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CHAPTER 1

ALL THE RAGE

Kieffer Loomis was the only kid in our whole school who never got angry. He was so calm, it was spooky. I'm no hothead myself, but life dumps tons of bad stuff on everybody. Some of it isn't fair. Some of it is just plain rotten. For example, I yelled at my little sister Jilly last week when she colored all over my library book with her crayons. She started to cry, which made Mom angry, which got me in trouble, which made me even angrier.

I didn't stay angry forever. And Mom took the library fine out of Jilly's allowance. So it all worked out. But I'd never seen Kieffer even raise his voice.

There are a couple of ways to deal with any behavior that's too weird to ignore. You can figure it out, or you can change it. I started by trying to figure it out. Two weeks ago, I went over to Kieffer at lunch and asked, "How come you never get angry?"

He looked at me like that was a stupid question. "What do you mean?"

"You never lose your temper," I said. "How do you stay so calm?"

Kieffer shrugged. "I guess that's just the way I am. When something bothers me, I swallow it."

"Swallow it?"

"Yup. You should give it a try."

That didn't sound like it would work. But I had a chance to find out for myself the next day. When Bobby Thugger pushed me down on the playground, I sat there and tried to swallow my anger. I could feel it swelling in my throat. Nope. I knew right away that it wouldn't work. My anger was too large, and my throat was too small. I got up and pushed Bobby. That felt a lot better. So much for swallowing my anger.

As I said, there are two ways to deal with weird behavior. One way is to ask about it. The other is to change it. Or, in this case, do something that most boys are really good at — see how far you can push it. I don't know who came up with the idea, but this morning a bunch of us — me, Dwight, Alan, Richie, and Patrick — decided that our only goal in life was to make Kieffer lose his temper. We were going to break his calm, big-time.

"No matter what, don't give up," Dwight said as we waited in front of the school.

"Nope. Total attack," Alan said.

"But it can't look planned," I said. "It has to look like accidents."

"There he is." Patrick pointed across the lawn at Kieffer, who'd just reached the school yard.

"Me first." Alan charged toward Kieffer at full speed. When he got close, he shot his hands out and shouted, "Tag! You're it!" He shoved Kieffer harder than I'd ever seen anyone get tagged outside of a professional wrestling ring. The poor guy flew at least five or six feet before he landed on his butt. After landing, he slid a couple more feet. By then, Alan had dashed away.

Kieffer looked around like he had no idea what had just hit him. His face grew expressionless for a moment. His jaw clenched, like he was going to shout. Then, even from a distance, I could tell he was swallowing. It looked like he was choking down a golf ball.

You're doomed, I thought. That had just been a warm-up. We had the whole day ahead of us. I ran to the wood shop and grabbed a screwdriver while the teacher wasn't watching, then headed for the lockers. I jammed the blade into the edge of Kieffer's locker and twisted, hoping I could mess up the door enough so it wouldn't open. Then I backed off and waited.

It turned out I did a pretty good job jamming things up. Kieffer tried to open the locker. It wouldn't budge. He raised his fist like he was going to punch the door. Then he sighed, swallowed, and walked off.

Life grew worse and worse for Kieffer throughout the morning. After lunch, we got other kids involved so he wouldn't suspect our group. By the end of the day, the whole class was taking turns making him miserable.

Still, amazingly, he swallowed every bit of his anger.

Maybe we just couldn't get mean enough. But on the way out of the building, Alan did the tag thing again. This time, he did it on the stairs, catching Kieffer from behind.

I winced as Kieffer went tumbling. As much as I wanted to see him explode, this was a bit too rough.

I guess the fall had stunned him. He lay there on his back, staring up at the clouds. Nobody moved. Finally, I stepped forward to give him a hand. I figured that would be a nice thing to do, even if the guys got mad at me.

Just as I was about to reach out and say something friendly, I noticed Kieffer's lip was twitching. His jaw moved like he was trying to swallow, but his head jerked like something dry and jagged was caught in his throat.

Maybe we hadn't lost, after all. The anger was finally too much for him to swallow. But he hunched his shoulders, clenched his fists, and gulped. I could swear I saw a pulsing lump slide down his throat — a big wad of swallowed anger, moving like a fat rat through a slim snake. I guess Kieffer's anger still wasn't too big to swallow.

But it was too big to stomach.

Kieffer's shirt rippled, like someone was punching at it from the inside. He stared down at his gut and moved his lips. Faintly, I heard him say, "Oh, no ..."

The anger burst out — all of it — years of swallowed anger. It exploded from inside him. Kieffer's anger was dark and wet, with shiny scales that hurt to look at. It had claws like saw blades and teeth that dripped green venom. As it swelled, it let out a howl that made my eyes bleed and my teeth crack.

Some of the crowd froze, or dropped to the ground. Some turned to run. It didn't matter. Kieffer's anger was everywhere. As I spun away, I felt a burning slash rip across my back. My legs went numb. I fell. I dragged myself a foot or two with my hands and elbows, then gave up and flopped on my chest.

My vision was fading. I could see Kieffer, not far away. His eyes were glazing over. The screams all around me had turned into whimpers. Anger had destroyed all of us.

"Sorry," I whispered.

Kieffer smiled.

How could he possibly be happy? "What?" I asked. That was as much as I could manage to say.

"It felt good to let all that anger out," Kieffer said.

I'll bet it did. As I closed my eyes and sank into the darkness, I realized the weirdest thing. I wasn't angry at all.

CHAPTER 2

FRANKENDANCE

"What's wrong, Sunshine?" my dad asked me. My name is Lily, but he likes to call me names like Sunshine and Princess.

"Nobody asked me to the dance," I told him. "Every other girl in my class has a date. Even Sabrina Zimanski, who spits when she talks and drools when she breathes. It's the first school dance ever, and nobody wants to take me."

"Oh, stop worrying your pretty head," Dad said. "I'm sure you'll get a date."

"No, I won't. I'll never get a date."

"Yes, you will. I promise. When is this dance?"

"A week from Saturday."

"That soon? I'd better get back to the lab. I have a lot to do." Dad dashed for the attic steps. He had a lab up there where he invented things.

I cried myself to sleep that night as thunder shook the walls of my bedroom and rain fell like my own tears.

The night before the dance, Dad insisted on taking me to the mall to buy a new dress.

"But I'm not going to the dance," I said.

"I promise you, you'll go," Dad said.

I let him buy me the dress. I figured I could wear it some other day.

"Try on your dress," Dad told me on Saturday evening, half an hour before the dance.

"No. That would just make me sad," I said.

"It would make me happy," Dad said. "Please."

I went to my room and changed. When I got back, there was a big guy in a black sweater standing next to Dad. As I got closer, I saw that he had one blue eye and one brown eye. His ears were different sizes, and one of them was sort of rotated a bit so the earlobe pointed toward his nose. At least I think it was a nose. It was in the right place, and had two holes, but beyond that, the resemblance was kind of weak.

"This is Stitchy," Dad said. "He's taking you to the dance."

Stitchy smiled and waved at me. I noticed his little finger and ring finger were switched.

I sniffed the air. Something rotten made my nose twitch. It reminded me of the pack of month-old hamburger meat I found in the back of the fridge last year. "He smells."

"You're in seventh grade," Dad said. "All the boys smell. Right?" I had to admit that Dad had a point. By the end of the evening, the whole gym would smell like the inside of an empty clam chowder can that had been sitting in the sun. "Do you know how to dance?" I asked Stitchy.

He nodded, grunted, then twitched like he'd been hit by lightning.

"Okay — let's go." Why not? He was still better-looking than most of the boys in my class, except for Brandon Kratchweiler. He's totally gorgeous. Not that he even knows I'm alive.

"Have a wonderful time," Dad said.

"We'll try."

We headed out. Stitchy actually held the door for me. This might work, I thought. Though I was pretty sure I wasn't going to dance with him.

The school was only three blocks from my house, but Stitchy didn't walk very quickly. I guess it would have been easier for him if his legs were the same length. The left one was longer, so he kept angling toward the road. I had to turn him back every time he reached the curb. By the time we got to the school, the gym was already crowded.

Nobody paid any attention to us. That was fine. I found an empty table and started to sit down, but Stitchy held up a hand to stop me. Then he pulled out a chair and pointed to the seat.

He waited until after I sat down to take his own seat. I watched the other kids. Everyone was dancing to a fast song. When the music stopped, Brandon Kratchweiler strolled over to my table, along with a couple of his friends.

Brandon pointed at Stitchy. "Where'd you dig him up?" I didn't say anything. It was hard to talk, or even think of any words, when I was this close to Brandon.

Brandon smiled at me. "You make a nice couple...."

I tried to get my lungs to help me say, "Thank you."

"A real nice couple," Brandon said. "A couple of total losers." His smile shifted to a smirk. Behind him, his friends laughed.

As a different pressure crushed my lungs, Brandon turned toward Stitchy and said, "Man, how can you even show your face? That's one weird-looking nose."

Stitchy moved faster than I'd ever seen him move before. He shot up from his seat and grabbed the top of Brandon's head in one hand. It looked like when those professional basketball players palm a ball. Stitchy lifted Brandon straight up. As Brandon kicked and screamed, Stitchy grabbed Brandon's nose with his other hand.

"No, Stitchy, don't do it!" I shouted. No, wait — that's a lie. To be honest, I pretty much whispered it.

Stitchy yanked real hard.

whatever sound Brandon's nose made must have been pretty sickening. Luckily, Brandon's scream drowned it out.

Stitchy dropped Brandon, turned toward me, and held out his left hand. He pointed at the nose in his palm; then he pointed toward home and made a sewing motion.

"Sure, I suppose Dad could put it on for you," I said. "But I kind of like you the way you are."

Stitchy raised one eyebrow. I guess he raised it too hard, because it fell off.

I picked up the eyebrow and put it in my purse. "Really. You don't need to change. You're perfect without that snooty old nose."

Stitchy raised the other eyebrow. It stayed on. I nodded.

Stitchy tossed Brandon's nose over his shoulder. It landed in the punch bowl. Brandon, who had stopped screaming but was still moaning and whimpering a lot, raced after it. I gave Stitchy a napkin so he could wipe his hand.

The DJ put on a slow record. "Come on, Stitchy," I said, "let's dance."

Stitchy and I walked out to the dance floor. He held me close. So I held him close, and danced. We moved in slow circles — clockwise, of course.

As we danced, I couldn't help thinking how lucky I was. Some of the other girls at the dance might have nice guys, or guys who they thought were perfect for them. But out of all the girls in the gym, I was the only one who could honestly say that my guy was made for me.

CHAPTER 3

THE RATTY OLD BUMBERSHOOT

The first rumble of thunder struck just as Woodrow was stealing the comic book. He froze, looked around, then slipped the comic from the middle of the pile. "That jerk will never miss it," Woodrow muttered. It served Dwayne right for bringing the comics to show-and-tell and bragging about how many he had. Woodrow's mother didn't approve of comics, so he didn't have any of his own. But these were too awesome to resist.

Woodrow stuck the comic in his desk and joined the rest of his class outside for recess. When they got back, he watched Dwayne carefully. Sure enough, the fool never checked through the stack.

Perfect, Woodrow thought. At the end of the day, he waited until everyone else had left, then slipped the comic under his shirt and headed out.

The rumbles grew closer. A raindrop hit Woodrow's nose. He looked up at the sky just as the clouds let loose. A heavy rain fell, and wind slapped at his face. He hunched over and ran for the nearest shelter — a porch on an old house to his left.

The rain seemed to grow even harder. Woodrow shivered and watched the water rushing into the gutter across the street. He jumped as the door behind him opened. He spun and found himself facing a plump old lady with frizzy white hair and red cheeks. She looked like someone who baked lots of cookies.

"Do you want to come in?" she asked.

"No." Nearly every day, in school and at home, Woodrow was warned about strangers. Besides, his favorite show was starting in ten minutes. "I have to go."

"Well," the woman said, "you aren't dressed for this kind of weather. You'll get soaked to the bone."

Woodrow glanced at the lawn, where the grass was already turning into a land of miniature lakes. The woman was right. The rain would soak right through his shirt. He didn't care if he got wet, but the comic would be ruined. He'd dropped a magazine in his bathtub once. The pages had gotten all warped and rippled, and they'd stayed that way even after they dried out.

"But I really need to get home," he said.

The woman looked over her shoulder, and then back at Woodrow. "You wait right here, young man."

She scurried off. There was a clatter and a bit of banging; then she returned with a smile and an umbrella. "You can borrow my ratty old bumbershoot," she said. "I'm not planning to go out in this downpour."

"Bumbershoot?" Woodrow asked.

The woman laughed. "Silly me. I guess it's an old-fashioned word. But I'm an old-fashioned lady." She thrust out the umbrella. "Here. Take good care of it."

"I will." Woodrow pushed the umbrella open and held it over his head with one hand. The fabric smelled like old people. The handle was white, like ivory. The shaft was some sort of polished dark-brown material. He pressed his other hand against his chest, keeping the comic in place. The umbrella was large enough to cover him like a canopy. The tips of the ribs dropped past his shoulders.

Leaning against the wind, Woodrow stepped off the porch. The splat of water against the umbrella nearly drowned out the woman's next words. "You be sure to come back," she said.

"I will. I promise." Woodrow didn't want to keep her stupid umbrella. Which didn't mean he'd go to the trouble of bringing it back. He planned to chuck it in the trash once he got out of the rain.

The wind whipped up, jerking the umbrella in his hands. One of the end tips scratched his cheek. Woodrow swore and grabbed the handle with both hands, keeping his arm pressed against the comic so it wouldn't fall out from under his shirt.

The wind gusted again. The umbrella twisted and flapped like it was trying to fly back home. "You can borrow my bumbershoot," Woodrow said, mocking the woman's voice. "Yeah, sure, I'll bring it back. Stupid old lady ..." Another gust nearly tore the umbrella from his hands. He pulled it closer, tilting it so he could see well enough to know where he was going.

For a moment, the umbrella was strangely still. Then it flapped and jerked again. As the snap of the fabric filled his ears, Woodrow realized something was missing.

No rain.

The sound of the raindrops had stopped. The puddles around him were unrippled. The umbrella jerked and flapped.

Woodrow didn't hear leaves rustling. He didn't feel his pants legs flapping. No wind. The storm was over.

In the instant that it took Woodrow to wonder how an umbrella could flap when the air was dead calm, he lost his chance to fling it away. By the time he tried, it was too late. The umbrella clamped down on him with a wet snap. As the stiff fabric encased him, Woodrow struggled to free his arms. A dozen sharp jabs ringed his body as something bit into his flesh.

Woodrow let out a muffled scream. He kicked. He fell to the ground and rolled. It didn't matter. Nothing could make the bumbershoot let go of him. Not until it was finished.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "The Battle of the Red Hot Pepper Weenies and Other Warped and Creepy Tales"
by .
Copyright © 2009 David Lubar.
Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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