Revenge of the Living Dummy

  Then I took a long sip of milk.

  “Shouldn’t she pluck the chicken before she cooks it?” Mr. Badboy cried.

  I started to laugh — and choked. Milk came spurting out of my nose.

  That made Ethan and me both laugh even harder.

  I couldn’t stop choking and laughing.

  “Enough, Brit!” Dad shouted. “It’s not funny.”

  Mom entered the room and sat down. “What’s not funny?” she asked.

  “Britney decided to act like a clown tonight,” Dad said, frowning.

  “Why are you picking on me?” I cried. “It’s not my fault. Ethan —”

  “Help yourself to some mashed potatoes,” Mom said, pushing the bowl to me. She turned to Ethan. “Are you excited to have a big new room of your own?”

  Before Ethan could answer, Mr. Badboy chimed in: “I’m so excited, I just peed my pants!”

  I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. The mashed potato spoon flew from my hand. A big gob of potatoes sailed across the table and smacked the front of Dad’s shirt.

  I watched the potatoes slide into Dad’s shirt pocket. And that made me laugh so hard, I couldn’t catch my breath.

  “Britney, maybe you’d better leave the table and calm down,” Mom said.

  Dad glared at me angrily. “You’re really asking for trouble,” he said.

  “Me? Why me?” I managed to choke out. “It’s not my fault!”

  “Just settle down and eat your dinner,” Mom said.

  “It all looks delicious,” Dad said.

  Once again, Mr. Badboy’s mouth worked up and down. And he rasped, “I throw up better food than this!”

  At school the next morning, I found Molly at a table in the back of the art room, working on her new project. Molly is even more intense about painting than I am. She has some cool ideas.

  She dreams up scenes on imaginary planets and paints them. Then she downloads photos of movie and music stars off the Internet. And she prints them out and adds them to her paintings.

  They’re hard to describe. But Mr. Vella, our art teacher, was really excited about them. He said Molly should do at least a dozen, and maybe he could get her a show in a gallery somewhere.

  I keep trying to get her to paint one with Buzzy from Skullboy. But she says she hates Buzzy’s looks. She says she hates everything about him.

  Wow.

  So far, it hasn’t ruined our friendship. I’m sure one of these days I can convince her she’s totally wrong.

  I pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. “Hey, Molly,” I said. “I like the purple-and-green sky. Way cool.”

  She looked up from her painting. “Brit, how come you were so late this morning?”

  “Ethan, of course,” I said. I picked up a clean paintbrush and pretended to stab myself with the handle. “AAAAAACK.”

  “He’s a cutie-pie,” Molly said sarcastically, adding brushstrokes to a clump of purple trees.

  “Mom made pancakes for breakfast,” I said. “You know. Ethan’s first day of school. Everything has to be special for Ethan. And you know what that creep did?”

  I slammed the paintbrush down on the table. “He made me laugh, and I squirted maple syrup in my hair and on my T-shirt. I had to go shampoo my hair and change. Now I’m in major trouble with Mrs. Hagerty for being late. I could kill that brat!”

  “So things are going well!” Molly joked.

  “Not funny,” I muttered.

  “How come he’s going to school here?” Molly asked, concentrating on her trees.

  “Because no one knows how long he’ll be living with us. Dad dropped him off at the elementary school this morning. I have to wait around till three-thirty to pick him up.”

  Molly snickered. “Did he bring that ugly dummy to school with him?”

  “No,” I said. “He told us Mr. Badboy likes to sleep late.”

  “He’s totally mental,” Molly said. “Does he believe it’s alive or something?”

  “The little clown is trying to make ME believe it’s alive,” I said. “What a joke.”

  Molly narrowed her eyes at me. “So you don’t believe it?”

  “Huh? Believe Mr. Badboy is alive?” I said. “Of course not.”

  * * *

  That night, I had dinner at Molly’s house. Her dad was off on another long trip. Margie, the housekeeper who always stays with Molly when her dad is away, ordered us a pepperoni pizza and a couple of salads, and we had ice-cream pops for dessert.

  Was I happy? Well, yes. Pepperoni is my favorite. But mainly, I didn’t have to sit across the table from Ethan.

  After dinner, Molly and I were in front of her laptop, checking out the latest gossip on Face Place, our school’s message board. Molly’s bedroom is almost as small as my new room. She’s covered one whole wall from floor to ceiling with her paintings, and it looks really awesome.

  “Guess who wants to bring his dummy to school tomorrow?” I asked.

  Molly shook her head. “Doesn’t he care that kids will think he’s a geek?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t get it. Guess he just wants attention.”

  “My dad said he’s seen Ethan’s dummy before,” Molly said. “He just can’t remember where.”

  “Let’s not talk about it,” I muttered. I glanced at the clock. Almost eight-thirty. “I’d better go home and write that essay,” I said. “I’m already on Mrs. Hagerty’s bad list.”

  “Whoa. Check this out,” Molly said, eyes bulging at the laptop screen. “Cindy Siegel’s photos from her party last week. Oh, wow. I can’t believe she put these online. If her parents ever saw them …”

  I ended up spending another hour at Molly’s. Then I hurried home to write the essay. It was due tomorrow, and I knew I couldn’t afford to mess up.

  Mom and Dad were in the den, watching a movie on TV. The house smelled of popcorn. They have popcorn almost every night. They say it’s low calorie, but they eat huge bowls of it!

  I started up the stairs to the attic — then remembered it wasn’t my room anymore. So I turned around, made my way down the hall, and stepped into the little sewing room.

  I flashed on the ceiling light — and gasped. “Oh, nooo …”

  My poster.

  My Skullboy poster.

  The glass frame was cracked and shattered.

  I saw jagged shards of glass on the floor.

  I stood frozen in the doorway, unable to take another step into the room. My eyes stared at the shattered glass.

  And then I saw the long rip down the middle of the poster. It had been torn in half. And Buzzy’s face … it was gone. Torn off the poster.

  My heart pounded in my chest. I suddenly felt cold all over, as if the room had turned to ice.

  I blinked several times, trying to force the sight away.

  And then my eyes stopped on the painting of Phoebe. I let out another gasp when I saw the red mustache smeared on the dog’s snout. And splashes of red paint covering the dog’s eyes.

  “Owwww!” I was squeezing my fists so tight, my fingernails were digging into my palms.

  I took a deep breath. Then another. But I couldn’t calm down.

  “This is the last straw, Ethan,” I muttered through gritted teeth. “This isn’t funny. This is mean and vicious.”

  I spun around and started toward the attic stairs.

  What did I plan to do? I don’t know. I couldn’t think straight. The blotchy red mustache stayed in front of my eyes. I was actually seeing red!

  I wanted to tear Ethan in half — just the way he tore my poster.

  I stomped up the stairs. My hands were still balled into tight fists.

  “Too far,” I muttered. “This time, you went too far.”

  I burst into the room, dark except for the pale, low light from a tiny night-light down on the floor. I nearly tripped over the pile of dirty clothes Ethan had dropped in the middle of the carpet.

  Kicking a pair of jeans out of my way, I stormed up to Etha
n’s bed. “Ethan —?”

  It took a while for my eyes to focus in the dim gray light. And then I saw the dummy, stretched out on the bed, his head resting on the pillow.

  “Ethan —?”

  Not there. Ethan was not in the bed.

  Huh?

  I heard the shower going downstairs in the bathroom. Ethan must be in the shower, I realized.

  I stood frozen for a moment, clenching and unclenching my fists.

  And then I jumped back as the dummy moved.

  The head jerked. Mr. Badboy sat up quickly. The blue eyes blinked open with a wooden click.

  The ugly dummy turned its stare on me.

  And uttered in a hoarse whisper: “I DON’T LIKE YOU, BRITNEY!”

  My breath caught in my throat. I staggered back till I hit the wall.

  The dummy stared at me with that ugly grin. Then he slowly lowered himself back onto his pillow.

  This can’t be happening! I told myself.

  But it is. Something terrifying is going on here.

  Ethan is downstairs. The dummy sat up on its own.

  And SPOKE!

  And it HATES me!

  My legs trembled as I forced myself away from the wall. I kept my gaze on Mr. Badboy. His eyes stayed wide open, staring up at the ceiling. But he didn’t move again.

  I lurched toward the door. Stumbled over the jeans on the floor. Staggered to the attic stairs, breathing hard.

  “I DON’T LIKE YOU, BRITNEY!”

  The dummy’s hoarse rasp repeated in my ears.

  “You’re not alive!” I cried, taking the stairs two at a time. “You can’t be alive!”

  I couldn’t keep this to myself. I was too frightened. I had to tell Mom and Dad.

  I burst into the den. The room was dark except for the darting glare from the screen. They always turn out the lights when they watch a movie.

  They were on the couch, sitting close together, bowls of popcorn on their laps. Mom jumped as I came lurching in. She made a grab for the popcorn bowl, but it toppled to the floor. Popcorn spilled everywhere.

  “Britney, you startled me!” she cried. “Look what you made me do!”

  Dad paused the movie. He narrowed his eyes at me. “What on earth is your problem?”

  “I — I —” I stammered. “Something —” I gasped for breath.

  Dad pulled me to the couch. I dropped down next to Mom. “You’re trembling,” Mom said. “Are you sick? Do you have a fever?”

  “It’s the … dummy,” I finally choked out. “Ethan’s dummy.”

  They both stared at me.

  “It’s crazy,” I said. “I know it. But I’m telling the truth. It’s alive. It’s really alive!”

  Mom wrapped her arm around my shoulders. “Take a deep breath, Brit,” she said softly. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Start at the beginning,” Dad said. “We don’t understand what you’re saying. What about Ethan’s dummy?”

  I took a deep breath and let it out. “My painting of Phoebe. It … it’s ruined! And my Skullboy poster was ripped in half. I knew Ethan did it. So I ran up to his room.”

  “Your Skullboy poster?” Mom interrupted. “Are you sure the frame didn’t just fall off the wall?”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “I ran up to Ethan’s room. And he wasn’t there. He was in the shower. But … the dummy. It … it SAT UP!”

  I saw Mom and Dad exchange a glance. Mom pressed her hand on my forehead.

  “I don’t have a fever!” I screamed, and I shoved her hand away. “Listen to me. The dummy sat up on its own. And it talked. It said, ‘I don’t like you, Britney.’ I’m not making this up. That’s what it said to me.”

  “You fell asleep,” Dad said, rubbing his chin. “You had a nightmare. Remember? You used to sleepwalk?”

  “Dad, that was when I was three!” I cried. “I wasn’t asleep! I just got home from Molly’s. I was wide-awake.”

  I jumped to my feet, my whole body trembling. “Are you going to believe me or not?”

  Mom patted the couch cushion. “Sit down, Brit.”

  I shook my head and crossed my arms in front of me.

  “How can we believe you?” Dad said. “It’s crazy.”

  “The dummy didn’t talk on its own,” Mom said. “Ethan was playing a trick on you. I’ll bet he was under the bed. Or hiding in the closet.”

  “I think you’ve been spending too much time at the Molloys’,” Dad said. “Wild Man Molloy and his weirdo dolls. They’ve put strange ideas in your head, Brit.” He shrugged. “Maybe you shouldn’t see so much of Molly.”

  “Huh?” I let out an angry cry. “Now I’m going to lose my best friend because of that evil little creep Ethan?”

  “Don’t call him an evil little creep,” Mom snapped. “He’s your cousin. He’s family. And he needs our help.”

  “We need you to be the grown-up,” Dad said. “Making up crazy stories about dummies coming to life isn’t going to help anyone.”

  “Dad, I’m not making this up,” I said in a trembling voice. My hands were balled into tight fists again. I could feel myself totally losing it.

  I bit my lips till they hurt. No way I was going to start sobbing now.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” I said. “But the dummy is alive. And it’s evil!”

  They both stared at me. As if I were crazy.

  I spun around and ran from the den. I hurtled into my room and slammed the door.

  I threw myself onto the bed. But I didn’t cry. I was too angry to cry.

  My own parents refused to listen to me. Refused to believe me. My own parents treated me as if I were a nut.

  I turned and gazed at my torn poster, my dog portrait with the ugly red splotches smeared over it.

  There they were, my two favorite things, ruined. Destroyed. I didn’t make it up. The proof was there on the wall.

  I tiptoed to the door and listened. Did my parents just shrug off my story and go back to their movie?

  No. It was quiet down there. They were probably cleaning up the spilled popcorn and discussing what to do with their problem daughter.

  I picked up my cell to call Molly. But I realized it was too late to call.

  I’ll never get to sleep, I thought. How can I sleep knowing there’s something evil in my house?

  I changed into my nightshirt, climbed into bed, and pulled the blankets over my head. But I could still see the torn poster … the red paint on my painting … the dummy … the evil dummy raising his head and spouting those ugly words: “I don’t like you, Britney.”

  Somehow, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The next morning, I pulled on jeans and a sweater and got myself ready for school. I felt weary, as if I hadn’t slept at all. Every time I glanced at the poster and painting, my stomach tightened in cold dread.

  I looked out my window. It was a gray morning. Dark clouds hung low in the sky. The darkness matched my mood.

  I left my room and headed for the stairs. I could smell coffee from the kitchen. And bacon frying.

  I heard footsteps behind me and glimpsed Ethan coming down the attic stairs, holding Mr. Badboy in front of him.

  I pretended I didn’t see him and started down the steps.

  I was almost halfway down when I heard Ethan’s shout close behind me: “Britney — watch out!”

  “Hey —!”

  I uttered a cry as I felt hard wooden hands shove my back.

  Stumbling, I grabbed for the banister.

  Missed.

  And started to fall headfirst down the stairs.

  “Ohhh —!”

  I tucked my head under my arms and bumped hard all the way down.

  “Ow. Ow. Ow.” I landed on my back, still shielding my head, gasping for breath. Too stunned to move.

  I lay there, waiting for the pain to fade. I stared up at Ethan and Mr. Badboy, still on the stairs.

  Ethan’s face had gone pale. His eyes were wide with shock. “Britney — are you all r
ight?” he cried in a tiny, frightened voice.

  He came running down to me. The dummy bounced in his arms.

  “What’s going on?” Mom called from the kitchen.

  “Britney fell!” Ethan shouted.

  I didn’t fall, I thought. The dummy pushed me!

  I rubbed my elbow. It throbbed with pain. But the rest of me seemed okay.

  Ethan grabbed my hand and tried to pull me up.

  Mom came running, a metal spatula in one hand. “Oh, no! Britney? Did you fall down the stairs?”

  “Just a few of them,” I said. “No big deal, Mom.”

  Why tell the truth? Would she believe me if I said the dummy pushed me?

  Yeah. For sure. She’d blame my wild imagination. Or she’d say I watch too many horror movies.

  I climbed to my feet, rubbing my sore elbow. “I’m okay. Really.”

  “My bacon’s burning,” Mom said. “Come have your breakfast.” She turned and hurried back to the stove.

  I glared at Ethan. “You and I have to talk,” I said.

  He turned his head away. He looked very frightened. Then he looked back and said, “Listen, Brit, I —”

  But before he could say any more, the dummy lowered his head to my ear — and whispered in his cold, hoarse voice: “Don’t ever snitch on me again!”

  The rest of the day was a blur. I couldn’t get that dummy’s whispered words out of my mind. I was desperate to tell Molly about it. But she was away all day on some kind of science field trip.

  I phoned her after school, but she couldn’t talk. She was going to visit some cousins in the next town over.

  She didn’t call me back until late that night. I was pulling on my nightshirt and getting ready for bed when my cell phone rang. She started talking before I even answered.

  “Molly? What’s wrong?” I asked. She sounded totally freaked.

  “Britney, hurry,” she said. “You’ve got to help me. We have to bury it.”

  Huh?

  “Molly, what are you talking about?” I whispered. I’m not allowed to talk on the phone so late at night.

  “The doll,” Molly said breathlessly. “That awful thing with the shrunken head. I can’t leave it in the house. Please — come over. I need your help.”