Battle of the Dum Diddys (7 page)

“I—I—I—” My brain was still frozen.

And then Mrs. Twinkler stepped forward. She was the only person who didn't look horrified and shocked. She had a big smile on her face.

She strode right up to the inspectors. “This is our annual school pageant!” she told them. “Didn't Bernie do a
fabulous
job?”

“P-pageant?” one inspector stammered. “This ugly mud fight? What kind of pageant is
this
?”

“It's the Battle of Rotten Town of 1650,” Mrs. Twinkler told him. She turned to Headmaster
Upchuck. “I
knew
Bernie was the right person to lead the pageant.”

Upchuck put a big smile onto his little bald head. “Yes, yes!” he said. “I was the one who picked Bernie. Excellent job, Bernie.”

He patted me on the shoulder. “Ha-ha. You inspectors weren't fooled—were you? Did you really think my wonderful students were having a mud fight?”

“It…looked so real,” an inspector said. “Wonderful job. I guess.”

My brain finally started chugging. “I did my best!” I told them. “But I can't take all the credit. Mrs. Twinkler had the idea to stage it in Pooper's Pond. A
brilliant
idea! I think she deserves a round of applause—don't you?”

The five inspectors clapped.

“The students
all
deserve applause,” Mrs. Twinkler said. “Have you ever seen a pageant that looked so
real
?”

“Guess we made a mistake,” an inspector said. “I'm very impressed. Best school pageant I ever saw. I think we're all going to file an
excellent
report on this school.”

Another inspector squinted at me. “But what is that wad of cash in Bernie's hand?”

I stared down at the money. “Oh, this?” I said. “Just a small gift from my cast and crew. They wanted to show me how much they appreciated all my hard work.”

“Bernie is so wonderful,” Mrs. Twinkler gushed. “Guess what he's doing. He's giving all that money to the Rotten School Theater Fund.” She grabbed the money from my hand.

“This will pay for our second-grade production of
The Ugly Duckling
.”

The Ugly Duckling
?

My money…my hard-earned money…

Upchuck slapped me on the back. “Congratulations!” he cried. “Job well done!” He and the inspectors turned and walked away.

I watched Mrs. Twinkler counting my money as she trotted off with it.

I let out a long, sad sigh.

“Guess the game is over,” Feenman said. I could see only his eyes. He had about three inches of mud all over his face. He looked much better with it.

The other warriors climbed wearily out of the pond. Dudes were dripping mud, groaning and sighing. “I'm toast,” Sherman muttered. “Toast.”

“I could sleep for a week,” Billy the Brain said, yawning.

“Everything HURTS,” Beast declared wearily. He started licking mud off his arm.

“What a battle. Thank goodness it's over. We're all totally wrecked.” Joe Sweety groaned.

“War is tough,” I said. “But remember, dudes—
we're all winners here! Thanks to us, our school is saved!”

Groaning, aching, sighing, we started limping toward our dorms. But we all stopped when we heard the loud, shrill cry.

 

“WAAAAAA

HOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

I saw Jennifer Ecch first. And then the rest of the girls. In capes and full armor! Waving shiny swords and battle-axes in front of them.

“Prepare to surrender!” Jennifer screamed. “Prepare to surrender to the Dum Dum Daughters of the Doo-Wah-Diddy Dum Dum Diddy Princess!”

“No! Please! Please! Give us a break!”

“We surrender! We surrender!”

“You win!”

The boys' cries couldn't stop the battle. Act Two of the pageant was about to begin! And it was going to be a
slaughter
.

“Belzer, quick!” I said, pulling him aside. “Go get the Nutty Nutty Bars.”

He squinted at me. “Bernie, you're still trying to cash in? You're gonna sell candy bars during the battle?”

“No way,” I said. “I need something to eat while I watch you fight!”

R.L. STINE'S

I hurried down the empty hall and stopped at a door at the end. I read the words on the window:
ROTTEN EGG
.

That's the name of our school yearbook. The
Rotten Egg
. How did it get that name? Who knows? Maybe they just couldn't think of a better one.

I pushed open the door and looked around for the editor. He's a tall, skinny, redheaded sixth grader named Leif Blower.

Blower is really into the yearbook. He has a tiny silver egg stuck through one earlobe. And he wears
a green-and-yellow cap that says:
ASK ME ABOUT ROTTEN EGGS
.

“Yo, Blower! What's up?” I knew he had to be there. He never went to class. He just stayed in the
Rotten Egg
office all day and worked on the yearbook.

Blower had his face buried in a stack of photos on the table in front of him.

He kept shaking his head. “I can't decide,” he said. “Bernie, maybe you can help me.”

I hurried across the room. “What's the problem?”

He held up three photos. I squinted at them. I saw a window with gray curtains.

“Which photo of Headmaster Upchuck do you like best?” Blower asked.

I squinted at them again. “I don't see Headmaster Upchuck,” I said. “I just see a window.”

He frowned. “That's the problem. Upchuck is too short. His head didn't come up to the camera lens. I only got the window behind his desk.”

“Maybe you should have lowered the camera a little,” I said.

Blower scratched his red hair. “Maybe.”

I took the photos from his hands and set them
down on the table. “Can we talk?” I said. “I know you've been thinking about my yearbook photo. I'm here to help. I'd like a blue sky in the background. With just a few puffy clouds. Think you can handle that?”

Blower didn't answer. He stared blankly at me.

“I need backlighting,” I said. “You know. To capture the silky glow of my hair. I'm not sure which is my best side. You'll have to shoot me from both sides. Then we can decide later—okay?”

He stared at me blankly.

“Or maybe we should do a straight face shot,” I said. “I mean, we need to show off
both
of my dimples. Everyone says I have
killer
dimples. Shall we work out special lighting for that? Perhaps a light for each dimple?”

He blinked several times. “Sorry, Bernie,” he said. “I didn't hear a word you said.”

“But my photo—” I started.

He put a hand on my shoulder. “I've got something much more important to think about, Bernie.”

More important than my yearbook picture?

What could that
be
?

Blower picked up a bottle from the table and took a long drink from it. He made a face. “This root beer tastes funny.”

“It isn't root beer,” I told him. I took the bottle and read the label. “India Black Ink.”

“ACK. ACK. ACK.”
Blower grabbed his throat and started hacking and coughing and sputtering.

“You should probably see the nurse,” I said. “You're gonna scare people with that black tongue.”

“ACK. ACK. ACK.”

I picked up the root beer bottle—next to the
bottle of ink—and took a slurp. “But before you go,” I said, “can we talk about my photo?”

“ACK. ACK. ACK.”

He “
ack
ed” for another five or six minutes. Then he did some very loud spitting into a wastebasket.

Finally he sat down. “I think I'm back to normal,” he said. His lips were black, and so were his teeth.

“Lookin' good,” I said.

Why worry the poor guy?

“About my yearbook photo…” I started.

“Not now,” Blower said, shaking his head. “I'm totally thinking about one thing. The Most Popular Rotten Egg.”

I stared at him. “The
what
?”

“The yearbook is a hundred years old,” he said. “Back then they had the Most Popular Rotten Egg page. They picked the most popular Rotten Student of the year, and the student was named Most Popular Rotten Egg. The student got a whole page in the yearbook all to himself. For the yearbook's hundredth birthday, we're bringing back the tradition.”

“Wow! That's excellent!” I cried. I slapped Blower on the back. “This is so sudden. I didn't even
know you were thinking of me. But I gladly accept. Shall we take the picture now?”

He stuck out his tongue. “Is my tongue black?”

“Maybe a little,” I said. “I'm so excited about the Rotten Egg award.”

“Bernie, I haven't decided who wins it,” Blower said. “It's a very big responsibility. I'm taking it seriously.”

“You won't be sorry,” I said. “I'm too modest to say it, but everyone knows that Bernie B. is the most popular dude around here.”

“I have to take my time and think hard about it,” Blower said. “And I have to discuss it with Mr. Pupipantz, the yearbook adviser.”

“I can pose tomorrow afternoon,” I told him. “Let me get a haircut first. That'll give you time to talk it over.”

Blower scratched his hair. “I'm not so sure you're the winner, Bernie. After all, Sherman Oaks just gave me this video iPod with two hundred movies. That makes him
very
popular with me!”

I gasped. That spoiled rich kid Sherman Oaks was up to his old tricks….

R.L. Stine
graduated from Rotten School with a solid D+ average, which put him at the top of his class. He says that his favorite activities at school were Scratching Body Parts and Making Armpit Noises.

In sixth grade, R.L. won the school Athletic Award for his performance in the Wedgie Championships. Unfortunately, after the tournament, his underpants had to be surgically removed.

After graduation, R.L. became well known for writing scary book series such as The Nightmare Room, Fear Street, Goosebumps, and Mostly Ghostly, and a short story collection called
Beware!

Today, R.L. lives in New York City, where he is busy writing stories about his school days.

For more information about R.L. Stine, go to www.rottenschool.com and www.rlstine.com

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