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Authors: David Lubar

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BOOK: The Curse of the Campfire Weenies
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I
like food. I can't help it. The rest of my life is pretty miserable, but when I'm eating I'm happy. I try to be happy as much as possible. The kids in school call me Fat Face. They call me worse things, too. And they tease me. They'll run up behind me when I'm walking home and poke me real hard. They know I can't catch them. It's a good thing for them I can't run fast. If I caught one of them, I'd pound him until he said he was sorry.
I tried to lose weight. Heck, I tried a hundred times. I just can't stay on a diet.
The worst problem is the older kids. They're too big for me to hit. And they love to torture me. Especially Ronald Volger. He's two years older. He's been kicked out of school five times. He thinks he's so cool because all the girls say he's good-looking. He acts like he's some kind of movie star.
I was walking home from school when Ronald snuck up on me from behind. I was just about to unwrap a
Choco-Squirt bar. It's my favorite. Nice, gooey chocolate, with caramel crème and little hard pieces of that buttery candy. Man, it's good. And after you eat it, the hard pieces stick to your back teeth, so there's something to enjoy for a long time. It's a real mess to eat, though. Not that I mind.
I was so busy thinking about how awesome the bar would taste that I didn't notice Ronald. I didn't even know he was there until he snatched the Choco-Squirt from my hand.
“Got it!” He grinned at me with a face full of perfect teeth and waved my Choco-Squirt in the air. “I got a candy bar. I got a candy bar.”
“Give it back,” I said. I took a step forward.
“I don't think so.” He took a step back.
I took another step. But I didn't get too close. If he turned and ran, I'd never catch him. Why are the bullies always fast and strong? “Come on. It's mine. Give it back.”
“Oh, is Fat Face gonna cry? Does Fat Face want his gooey chewy candy?”
“Stop it … .”
He reached up and started to tear the wrapper. He kept grinning, giving me the same smile he uses in school to get himself out of trouble with the teachers.
“Don't,” I said. I clenched my fists.
“It looks so good, I can't wait.” He opened his big mouth and bit down on the Choco-Squirt bar, chomping at it right through the wrapper.
Rage flooded through me, washing away all common sense and caution. Screaming, I charged at him.
He laughed and jogged away. “Mmmm. Yummmm. That tastes good. Thanks for sharing, Fat Face.”
I heard him take another chomp. He looked over his shoulder at me as he ran, his face already smeared with chocolate. A ribbon of caramel dripped from the corner of his lip.
“You—,” I gasped, unable to say more than that while I chased after him. Blood pounded in my skull. My lungs burned. The muscles in my legs felt as if I'd stabbed them with jagged pieces of glass.
Ronald turned off the sidewalk and jogged through the lot by the old MacKowlan house. Nobody lived there now. Even when the MacKowlans lived there, the place had been a garbage pit. Old refrigerators, broken furniture, and tons of other junk littered the yard.
I weaved my way through the piles of appliances, trying to grab hold of Ronald. I may as well have been trying to grab a shadow. He kept just out of my reach. I knew he was playing—toying with me, getting as much fun as he could from my anger. The smartest thing I could have done was stop chasing him. But I was too angry to be smart.
As he went around the side of the house, he spun toward me and started running backward. That hurt more than the rest of it. Even when he ran backward, I couldn't catch him.
Despite the rage that drove me, I was ready to give up. I was nearly dead from running. My heart was trying to explode. My knees had turned from solid to a thick liquid.
I slowed from a run to a walk and tried to get air into lungs that felt far too small for the job.
Ronald slowed, too, but he kept going backward. Bad move. He backed into a couple of old oil drums. He stumbled over one of them and fell, knocking down more stuff. Scrap piles smashed around him with a sound like a thousand gongs and bells.
When the avalanche stopped, Ronald was lying facedown, pinned flat on the ground. I felt the drum that was across his legs. It was probably heavier than I could move.
He let out a stream of swearwords. Then he said, “Help me.”
He tried to look at me, but there was a hunk of steel beam across the back of his neck, so he couldn't even turn his head. I noticed the remains of the Choco-Squirt in his fist. I saw the smears of chocolate and caramel on his face. I noticed something else.
“I'll get help,” I said.
“Hurry,” he said.
“I will.” I couldn't stop staring at the ground.
“Get moving, you fat blimp.”
“Sure. I'll go as fast as I can,” I told him. I walked a few steps away, then paused. I was still out of breath. I took a few more steps. I guess I could have gone faster, but I was tired. And I kept stopping to think about what I'd seen.
Behind me, I heard the first startled shout from Ronald. It wasn't very loud. The next cry was a bit louder. I moved farther away, not wanting to be near when the real screaming started.
I stopped again to catch my breath and closed my eyes. In my mind, I could see his face, covered with chocolate and caramel, pushed flat against the ground. His face was right next to dozens of little piles of dirt—the sort of piles any kid recognizes instantly. Anthills. Red ants. The kind with a bite that feels like fire.
As the screams grew louder, I walked around the house and headed toward the street. I did say I'd get help for him. And I would. I just wasn't in any hurry. My face might be fat, but at least I had a face. As I walked, I reached into my pocket for another Choco-Squirt. But when I saw Ronald's face again in my mind—saw it as it was becoming—my hand dropped to my side. I realized I wasn't all that interested in eating anything right now. Maybe, this time, if I held on to that image, I'd finally be able to stick to a diet.
B
en always paused for just a moment before he went into Mr. Paulson's shop. That was one of the ways he made the whole experience last longer. He felt that Saturday afternoon really started when he put his hand against the frosted glass of the door and it ended when he stepped back outside. That span of time in between, well, that was certainly the best part of the day and absolutely the best part of the week.
Ben knew there weren't a lot of soda shops left. There were other places where a kid could get a soda made from syrup and seltzer, but there weren't many spots where a kid could really sit, enjoy his soda, and take his time. But as long as there was Paulson's Sweet Shop, Ben was happy.
Ben pushed the door open. The soda fountain was at the back of the small shop. Ben walked between two rows of magazine racks, looking for anything new that might have come in. Nothing caught his eye. The lingering
aroma of bacon drifted through the air. Mr. Paulson didn't just make sodas—he also cooked breakfast on the weekends. But Ben wasn't interested in bacon and eggs.
“Hey, here comes my favorite customer,” Mr. Paulson said. He was standing behind the counter with a rag in his hand. He always had a cloth ready for wiping up spills.
“Hi,” Ben said, climbing up on the stool. He spun around, once to the left, then once to the right.
“So, what can I make for you today?”
That was the question. Ben never knew ahead of time what he would order. There were so many choices. That was one of the wonders of syrups—they could be combined. He could get a cola, or a cherry cola, or a chocolate soda, or chocolate cherry, or about half a zillion other flavors.
“Cherry vanilla,” Ben said, suddenly realizing what he wanted.
Mr. Paulson nodded. “Good choice. Coming right up.” He took a paper cup and squirted it with streams of thick syrup from two of the pumps on the counter. Then he grabbed a hose and sprayed seltzer into the syrup. “Cherry vaaaannnnnilllla,” he said, giving Ben a smile as he placed the cup in front of him.
“Thanks.” A cluster of straws stood in a glass container on the counter. Ben selected one, peeled off the wrapper—resisting the urge to shoot the paper across the room—and put the straw in the soda.
It was heaven. That first cold, amazing sip was always the best. The rest was great, but there was nothing like
the first tingling taste—sweet, cold, and bubbly. Ben spun around again on the stool. There was nobody else in the store. There never was. Sometimes Ben wondered how Mr. Paulson stayed in business. But the store was always there, waiting for him.
Mr. Paulson wiped the counter with his rag. Ben took a long, slow sip. They were separated by years in age, but they were like two old friends, comfortable with their routine.
Behind Mr. Paulson, the grill sputtered and flared up. He barely glanced over his shoulder, then shrugged. “Guess I'd better get that old thing fixed one of these days.”
“Guess you'd better,” Ben said, smiling. He'd heard that before.
Finally, no matter how slowly Ben sipped, he reached that last noisy slurp. “Thanks,” he said, putting his money on the counter. He pushed the cup forward and got off the stool, spinning around once more for the pleasure of it.
“Come again,” Mr. Paulson said.
“I sure will.” Ben retraced his path to the door. As he stepped outside, the light hurt his eyes for a moment. When he could see clearly again, he noticed a little girl and her mother walking up the street. The girl ran ahead of her mother.
“My name's Brandy,” she said. “What's your name?”
“Ben Jensen.”
“What were you doing in
there
?” she asked.
“Getting a soda. I always get a soda on Saturday,” Ben said.
“You must be crazy.” She backed away from him. “Mr. Paulson died two years ago when the sweet shop burned down.”
Ben opened his mouth but couldn't think of a reply. There really wasn't anything worth saying to someone as silly as this girl.
The mother grabbed her daughter's hand. “Who are you talking to?” she asked.
“To Ben Jensen,” the girl said.
“Young lady,” her mother said, “you know better than to say such things. Ben died two years ago when the sweet shop burned down. What would people think if they heard you talking like that?” She led her daughter quickly down the street.
Ben watched them go. He wondered why the woman would say such a ridiculous thing. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that it was time for his soda. He turned to the door of Paulson's Sweet Shop, pausing for a moment to make the experience last longer. Some things were just too wonderful to rush.
S
o I sniff a little once in a while. Everybody does. But Mom is the kind of parent who slaps a Band-Aid on every scratch and considers a chest cold an occasion for extreme medical measures.
In other words, for Mom, my sniffling was reason to go to a doctor. But not any doctor. Mom was taking me to see an allergist. I knew what that meant. My friend Gilbert had allergies. He got a shot every week. There was no way I was putting up with that. Even with the shots, Gilbert was a mess. He stayed away from any place that had cats, dogs, birds, or rodents. He avoided all kinds of foods. He wouldn't even come over to my house after he spotted a tiny bit of poison ivy growing on the side of one tree.
“This is completely unnecessary,” I told Mom as she pulled into the parking lot. I didn't hear her answer. My attention was snagged by a totally awesome car. It looked like one of those sports cars they only make ten of a year. Maybe a custom-built Lamborghini or Maserati or
something. The license plate said SNEEZDR. Sneeze Dr. Very funny. I guess SNOTMAN was already taken.
We went to the waiting room and took a seat. All too soon, a nurse popped her head in and said, “Norman?” The way she was smiling, I knew I was going to suffer some serious pain.
I followed her down a hall into an examination room. She took my blood pressure, then patted my head and said, “What a good boy you are.”
I wondered whether I should bark or maybe tell her what a good nurse she was.
“Dr. Grande will be right with you,” she said.
Sure enough, Dr. Grande came in a minute later, carrying a clipboard.
“So … ,” he stopped and glanced at his clipboard, “ … Norman, you have allergies.”
“Not really,” I said, catching myself in midsniffle.
“It's nothing to be ashamed of. Allergies are very common. But I can help. Where do you go to school?”
I told him.
“Do you play sports?”
“Soccer,” I said. “And basketball.”
“Do you have a lot of friends?”
“I'm pretty popular.”
“Relatives?”
“A bunch. What's this have to do with allergies?” I was dying for one good sniffle, but there was no way I was going to do that in front of him. I was still hoping to prove I didn't have any allergies.
“I'm just getting a sense of how many people you come in contact with,” he said.
I looked over at the counter that ran along two of the walls. It had dozens of small bottles on it. “Are you going to test me?” That's the worst thing Gilbert told me about. The doctor scratched his arm with all this different stuff to see what he was allergic to. He told me his arm puffed up like a marshmallow in the microwave.
Dr. Grande shook his head. “No. I don't think that's necessary in your case. One shot should do the trick.” He unlocked a cabinet and removed a small bottle.
“Just one?” Normally, I'd fight against even that, but after figuring I'd be jabbed a zillion times getting tested for everything from pollen to cat dander and then shot up with allergy stuff each week, I wasn't going to complain.
The shot didn't even hurt. “It should kick in by tomorrow,” Dr. Grande said.
“Nice car,” I said as I got out of my chair.
“It's my one luxury,” he said.
I went back to the waiting room. Mom was happy that I'd been cured, until she wrote out the check to pay for my visit. I was happy the whole thing was over.
Sure enough, the next morning I wasn't sniffling at all. But Mom was. So was everyone on my bus. When I got to school, Gilbert ran up to me, started to say something, then sneezed so hard, I thought he'd snap his neck. I ducked, but I wasn't fast enough to avoid all of the spray.
“Oh, man,” he said after he wiped his nose with the
handkerchief he always carried. “Must be a high pollen count or something. I'd been doing so well.”
“I got one shot and I'm fine,” I said, wiping my face.
“No way. Who's your doctor?”
“Dr. Grande.”
“My mom says he's real expensive.”
I shrugged. I wasn't paying for it. Besides, I only had to go one time, so the cost didn't matter that much. Gilbert sneezed again, but I managed to get out of the way this time.
The kids who sat near me in class were sniffling and sneezing, too. So were my teammates. Both my parents sneezed all through dinner.
The next day, I noticed Gilbert was wearing latex gloves. “What's up with that?” I asked him.
“I'm just trying to isolate myself from allergens,” he said. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a box of disposable gloves. “Here. Help yourself. I've got plenty.”
I was going to tell him how ridiculous that was, but he was too busy sneezing to listen to me. I did grab some gloves, but only because they make cool water balloons.
I'm not stupid, but it still took me a couple days to figure out what was going on and another day or two to convince myself I wasn't crazy.
Dr. Grande's allergy shot had worked in more ways than one. Thanks to him, people were allergic to me. Anyone I got near started sneezing.
I went into town that day, after school, and waited until he came out of his office.
“Ah, Norton, right?” he said as he took out his car keys.
“Norman.”
“Whatever.”
“What did you do to me?” I asked.
He tried to look innocent. “I just gave you an allergy shot.”
“Right. And now everyone is allergic to me.”
He opened his mouth like he was going to deny it. But then he just shrugged and said, “It'll wear off in a couple weeks. You should take it as a compliment.”
“What?”
“That formulation is very hard to obtain. I wouldn't waste a shot on someone who isn't popular. You turned out to be an excellent choice. I've already picked up plenty of new appointments.” He turned away from me and reached toward the door of his sports car.
“Wait … ,” I said.
He looked over his shoulder at me. “What?”
“You don't see anything wrong in what you did?” I was hoping for at least some sign that he knew this wasn't right.
“Nothing at all. Are you finished complaining?”
“Yeah. I'm finished.”
He grabbed the handle, opened the door, slid onto the seat, and patted the steering wheel. “You're too young to understand how things work. I've got bills to pay.”
“It's still wrong.” I stepped closer and let out a sneeze. It was obviously a fake one, and pretty childish. It wasn't even very wet, but it was moist enough to do the trick. He wiped his face with his hand, then closed the car door. I watched him drive off.
Maybe he was right. I should feel glad that I'm popular. And glad the shot will wear off. But mostly, I was glad I wore gloves when I rubbed the poison ivy all over the door handle of his car. And I was glad I wasn't Dr. Grande.
BOOK: The Curse of the Campfire Weenies
11.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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