50 - Calling All Creeps!

  CALLING ALL CREEPS!

  Goosebumps - 50

  R. L. Stine

  (An Undead Scan v1.5)

  1

  At a little after eight o’clock at night, I tiptoed from my bedroom and crept as silently as I could down the stairs. Three steps from the bottom, I tripped over a stack of laundry—and fell headfirst the rest of the way.

  I landed hard on my elbows and knees, but I didn’t make a sound. I’m used to falling. I do it all the time.

  I jumped quickly to my feet and peeked into the front hallway. Had Mom and Dad heard me?

  They had the TV on in the den. They were watching the Weather Channel. They can watch the Weather Channel for hours.

  What’s so interesting about the weather?

  I could hear the woman on TV talking about the wind chill in Nova Scotia. I pulled on my blue down parka and made my way silently to the front door.

  A few seconds later, I was outside, jogging along the sidewalk. I kept in the shadows, ducked my head low—and headed for school.

  Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I don’t usually sneak out of the house at night. I’m not a problem child or anything. In fact, my parents are always telling me to be braver, to be more adventurous.

  I never go out without telling my parents where I’m going. But tonight was a special night. Tonight I had a special mission.

  The mission was spelled r-e-v-e-n-g-e.

  I slipped as I reached the corner and had to grab a lamppost to keep myself from falling. Most of the snow from the weekend had melted. But there were still slick patches of ice on the sidewalk.

  I hadn’t bothered to zip up my parka. The wind blew it behind me as I jogged across the street and past the small houses on the next block. The air felt cold against my warm cheeks, and wet, as if it might snow again.

  Hey—enough about the weather!

  Ricky Beamer—that’s me—had more important things on his mind tonight. Tonight I planned to do a little spying. And then a little nasty mischief.

  A few minutes later, I made my way across the deserted playground next to the school. Harding Middle School. That’s what the sign beside the bare flagpole read. Except that someone had spray-painted over all the first letters. So the sign actually read: ARDING IDDLE CHOOL.

  We have a lot of school pride here at Harding.

  Actually, most kids like the school. It’s really new and everything is modern and clean.

  I’d like our school too—if the kids would give me a break. If they’d all get out of my face and stop calling me Ricky Rat and Sicky Ricky, I’d be a real happy guy.

  Maybe you think I sound a little bitter.

  Maybe you’re right!

  But all the kids think I’m a nerd. They make fun of me every chance they get.

  I stared at the school building. It’s kind of low and flat and curves around like a snake. The elementary school is at one end, and the middle school is at the other. I’m in sixth grade, so my classroom is right in the middle.

  A spotlight shone down on the bare flagpole in front of the building. Behind it, most of the classrooms were dark. I saw lighted windows at the eighth-grade end—and that’s where I headed.

  A car rumbled past slowly. Its headlights washed over the front of the building. I ducked behind a tall evergreen bush. I didn’t want to be seen.

  In my rush to hide, I stumbled into the bush. A clump of cold, wet snow plopped onto my head. With a shiver, I shook my wavy black hair to toss it off.

  When the car had passed, I crept up to the lighted classroom window. My sneakers made squishing sounds in the soft ground. I glanced down. I had stepped into a deep, muddy rut.

  Ignoring the mud, I leaned against the low window ledge and pressed my face to the glass. Were the lights on because the night janitor was cleaning in there? Or was Tasha McClain hard at work?

  Tasha McClain. Just saying her name made my teeth itch!

  The windowpane was steamed up. I squinted through the glass. Yes! Tasha sat at the desk against the wall. She leaned over her computer, typing away. Her long, curly red hair fell over the keyboard as she typed with two fingers.

  Ms. Richards, the newspaper advisor, stood beside her, one hand on the back of Tasha’s chair. Ms. Richards is young and very pretty. She had her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. In her baggy gray sweatshirt and faded jeans, she looked more like a student than a teacher.

  Ms. Richards was nice to me last September when I signed up for the school newspaper staff. But she’s been pretty mean lately. I think Tasha turned her against me.

  Tasha is an eighth-grader, so she thinks she’s hot stuff. Sixth-graders are nothing at Harding. Believe me. We’re nothing. Maybe even less.

  I knew Tasha and Ms. Richards would be working late on the Harding Herald tonight. Because tomorrow is Tuesday, the day the paper comes out.

  Ms. Richards leaned over Tasha and pointed to something on the computer monitor. I squinted harder to see the screen. I could see a headline with a photo beneath it.

  Tasha was laying out the Herald front page.

  Once she had the front page finished, she would save it on a disk. Then Ms. Richards would take the disk to the laser printer in the main office and print out two hundred copies.

  Ms. Richards turned suddenly to the window. I dropped to the ground.

  Had she seen me?

  I waited a few seconds, then pulled myself up. Tasha was typing away. She stopped every few seconds to click the mouse and move things around on the screen.

  Ms. Richards walked out of the room.

  I shivered. The wind swirled, fluttering my parka hood. I hadn’t brushed all the snow from my hair. Cold water dripped down the back of my neck. I heard a dog howling sadly in the distance.

  Please get up! I silently urged Tasha.

  Please leave the room too—so I can play my little joke.

  On the street behind me, another car rumbled past. I pressed myself against the dark wall, trying to make myself invisible.

  When I moved back to the window, the classroom stood empty. Tasha had also left the room.

  “Yesss!” I cheered softly.

  My heart pounded with excitement. I raised both hands to the windowsill. I struggled to push up the window so that I could climb inside.

  I knew I had to be quick. Tasha probably had gone down the hall to the juice machine. I had only a few seconds to get in the room—do my damage—and get out of there.

  I pushed and strained. The window didn’t budge.

  At first I thought it might be frozen shut. But finally, on the fourth try, it started to slide up. I pushed with all my strength—and opened the window just enough to squeeze through.

  My wet sneakers slid on the linoleum floor. I was leaving a trail of muddy footprints, but I didn’t care.

  I crept across the room and hunched down in front of the computer. My hand shook as I grabbed the mouse and moved to the bottom of the newspaper page.

  I heard voices. Tasha and Ms. Richards talking out in the hall.

  Taking a deep breath, I frantically studied the page.

  Then I typed a few words—in tiny, tiny type—at the bottom of the front page. Giggling softly to myself, I wrote:

  Calling All Creeps. Calling All Creeps. If you’re a real Creep, call Tasha at 555-6709 after midnight.

  Why did I add this little message to the front page of my school newspaper?

  Why did I sneak in at night and risk getting caught?

  Why did I desperately need to get revenge against Tasha?

  Well… it’s sort of a long story….

  2

  A few days ago, a new girl started at our school. Her name is Iris Candler. She walked into my class and stood awkwardly at th
e front of the room, waiting for Ms. Williamson to assign her a seat.

  I was busy trying to do the math homework assignment before the bell rang. Somehow I forgot all about it the night before.

  I took a few seconds from my furious scribbling to check out the new girl. Kind of cute, I thought. She had a round face with big blue eyes and short blond hair parted in the middle. She wore long, red plastic earrings that jangled when she moved her head.

  Ms. Williamson gave Iris a seat near the back. Then she asked me to show Iris around the school during the day. You know. Point out where the lunchroom is and all the bathrooms and everything.

  I nearly cried out in surprise. Why did Ms. Williamson pick me? I guess it was because Iris just happened to be sitting right next to me.

  I heard a couple of kids laugh. And I heard someone mutter, “Sicky Ricky.”

  Kids in my class are always on my case. I hoped that Iris didn’t hear them.

  I admit it. I wanted to impress her. I liked having someone new to talk to, someone who didn’t know that everyone thought I was a loser.

  At lunchtime I walked Iris downstairs to the lunchroom. I told her about how new the school was. And how when we moved in for the first time, hot water came out of all the cold water faucets, and cold water came out of the hot.

  She thought that was pretty funny. I liked the way her earrings jangled when she laughed.

  She asked me if I was on any sports teams.

  “Not yet,” I answered.

  Not in a million years! I thought.

  Whenever guys are choosing up teams on the playground, the captains always fight over who gets me. It’s always:

  “You take him!”

  “No fair! You have to take him!”

  “No. You take him! We had him last time!”

  I’m not exactly a super jock.

  “This is the lunchroom,” I told Iris, leading the way through the door. I instantly felt really dumb. I mean, what else could it be? The band room?

  As soon as I entered, I saw my four enemies at their usual table in the middle of the room. I call them my four enemies because… they’re my four enemies!

  Their names are Jared, David, Brenda, and Wart. Wart’s name is really Richard Wartman. But everyone calls him Wart—even the teachers.

  These four seventh-graders are always making fun of me. When they’re not making fun of me, they’re trying to injure me!

  I don’t know what their problem is. I never did anything to them. I guess they pick on me because I’m easy to pick on.

  I grabbed two food trays and guided Iris to the food counter. “This is hot food over here,” I explained. “No one ever eats the hot food unless it’s pizza or hamburgers.”

  Iris flashed me a nice smile. “Just like at my old school,” she said.

  “Be sure to stay away from the macaroni,” I warned. “No one ever eats the macaroni. We think they serve the same macaroni all year. See that crust on top? Whoever heard of macaroni with a crust?”

  Iris laughed. I brushed back my hair. I wondered if she liked me.

  We both picked up sandwiches and bags of potato chips. I put a bowl of red and green Jell-O and a bottle of kiwi-strawberry drink on my tray. “The cashier is over here,” I told Iris.

  I showed Iris how you hand your food ticket to the cashier and get it punched. I was feeling pretty good. I think Iris was impressed by all my helpful instructions.

  I spotted a couple of seats at a table near the window. I motioned to them with my head. Then I started through the crowded, noisy room, holding my tray high in both hands.

  Of course I didn’t see Wart stick his foot out.

  I tripped over it. Fell forward. And my whole tray went flying.

  I hit the floor in time to look up and see the red and green Jell-O bound across a table and onto a girl’s lap. The rest of my food slid over the floor.

  Kids laughed and cheered and clapped.

  “There goes Ricky!” someone exclaimed. “Ricky Rat! Ricky Rat!”

  Wart and his three pals started chanting: “Sicky Ricky… Sicky Ricky!”

  I glanced up and saw Iris laughing too.

  I just wanted to disappear.

  My face suddenly felt burning hot. I knew I was blushing.

  What am I going to do? I thought, lying there on my stomach. I really can’t take this any longer.

  What can I do?

  3

  After school I made my way to the eighth-grade classrooms at the end of the building. The school newspaper office is in Ms. Richards’ room.

  Ms. Richards sat at her desk, grading papers. As I stepped into the doorway, she glanced up and frowned. Then she returned to her work.

  I saw Tasha typing furiously at the computer in the corner. Her lips moved as she wrote. Her forehead furrowed in heavy concentration.

  I walked over to the assistant editor, an eighth-grader named Melly. Melly has short, straight brown hair and wears glasses with brown frames that match her hair. She was leaning over a long news story, running her finger down the page as she read.

  “Hi, Melly,” I said.

  She glanced up and frowned too. “Ricky—you made me lose my place.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Any stories for me today?”

  You probably wonder why I signed up to be a reporter on the Harding Herald. It’s not that I’m a great writer or anything.

  Every kid at Harding needs twenty activity points a year. That means you have to try out for sports or join clubs or other after-school activities.

  No way I was going to try out for a sport. So I signed up for the newspaper. I thought it would be easy.

  That’s because I hadn’t met Tasha yet.

  Tasha treats all sixth-graders like bugs. She makes a disgusted face when a sixth-grader walks into the room. Then she tries to step on us.

  She gives all the good story assignments to eighth-graders. Do you know the first story she asked me to write? She asked me to count the dirt patches in the playground and write about why grass didn’t grow there.

  I knew she was just trying to get me out of the office. But I wrote the story anyway. It’s hard to write a good story about dirt patches. But I did a really good job. My story was five pages long!

  She never printed it in the paper.

  When I asked her why, she said, “Who cares about dirt patches?”

  My next assignment was to interview the night janitor about the differences between working days and nights.

  That one didn’t get into the paper, either.

  I wanted to quit. But I really needed the activity points. If I didn’t earn twenty activity points, I couldn’t graduate from sixth grade. I’d have to go to summer school. Really.

  So I kept coming to the Harding Herald office two or three afternoons a week after school, asking Tasha for more news stories to write.

  “Anything for me?” I asked Melly.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Ask Tasha.”

  I moved over to Tasha’s desk. Her face reflected the blue monitor as she typed away. “Any stories for me?” I asked her.

  She kept typing. She didn’t glance up. “Wait till I’m finished,” she snarled.

  I backed away. I turned and saw Ms. Richards walk out of the room. Some kids were talking by the table near the window, so I crossed over to them.

  David and Wart—two of my enemies—were arguing about something. They’re both sports reporters for the paper. They write about all the Harding games. The rest of the time they hang around the office, making trouble.

  David is tall and blond. Wart is short and lumpy and red-faced. He looks a little like a wart!

  I saw some cookies and cans of soda on the table. I tried to walk around David and Wart to get to the drinks. But Wart stepped in front of me.

  He and David both grinned. “How was your lunch, Ricky?” Wart asked.

  They laughed and slapped each other a high five.

  I glared at Wart. I wanted to wipe the grin off his
face. “Why did you trip me?” I could feel my face growing hot.

  “I didn’t,” he lied.

  David laughed.

  “You did too!” I insisted. “You stuck out your foot—”

  “No way,” he said. “I didn’t touch you.”

  “You tripped over a crack in the floor,” David chimed in. “Or maybe it was an air pocket.”

  They both laughed.

  They’re so lame.

  I grabbed a can of Pepsi off the table, popped it open, and started to walk away.

  “Hey, wait—” Wart held me by the shoulder.

  I spun around. “What’s your problem?”

  “That’s the can I wanted,” he said.

  “Too bad. Get your own,” I told him.

  “No. I want that one.” He swiped at the can.

  I swung my hand out of his reach.

  Lost my grip. And the can went flying across the room.

  It sprayed Pepsi as it flew. Then landed in the middle of Tasha’s keyboard.

  She let out a squeal. Jumped up. Knocked her chair over.

  I quickly grabbed up a handful of paper napkins from the table and darted across the room.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up!” I told Tasha. The keyboard was soaked. I frantically started to mop the keys. “No—Ricky—stop!” Tasha shrieked. Too late. I stared in horror at what I had done.

  4

  “Aaaaiiiiii!” Tasha opened her mouth in an angry scream. She tugged at her red hair with both hands.

  “You creep! Ricky, you creep!” she cried.

  She shouldn’t call people names. But she had good reason to be angry at me.

  I had erased the whole front page.

  The screen glowed at us. Bright blue. Solid blue.

  No words. No pictures.

  “Uh… sorry,” I murmured.

  “Maybe I can get it back,” Tasha told Melly. “Maybe there is a way to find it and pull it back up.”

  Tasha shoved me out of the way, picked up her chair, and sat down. “Oh!” She let out another cry when she realized she had sat in a puddle of soda.

  Staring at the solid blue screen, she began typing furiously.