Creature from the 7th Grade : Boy or Beast (9781101591833) Read online

  For the record, I hated it there. Too many mosquitoes, the sand got stuck between my toes, and it smelled like rotting logs.

  Mom continues. “And then sixty million years later, one adventurous young female mutant got tired of life underwater, swam to the surface of the lake, and climbed out onto the shore. She discovered she could breathe air as well as water, so she decided to stay.”

  “Quite a story, Charlie, don’t you think?” my dad asks.

  “Yeah. Very interesting. I only have one question. WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS??????”

  Mom says, “You see, that adventurous young female mutant creature grew up to become your grandmother, Nana Wallabird, may she rest in peace.”

  “What?” I gasp. “Nana was a dinosaur?” I am so stunned I nearly fall off my milk crate. “Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

  There is a long, awkward silence before my mom answers. “We thought it would upset you.” She speaks so softly I can barely hear her.

  “You thought it would upset me, so you didn’t tell me my grandmother was a dinosaur!”

  “A mutant dinosaur,” Dad quickly adds. “There’s a big difference.”

  “She wasn’t as large as a regular dinosaur,” Mom explains.

  “Just how large was she?” I ask. Nana died when I was only two. I don’t remember her very well.

  “About your size, I’d say.” Dad measures the air with his hand. “Seven or eight feet. I’m not really sure. Maybe . . . uh . . . nine.”

  “That’s pretty large,” I say.

  “Yes, but she carried herself like she was smaller,” Mom says. “She was terribly graceful.”

  “And very attractive,” Dad remarks. “As mutant dinosaurs go.”

  “Can you tell me why Grampa Wallabird married a mutant dinosaur, or will that upset me too much?” I ask.

  “Your grandfather had a heart as big as Texas,” my dad explains. “And a nose to match.”

  “With feet the size of banjoes,” my mom chimes in. “Not to mention the hump on his back. And that chronic skin condition.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that my grandfather was so funny looking only a mutant dinosaur was willing to marry him?”

  “Basically,” Dad admits.

  My mind is racing as I try to process all this new information. “Okay,” I say. “So I have a little dinosaur DNA in my genome. I guess that explains why I turned into one. But maybe it’s just temporary. I could be the Creature from the Black Lagoon for Halloween and then change back into myself for Thanksgiving. I mean, stranger things could happen. They already did. Right, Mom?” I’m beginning to feel a little better.

  “Don’t get your hopes up, honey,” Mom replies.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “You won’t be changing back,” she says. “Trust me. I know.”

  “But how do you know, Mom?” I persist.

  “Parents know these things,” she says quietly.

  “Take it from your mother, Charlie,” Dad says. “She knows.”

  “You mean I’m going have to stay this way permanently? As in forever????????? With scales and a tail and gill slits . . . and . . . and . . . everything?” I wail.

  “Yes,” Mom says softly. “Now you’re upset.”

  “Upset????????? Mom, they don’t even have a word for what I am. All this time you knew I was going to turn into a mutant dinosaur and you never even mentioned it?????????”

  “That’s the thing, honey,” Mom says, wringing her hands. “We didn’t know for sure it was going to happen, so we decided to spare you the unnecessary anxiety. We told your brother that he had a recessive mutant dinosaur gene, and he was so traumatized he failed math and practically got himself kicked off the baseball team.”

  “And after all that, he never even grew flippers or a tail or anything,” Dad explains. “So we kind of assumed . . .”

  “We assumed your recessive mutant dinosaur gene would stay recessive like your brother’s,” Mom says. “Until we got that call from Principal Muchnick today.” Mom turns away from me, her eyes well up, and she starts to cry.

  “How am I going to face everybody? What am I going to tell them? ‘Being the shortest boy in the entire middle school wasn’t bad enough, so I had to turn into an overstuffed chameleon’?”

  Mom dries her eyes, blows her nose, and tucks her hanky back into her pocket. “So you’re a little different. Big deal. Different is good. Nana Wallabird was different. And she had a wonderful life.”

  “She married a guy who looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame,” I say. I poke around at the marshmallows floating in my cocoa with my tongue. “I wouldn’t exactly call that wonderful.”

  “Yes, but Grampa Wallabird loved Nana very much,” Dad reminds me. “They were happily married for nearly fifty years.”

  “And Nana thought Grampa was the handsomest guy in the world,” Mom says, pouring more hot cocoa into my cup. “Be glad you’re not like everybody else, Charlie. You’re one of a kind.”

  “I sure am. Craig Dieterly always says that when they made me they didn’t break the mold, they arrested the guy who made it. I don’t even want to think about what he’s gonna say about me now.”

  “He’s just jealous of you, honey. There are a million Craig Dieterlys in this world,” my mom says. “But there’s only one Charles Elmer Drinkwater. And don’t you ever forget it.”

  “Do you have to say my middle name, Mom?” I complain.

  “You’re special, honey,” Mom says. “Get used to it!”

  “I don’t want to be special!” I protest. “I want to be like everybody else. Who wants stupid old flippers and a tail and gill slits? Why couldn’t I at least be a mammal, Mom? Or even a reptile? It’s not fair!” I stomp my flippers on the floor so hard the chandelier begins to shake.

  “You should thank your lucky stars, son,” Dad says. “With diversity like this, you could get a full scholarship to any university in the country. Maybe even . . .” he pauses dramatically “. . . Harvard. Who knows?”

  “I don’t care!” I wail. And stomp even harder.

  “Harvard, Fred? Can you imagine? Our little peanut?” She begins to cry all over again. “Our little boy is finally growing up. It’s all happening so quickly.”

  “I want to be human!!!” I scream.

  My dad puts his arm around her. “If it’s any consolation, Doris, emotionally he’s still just a child.”

  Suddenly Dave clomps into the house, cradling his arm. “I strained my left wrist,” he announces as he barges into the kitchen. “Can you believe it? Coach Grubman sent me home in the middle of the practice game. I have to ice it every fifteen minutes and apply heat in between. The play-offs are Thursday. I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m not better by then.” He grabs an ice pack from the freezer, wraps it around his wrist, then looks up and suddenly notices me. “Hey, look who inherited the Drinkwater family curse. Tough luck, bro.”

  “Yeah,” I reply. I’m still so upset I could weep. Only it’s totally uncool to cry in front of your big brother. “I was sort of hoping it was temporary.”

  “It’s not,” Dave says, tightening the Velcro straps on the ice pack. “Curses rarely are.”

  “We don’t call it a curse, Dave,” Mom says, putting down her hot cocoa. “Let’s not make value judgments, sweetie. Charlie is special. We must learn to celebrate our differences. Don’t lick the floor, Charles, it isn’t sanitary.”

  I immediately stop picking up crumbs and reel in my enormous tongue. “Sorry, Mom.”

  “We’re all unique in one way or another,” Mom continues. “Your father went bald when he was still a teenager.”

  “Doris, please . . .” My dad hates it when anybody mentions his lack of hair.

  “Never be ashamed of being bald, Fred. I love that shiny he
ad of yours. You know why? Because it gives you character and makes you strong. Poor Al Swanson has the hair of a Greek god, and what good did it ever do him? He still can’t sell his way out of a paper bag.”

  Poor Al Swanson sells baseballs, mitts, and Ping-Pong paddles at Balls in Malls, the store my dad manages. My mother has been calling him “poor Al Swanson” for so long I used to think his first name was actually Poor.

  Mom goes over to my dad, puts her arms around him, and gives him a big kiss right on the top of his shiny bald head. “Your father was the youngest assistant manager in the history of the company. He made head of regional sales before his thirtieth birthday, and if he had all the hair in the world I couldn’t love him any more.” She kisses his head again.

  “Thanks, Doris. You can stop kissing my head now.” Dad pretends to be fed up. He loves my mom a lot. He just doesn’t like saying it out loud.

  “Now that we’re all done celebrating our differences, isn’t anybody going to ask me about how my practice game went today?” Dave asks.

  “How did your practice game go today, honey?” Mom asks.

  “It doesn’t count if I have to ask you to ask,” Dave answers.

  “How’d you do, son?” Dad asks. “I’d really like to know.”

  “I scored four touchdowns before my injury.”

  “Not bad, Dave,” Dad says proudly. “Not bad at all.”

  “Yeah. I would have broken an intramural record, Pop, except for . . .” He points to his wrist and the ice pack.

  “You boys go upstairs and start your homework while your father and I make dinner,” Mom orders.

  “And don’t forget to put some heat on that injury,” Dad reminds Dave.

  “I’m all over it,” Dave replies.

  “If I don’t get accepted back into seventh grade, do I still have to finish my homework?” I ask, picking up my crate and taking it upstairs with me.

  “You most certainly do,” Mom says. “Now shoo! Both of you.”

  GUESS WHAT’S COMING TO DINNER

  "WHAT A BUMMER, DAVE. You must really be upset about your wrist,” I say as we go upstairs to our room.

  “Yeah,” Dave replies. “But not half as upset as you must be about turning into a mutant dinosaur.”

  “I was the littlest nerd in my class. Now I’m the biggest. When you think about it, things haven’t really changed all that much. Except for my tail. And being green. And a few other things.”

  “Can you help me turn on the hot water, little bro?” Dave asks, heading into the bathroom. “I can’t really use my hand and I’ve got to get some heat on this injury.”

  “Sure,” I say. I put down the drain stopper, turn on the water, and wait for the basin to fill. “I’m sure you’ll be better by the big game. You have to be. What would the team do without you?”

  “They’d be fine,” Dave says, lowering his arm gingerly into the water.

  “No, they wouldn’t,” I say. “And you know it.”

  “You’re right,” Dave says. “Ouch.”

  I shuffle back into my room and hand my turtles a claw-full of dried flies. They start licking me with their little tongues and trying to get me to pick them up. They coo at me affectionately when I go over to my desk to start working on my social studies paper. My legs are too big to fit underneath, so I sit sidesaddle on my crate.

  The phone rings. I have trouble picking it up with my claws. When I finally do I nearly poke myself in the ear. “Hey, pal, what’s up?” Sam asks.

  “Plenty,” I reply.

  “If that’s Janie Belzer, tell her I’m putting heat on my injury and I’ll call right back,” Dave hollers from the bathroom. Janie is one of Dave’s three girlfriends. He likes them all, but Janie is his favorite. She has curly brown hair and a big smile, and her hobby is painting portraits of dogs.

  “It’s for me,” I holler back. “It’s Sam.”

  “Really?” Dave yells back, surprised. When the phone rings it’s generally for him.

  “Really,” I reply. Then I tell Sam all about Nana. And the family curse.

  “Wow. That is so cool,” Sam says. “I’m jealous.”

  “Don’t be,” I say. “It’s not as exciting as it sounds.” Sam wants to know if I’ll be back in school tomorrow. “The school board still hasn’t decided. If they don’t let me back in it could be a real blemish on my record.” Mom says colleges pay as much attention to your grades in stuff like “attitude” and “cooperation” as they do to your regular academics.

  “If they don’t let you back you could probably sue for discrimination against a minority. My aunt works at the American Civil Liberties Union.” Sam’s got relatives everywhere. “I bet we could get her to represent you.”

  While Sam explains the pros and cons of getting the ACLU involved in my case, I gaze absentmindedly at Dave’s tropical fish, which are swimming in their large saltwater tank on the top of his desk. I wonder if Dave would mind if I ate just one? He might not even notice.

  I wonder how it would taste with whipped cream on it. And a daikon radish with cilantro-flavored mayonnaise on the side. On a bed of udon noodles. I haven’t eaten anything except cocoa and cookies since I became a creature. Hmm.

  “Gotta go, Sam. Dinner’s almost ready. Call you later.” I hang up and casually amble over to get a better look at my appetizers. I am especially attracted to a family of five extremely rare blue-and-white-striped Egyptian mouth breeders swimming around a small plaster replica of Neptune’s castle.

  My dad says those fish look just like my uncle Marvin the mouth breather, my mom’s sister Harriet’s seventh or eighth husband. Only they live in Dave’s fish tank on the side of his desk instead of in a split-level ranch house at 63 Maple Drive. And they don’t have bad breath.

  The phone rings again. I pick it up.

  “Sam just called.” It’s Lucille. “I’m dying to hear all about your family curse.”

  “If that’s Melanie, tell her I can’t talk right now,” Dave yells from the bathroom. “Tell her I’ll call back.”

  Melanie Lindstrom is Dave’s second-most favorite girlfriend. She is tall and has a long auburn ponytail, and her hobbies are rock climbing and collecting snow globes.

  “It’s for me,” I reply. “It’s Lucille.”

  Dave doesn’t say anything. He shuts off the water and walks back into the room, looking annoyed.

  “I have to lie down for a few minutes.” Dave goes over to his bed. “Coach says I need rest. Think you could tear yourself away from that phone for a minute, sport?”

  “Sure,” I tell Dave. I ask Lucille to call back later, hang up, and find myself wandering to Dave’s tropical fish again. “They’re looking kind of hungry, Dave. I’d be happy to feed them for you while you rest.”

  “They’re not hungry.” Dave lies down. “I fed them this morning. Don’t feed them, Charlie. The water gets cloudy if you give them too much.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot,” I lie calmly. “Why don’t you take a nap and I’ll wake you as soon as dinner’s ready.” Dave’s fish beckon to me with their flashing tails and silvery fins.

  Close your eyes, Dave. Go to sleep. You don’t want to watch this. It’s not going to be a pretty sight.

  “How come you’re staring at my fish?” Dave eyes me suspiciously. “Is something wrong?”

  “I like to stare at fish,” I reply. “It relaxes me.” No, it doesn’t. Staring at fish just makes me hungry. I must not eat my brother’s pets. I must stay far away from them. But try as I might, I cannot seem to pry myself loose from that tank. I salivate at the thought of chomping down on those gleaming little beauties. The temptation is far too great. I can resist no longer. Somebody stop me. Noooooooooo . . . . . . . . . . . . !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Before I know what’s happening, my head is underwater
, and I’m snapping up angelfish and Bolivian rams in my powerful jaws like there’s no tomorrow. The Egyptian mouth breeders cower behind their castle and manage to escape my mighty fangs.

  “Back off!” Dave yells. He rushes over, grabs me by the haunches, and pulls me to the ground. He’s really strong. Even with a strained wrist. He’s not only the football team’s star quarterback, he’s also captain of the wrestling team. Now he gets me in a hammerlock, flips me over, and sits on top of my heaving chest. Boy, is he good.

  “Spit ’em out, Charlie. RIGHT NOW!” Dave yells. When I hesitate, he grabs my jaws in his hands and slowly manages to pry them open. He’s struggling so hard the veins in his forehead are popping out. “Now, Charlie! Now! I’m not kidding.” Dave is really brave. I wouldn’t put my hands anywhere near my fangs if I were him. “Oww!” Dave screams. “My wrist!”

  My parents hear the commotion and come running into the room to see what’s wrong.

  While Dave holds my jaws open, five of the cutest little fish you’ve ever seen come hopping out and onto the rug like they’ve just returned from an exciting vacation at SeaWorld. “They’re still alive,” Dave says. He breathes a sigh of relief, gets up, and flips the fish right back into their tank. They swim around happily, like they didn’t just come within a whisker of total annihilation.

  “You are going to have to learn to control those impulses, young man,” my mom says sternly.

  “I know, Mom.” I hang my head. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Apologize to your brother, son,” Dad orders.

  “I’m so sorry, Dave. This will never happen again. I promise. Are you all right?”

  “What’s happening to you, Charlie? Who is this big green scaly creature with the tongue that doesn’t stop, and what the heck did he do with my little brother? The Charlie who I used to know is kind and gentle.” Dave turns around and starts adjusting the pH balance in the tank like he can’t bear looking at me another minute.

  I’m not really sure who or what Charlie is now, either. All I know is I’m starting to feel like one of those awkward, out-of-control adolescents who my parents and teachers keep talking about. If this is what being a teenager is like, I’m not so sure I want to be one.