Creeper's Got Talent Read online

  Unfortunately, Mom couldn’t see me—or anything else. She was doing yoga, and her body was bent into some weird upside down pose. I could hear her muffled voice calling hello, but I couldn’t see her face.

  I hung out for a few minutes, but it didn’t seem like Mom was getting up anytime soon. (Maybe she was stuck and didn’t want to say so.) By then, my skin wasn’t so red anymore, so I decided to try again later.

  Now my plan is to get a good day’s sleep, and when Mom wakes me up to go for our run, I’ll hit her with it—the perfect excuse to get out of sprinting.

  I can see it now. Mom will feel so bad for making me go to sprinting class that she’ll immediately let me quit. And out of guilt and love, she’ll probably even make me pork chops and roasted potatoes for dinner.

  And I’ll have Bones to thank for it.

  DAY 2: WEDNESDAY (NIGHT)

  Me again. Sorry for the water drips on the page, but I’ve taken TWO showers since I last wrote. Why?

  Well, let me tell you.

  I did NOT get out of my nightly run with Mom. And she’s WAY faster than Ziggy Zombie, my normal running buddy. My legs are so stiff that I could barely walk to the dinner table.

  I was sure Mom would listen to reason when I told her about the psoriasis. But she didn’t. She just said I needed to use my coal tar lotion again.

  I said I’d BEEN using it, but it wasn’t working. I mean, I used plenty of the stuff last month when I was itchy, and it definitely was no miracle cure.

  But Mom had an answer for that one, too. She went to the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of something stinky. “Apple cider vinegar,” she called it. “After our run, you can dowse yourself in this stuff.”

  And she held me to that. When we got done with the run, I took a shower, and then she pretty much gave me ANOTHER shower in apple cider vinegar. As soon as I sat down at the dinner table, Chloe scrunched up her nose and said, “Gross, what stinks?”

  The smell was so bad that Cammy started to cry, which meant she was probably going to explode any second. And Dad used that as an excuse to leave the table with her. “I’ll eat later,” he said—which I think was code for “after the smelly boy leaves the table.”

  Cate asked me if I was trying some new cologne. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, but since it was the first time she’d spoken to me all week, I gave her a polite, “No.”

  And then I ate my pork chop as fast as I could. It was burned to a crisp, just the way I like it. But have you ever noticed that when something smells bad, everything TASTES bad, too? I might as well have been eating vinegar pork chops. Drinking vinegar milk. And topping it all off with a chocolate-vinegar cookie. Blech.

  I think we set a record for the fastest Creeper family dinner ever. As soon as it was over, everyone cleared out of the kitchen, and I took another shower.

  There’s no way I’m wearing this vinegar stuff to school tonight. But it looks like I’ll be going to sprinting class, after all.

  Again.

  DAY 3: THURSDAY

  Boy, some mobs are sure touchy. Especially slimes going through caffeine withdrawal.

  When we got to school last night, there was this sign on the vending machine that said, “No more caffeinated beverages (at the request of parents).”

  Sam didn’t really get what that meant at first. He lifted up the sign and looked underneath it. “Where’s the hot chocolate?” he asked me, as if I was the one who had taken it out and hidden it somewhere.

  By third period, Sam said he had a headache. By lunchtime, he was downright crabby. And that’s not a word I’ve ever used to describe Sam.

  He was all quivery, and I could tell he needed to drink SOMETHING. But when he put his emeralds into the vending machine and bought milk, I almost ran for cover.

  See, my itchy skin is bad, but Sam has something worse. He’s lactose intolerant. That means he can’t drink milk. Well, he drinks it, but he shouldn’t.

  And last night, he did.

  I heard his stomach rumbling in music class. It was way louder than the flute our latest “visiting musician” was playing, that’s for sure.

  By social studies class, it sounded like Sam had a lava pit bubbling up inside him. And by the time we hit science class, I knew he was about to blow.

  We were learning about sticky pistons. Our teacher had JUST told us that you craft sticky pistons using slimeballs.

  And Sam’s gas erupted. Sky high.

  When that green cloud filled the room, there was this awkward silence. No one knew what to say—or maybe everyone was just afraid to breathe.

  But I had Sam’s back, like any best friend would. I cracked a joke. I said, “I guess Sam here is one STINKY piston!”

  Well, everyone laughed at that. Except Sam. When the bell rang, he didn’t even wait for me. He just grabbed his books and bounced out into the hall.

  Sheesh. You do a guy a favor, and that’s the thanks you get?

  I caught up with him just as some skeleton said, “See you later, Stinky Piston!” He laughed as he walked away, his bones rattling.

  Chloe crept up from out of nowhere and wanted to know what the kid was talking about.

  Since Sam was still giving me the silent treatment, I explained to Chloe that we’d been learning how to make sticky pistons out of slimeballs. Her eyes lit up, and she said, “Hey, I might need one of those pistons for my talent show project. Sam, can I borrow a slimeball or two?”

  Well, I’m not the hissing kind of creeper, but I almost got all hissy on my sister. First of all, why did she need a sticky piston for a cannon? Second, Sam is MY friend. Why was she asking my friend for favors? Third, it was obvious that Sam was in a bad mood, so I thought Chloe should back off.

  But before I could say so, Sam’s face broke into a wiggly grin, and he said, “Sure!”

  Just like that.

  I’d been trying to get Sam out of his funk all night, and my Evil Twin managed to do it in about ten seconds flat.

  Sam perked up and told me all about his slimeball stash at home. He said it’s really paid off for him, because all kinds of kids have been coming to him for slime.

  He said Willow wanted slimeballs to make magma cream for her potion of Fire Resistance, so she could walk through fire as part of their talent show act.

  “Even one of the spider jockeys wanted to borrow slime!” Sam said, as if that meant he and the jocks were best buds now or something.

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Sam was helping everyone else with the talent show, even JOCKS. But not me—his best friend! And the way things were going lately, I could really use Sam’s help.

  So I suggested—and it was only a small suggestion—that people might be USING Sam to get what they wanted. I told him I hated to see that happen, because he was my best friend in the whole Overworld. And I said that if he still wanted to apply for the VERY important role of being my backup musician, I would let him.

  He could have at least considered my generous offer. At least for like a second. But he didn’t. He reminded me that he was helping Willow with her act. “I told you that already,” he snapped.

  Well, I didn’t think I deserved that kind of attitude. So I said something else—and I admit, I’m not proud of this. I asked him if it had OCCURRED to him that maybe Willow was only with him to get magma cream for her potions.

  “Think about it, Sam,” I said. “She’s an EIGHTH grader. She could be going out with a spider jockey if she wanted to!” That part was true, because everyone knows that Bones has a crush on Willow.

  Someone probably should have cut me off after the “maybe other people are using you” part. Maybe before that. Maybe even before the “Stinky Piston” part. Because Sam was done talking to me now.

  He wiggle-walked away from me as fast as he could.

  So now I’ve got to do some research to find out how long caffeine withdrawal lasts. Or how to sneak hot chocolate into Mob Middle School and get it to Sam on the sly.

  I need
Mr. Cheerful back. Pronto.

  DAY 4: FRIDAY

  Witches. I could really live without them.

  Willow came up to me at school last night and asked if I’d talked Sam into doing his own talent show act.

  Huh? Moi?

  The truth was, I never said anything LIKE that. I was trying to talk Sam into helping ME, not into doing his own thing.

  But I guess what I said to Sam about Willow using him must have gotten under his skin. When I met up with him in history class, he said he’d decided not to be anybody’s assistant. He’s doing an act of his own.

  He wouldn’t tell me what it was exactly, but at lunchtime, there was a sign-up sheet on the wall. We were all supposed to write down what kind of act we’d be doing. Willow, Chloe, and Sam all wrote their acts. And Sam wrote “Trampoline.”

  Bones and his gang of rattlers happened to be standing by the sheet, and Bones was all like, “So you’re a real live trampoline now, huh? Should we call you Sam-poline?”

  Then another rattler tested Sam’s bounciness by lobbing an apple off his head. That apple actually bounced pretty high. It landed on top of the vending machine, where I’m pretty sure it’ll stay for the rest of the school year.

  It was all a big joke for Bones and his crew. But here’s the thing: Sam on a trampoline is going to be the act to beat. How do I know? Because I’ve seen him on his trampoline, and he is a bouncing MACHINE.

  Sam was so excited about his new act that he let the apple thing bounce—er, roll—right off. He even asked if I wanted to come over for a sleepover to help him build a bigger and better trampoline than the one he already has.

  But I shot that idea down right away. I told him I have my OWN act to work on.

  I probably could have been a little more supportive. But now Sam’s got this great idea for an act, and he’ll probably be all done building his trampoline by Monday. Meanwhile, I’ve got to write a rap song. And come up with music. AND face my stage fright.

  Sam didn’t seem to notice my mood. In fact, he THANKED me for giving him the idea to do his own act.

  “Yeah, okay,” I said. “No problem.”

  But it’s definitely a problem. Now I’m going to have to be twice as good onstage, because I don’t just have to beat Bones.

  Now I have to beat my best friend, too.

  DAY 7: MONDAY

  I tried to work on my rap song all weekend.

  Usually, I can write raps in my sleep. I think them up ALL the time—like when I’m sitting in class, or when Dad’s lecturing me, or when Sam is going on and on about how great Willow is.

  But when I sat down and tried to work on this one, things kept getting in the way. I mean, I HAD to clean my room. And then I was missing a sock, so I dug under my bed until I found it. Phew! Then I decided to organize my sock drawer to make sure THAT wouldn’t happen again.

  I even got up early tonight to work on my rap. And I was making progress, too. I made some pretty good changes, I think.

  But then I heard all this music from down the hall. What in the Overworld was going on down there? A party? I had to go investigate. An artist can’t work under those kind of conditions.

  I found Mom in the living room exercising to another DVD. I was thrilled about that, because I thought it meant we could skip our run before dinner. But Mom said she was just warming up for our run with some Zombie Zumba.

  If you ask me, Zombie Zumba is just a bunch of zombies dancing. And like I’ve said before, zombies aren’t exactly known for their rhythm. But the music was pretty catchy. Cammy must have thought so, too, because she kept getting in Mom’s way, bopping her little green head to the beat.

  “Can you take her?” Mom finally asked, huffing and puffing. “I thought your dad was going to, but he disappeared.”

  That sounded about right. Dad was a pro at creeping out of baby duty. So I decided to find him. I just followed all the banging noises coming out of the garage.

  I went inside, and you know what Dad was doing? Helping Chloe build her cannon! He looked up at me from underneath the black contraption, his guilty face covered in gunpowder.

  I thought Dad helping Chloe was really unfair, and I told him so. “What about MY project?” I asked.

  But when he offered to help me with my rap song, I shut right up. The LAST thing I need is Dad rapping with me at my middle school talent show.

  So I stopped complaining to him and went back inside to complain to Mom instead.

  She was still working out and didn’t want to hear it. “We can talk about it during our run,” she said.

  Well, going for a run sounded about as fun to me as rapping with Dad. I had to find a way out of it, and fast. Cammy was still tripping Mom up, so I saw the opportunity to make a deal.

  I told Mom I’d watch the baby, but that I had a LOT of schoolwork to do. “So if I watch her, I probably won’t have time to go running tonight,” I said. “Maybe not even tomorrow night. My homework is too important.”

  Normally, Mom would have seen right through my scheme. But she was too into her zombies and their Zumba. So all she said was, “Dass fly, Ch-Cheryl. (Huff, puff.) Sane Q.” (Translation: “That’s fine, Gerald. Thank you.”)

  As I led Cammy away from the living room, I felt pretty proud of myself. I’d just learned a valuable lesson about when to ask Mom for pretty much WHATEVER I wanted.

  And all it cost me was a little time with my sweet baby sister. And her seventeen very creepy creeper dolls. They look so real! Some of them hiss and everything.

  Cammy’s favorite is the one that blows up and has to be put back together. Go figure. When I got tired of sticking that doll’s head back on, I hid her under a blanket, hoping Cammy wouldn’t notice.

  Well, she noticed, all right. Her face turned red and crumpled right up. I knew I had to act fast. I whipped off the blanket to show her where her favorite baby was hiding.

  But Cammy was faster. I had just enough time to throw the blanket over my OWN head. (When in crisis, save yourself, I always say.)

  The blast rocked the floor beneath me. And when I peeked out from under the blanket, gunpowder drifted down like snowflakes in the Taiga.

  Cammy managed to pull herself together. But we were surrounded by a gazillion baby doll heads and legs. Cammy squealed with happiness and started handing me the parts to put back together. I swear, that little creep changes moods as quickly as Sam the Slime!

  I held my breath, hoping Mom hadn’t heard the blast. If she thought I couldn’t handle this babysitting gig, I might have to go running after all.

  Luckily, her Zombie Zumba music was pretty loud. But I wasn’t going to take any chances on another explosion. I decided to take charge of the situation.

  As I stuck a plastic leg into the bottom of a creeper doll, I did what I always do at times like this. I started rapping.

  I had Cammy’s full attention now. And her dolls’, too. As I lined them up in a row, they stared at me, not even blinking. And while I was rapping for those dolls, I didn’t have a single bit of stage fright.

  But as I made up rap after rap, I wondered, “How come these are so easy? And the rap I NEED to write isn’t?”

  Sometimes life is SO unfair.

  DAY 8: TUESDAY

  Well, the pressure’s on now. I found out at school last night that I have to finish my rap song by Friday. THIS Friday. Why? Because Ms. Wanda broke her foot.

  What does her broken foot have to do with my rap song, you ask? That’s a very good question. I asked the same thing.

  As it turns out, Ms. Wanda won’t be able to teach for a while OR help out with the talent show. I thought that might be good news at first. I mean, I’m not glad she broke her foot, but … my own feet might have done a happy dance when I learned she wasn’t in charge of the talent show anymore.

  Then I found out Mr. Zane is taking over.

  Maybe now would be a good time to mention that Mr. Zane and I go way back—all the way to September. See, I wasn’t always the sprinter I
am today. Before sprinting class, I signed up for self-control class. Mr. Zane was the teacher of that particular extracurricular. And even though I think I have very good self-control for a creeper, Mr. Zane didn’t think so.

  I blame it on Sam. That wiggly slime couldn’t sit still during meditation. I’ll admit, I might have poked him once or twice. But let’s face it, meditation is pretty boring. Can you blame a creeper for trying to make it more fun?

  So Mr. Zane looked at the talent show sign-up sheet and decided he needs to review my rap lyrics. By Friday. He wants to make sure they’re “appropriate.”

  I think that’s pretty unfair. He didn’t ask to see Sam’s trampoline act. And I can think of all kinds of ways THAT could be inappropriate, especially if Sam drinks milk the day of the show.

  But, no. Mr. Zane singled me out, like I’m some sneaky creeper. I tried to tell him I hadn’t even written the lyrics yet. And he said, “Well, I guess you’d better get started, then.”

  He didn’t even care when I told him I already had something due Friday—my essay for language arts. We’re supposed to write about someone who inspired us, like a hero or a mentor or something. That got assigned last night, too, so teachers are really piling it on right now.

  And did I mention my itchiness? By the time the morning bell rang, I was dying to get out of school and back home where I could scratch myself silly. See, I try not to scratch in public—on account of the “Itchy” nickname. But when a creeper has to scratch, he HAS to scratch!