

  But before they could say anything, there was a commotion coming from the hall. Clumping footsteps. And a cough.

  We all turned to see Rob Slob walk into the room. He wore his ragged brown bathrobe, the belt tied tightly over his stomach. And his hair was still wet from the bath. “Hey, what’s up?” he called out.