My talons curled around the guitar neck. The strings all started to pop.
Pop pop poppop POP.
The final pop was loud enough to wake me up.
“Huh?”
I stared at the ceiling. Shadows shifted above my head in a pale square of moonlight.
I’m lying in bed, I realized.
I was asleep.
It was a dream. Yes?
I raised both hands from under the covers. Yes. I had two hands. No giant bird claw.
A nightmare. But it seemed so real. I could still see every detail.
Still see the big feathery claw at the end of my arm wrapping around the guitar neck.
I never have nightmares. I mean, really never. Not since I was a little kid.
Usually, I can’t remember my dreams at all. But mostly, my dreams are about kids at school, and my parents, and playing sports. Boring stuff.
Never nightmares. Never horrifying dreams that wake me up screaming.
Or was I only screaming in the dream?
I checked out my hands again. Just to make sure.
They were fine. Perfectly normal hands.
My heart was still beating hard. A shiver rolled down my body. It was warm in my room, especially under the covers. Why was I shivering?
I pulled up the vulture claw to examine it.
Yes, I wore it when I slept. I wasn’t taking chances. I wanted good luck twenty-four hours a day.
The light from outside was dim. I raised the claw close to my face and squinted hard at it.
I gasped when the three talons moved.
It can’t be alive. It CAN’T be!
“It’s just the darkness,” I murmured to myself. “That nightmare — it upset me. I’m seeing things.”
But to my horror, the claw leaped from my hand. It snapped forward — and grabbed me by the throat.
“Unnnnh.” I made a choking sound as the talons gripped my skin. They tightened. Wrapped around the skin under my chin.
Choked me.
“Unnnnh.”
Tighter. Tighter. The claw squeezed so hard, I wanted to scream in pain.
But I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t breathe.
The claw gripped my windpipe.
“Unh unnnnh.” I couldn’t make a sound.
I struggled to pull it off with both hands.
It was too strong. Clamped on too tightly. I couldn’t budge it.
Oh, nooooo.
I knew what was happening.
It was going to KILL me.
“Lee? Are you okay?”
“Lee — what’s your problem?”
I opened my eyes to see Mom and Dad rushing into my bedroom.
Dad clicked on the ceiling light. He was in his striped pajama bottoms. Mom was tying the belt on her blue bathrobe. Her hair fell in tangles over her face.
The bright light made me blink. It took a few seconds for everything to come into focus.
I realized I was sitting on the edge of my bed. My pajamas were all twisted. My face prickled with cold sweat.
Glancing down, I saw that I was holding the claw tightly in front of me.
“What was that scream?” Dad asked, leaning over me. “Did something frighten you?”
“I — I —” I cleared my throat. I raised the claw up to him. “It grabbed me,” I said. “It was … choking me.”
Mom uttered a short cry. She brushed her hair off her face with both hands. Her eyes were on the vulture claw. “Lee, what is that thing?”
“It’s … something I got in the mail,” I said.
Dad ran a finger over my throat. He squinted at me. Turned my head gently from side to side.
“You had a nightmare,” he said softly.
“Yes. A nightmare,” Mom repeated. She shivered. “That ugly thing would give me nightmares, too!”
“Dad, n-no,” I stammered. “It wasn’t a nightmare. It was real. It grabbed my neck and —”
“No.” Dad raised a hand, motioning for me to stop. “There aren’t any marks on your neck, Lee. No pinch marks. No scratches. Nothing.”
“It was a dream,” Mom said, coming up beside him. “Weird,” she added. “You never have nightmares.”
I blinked. I gazed down at the claw. It wasn’t moving. It was stiff and still.
What just happened to me? I wondered.
Was it a nightmare inside a nightmare?
In the first nightmare, I had a claw instead of a hand. Maybe I never woke up from that dream. Maybe I slid right into the next dream.
And dreamed that the claw snapped over my windpipe.
That had to be what happened. A dream inside a dream. One frightening nightmare after another.
I settled back under the covers. Dad pulled the blanket under my chin.
“Maybe you should put that ugly claw away, Lee,” he said.
“Yes. If it’s giving you bad dreams, throw it away,” Mom said.
“No way,” I replied. I tucked the claw under the blanket. “It’s a good-luck charm. It brought me a lot of good luck.”
“Good luck? It doesn’t look like a good-luck charm to me!” Mom said, shaking her head. She led Dad out the door. They clicked off the light.
I lay there on my back in the darkness. I could feel the claw resting lightly on my chest.
Thumpthump thump thumpthump.
That heavy thumping was my heart, right? It wasn’t the claw thumping against my chest. Right?
Right?
The next morning, it was hard to wake up. Dad is my alarm clock. He shouts, “Wake up! Rise and shine!” into my room every morning at seven.
It usually takes only one shout. But this morning, he had to give the alarm three times.
Groaning, I sat up. It took all my strength to climb out from under the covers. I still felt shaken from those nightmares. They were just too real.
I checked my hands. Normal. Not claws.
I yawned and stretched. I could smell bacon frying downstairs. It was Friday. Bacon and scrambled eggs day.
Mom believes in a big breakfast. She says it gets you going for the day.
I needed to wake up and get going strong. This afternoon was the next competition for the scholarship. The bowling tournament.
I squeezed the claw under my pajama shirt. I needed all the luck I could get. Bowling is not my best sport.
I took a hot shower. Then I went to the closet to pick out some clothes.
I pulled my best jeans from the top shelf. And my favorite T-shirt — the red one with a big black thumbs-up on the front. I started to pull on the jeans — then stopped. I squinted at the front. What was the dark stain on the front? A big dark circle around the zipper.
It made it look like I had wet myself!
Oh, well. No way I could wear these jeans to school. I heaved them to the floor and went back to my closet for another pair.
Then I raised the T-shirt over my head and started to pull it on. Oh, wait. I couldn’t believe it. Both sleeves had big rips at the armpits. The shirt was totally torn.
Mom would never let me wear it to school. I sighed. My favorite T-shirt — ruined. I tossed it on top of the stained jeans and went to choose another one.
What was up with my clothes? How did they get messed up just sitting in my closet?
I went into the bathroom to brush my hair. It’s thick and wiry, and I can’t really get it to stay flat or anything. But today, I heard a snap. And the comb broke in half.
“Huh?” I stared at the two pieces in my hand. This day was not off to a great start.
The claw bounced against my chest as I hurried down the stairs to breakfast. Mom was dressed for school. She stood at the stove, poking the bacon. Out the window, I saw Dad watering his tomato plants.
Mom turned. “No more nightmares?”
I shook my head. “No. I slept fine. But my good jeans? The new ones? They have a stain —”
Mom pointed to the fridge. “Pull out six eggs,” she said. “Two for each of us.”
She never
really hears me in the morning. Too much on her mind. I decided I’d tell her about the jeans and T-shirt later.
I pulled open the door to the fridge. The eggs were on the top shelf of the door. I reached for two eggs — then stopped.
Whoa.
I heard a cracking sound. The sound repeated all down the row of eggs.
Crack craaack craaackcraack.
I let out a cry as the eggs cracked open — and scrawny, wet claws came poking out. A dozen sticky claws clenching and unclenching their bony talons.
“Noooooooo!”
A long moan escaped my throat.
“What’s wrong?” Mom cried. She dropped her spatula and came running over to the fridge. “Lee, what’s all the screaming about?”
“I — I —” I pointed to the two rows of eggs in the door. Then I blinked. I squinted hard.
The eggs were perfectly okay. No cracks. No claws poking out from inside the shells.
“Oh, wow,” I muttered.
Mom put a hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“I think … I’m seeing things,” I said.
She led me to the kitchen table. I dropped into my chair, my brain buzzing. She carried the eggs from the fridge and started to scramble them.
Dad waved to me from outside. I stared out the window at him, but I didn’t wave back.
I’m totally messed up, I told myself.
I was seeing things. Hallucinating is the word for it. First I had nightmares about claws. And now I was seeing claws when I was awake!
My clothes were ruined. My comb cracked in half.
Bad luck. Bad luck and nightmares and hallucinations…
I had a sick feeling. Like a heavy rock weighing down my stomach.
Has the good luck from the vulture claw run out?
Has the claw turned against me?
I knew it worked before. I knew it could change my life. Was there anything I could do to bring back the good luck?
After school, Coach Taylor drove six of us to the bowling alley in his SUV. Laura, Cory, and the other kids laughed and goofed on one another the whole way. I sat in a corner in the backseat and stayed pretty quiet.
I felt tense all day. My hands shook. My heart raced.
I kept expecting to see more claws pop out at me. I kept expecting to be the star of a horror movie that only I could see.
Now I felt even more stressed. I knew I had to win the bowling match to stay in the race for the scholarship. And Laura and Cory were both better bowlers than me.
Come on, claw, I repeated to myself. Do your thing. Please work for me.
“Hey, Lee, what’s up?” Cory turned around in his seat and grinned at me. “Why are you so quiet?”
“Just thinking,” I muttered.
“Thinking about how I can beat you left-handed?” Cory said.
I groaned. “Cory — you are left-handed. Remember?”
He laughed. “Oh, yeah. Right.”
Laura slapped Cory’s shoulder. “Shut up, Cory. You don’t have to brag all the time.”
“I know I don’t have to brag,” Cory said. “I can beat him without bragging. I can beat you, too, Laura.”
“Shut up,” Laura repeated. It was one of her favorite phrases. Sometimes she started a conversation with it.
“Tell you what,” Cory said, his dimple flashing. “Maybe you two can come visit me at Sports Camp this summer.”
“Ha-ha. You’re so funny,” Laura said. She gave him a shove.
I stayed out of it. I just wanted to focus. Focus on doing my best. Focus on winning today.
Coach Taylor pulled the SUV into the parking lot. The place was called Roll-a-Bowl Lanes. It was a long, low building with painted bowling balls bouncing across the front. A neon sign read: BURGERS! FRIES! BEST BOWLING FOR MILES! We followed the coach inside. I counted about twenty bowling lanes. Only a few were being used. Not too many people bowl at four o’clock on a Friday afternoon.
I saw an ice-cream counter across from where you get your bowling shoes. And a small burger place with four or five tables next door to it.
The manager gave us lanes at the very end. We trotted down to them and picked out our bowling balls. I had to have a blue one. That’s my favorite color.
I sat down on the bench next to Laura and a sixth grader named Gray Haddox. Gray is a big dude with short blond hair and a red face that always looks like he’s blushing. He lives for sports. He’s on the soccer team and the track team. Actually, I think he’s on every team!
I don’t know Gray very well. He’s very shy and quiet — except when he’s playing sports. And he hangs out with another crowd, some kids from the high school.
Gray bowled a strike on his first turn. He pumped his big fist in the air and came back to the bench with a huge smile on his red face.
Laura and Cory got off to bad starts. Laura’s first two rolls were gutter balls. She scored a big zip.
Cory knocked down only three pins in two tries. He muttered angrily to himself, slapping the ball. Like it was the ball’s fault.
I kissed the claw. Then stepped up for my first try. I’m not a great bowler. I can never decide which foot to lead with.
But I got off to a good start. I bowled an eight in the first frame. I had a spare in the second frame. And an eight in the third frame.
By the tenth frame, Cory, Laura, and Gray were ahead of me. But only by a few points. The other kids were way behind us.
I studied the score sheet. If I could bowl a spare in this frame, I would win the game.
Now I was really excited. I can do it, I told myself. I can win this thing.
My heart began to race. My hands were sweaty. I dried them off on a towel.
I stepped onto the lane. I took a deep breath. Raised the ball … Sent it rolling down the center of the alley…
…And knocked down eight pins.
Okay. The remaining two pins were close together on the right. An easy spare.
An easy spare to make me the winner.
I waited for the ball to return. I wiped my sweaty hands on the towel again.
I took another deep breath. Then I stepped onto the lane.
I could see Cory, Laura, and Gray watching me. Intense stares on their faces.
I touched the claw under my shirt.
Please — come through for me. Please — bring me good luck.
Would the claw do its job?
I pulled the ball back and started my approach.
I took two steps. Swung my arm forward…
…And the ball slipped off my hand.
It dropped hard and fast.
I heard a heavy thud as it crushed the top of my bowling shoe.
“Owwwwwww!” I opened my mouth in a howl.
A crushing pain shot up my leg.
I dropped to the floor, twisting in agony.
“My toes! I broke my toes! I broke my foot!” I shrieked.
Gray dropped down beside me. He put a hand on my shoulder and kept telling me to calm down. Help was on the way.
By the time Coach Taylor showed up, I’d stopped screaming and writhing on the floor. But my foot still throbbed with pain.
The coach and Gray lifted me to my feet and helped me to the bench. Taylor gently pulled the bowling shoe and the sock off my foot. He tested the ankle and the toes.
“The foot isn’t broken,” he said. He massaged the foot carefully. He frowned. “Maybe you broke your little toe. But there’s nothing you can do for that.”
I swallowed. “You mean — ?”
“You just have to put up with the pain,” Taylor said. “It’ll feel better after a while.”
I rolled my eyes. “After a while?”
The whole foot throbbed. I couldn’t believe every bone wasn’t broken.
I slumped onto the bench. I had lost the game.
Laura won by three points. Cory was one point behind her. Gray came in third.
Coach Taylor was studying the score sheet. “Do I get any points for spo
rtsmanship? Or for improvement?” I called to him.
He didn’t answer.
A cold feeling of dread rolled over me. In the competition for the scholarship, I was definitely falling further and further behind.
We changed back into our real shoes. My foot didn’t hurt that much. But the little toe was so painful, I couldn’t touch it.
It was bright red and totally swollen. I squeezed the foot into my shoe, and I limped after Cory and Laura toward the exit.
We were nearly to the door when Cory bent down and picked something up from under a chair. “Hey, check it out,” he said. He held it up to us. “I found a cell phone.”
We followed him to the front desk. He handed the phone to the manager. “Someone dropped their phone,” Cory said.
The manager was a huge, bald guy in a sleeveless red T-shirt. The shirt only came down halfway over his belly. A red and blue tattoo of a bowling ball rippled on his right bicep.
He grinned at Cory. He had a gold tooth right in the middle of his mouth. “That’s so nice of you to return it,” he said. “Most people would just walk away with it.”
He pointed across the room. “Dude, go over to the ice-cream booth,” he told Cory. “Have a free sundae — on me.”
“Hey, thanks,” Cory said. He gave the manager a funny two-fingered salute.
We followed Cory to the ice-cream booth. He got a huge hot fudge sundae — for free. Laura and I had to pay for our ice-cream cones.
Cory flashed me a thumbs-up. “Excellent sundae,” he said. “Guess my luck is still good.”
I forced a smile. But I wasn’t smiling inside.
My little toe was killing me. It throbbed and ached so bad, it was hard to think.
Yes, Cory’s luck was still good. And what was mine?
Bad bad bad.
Nothing but bad.
I stared at Cory gulping down a big spoon of ice cream covered in hot fudge. And as I watched him, the ice cream fell out of my cone and landed with a splat on top of my shoe.
I didn’t even bother to wipe it off.
My heart started to pound. I realized my life was spinning out of control.
I was losing the competition. Hallucinating. Getting injured.
At least it can’t get any worse than this, I thought.
Boy, was I wrong.