Desmond Pucket Makes Monster Magic

  1

  there goes desmond

  “Mom! Mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-mmmm . . .”

  I groan in my best I’m-about-to-blow-chow voice.

  Mom knows the sound well from all the late-night fevers throughout the years, when she held my puking head.

  I hear a stirring down the hall. Then my mom’s familiar clunky footsteps on autopilot as she makes her way to my room, flipping on light switches as she goes.

  Mom pushes through my door and comes to my bedside, her face full of concern.

  “What is it, Des? Are you sick?”

  I make gurgly noises.

  I spit blood.

  A large red stain spreads across my belly as a claw rips through my shirt and a slimy, multi-eyed, many-fanged creature breaks out of my stomach with a screech, its tentacles jiggling and blood spurting from the gaping hole!

  She’s so on to me.

  “We’ll talk about this more in the morning, mister,” Mom says as she stomps out of the room, huffing that mom-huff that all mothers learn at mom training school.

  Mom can say a lot with one huff. That one was the famous you’re-on-my-last-nerve huff. And it’s probably not a good idea to make my mother huffing mad right now.

  Because Mom’s the one person keeping me from getting kicked out of Cloverfield Memorial Junior High School!

  2

  for the love of

  monsters

  I guess I should explain.

  My name is Desmond Pucket, and as you probably already guessed, I’m into all kinds of scary stuff. I’m a Professor of Frightology, with a Master’s in Monsters. Or, as I like to call myself . . .

  Someday I’m going to be rich and famous for creating the most amazing and horrifying amusement park haunted house rides ever! That’s my dream!

  Maybe I’ll even make something greater than the biggest haunted dark ride in the whole world, the MOUNTAIN FULL OF MONSTERS at Crab Shell Pier!

  I design, draw, and create all of my own scary-monster effects . . .

  Like my math teacher, Mrs. Raup, says, “If you could draw your lessons, Desmond, you’d be a straight-A student!” Those were her exact words when she handed me back my last test, with the Stomach Screecher drawn on the back of page two . . . and a big fat F at the top of page one.

  I’m not rich and famous yet, either. I’m only in junior high, and my weird hobby makes grown-ups nervous. Especially teachers and important-looking bald guys with half glasses and vomit green sweaters, also known as school officials.

  I’m not sure what it is that makes them “official” . . . Maybe it’s those vomit green sweaters. Maybe those special sweaters are handed out in some secret ceremony.

  It’s not that I’m a bad kid. I’ve never hurt anyone. And I’ve never gotten into any real trouble . . . not until this year, anyway. But suddenly my special “monstery interest” is getting more attention and I’m skating on thin ice.

  Now Mom is the only thing standing between me and getting tossed by the vomit-green-sweater wearers!

  OK, to tell this right, I think I have to go back in time a bit. See, this all really started a few years ago . . .

  3

  the dark ride of

  crab shell pier

  I was only seven years old at the time, but I knew that Crab Shell Amusement Pier was going to suck eggs big-time.

  Our whole family really wanted to go to Wizz Dizzy World in Florida. But back then, Dad was still finishing up school and we didn’t have tons of money for big, expensive vacations. So we settled for a road trip to Crab Shell Pier.

  That actually should be their TV commercial:

  It didn’t matter to my older sister, Rachel, that we were going to a cruddy substitute for Wizz Dizzy World. She already had a boyfriend, and her little pea brain was completely crammed full with dreams of Dennis. We could have been going cow tipping at DairyLand for all she cared.

  But I was miffed.

  Wizz Dizzy World in Florida had just opened a new 3-D Virtual Alien Attack attraction (“attraction” is theme park–ese for “really expensive ride”).

  And I was missing it.

  Dad was too busy keeping track of turnpike exits to sense my mood. But Mom knew and tried to get me excited.

  I did one of those eye-rolly smiles to let Mom know she was getting into kid territory she knew nothing about, but Mom’s no dummy. She already knew that fast rides are OK but nothing tops a 3-D Virtual Alien Attack attraction. I had to give Mom points for trying, though.

  When we got to Crab Shell Pier, the place was an explosion of noise, flashing lights, and giant swooshing rides; it smelled like old hot dogs, burnt french fries, gasoline engines, and wet boardwalk wood.

  Definitely not Wizz Dizzy World.

  But then I saw it, way down at the very end of the pier . . .

  . . . the most awesomely fantastic and freaky triple-decker dark ride in the whole entire world.

  I looked at Mom, but she was already off buying tickets. We inched our way forward in line, and I heard the screams of the kids inside the giant fake mountain as their pretzel cars rattled over the three stories of tracks, running in and out of the glorious monster-packed caves. I felt that thrilled/scared/ excited tingle as we got closer.

  Finally, it was our turn. The rickety little car pulled up in front of us.

  And that’s when I saw the CREATURE . . .

  Man, I hate those smiley characters, holding one cartoon gloved hand over my head, laughing at me! Every one of those goofy signs was a reminder I was small for my age. I was totally crushed! I stepped out of line as all the bigger kids pushed by and snickered.

  Dad and Rachel still went on the ride, but Mom stayed with me. She held her arm around me and said nothing.

  This, of course, was all incredibly funny to Rachel, who towered over me . . .

  So I had a hard time feeling sorry for her when a kid on the Tilt-a-Whirl actually did barf in her lap.

  Even though I didn’t get on the big ride, the day wasn’t a total waste.

  But I knew one day I would return to Crab Shell Pier! And I would go on that Mountain Full of Monsters ride! I swore it!

  And now that day is almost here—the sixth-grade class trip—and I can’t believe I’m in trouble of missing out again!

  All because of my little pranks . . .

  4

  desmond's

  greatest hits

  Everybody has at least one great school moment, right? Like the time you climb to the top of the rope in gym and ring the bell and everybody is watching, especially Tina Schimsky.

  Or when you rescue the girls from jail (including Tina Schimsky) during a game of Capture the Flag and actually capture the flag.

  Or the day you’re the hero of dodgeball, jumping in front of Tina Schimsky, catching the ball that Scott Seltzer aimed at her, and winning the game.

  Well, none of that happened to me.

  One of my greatest moments was the shrieking rubber goblin in the teachers’ lounge toilet.

  I didn’t actually see the whole thing go down, but Jon Cahill was in the teachers’ lounge dropping a book off to Mr. Landrum, and he said it was pretty obvious why Mrs. Rubin was the chorus teacher.

  And then Mr. Landrum screamed when he saw Mrs. Rubin without her wig.

  Score!

  And who could forget the bloody cakes in Home Ec? Ricky DiMarco had to help me with that one. Every top effects man has a number-two guy he can totally trust to get the job done, and Ricky is as good as it gets.

  OK, so Ricky is no rocket scientist, either. He’s not even qualified to be a paper airplane scientist. He’s more of a jokes-and-gags man of the whoopee cushion/plastic vomit variety
.

  Ricky and I met back in the fourth grade. One day we just started tossing balled-up scrap paper cartoons back and forth in class, trying to make each other laugh and get in trouble with the teacher.

  This is one of the first cartoons Ricky ever tossed to me:

  It cracked me up so much that Mr. McGeorge gave me a week of detention. Me and Ricky have been best friends ever since.

  When we’re old enough to drive, me and Ricky are getting jobs at Crab Shell Pier. Of course I want to work on the Mountain Full of Monsters ride, but Ricky wants to be in the dunker tank. You know, that guy who insults people who then try to knock him into the water?

  I know a lot of teachers who will be lining up for that.

  So anyway, back to the bloody cakes in Home Ec . . . definitely one of my ideas that was right up Ricky’s alley.

  We stuffed all the blood-filled balloons into the cake batter way before the Home Ec kids and the teacher got back from lunch to bake it. We didn’t know what the cakes were for, which made for a very special coffee break during Back-to-School Night . . .

  I don’t think any of those parents and teachers will ever eat cake again!

  And then there were the giant worms in the cafetorium . . . definitely a gold star moment!

  Someday I’ll tell you how hard it was to keep battery-operated rubber worms wriggling in hot mashed potatoes.

  But getting one over on that sourpants lunch lady Mrs. Belkman was worth the whole secret setup and almost getting caught.

  The greatest part was when she freaked and dropped the entire sheet of mashed potatoes on the floor right in front of Scott Seltzer . . .

  . . . who screamed like a little baby-man. Classic!

  The really terrible part of all these triumphs is I can’t take any credit for them.

  If I did, I’d get kicked out of school right away. Cloverfield Memorial Junior High has a “zero-tolerance” policy . . . which means that the teachers have zero tolerance for goblins in their toilets and worms in their taters.

  Of course, they all sort of knew I was the man behind the magic. They just couldn’t prove it.

  And nobody wants to prove it more than Mr. Needles.

  5

  mr. needles

  Mr. Needles is the head of the disciplinary office at Cloverfield Junior High and the king of all school officials. He’s the one I always visit after all my triumphs.

  And I usually get the standard warning talk from him, with something like “You better buckle down, son” or “Time to straighten out and fly right, mister . . .”

  I’m pretty sure somewhere in his office Mr. Needles has a book like this:

  I always try to stay one step ahead of Mr. Needles. I’m careful never to leave any evidence, and it’s pretty easy to hear him coming in his clompy brown dress shoes. So Mr. Needles can’t ever prove anything.

  All he has are the warnings and threats, which he always ends with:

  Well, he’s right. I almost got caught that last time with the giant wriggly worms in the mashed potatoes. So I have to lie low. I’ll put my exploding zombie head project on hold. For now, I’ll control my inner monster.

  But, dang, it’s really hard for me to squash my scaring instincts!

  It’s not natural!

  Especially when there’s someone who’s really asking for it . . .

  . . . like RACHEL!

  6

  the fabulous

  rachel

  You might think it’s great to have a popular older sister, that you’re all set, right? She’s queen of the school, so maybe some of that popularity might trickle down to you. And then you’ll be accepted by the “in” crowd right away because your sister is already there, and older sisters always look out for younger brothers. Right? Right??

  Unless your sister is Rachel.

  Rachel wants it all, and she expects everyone else to make it their life’s work to bring her the rest of the all that she doesn’t have. She gets everything she wants. It makes sense, I suppose, because Rachel’s a lot more work than I am. Mom always says, “The squeaky wheel gets the oil,” and my sister never stops squeaking.

  I guess it’s kind of my own fault Rachel hates me. When we were younger, I practiced my “plastic surgery” on her dolls. Pretty Pony and Ken were the first to go under the knife.

  And the Little Mermaid soon became . . .

  Rachel’s record-breaking collection of Barbie dolls made an awesome mob of zombies.

  (The most stylish zombies ever, I have to say.)

  And there’s something cute about Molly the American Girl doll covered in werewolf hair:

  Let’s not even talk about the Polly Pocket Chamber of Horrors.

  But Rachel never appreciated my creativity, then or now. And so there’s always lots and lots of Rachel squeaking.

  Whenever Rachel sees me, she grimaces her bracified teeth and rolls her over-mascarafied eyes. And since our grades are worlds apart, we pretty much ignore each other.

  But now something’s happening that I can’t ignore:

  I know—is that the ugliest party invitation ever, or what? Did she use every piece of cruddy clip art from the whole entire Internet?

  A slumber party!

  With tons of screechy girls!

  And presents!

  Well, that’s Rachel.

  Which is another reason I don’t feel bad risking it all to do what I gotta do . . .

  7

  the scare-fest

  extravaganza

  Picture it: Rachel and thirteen other squealing, bracified, and over-mascarafied girls in one place. At night. Lights off. Telling scary slasher stories.

  I know what I have to do. I can’t resist.

  It will be my masterpiece!

  OK, now, I know I said I have to lie low and keep my nose clean because Mr. Needles is watching me . . . but this isn’t school! This is a sleepover party packed with stupid, ready-to-scare eighth-grade girls! What kind of monster maker would let that opportunity slip by?

  So I carefully draw up my plans . . .

  . . . plotting out every creepy sound effect and bugaboo . . .

  Then, way before the party starts, I hide in a closet in the slumber party room and wait.

  And I wait.

  And wait.

  And fart.

  I suddenly realize what a small closet this is.

  Finally, I hear the girls’ giggly, goofy voices as they pile into the room. I peek out and see them in their multicolored animal-print pajamas, all carrying their favorite stuffed monkey or HiDeeHo-Hippo doll or giant banana pillow. And then they chatter away for hours about boys . . . who’s a dork, who’s a babe, and who’s a blah, blah, blahddy, blee, blah . . .

  After a long while, the girls finally settle down. Someone turns the lights off. Things are starting to happen! I can feel my excitement building.

  I hear the quiet voice of Nadine Templeton as she begins the most perfectly awesome and scary ghost story ever, the one story that legally must be told at every slumber party . . .

  Now, there’s a bunch of different ways that the Bloody Mary story can go:

  Or:

  Well, you get the idea.

  As long as death, blood, and a lady out for revenge are involved, the Bloody Mary story works. Now, after the story is told, you’re supposed to stand in front of a mirror and turn around thirteen times, all the while chanting the name . . .

  . . . and when you stop, you open your eyes and look in the mirror, and Bloody Mary will appear! And then . . .

  Well, nobody really knows exactly what happens then, because the way the thing usually goes is the way it’s going right now: all the girls start to do it and then chicken out before finishing the mirror bit. The giggles and tiny screams are becoming more nervous. And the fear-o-meter is beeping off the charts!

  The timing is perfect . . .

  At first the girls fall silent. Then they start making small scared noises. I release the net full of rubber creepy-crawlers an
d motorized spiders. And the ghosts on the strings. And start rocking picture frames.

  Finally, I burst out of the closet!

  The girls freeze.

  They stare at me.

  Eyes the size of ping-pong balls.

  And after a second of open-mouthed shock, all hoo-ha breaks loose!

  The girls run in all different directions, crashing into one another, knocking over cups of BubbleBurp soda, stepping into popcorn bowls, and slipping on greasy corn chip bags, the whole time screaming one ginormous scream. Then the front door bangs open and they all run out.

  And I activate phase two of the plan.

  Yes, we save the best for last . . . the icing on the cake!

  And the girls take off at top speed, waving their arms and screaming down our once quiet street.

  All except for Rachel . . .

  . . . who stays behind to pummel me with a HiDeeHo-Hippo.

  But at least Ricky makes a clean getaway.

  All the gimmicks and haunted effects worked perfectly, especially my newest creation . . .

  All in all, an awesomely successful night!

  Unfortunately, my dad and I have very different ideas about the definition of “successful.”

  8

  one

  disappointed

  dad

  Dad is a master with that D-word. He only pulls it out when he absolutely needs it. Kind of like a pinch hitter. Or a really giant chain saw. And it hurts much worse.