“Why can’t you just quit it?” I asked him. “Why can’t you just leave me alone, Eddie? What did I ever do to make you hate me so much?”
For a split second, Eddie looked totally confused. “Hate you? I don’t hate you, Earl,” he said. Then he pulled me up right next to his face. “You and me are just havin’ fun.”
A minute later, I was in a headlock, and the two of us were running all over the floor. “See? Isn’t this fun, Tubs?” he said.
Kids love Barbara Park’s books so much,
they’ve given them all these awards:
Alabama’s Emphasis on Reading
Arizona Young Readers’ Award
Charlotte Award (New York State)
Dorothy Canfield Fisher Children’s Book Award (Vermont)
Flicker Tale Children’s Book Award (North Dakota)
Georgia Children’s Book Award
Golden Archer Award (Wisconsin)
Great Stone Face Award (New Hampshire)
Iowa Children’s Choice Award
IRA-CBC Children’s Choice
IRA Young Adults’ Choice
Junior Book Award (South Carolina)
Library of Congress Book of the Year
Maud Hart Lovelace Award (Minnesota)
Milner Award (Georgia)
Nevada Young Readers’ Award
North Dakota Children’s Choice Award
Nutmeg Children’s Book Award (Connecticut)
OMAR Award (Indiana)
Parents’ Choice Award
Rebecca Caudill Young Readers’ Book Award (Illinois)
Rhode Island Children’s Book Award
Sasquatch Reading Award of Washington State
School Library Journal’s Best Children’s Book of the Year
Tennessee Children’s Choice Book Award
Texas Bluebonnet Award
Utah Children’s Book Award
West Virginia Honor Book
William Allen White Children’s Book Award (Kansas)
Young Hoosier Book Award (Indiana)
BOOKS BY BARBARA PARK:
Almost Starring Skinnybones
Beanpole
Dear God, Help!!! Love, Earl
Don’t Make Me Smile
The Kid in the Red Jacket
Maxie, Rosie, and Earl—Partners in Grime
Mick Harte Was Here
My Mother Got Married (And Other Disasters)
Operation: Dump the Chump
Rosie Swanson: Fourth-Grade Geek for President
Skinnybones
A RANDOM HOUSE BOOK
Copyright © 1993 by Barbara Park
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published as a Borzoi Book by
Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., in 1993.
www.randomhouse.com/kids
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-20909
eISBN: 978-0-307-48364-5
RL: 4.9
First Bullseye Books edition: April 1994
RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
v3.1
To every kid who’s ever been bullied,
beaten up, or otherwise pushed around—
Hang in there. Your day will come.
* CONTENTS *
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1. Death Wears Shorts
2. Nosy Rosie and Other Pains
3. Torture
4. Uncle Murray
5. To Battle
6. Extortion Man
7. Ruby Doober and Friend
8. Dead with a Capital D
9. Bingo
10. Boo
11. Running Amuck
Maxie’s Words
About the Author
*1* DEATH WEARS SHORTS
Death is in my P.E. class.
I know him personally. He has brown hair and freckles. And he wears baggy shorts.
A lot of people think that Death wears a black hooded robe and has long, white, bony fingers. But that’s only in the movies. In real life, Death has a tan, and he bites his nails right down to the nubs.
He’s got a name, too. Death’s name is Eddie McFee.
I met him the first week of school this year. He didn’t introduce himself, exactly. He was sitting in the first row of the baseball bleachers, and when I walked past, he tripped me.
I don’t mean I just stumbled over his foot, either. ’Cause when Eddie McFee trips you, he knocks your feet out from under you and you go crashing to the ground. Hard.
A whole lot of kids started laughing. But not Eddie. He just leaned back in the bleachers, folded his arms, and watched me real serious-like. You know, as if I was some kind of lab rat or something.
My face turned beet red. It felt hot, too. Embarrassingly hot.
“Ha ha. Very funny,” I managed.
But Eddie still didn’t smile. “Oh, come on, Tubs,” he said. “You’re just trying to be nice. It wasn’t that funny.”
My stomach knotted up when he called me that name. That’s not who I am, I wanted to say. My name is Earl Wilber. And from now on, you use it.
But saying something like that to Eddie McFee would have been totally gutsy. And I’m not the gutsy type. I mean, I have a few guts, I suppose. But mostly I just use them for digestion.
Anyhow, after you’ve spent a whole lifetime listening to kids make fun of the way you look, you sort of learn to accept it after a while. You learn to keep your mouth shut, too. ’Cause if you don’t, it only makes things worse.
Like one time in first grade, this kid named John Paul Potter called me Miss Piggy during recess. Which was totally insulting, especially since Miss Piggy is a girl and all.
So I walked over to John Paul. And I said, “Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me. HA!”
I did the big HA! right in his face.
That’s when the chase began. John Paul Potter and about a hundred of his closest friends started chasing me all over the playground. It finally ended when Gloria Biddles lassoed my foot with her jump rope and I fell face-first into the grass.
I’m allergic to grass.
I started to wheeze so bad I had to use my squeezy nose drops and my mouth inhaler.
The next thing I knew, John Paul and Gloria were skipping in a circle around me, singing, “The cheese stands alone … the cheese stands alone … hi-ho the derry-o, the cheese stands alone.”
Only, instead of singing the word “cheese,” they were singing the word “wheeze.”
“The wheeze stands alone,” they sang.
I still remember closing my eyes and wishing that the ground would open up and swallow me down to the middle of the earth. That way I would never have to see those mean kids again. Or hear their teasing voices.
As usual, though, the ground didn’t cooperate. But I can tell you one thing for sure. When I finally went back to my room that day, I promised myself I would never recite that lame “sticks and stones” thing again. Which is why I didn’t even consider sticking up for myself against Eddie McFee.
Still, I couldn’t help wondering why he automatically hated me so much. I mean, I know I’m a little on the heavy side. And fine, I’m wheezy and I have a cowlick. But there’s cool stuff about me, too. Like I’m a good friend, I think. And I have a pretty big heart and all.
Like last spring I stayed up two nights in a row feeding a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest. It ended up dying. But that was my mother’s fault. She made
me go to school on Monday morning. And when I got home, my cat, Chuck, was prancing around the house with the bird in his mouth, like it was some sick little prize he’d won at a cat carnival.
I cried over that bird. I buried him in a box lined with flowers. I even made this little cross out of some twigs and junk I found on the ground.
Not that Eddie McFee would care about that side of me. To him I’m just somebody to pick on.
In fact, after that first day in P.E., it was almost like I became his weekly entertainment. You should have seen the way his eyes would dance around when he would get me alone in class. He’d either trip me or bang my head into the lockers. Other times he’d give me one of those hard knuckle-punches in the arm.
I didn’t tell anybody about it, though. Not even my best friend, Maxie Zuckerman. Let’s face it, there are some things just too humiliating to say out loud.
Unfortunately, Maxie found out anyway. One day he accidentally walked into the bathroom while Eddie was flushing my head down the toilet.
As soon as Eddie looked up, Maxie backpedaled out of the bathroom so fast you wouldn’t believe.
“Oops! Sorry! Didn’t mean to barge in on you, Ed,” he blabbered as he left. “Just, you know … go back to what you were doing.”
Maxie only weighs about eighty pounds, so I didn’t really blame him for that. Trying to come to my rescue would have been a suicide mission. Anyhow, as soon as Eddie had left the bathroom, Maxie rushed right back in to help me.
“Earl! My God!” he said, upset. “You’ve got to tell somebody what he’s doing to you. I mean it. You’ve got to.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “No, I don’t. I don’t got to do anything, Max,” I told him. “Just forget it, okay? Just pretend it never happened.”
Maxie looked at me like I was nuts. “Pretend it never happened? Are you serious? I can’t just pre—”
“Yes, you can!” I snapped. “I’m not telling anybody anything. Get it? Not Coach Rah. Not my mother. Not anybody. Do you know what Eddie McFee would do to me if I ratted on him? He’d pound me into bonemeal and serve me to his dog for Thanksgiving dinner. Believe me, Max. He’s already explained it to me down to the goriest little detail. So just forget what you saw, okay? This is none of your business.”
After that, I slicked back my hair, which was still wet from the toilet, and walked out of the bathroom.
Maxie didn’t bring it up again. And—right or wrong—I never squealed on Eddie McFee.
I did try hiding from him one time, though. You kind of owe it to yourself to try hiding from Death at least once, I think.
I got to the gym early that day and squeezed behind one of the tumbling mats hanging on the wall. Unfortunately, Eddie spotted me before I was totally hidden. He lifted up the mat and gave me a grin that sent chills up my spine.
“Boo,” he said quietly.
My upper lip quivered as I tried to smile. “Um, well, yes, boo to you, too, Ed,” I said.
He laughed. “You weren’t trying to hide from me, were you, Jumbo?” he said.
Then he reached in, grabbed my arm, and yanked me out as hard as he could. After that, he marched me into the boys’ locker room and shoved me against the cinder-block wall. My head hit the wall pretty hard, too. I didn’t cry, though. I never cried in front of Eddie. At least I’m proud of that much.
“Why can’t you just quit it?” I asked him. “Why can’t you just leave me alone, Eddie? What did I ever do to make you hate me so much?”
For a split second, Eddie looked confused. “Hate you? I don’t hate you, Earl,” he said. Then he pulled me up right next to his face. “You and me are just havin’ fun.”
A minute later, I was in a headlock, and the two of us were running all over the floor. “See? Isn’t this fun, Tubs?” he said.
He jerked me harder.
Suddenly, four quarters came flying out of my shirt pocket. They hit the floor and rolled for a while.
Eddie stopped to see how many there were. And I’m telling you, it was like a miracle almost. Because at that exact moment, I got an idea that was so great I couldn’t believe it.
“Wait!” I yelled out. “Hold it, Ed! Watch this!”
Then, as fast as I could, I picked up the money and shoved it into his hands.
“Here!” I said. Then I felt in my pocket for the two dollar bills. “Money! For you! Wow! What a great brainstorm I’m having here! Look at this! I brought three dollars to buy a book at the book fair today. But instead, I’m giving it to you! Get it, Ed? I’m paying you to stop hurting me!”
For a second, Eddie just stared at the money in his hands. Then all of a sudden, his whole face lit up.
“Whoa! Earl! You just might have something here, dude,” he said. “This is a good idea.”
He stuffed the money into his pocket and patted it in there. “Yeah. I definitely like this. It’s kinda like we’re two businessmen doing a deal, right? For three bucks a week, I don’t break your neck.”
Quickly, I shook my head. “No, Ed. No way. I can’t pay three dollars every single week. I don’t have that much money. I swear. I can only bring you one.”
He thought it over. “Two,” he said finally. Then before I could say no, he grabbed my hand and made me shake on it.
So from that day on, that became our little arrangement. Every Wednesday morning before P.E. began, I would give Eddie McFee two bucks, and he didn’t lay a hand on me.
I could stroll around the gym wherever I pleased. Sit wherever I wanted to. Say whatever I felt like saying. And Eddie didn’t raise an eyebrow.
At first it just seemed so perfect, I couldn’t believe it.
But, as it turned out, there was one little glitch with our arrangement that I hadn’t really thought of. Because the thing about money is that—unless you come from a rich family—sooner or later it runs out.
And I don’t come from a very rich family.
My mother is an assistant manager at Milo’s Market. So we’re not exactly raking in the bucks.
She’s been divorced from my father since I was three. Dad sends child-support money every month, but he’s not rich, either. After their divorce, he moved back to England, which is where he was born. But I don’t know what he does, exactly.
I think I’m supposed to miss him, but I don’t. He’s an okay guy and all, but my mother and I have a lot more in common than me and my father. Like we don’t call our oatmeal “porridge.” And we never use the word “bloody” unless something is actually bleeding.
Also, my father calls his umbrella a “bumbershoot.” How can you feel close to a man like that?
Anyway, since Mom doesn’t make that much money, the main cash I get comes on birthdays and holidays. I keep it in a sock in the back of my underwear drawer. That’s what I was paying Eddie with.
I knew it wouldn’t last forever. But one night when I was getting my money for P.E., I turned my money sock inside out and counted how much I had left.
“One … two … three … four …”
I gasped. No! This couldn’t be true!
I shook the sock all around in the air, but nothing more came out.
“Four?” I said. “Oh, man! There has to be more than four dollars left! There were at least eighteen bucks in there when I started!”
My stomach knotted tight as a drum.
Two more payments. That’s all I had left. Two more payments, and I would be Eddie McFee’s punching bag again.
I crawled into bed and stared up at my ceiling.
In desperation, I started to pray.
“God?” I began. “Excuse me, okay? But it’s Earl Wilber down here. Remember me? I’m the one who asked you to vaporize that kid in my P.E. class a few weeks ago.
“Okay … well, apparently you didn’t feel right about that. And I respect that, okay? But see, now my money sock is almost flat, so I really need you to take me seriously this time.
“From now on, I need to be sick on P.E. mornings, okay? Not forever, I don’
t mean. Only until the holidays. Just till my Christmas money comes in. I mean it, God. All I need is a little rash or a fever on these mornings. Or maybe one of those twenty-four-hour stomach flu things.
“But whatever sickness you choose, remember … it has to be something that my mother can either see or measure with a thermometer. Like don’t just give me a headache, or she’ll hand me a couple of aspirin and I’ll be at school so fast it’ll make your head spin.
“Okay. Well, I guess that’s about it, God. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing. Meanwhile, I’ll be right here in my bed waiting for my infection.
“This is Earl Wilber, thanking you in advance.
“Over and out.”
*2* NOSY ROSIE AND OTHER PAINS
The next morning I was fine. Seriously. I’d never felt better in my life. No temperature. No rash. No nothing.
I looked up at my ceiling and frowned.
“Okay, I realize you’re busy, God. But even Federal Express can deliver by ten A.M.”
“Earl!” hollered my mother. “Who are you talking to in there? It’s late! Are you dressed yet?”
My mother has the biggest ears in the universe. Also, her morning voice sounds like fingernails scratching across a chalkboard.
I pulled a sweatshirt over my head. “I’m almost ready,” I hollered back.
I probably would have been more upset about having to go to school, but during the night, I had come up with a backup plan to get out of P.E. Even when you’re counting on God to infect you, it’s always good to have a backup plan, I think.
Mine was the nurse’s office. If I didn’t wake up sick, I would go to school, fake an ankle injury, and spend the day with Nurse Klonski. When it comes to faking illness and injuries, Nurse Klonski isn’t a pushover, exactly. But still, it was worth a try.
Before I left my bedroom, I stuffed two dollars in my jacket pocket. If my backup plan failed, I definitely didn’t want to have to face Eddie McFee empty-handed. Just the thought of it made my stomach so queasy I had a swig of Pepto-Bismol with my breakfast. After that, I ate two Rolaids and left for Maxie’s house.