Cheesie Mack Is Not a Genius or Anything Page 5

  I am also an excellent breather. When you are doing something like running or fast bicycling, you will do much, much better if you take really deep breaths instead of lots of short ones. My dad says it’s because deep breaths open your lungs wider and more oxygen gets into your blood and muscles. When you’re racing, it’s hard to take deep breaths because your body really wants to do the short ones. But if you force yourself to fill your lungs up, you won’t get tired as quickly. You should try it. It works.

  So I usually win our bike races, except when, because my bike needs a tune-up, I shift too fast and my chain falls off. And this time I was leading big when I turned onto Eureka Avenue.

  I skidded to a stop, breathing hard. Graduation and the Mouse Plot had made me forget all about The Haunted Toad.

  About two hours later (I’m kidding … I wasn’t that far ahead), Georgie skidded next to me. We both stared up at the curtained windows.

  “What (pant)?” Georgie panted.

  “We (pant) have to knock (pant) on the door (pant),” I panted back.

  Georgie shook his head. “Why (pant)?”

  When my breathing had gone back to normal, I reminded him about the heart necklace and the coin. “Eureka. Remember? The phone book says G. J. Prott lives here. We should tell him what we found.”

  “You said ‘him,’ ” Georgie said. “What if G. J. Prott isn’t a man? G. J. Prott might be”—his voice got all whispery—“a vampire.”

  Then I went “ow-hooo-eeeee” in a long, scary way, and both of us grinned at each other. Of course I do not really believe in vampires. Here’s why:

  If vampires were real, some lady—in movies it’s mostly women who get bitten by vampires—would maybe have lived to tell about being attacked, and she would have bite marks on her neck, and she would make lots of money being on TV and showing her bite scars and telling the whole scary story.

  I have never seen a vampire.

  No one I know has ever seen a vampire.

  No one I know knows anyone who knows anyone who has ever seen a vampire. (If you have seen a vampire or, even better, been bitten by one, please go to my website and tell me. You might become famous!)

  “We can write a note to G. J. Prott,” I decided, “and leave it here on our way back to the party.”

  “Good idea,” Georgie said, and zoomed off on his bike. When he was two houses away, he shouted, “Race you home!”

  “Cheater!” I yelled, and took off after him.

  As we rode away, there was a flutter of curtains across The Haunted Toad’s upstairs windows, as if something large had flown from room to room. Then one of the curtains parted and a hideous face, dripping blood from its monstrous fangs, peered out as we disappeared down the block. It was Geejape Rott, the most evil, most dangerous, most bloodthirsty vampire in Massachusetts.

  *

  What’s wrong with the paragraph above?

  First, how could I see the vampire if I was pedaling super fast after Georgie the Cheater? And how would I know that Geejape Rott (cool name for a vampire, IMO) is the most awful vampire in Massachusetts unless I knew about all the other vampires in Massachusetts?

  And besides, there are no vampires in Massachusetts.

  I just wanted to write something really scary. Maybe my next book will be all about vampires.

  Or zombies.

  *

  With only three houses to go until we got to my driveway, I had caught up to Georgie the Cheater. But he must have been saving his strength or something, because when he saw me out of the corner of his eye, he put out a blast of pedaling power, and I lost by a front wheel.

  “Cheater (gasp)!” I gasped as I leaned my bike up against my garage.

  Georgie grinned and did a goofy victory dance holding up the front wheel of his bike. I hate cheating. Here’s why:

  Let’s say you’re the second-shortest kid in your class and you’re always playing games with kids who are way bigger than you. Sure, you might lose a lot, but you’ll never know how good you really are at these games if you cheat.

  Let’s say you’re the biggest kid in your class and there’s only one sports thing—bike riding—that your best friend is better at than you. Do you have to cheat at that one thing so you’ll be best at everything?

  Cheating makes you weak. (Granpa told me this.) Cheaters don’t have to work as hard to win, so they do not get as strong or as good.

  Like I said when I was describing the Point Battle in Chapter 6, I don’t cheat.

  Georgie was grinning. I was not. He stopped his cheater dance, stared at me, and finally gave in.

  “Okay, calm down. The race doesn’t count.”

  “Ronnie!” my mother shouted from somewhere inside our house.

  “What?” I yelled back.

  “Come in for lunch!” she barked.

  “What’d you make?” I screamed.

  “Tuna salad sandwiches!” she hollered.

  “In a while!” I growled.

  “Come in now!” she howled.

  “I’m eating at Georgie’s!” I roared. (Georgie and I eat together about four or five times a week, so a long time ago we agreed that we don’t have to ask permission to eat at the other guy’s house. It’s kind of a best friend bonus.)

  “Change your clothes first!” Mom shrieked.

  (There must be about a hundred different words that tell how someone talks. This conversation could have gone on lots longer and I still wouldn’t have run out! I especially like the word guffaw, which I think means to laugh loudly with your mouth wide open. I have not yet had a chance to use it in this book, but I will!)

  Georgie leaned his bike against mine. “See you at my house,” he said, and trotted into my backyard toward the won’t-close-gate.

  I ran up to my room and grabbed my swimsuit and a towel. Then I stashed the graduation five-dollar bill from Gumpy in my backpack—my mom says that you should always have some money with you in case of emergencies—and ran downstairs. But I got waylaid (great word—my dad says it’s what ambushers do) by the huge collection of grandparents in my living room.

  The first to stop me was Gumpy, who teaches computers and stuff at Yale College. He asked about my Little League team. He loves baseball but never plays ball with me because he is a terrible thrower because he was shot in the shoulder in the Vietnam War. I’ve seen the scar. But he refuses to tell me any gory details about it even though I have asked him a million times.

  I told him that my Little League team came in last, but I batted .383, mostly singles, and stole 22 bases. He nodded, then tapped the tips of his fingers and thumbs together, which is like what Mrs. Crespo does, except that it means he is going to give me a math problem, which he does every time he sees me because he is very good at math and knows I am, too.

  “Let’s say (tap, tap) there’s eighty-three cents in my pocket,” he said. “What’s the fewest number of coins I could have?”

  “United States coins?” I asked.

  He nodded (tap, tap).

  I thought for a few seconds and answered, “Four.”

  His forehead wrinkled up like he was surprised at me. “Nope. Six. A half-dollar, a quarter, a nickel, and three pennies.”

  But I proved I was right … and he was amazed.

  This is not a trick question. If you don’t know why four is the correct answer, look around in this book. I stuck a clue in. And if you give up, I put the answer on my website: CheesieMack.com.

  My next obstacle was Meemo, who is the champion kisser and hugger of my whole family. I usually don’t mind be cause I love her, and she is a very excellent baker of chocolate-chip cookies. She gave me one of her famous Meemo Monster Hugs and shoved me over to the laundry-room door, where parents and grandparents have been marking off how tall Goon and I are since we were babies. Then Meemo had to find a book to level my head with. Then she had to find a pencil. Then she marked a new line on the door. Then she had to call my mother over to show her that I had only grown a half-inch since Christm
as, and was I getting enough protein in my diet? All this time she was holding my hand so I could not get away.

  But finally Granpa rescued me. He sort of dragged me into the hallway and began telling me all the reasons why I should go to camp:

  He said, “Camp will be fun.”

  I said, “Not without Georgie.”

  He said, “I’ll need your help with the Little Guys.”

  I said, “I wish I could, but I promised.”

  He said, “Camp starts in three weeks, and you’ll want to see your friends.”

  I said, “I’m staying here. Georgie’s my best friend.”

  Granpa didn’t nod or smile or anything, but he gave me a squinty-evil-eye. I think it meant that he understood what it means to have a best friend.

  I ran out the back door with Deeb racing after me, but she stopped at the gully. I have trained her not to leave our backyard unless I give her a specific command.

  When I walked into Georgie’s kitchen, Mr. Sinkoff was putting tuna salad sandwiches onto three plates. Of course I instantly knew that Georgie, after listening to my mother, had gotten hungry for tuna salad sandwiches and asked his father to make some.

  One of the things about having best friends is that lots of times you know exactly what they’re going to do. It’s kind of like mind reading. For example, Georgie can always tell when I’m lying. About a year ago he figured out that when I lie, I blink my eyes a lot. When he told me, I tried to stop blinking. Not that I lie a lot. I’m not a perfect kid or anything, but my lying was mostly happening when I was trying to play a joke on someone, not when I was trying to hide being bad or anything. But when you find out for sure that your eyes give you away like blinking signs that say “I’m a liar! I’m a liar!” you better not lie too much. So I don’t.

  I called, and Georgie trotted downstairs, picked up our plates, and ran up the stairs. I picked up our two glasses of milk and followed. I did not run. It is stupid to run up stairs with milk.

  Georgie closed the door to his room behind me. He chomped a gigantic bite out of his sandwich and tuna-mouthed, “Gross-out contest!”

  Chewing loudly with his mouth wide open, he lifted his sandwich up for another huge bite, so I smooshed it into his face with the palm of my hand and guffawed, “You win!”

  (My advice: Use guffaw in your school writing. Your teacher will love it!)

  Georgie is a good sport. He grinned and wiped his face on a T-shirt that was lying on his bed. He had forgotten to bring napkins upstairs.

  I wiped my hands on my socks.

  I got the sock idea exactly when I invented the BLART sandwich—that’s Bacon-Lettuce-Avocado-Ranch dressing-Tomato. Excellent and tasty, but very messy! The first time I took a bite out of side 1, gunk squished out of side 2, side 3, and side 4. My hands were dripping, and I didn’t have a napkin or anything. But I had socks, so I used them. No one has ever noticed me wiping my fingers on my ankle, and no one can tell if I have white ranch dressing smeared on white socks. I think ketchup and mustard would be really obvious, however, so make sure you have a napkin or red and yellow socks if you’re eating hot dogs or hamburgers.

  (The reason I’m telling all this about BLART sandwiches is because I am eating a BLART sandwich right now, exactly while I’m writing this chapter! And it is actually a terrible idea because my computer now has a BLART-smeared mouse.)

  “We need to write a note to G. J. Prott,” I said.

  Georgie picked up the heart necklace and the 1909 Lincoln Head penny (I mean “cent”). They had been sitting on his desk since the last time we’d been in his room. “If this Prott guy really wants this stuff back, maybe we’ll get a reward. Maybe ten dollars.”

  “Maybe twenty,” I said, smiling. I was still thinking the coin was worth three dollars.

  What a dope!

  A Butt-Banging Escape

  I set my milk down on Georgie’s desk and picked up some lined paper and a pencil. I wrote:

  Georgie pointed at the paper. “What if it’s a woman?”

  I erased and wrote:

  “What if she’s not married?” He had a little smile on his face because he knew that I knew he was right. So I erased again and wrote:

  “What about vampires?” Georgie asked, leaning over me and baring what he thinks are his fangs but are actually just pointed canine teeth that stick out a bit. (Canine means “doglike.” If you want to know which are your canine teeth, just look at your dog or any dog. The biggest, sharpest ones … those are canines. In humans, too. How do I know this stuff about teeth? I have a very talkative dentist.)

  Georgie has braces on his teeth, so that even with his sharp canines, he looks like a kid with metal in his mouth. He is not the least bit vampirish. I ignored him and continued writing:

  “You misspelled envelope,” Georgie said.

  “Did not,” I replied. “It doesn’t have to have an e at the end. It can be spelled either way. You can look it up. Anyway, I left the e off on purpose so our note would be more mysterious.”

  “Lame,” Georgie muttered.

  Just to please him, I stuck the e back in.

  Actually I did look envelop up, and darn it, Georgie was right. The two words are pronounced differently: envelop = en-VEH-lop, but envelope = EN-veh-lope. They also have different meanings. I found an explanation on a college website, Canada’s University of Victoria:

  Envelop is a verb meaning “to surround” and is most frequently used to describe fog or a mother’s arms. The only thing an envelope surrounds is a letter.

  I could have left this envelop/envelope stuff out, but like I said, I don’t cheat, even if it means I lose. And anyway, Georgie, who never gets excellent grades in spelling, is reading this over my shoulder while I’m writing, and he is insisting I leave it in.

  Here’s what the note looked like when it was finished:

  “And we need to have a way to get an answer,” Georgie added.

  He was right again, so I added something at the bottom:

  When I looked up from my writing, Georgie had gotten into his swimsuit and tucked his towel and clothes into a backpack.

  I put the necklace and the penny back into the old envelope—I didn’t put the folded paper in with them because Georgie had burned one corner and smudged pencil lead on it. I grabbed my backpack and put the Prott note and the old envelope in it.

  “We have three important things to do this afternoon,” I said as I changed into my swimsuit. “First, we drop off the note. Second, we go to the party and have fun. Third, and most important, we figure out how to get back at my tattletale sister.”

  The day was warm and sunny, perfect for the outdoor school party. As we biked toward The Haunted Toad, we decided that I would deliver the note because I am the fastest runner, and Georgie would hold our bikes.

  When we got to Eureka Avenue, a police car drove past us.

  “Don’t worry, he’s just on patrol,” Georgie said.

  I looked at him quizzically (another word Dad taught me). “Why should we be worried? We aren’t going to break any laws, so we don’t have to worry about being worried.”

  Even so, we waited until the patrol car disappeared around the corner, then rode up the street and stopped next to a bunch of trash cans between The Haunted Toad and the next house. We got off and stood staring at the old green-gray building.

  “Someone … or something … is watching us,” I whispered.

  “Vampires, probably,” Georgie replied softly.

  I knew he was kidding, but as I looked up at the old house, even though everything looked just like it always had, I had the feeling that it was different.

  “Come on!” Georgie whispered loudly. “You want me to do it?”

  I glared at him. “I’ll do it. You just hold my bike and be ready to pedal fast!”

  I waited until another car drove by, then squinched (I made this word up … it means squeezing along inch by inch) through some bushes at the end of the front fence and began sneaking soundle
ssly across the front yard like a ninja or an Indian stalking a deer.

  (Granpa, who thinks he knows all about Indians and forests and stuff because he’s director of our summer camp, once told me, “No one, not Cochise or Sitting Bull or the Last of the Mohicans, could walk on leaves and twigs without crunching.” Granpa: When you read this, please believe me. There were plenty of twigs, leaves, and other junk on The Haunted Toad’s lawn, but I walked with absolutely no crunching noise. It can be done!)

  I leaned on the railing as I climbed the three front steps, so that my weight on the stairs would be very light and maybe they wouldn’t squeak.

  They didn’t squeak.

  I put the folded note in the crack where the door opens, pounded twice on the door, and ran full blast for my bike.

  (Granpa: Don’t ask. I admit to lots of crunching on the way back.)

  Our getaway was not as smooth as we had planned. Here’s why:

  1. I caught my shirt on a bush when I ran back.

  2. That sort of spun me sideways so that I sort of stumbled into my bike.

  3. My bike fell against Georgie.

  4. Georgie lost his balance, fell backward, and banged his behind against the trash barrel.

  5. The trash barrel, which was full of bottles and cans for recycling, spilled into the street. Bottles broke, making a lot of noise.

  6. We jumped on our bikes and pumped hard, but about three houses down the block, I speed-shifted and my chain came off the sprocket.

  7. Running alongside my bike, I chased after Georgie, who had stopped when he noticed that I wasn’t anywhere near.

  Even with our bumbling, bungled, butt-banging, bike-breaking escape, we were eight houses down the block and almost out of sight before anyone could’ve come to the door of The Haunted Toad. I flipped my bike upside down and began speedily reattaching the chain.

  (I like the word speedily. It’s one of those words that sounds like what it means … at least to me. Some others are gargoyle—sounds monstrous and evil; lizard—sounds scaly and fast-moving; and carnival—sounds bouncy and fun. I am building a collection of words like this on my website. If you want to add one to my list—and I don’t mean obvious words that imitate sounds like buzz or plop or fizzle—please go to my website.)