Blubber (4 page)

“Now, cut out that stupid crying,” Wendy told her, as she threw Linda her cape. “Here … 
put this on … and remember … one word to anyone about this and we’ll
really
get you next time.” Wendy looked at me and smiled.

I wasn’t worried about Linda telling on us. Besides, everybody knows you don’t cross Wendy.

“I won the prize for most original costume in my school,” Kenny said. He was still in his witch’s suit, standing at the front door, when I got home.

“I don’t believe you.”

Kenny held up an envelope. “See for yourself.” He handed it to me.

I opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of stiff red paper. It said,
One Free Meal at Opie’s/Awarded by the P.-T.A. of Longmeadow School for the Most Original Halloween Costume
. Under that,
Kenny Brenner
was printed in blue ink.

“You see?” Kenny said. “I told you I won.”

“Opie’s has rat tails in their food.”

“Just in the chicken,” Kenny said. “The hamburgers are okay.”

“I wouldn’t eat there if it was the last place on earth!”

“You don’t have to,” Kenny said.

“At my school they at least gave away paperback books.”

“Did you get one?”

“I already read them both,” I told him.

“But did you get one?”

“They gave it to Fred Yarmouth, just because he’s in sixth grade.”

Kenny smiled and went tripping down the hall to his room.

I kicked the front door shut and went to the kitchen. “I don’t understand it,” I told Mrs. Sandmeier. “I wore that witch’s suit three years in a row and I never won anything.”

Mrs. Sandmeier offered me a plate of gingersnaps. “It was the cigar that did it,” she said. “That and the yellow goggles. He was an unusual witch.”

“Next year he’ll probably be an unusual flenser and win again.”

“Probably,” Mrs. Sandmeier said.

“Hmph!” I took three gingersnaps and went to my room. I opened my closet and took out my special suitcase. I keep my stamp collection in it. Grandma gave me the suitcase last year, before she moved to her apartment. She
kept it in her basement for fifteen years, ever since Grandpa died. All that time she was just waiting to find someone who would really appreciate it. She chose me because she knew I would take good care of it, and I do. I polish it with a special leather cream once a week.

I turned the pages of my
Master Global Album
, admiring all my stamps. The ones from Nagaland are my favorites.

Tracy called at five. “What time will you be ready to go Trick-or-Treating?”

I swallowed the meatball I’d been chewing and said, “As soon as my parents get home. I’m eating now.”

“Don’t forget your pillowcase.”

“I won’t. I cut out eyes and everything.”

“Good … because if Mr. Machinist takes pictures this year I don’t want him getting me.”

“Me neither.”

“I’ll meet you outside at six-thirty.”

“Okay …”

“And bring a flashlight.”

“Right.”

“Bye …”

Mr. Machinist lives in Hidden Valley and every Halloween he hides in his bushes, snapping pictures of kids on his property. Last year he caught some boy soaping up his car windows
and besides taking his picture, which he sent to the police, he also turned the hose on him. Mr. Machinist has no sense of humor.

After supper I packed a shopping bag with a flashlight, a can of pink Silly String, a roll of toilet paper and my Unicef collection box. In my free hand I carried my flenser sword.

When my parents got home my mother said, “It’s freezing out. You can’t go like that.”

“But if I wear a jacket no one will be able to see my flenser suit.”

“Not only do you have to wear a jacket,” Mom said, “but it has to be a heavy one … zipped up!”

“Oh Mom! You do this to me every Halloween.”

“I’m sorry, Jill. It’s the weather, not me. Halloween should be in August. Then you wouldn’t have to wear anything.”

“Ha ha,” I said, pulling the pillowcase over my head. I put my flenser hat on top of that.

“Are you sure you can see?” Dad asked me.

“Hold up your fingers and I’ll tell you how many,” I said.

My father held up two. I said, “Um … six … right?” Then I laughed. So did Dad.

“Gordon … I’m afraid she’s going to suffocate in that get-up,” my mother said.

“Can you breathe?” Dad asked.

“Yes … I can see and I can breathe and Tracy’s waiting for me so can I please go now?”

“Have fun,” my mother said. “But remember, if you’re not home by eight-thirty, I’m sending your father to find you.”

“I’ll be home … I promise.” I walked to the front hall and grabbed my heavy jacket from the closet. Kenny was standing at the door, waiting for Trick-or-Treaters. He never goes out on Halloween night. He says it’s because he likes to answer the doorbell, handing out the candy and Unicef money, but I know the truth. Kenny is chicken. He’s scared of the dark. He really believes in witches and goblins and monsters. That’s why he sleeps with his closet light on every night.

I took three nickels from the bowl on the hall table.

“Hey …” Kenny said. “That’s Unicef money.”

“I know it!” I dropped the nickels into my collection box. “Bye, chicken … watch out for the wolf-man … he just loves Halloween!” I snorted and jumped away as Kenny tried to slug me.

It was a very dark night. There was no moon and there aren’t any street lights in our neighborhood.

“I think we should head straight for Hidden Valley,” Tracy said. “There aren’t enough houses to bother with around here.”

“Agreed.”

We took turns holding the flashlight. Mrs. Wu had made Tracy wear a heavy jacket too. All you could see of her Big Bird suit was a bunch of yellow feathers hanging out. She had her pillowcase over her head, same as me, but she had taped a few feathers to the top, sort of like an Indian headdress.

When we got to Hidden Valley it was easier to see because most families there have lamp posts down by the road. “You brought the eggs, didn’t you?” I asked Tracy.

“Yes … six of them.”

“Do they smell bad?”

“I don’t know. When we crack them we’ll find out. They should be rotten by now. I’ve had them in my dresser drawer for a month.”

“Good.”

There are some things I would never do on Halloween. I would never smash a carved pumpkin. I know how that feels because last year somebody swiped both pumpkins off our front porch and smashed them all over the road. This year me and Kenny got smart. We put our pumpkins in the window, where they’ll be safe.
Also, I would never mess around with little kids, trying to steal their loot. That’s mean.

But nothing is too mean for Mr. Machinist, which is why Tracy and I planned to crack eggs in his mailbox. He deserves it. He won’t give to Unicef and if ever there was a person who’d put razor blades in apples, it’s him.

I’m not allowed to eat much of anything I collect Trick-or-Treating, especially apples. Mrs. Sandmeier makes them all into applesauce. So far she’s never found a razor blade but my mother says there are crazy people all over and she isn’t taking any chances.

Mr. Machinist’s mailbox is next to his driveway, by the side of the street. It says M
ACHINIST
in small stencilled letters.

Tracy took out an egg and handed it to me. “Ready for action?”

I looked around, sure that Mr. Machinist was lurking behind a tree, just waiting to jump out and snap my picture. But I didn’t see anything so I said, “I guess so …”

Tracy took another egg out of her bag and held it herself. “You go first,” she told me.

I put my shopping bag and sword on the ground. Then I opened Mr. Machinist’s mailbox. It squeaked.

“Go ahead,” Tracy whispered. “Do it.”

I expected a flashbulb to pop in my face as I cracked the egg and dumped it inside. The yolk broke and dripped all over. “Now you go,” I told Tracy.

Tracy cracked her egg and threw it inside the box too. We looked at each other, then reached for two more eggs and did the same thing again. When we came to the last eggs we didn’t bother cracking them first. We just tossed them into the mailbox, shell and all. After that we picked up our things and ran as fast as we could.

When we were far enough away we started to laugh. “We did it!” I said, “We really did it.”

“And they were rotten,” Tracy said. “Did you get a whiff?”

“Yeah … they were just great!”

“Won’t he be surprised tomorrow when he reaches in for his mail …”

“And comes out with a handful of raw, rotten eggs!”

“Oh Mr. Machinist …” Tracy sang, “you deserve it!”

After that we went Trick-or-Treating. We stopped at every house in Hidden Valley. At Wendy’s we got two miniature Hershey bars and a handful of Unicef pennies. At Caroline’s we each got a quarter for Unicef and a napkin full of chicken corn. At Robby Winters’ his
mother invited us inside while she wrote a one-dollar check for each of us to give to Unicef.

“I never got a check before,” Tracy said, when we were outside again.

“Me neither, but I think it’s neat.”

“So do I.”

When we got to Linda Fischer’s house Tracy asked, “Do you want to ring her bell?”

“No … let’s do her trees instead.”

“Good idea,” Tracy said.

I whipped out the roll of toilet paper and me and Tracy wound it all around the Fischers’ trees. Then we ran up and down the front walk, squirting pink Silly String on all the bushes. I was having the best time. I wished Halloween came more than once a year. I shook the can and aimed it at the hedge right next to the house. “A person gets what she deserves,” I sang. But when I pushed the button nothing came out of the can. “It’s empty,” I told Tracy.

“So’s mine,” she said.

We raced down the driveway. Tracy had a piece of blue chalk with her and she snapped it in half and both of us laughed like crazy as we wrote
Blubber lives here
all over the street.

Wendy and Caroline came along then, shining their flashlights in our faces. “Hey,” I said, “turn those things off.”

“Who are you?” Wendy asked.

“Who do you think? It’s me, Jill.”

“Prove it,” Wendy said.

I took off my hat and pillowcase.

“Oh, it really is you,” Wendy said. “Is that Tracy?”

“Naturally.”

“We smashed six pumpkins,” Caroline said.

“I don’t think it’s fair to smash pumpkins,” I said.

“Fair or not fair, it was great fun,” Wendy told me.

“Yeah …” Caroline said. “I’ll bet you two didn’t have such a good time.”

“We did too … we had a better time,” I said.

“Doing what?” Wendy asked.

“Me and Tracy put six eggs in Mr. Machinist’s mailbox.”

“You did not,” Wendy said.

“We did too.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“We can prove it, can’t we, Tracy?”

“Yeah … we’ll show you.”

“Wait a second. I’ve got to get my pillowcase on straight,” I said. As I was adjusting it I looked up. And there was Linda, in an upstairs window, watching everything. “Hey … there’s Blubber!”

“What a chicken,” Caroline said, “… inside on Halloween night.”

“Come on,” Tracy said, “let’s get out of here.”

We raced to Mr. Machinist’s house and when we got there I pulled his mailbox open while Tracy lit it with her flashlight.

“Well,” I said, “there’s the evidence!”

“You really did it.” Wendy sounded surprised.

“We told you,” I said.

Suddenly a man jumped out from behind a tree. “Hold it right there!” he called.

“Run!” Wendy hollered and she and Caroline took off in one direction while me and Tracy ran in the other.

“Don’t look back,” Tracy said, breathing hard. “He’s got a camera.”

“And a hose,” I told her, as the water hit me.

When I got home I sneaked in the back door and ran for my bedroom, where I changed into my robe. Then I scooped up the pile of wet clothes from the floor and carried it to the laundry room. I tossed everything into the dryer. Just as I was about to turn it on my mother walked in.

“Oh, hi honey … did you have fun?”

“Yes,” I said, “lots.”

“I didn’t know it was raining out.”

“It’s not.”

“Then how come your clothes are in the dryer … and your hair’s all wet?”

“Oh, that …” I said, touching my head.

“Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t,” I told Mom.

She smiled and shook her head. Then we went into her bathroom and she dried my hair with her blow-dryer.

On Friday mornings, Miss Rothbelle, the music teacher, comes to our classroom. She is tall and skinny with two circles of rouge on her cheeks, hair that is practically blue and fingernails like Dracula. Next to her Mrs. Minish looks like Miss America.

I don’t know if Miss Rothbelle has just one dress or a lot of dresses exactly alike, but she always looks the same. And every time I pass her in the hall, instead of saying hello, Miss Rothbelle blows her pitchpipe at me.

Today she said, “We will continue where we left off … with lullabies. Remember, you’re going to sing at assembly next week and I want a perfect performance. So listen carefully.” She blew into her pitchpipe, then tuned herself up
by humming one note until she was satisfied. Her voice is like an opera singer’s but it cracks on the high notes.

“Sweet and low … sweet and low …” Miss Rothbelle sang, walking around the room. When she came to Robby Winters she gave his ear a tug and he sat up straight and tall. Then she tapped Irwin on the head with her ballpoint pen and he put away his comic.

“Low … low … breathe and blow …”

I folded my hands on my desk as Miss Rothbelle came closer to me.

“Sleep my little one … sleep my little one …”

It’s very hard to keep a straight face when Miss Rothbelle is singing, especially when she’s singing “Sweet and Low” and comes to the line about “mother’s breast.” She always trills the
br
.

I held my breath until Miss Rothbelle passed my desk.