Got Cake? (3 page)

The School House is a tall, redbrick building at the end of the Great Lawn. We call it Mouse House.

If we get bored in class, we count the mice that run by. Except some of us can't count that high.

We all sit with our legs crossed under us in class. That keeps the mice from climbing up your leg. Most of the time.

My friend Beast likes to play with the mice. He swings them by their tails and sends them sailing to the wastebasket near Mrs. Heinie's desk.

CLANNNNG!

“Yeaaaa! Three points!” Beast shouts every time he makes a basket.

Mrs. Heinie begs him to stop. But Beast just flashes her his special grin with the big white gobs of drool running down his chin.

And then, a few seconds later…

CLANNNNG!

“Yeaaaaa! Three points!”

I hurried down the empty hall and stopped at a door at the end. I read the words on the window:
ROTTEN EGG
.

That's the name of our school yearbook. The
Rotten Egg
. How did it get that name? Who knows? Maybe they just couldn't think of a better one.

I pushed open the door and looked around for the editor. He's a tall, skinny, redheaded sixth grader named Leif Blower.

Blower is really into the yearbook. He has a tiny silver egg stuck through one earlobe. And he wears a green-and-yellow cap that says:
ASK ME ABOUT ROTTEN EGGS
.

He always has a camera around his neck. Even in the shower. He says you never know when a good yearbook photo will come up.

“Yo—Blower!” I called. I didn't see anyone in the room.

“Yo, Blower! What's up?” I knew he had to be there. He never went to class. He just stayed in the
Rotten Egg
office all day and worked on the yearbook.

“Yo—Blower?”

Finally I spotted him on a tall stool against a wall. He had his face buried in a stack of photos on the table in front of him.

He kept shaking his head. “I can't decide,” he said. “Bernie, maybe you can help me.”

I hurried across the room. “What's the problem?”

He held up three photos. I squinted at them. I saw a window with gray curtains.

“Which photo of Headmaster Upchuck do you like best?” Blower asked.

I squinted at them again. “I don't see Headmaster Upchuck,” I said. “I just see a window.”

He frowned. “That's the problem. Upchuck is too short. His head didn't come up to the camera lens. I only got the window behind his desk.”

“Maybe you should have lowered the camera a little,” I said.

Blower scratched his head. “Maybe.”

I took the photos from his hands and set them down on the table. “Can we talk?” I said. “I know you've been thinking about my yearbook photo. I'm here to help.”

He scratched his head some more. “Maybe I can get Upchuck to stand on his desk,” he said. “Or maybe I should get down on my knees to shoot him. I don't want to insult the little shrimp.”

“About my photo,” I said. “I'd like a blue sky in the background. With just a few puffy clouds. Think you can handle that?”

Blower didn't answer. He stared blankly at me.

“I need backlighting,” I said. “You know. To capture the silky glow of my hair. I'm not sure which is my best side. You'll have to shoot me from both sides. Then we can decide later—okay?”

He still stared at me blankly.

“Or maybe we should do a straight face shot,” I said. “I mean, we need to show off
both
of my dimples. Everyone says I have
killer
dimples. Shall we work out special lighting for that? Perhaps a light for each dimple?”

He blinked several times. “Sorry, Bernie,” he said. “I didn't hear a word you said.”

“But my photo—” I started.

He put a hand on my shoulder. “I've got something much more important to think about, Bernie.”

More important than my yearbook picture?

What could that
be
?

Blower picked up a bottle from the table and took a long drink from it. He made a face. “This root beer tastes funny.”

“It isn't root beer,” I told him. I took the bottle and read the label. “India Black Ink.”

“ACK. ACK. ACK.”
Blower grabbed his throat and started hacking and coughing and sputtering.

“You should probably see the nurse,” I said. “You're gonna scare people with that black tongue.”

“ACK. ACK. ACK.”

I picked up the root beer bottle—next to the
bottle of ink—and took a slurp. “But before you go,” I said, “can we talk about my photo?”

“ACK. ACK. ACK.”

He “
ack
ed” for another five or six minutes. Then he did some very loud spitting into a wastebasket.

Finally he sat down. “I think I'm back to normal,” he said. His lips were black, and so were his teeth.

“Lookin' good,” I said.

Why worry the poor guy?

“About my yearbook photo…” I started.

“Not now,” Blower said, shaking his head. “I'm totally thinking about one thing. The Most Popular Rotten Egg.”

I stared at him. “The
what
?”

“The yearbook is a hundred years old,” he said. “Back then they had the Most Popular Rotten Egg page. They picked the most popular Rotten Student of the year, and the student was named Most Popular Rotten Egg. The student got a whole page in the yearbook all to himself. For the yearbook's hundredth birthday, we're bringing back the tradition.”

“Wow! That's excellent!” I cried. I slapped Blower on the back. “This is so sudden. I didn't even
know you were thinking of me. But I gladly accept. Shall we take the picture now?”

He stuck out his tongue. “Is my tongue black?”

“Maybe a little,” I said. “I'm so excited about the Rotten Egg award.”

“Bernie, I haven't decided who wins it,” Blower said. “It's a big responsibility. I'm taking it very seriously.”

“You won't be sorry,” I said. “I'm too modest to say it, but everyone knows that Bernie B. is the most popular dude around here.”

“I have to take my time and think hard about it,” Blower said. “And I have to discuss it with Mr. Pupipantz, the yearbook adviser.”

“I can pose tomorrow afternoon,” I told him. “Let me get a haircut first. That'll give you time to talk it over.”

Blower scratched his head. “I'm not so sure you're the winner, Bernie. After all, Sherman Oaks just gave me this video iPod with two hundred movies. That makes him
very
popular with me!”

I gasped. That spoiled rich kid Sherman Oaks was up to his old tricks.

“Blower,” I said, “you wouldn't take a bribe—
would
you?”

He rolled the video iPod around in his hand. “Of course not,” he said. “But I like that guy Sherman. He has a lot of class.”

“But—but—” I sputtered.

“I'm keeping an open mind,” Blower said. “Anyone who wants to be Most Popular Rotten Egg must
prove
that he or she is the most popular kid at school.”

I squinted at him. “Prove it? How?”

Before Blower could answer, Mr. Pupipantz clomped into the room. He's a big, red-faced dude with a shiny bald head. He's shaped exactly like a bowling ball but a lot heavier. He always wears these tight sweaters that don't fit and show off about two inches of his hairy belly.

“Hi, Mr. Pupipantz,” I said. I flashed him my best smile. “Leif and I were just talking about how popular I am.”

Mr. Pupipantz shook a finger at me. “No tricks, Bridges,” he barked. “No stunts. I'll be watching you to make sure you don't pull any tricks.”

I gasped. “Huh?
Me?
Tricks?”

“Choosing Most Popular Rotten Egg is an important decision,” Pupipantz said. “Give Leif and me a chance to make up our minds. We're going to be totally fair about this.”

“Of course,” I said. “But I—”

“By the way, Leif,” Pupipantz interrupted. “Did that really nice guy Sherman Oaks leave one of those video iPods for me, too?”

I really wanted to be Most Popular Rotten Egg. I knew I deserved it. Sherman Oaks was trying to buy it, the way he buys everything else. I couldn't let him get away with that. But how could I beat him?

Later that afternoon, I walked across the Great Lawn, thinking hard. In the distance I heard screams of pain and tearful sobs of guys getting their shoes stomped on.

Sure, it sounded like fun. But I wasn't interested.

I was thinking hard about popularity. I was thinking so hard, my eyes started to spin, my ears flapped
up and down, and my hair tried to fly right off my head.

“Whoa. Too hard. You're thinking
too
hard, Bernie,” I told myself. I struggled to smooth my hair back down.

I can't help it. I'm a hard thinker.

I started thinking about having a birthday party. I'd invite everyone in school. Maybe kids from every school in the country. And I'd invite Blower. And he'd be wowed by how popular I am.

Everyone
loves Bernie B. If only I could brag about it. But that's not like me.

Speaking of true love, up ahead on the path was
my
true love—April-May June. April-May is my girlfriend. She just doesn't know it yet.

Her blond ponytail wagged behind her, glowing under the afternoon sun. I could see her bright blue eyes, her warm smile.

I
know
she's nuts about me. But she's always so shy when I'm around. When she saw me coming, the shy thing started to run away.

“April-May—stop!” I shouted. “I want to ask you something!”

“The answer is,

she shouted back.

I love a girl with a sense of humor.

“April-May…gasp, gasp.” I was panting hard by the time I caught up to her. “Answer one question. Who is more popular than me?”

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone,” she said.

“Ha-ha! You're joking, right?” I said.

She rolled her eyes again. “I thought YOU were joking, Bernie,” she said. “You're about as popular as
what I just cleaned off the bottom of my shoe after walking near Pooper's Pond.”

I laughed. “You love to tease me—don't you! That's how I know you like me.”

She stuck a finger down her throat and made gagging sounds.

“Enough teasing,” I said. “Come on. Make my day. Say something nice about me.”

She gagged up her lunch. “Okay,” she said finally. “Something nice.” She thought hard. “Uh…Bernie, I think you're more popular than stomach flu.”

A happy smile spread over my face. “See? I
knew
you could do it.”

I turned and saw Leif Blower trotting over to us. “Yo—Blower. Whussup?” I called. “Lookin' good, dude!”

Blower gave April-May a big, black-toothed smile.

April-May's eyes twinkled when she saw him. She flashed him a bright smile and wrapped her arm around his. “Who's most popular?” she breathed into his ear. “I am—aren't I, Leify baby?”

He giggled. And blushed dark red. “Know what? I think maybe you are!” he said, nodding his head.

She squeezed his hand and rubbed her cheek against his. “I'm the most, most, most, most popular, aren't I?”

He giggled again. “Uhhuh” was all he could choke out.

I watched them walk off hand in hand.

“This is going to be more difficult than I thought!” I told myself.

I heard thundering footsteps. The ground shook.

I spun around—and saw Jennifer Ecch. Stomping toward me, head lowered like an angry bull coming after a red flag.

Jennifer Ecch, the biggest, strongest, hulkiest girl at Rotten School. I call her Nightmare Girl.

But it doesn't matter what I call her. The Ecch is totally in love with me.

But now as she thundered toward me, I froze in TERROR.

Because I could see the fierce gleam in her one brown eye and one blue eye.

And I knew what she planned to do.

She planned to do The Stomp on my foot!