Beware the Ninja Weenies (11 page)

“What in the world…”

I thought back through everything that had happened in the cafeteria. A stranger. A disguise. A fire.

“Oh, no!” I raced back to the cafeteria and ran over to Jimmy's table.

He and his friends were about to wolf down their spaghetti.

“How dare you disturb us?” Isaac said. “Ninjas do not mix with common peasants during meals.”

“What do you want?” Jimmy asked. “Speak quickly or suffer.”

“Nothing.” I took my seat and stared at my spaghetti. Next to me, Kyle was halfway finished with his. He didn't seem worried. If my suspicion was correct, he knew a lot more than I did about what was going on. I picked up my fork and took a bite. It tasted fine. For the next two minutes, all I heard was normal cafeteria noises. Then a scream rose above the chatter.

“Aiiieee!”

I spun to my left, expecting to find a ninja weenie leaping at me. But Jimmy wasn't launching an attack. He was launching his lunch. And his breakfast.

He wasn't spewing alone. The rest of the ninja weenies were on their feet, too. Or their knees. Isaac was flat on the table, with his head hanging over the edge. Something had made them all sick—and only them. All around the cafeteria, I didn't see anyone else throwing up. But I saw a lot of smiles. I think Jimmy had annoyed most of the kids in school.

I put down my fork. The smell in the cafeteria had killed my appetite. I joined the rest of the kids and hustled outside, where the air was a lot fresher.

“Wow,” Kyle said. “I don't think they're going to any parties tonight. I wonder what happened to them?”

“You know what happened to them,” I said. “Your grandfather disguised himself as an old woman, created a distraction with a fire, and poisoned their food.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Kyle jabbed a finger at my forehead. “That's ridiculous.”

“He's a ninja! I know he is.” I said, “They're still around. He's one. I'll bet you're training to be one, too. You're way too calm for a normal kid.”

“Now you're getting even more ridiculous,” Kyle said.

“Yeah, you're right,” I said. “My imagination flies out of control sometimes.” I started to turn away from Kyle, then spun back and threw a hard punch right at his head.

My punch didn't land. Kyle deflected it with a move so fast, it was a blur. Somehow, I was flying through the air. Kyle had flung me over his head like I was no heavier than a single-serving-size bag of potato chips.

“Sorry! You caught me by surprise. You okay?” he asked after I'd bounced to a landing on my back.

“I'm fine. But you're a…”

His stare cut off my words. “I'm a what?” he asked. His fingertips twitched, like he was thinking about forming fists.

“A great friend,” I said. And I was happy to leave it at that. If Kyle was training to be a ninja, that was his culture, his business, and his secret. I was just happy to have him, and his grandfather, on my side. And I was happy to have the ninja weenies out of action for the moment.

On the way home from school, I saw a sign written in shaky marking pen on the door of the ninja school.
Closed due to illness.
I guess Master O'Rourke had eaten the wrong thing, too.

That night, at my party—which was totally awesome in all ways—Kyle handed me an envelope.

“What's this?” I asked.

“Your present.”

I wanted to point out that he and his grandfather had already given me a present, but I'd promised not to talk about that. I opened the envelope. “Wow—thanks!” It was a gift certificate for karate lessons.

“This place teaches traditional karate. The real stuff. My grandfather picked it out,” Kyle said. “A couple months of this, and you can stand up to the ninja weenies. Not that they'll still be a problem. I'm betting they'll start acting like zombies or Martians pretty soon, now that the fake school is closed. And I'm pretty sure it won't open back up.”

“What about real ninjas?” I asked. “Will I be able to beat them?”

“Dream on,” Kyle said. He gave me a playful punch on the shoulder, then headed across the room toward the snacks, walking silently.

 

LITTLE BREAD RIDING HOOD

Little Bread Riding Hood
—we should probably call her LB, or maybe even Ellbee, for short—was taking a basket of piping hot dinner rolls to her grandmother, who was currently on a fashionable high-carb, low-protein diet that had been made popular by her favorite skinny-as-a-toothpick celebrity spokesperson.

“Be careful in the woods,” her mother said as Ellbee headed off.

“I will,” Ellbee said, since that was the only acceptable response. Ellbee knew she couldn't reply with something sassy and sarcastic like, “Careful? What fun is that? I plan to gorge myself on highly toxic mushrooms and roll down steep hills covered with poison ivy and sharp rocks. And then I'll rub noses with a rattlesnake and dance the tango with a grizzly bear.”

She headed along the familiar path through the woods, enjoying the musical chirps of birds, the gentle touch of the warm breeze, and the tantalizing aroma of hot rolls. When she reached her grandmother's cabin, she knocked on the door.

“Come in,” her grandmother called in a hoarse whisper.

“You sound funny,” Ellbee said as she opened the door.

“I have a cold,” her grandmother said.

“Where are you?” Ellbee asked.

“Up in my bed.”

Ellbee went upstairs to her grandmother's bedroom, where she found her grandmother tucked beneath a huge pile of quilts, with her head nestled deep in a stack of fluffy feather pillows.

“Grandma!” Ellbee exclaimed as she noticed the flaring network of scarlet capillaries that ran through the whites of her eyes. “What red eyes you have.”

“All the better to see you with, my dear,” her grandmother said. She blinked. Then she gasped and wheezed.

“And what wheezy lungs you have,” Ellbee said.

“All the better to—uh, wait, let me think—inhale the delicious aroma of the freshly baked rolls,” she said.

“And what a pale complexion you have,” Ellbee said.

“Uh, all the better to…” The words drifted off.

Ellbee realized there was a medical crisis happening. “Too many carbs,” she muttered as she tossed the basket of rolls to the floor. She ran outside, hunted down some red meat that was conveniently stalking through the woods not far from the cabin, and made her grandmother a tasty meal of meaty stew.

“Ah, that's better,” her grandmother said as she finished her dinner. She reached toward the basket, which was still on the floor. “One roll?”

“Sure,” Ellbee said. “Life is all about balance. Just don't overdo it.”

“Butter?” her grandmother asked.

Ellbee nodded again. “Not too much.” She knew how nice a roll was with a bit of butter.

Right then, the door burst open and the woodcutter raced in, holding his ax high over his head. “Be careful. I heard there's a killer wolf on the prowl.”

“Everything is fine. I don't think the wolf is prowling anymore,” Ellbee said. “We're just finishing dinner.” She pointed toward the kitchen. “Want some stew and a roll?”

“Sure. But just the meat,” the woodcutter said. “I'll skip the roll. I'm on a low-carb, high-protein diet, just like my favorite reality show cohost.”

Ellbee and her grandmother laughed at that, but they didn't explain to the woodcutter why they found this so amusing.

He'll figure it out sooner or later,
Ellbee thought. But she reminded herself to pay the woodcutter a visit the next time she walked through the woods with a basket of rolls for her grandmother, just in case his diet made his eyes too red or his lungs too wheezy. Adults didn't always pay enough attention to what they ate. But Ellbee was always happy to come to the rescue.

 

GULP

It was really Mom's
idea for me to go to the carnival. “You'll have fun,” she said. “You'll probably run into lots of your friends.”

I didn't bother telling her I couldn't run into lots of friends. She liked to pretend that I was popular. There was no point ruining her fantasy image of me with the truth. And it wasn't as if going to the carnival was some sort of punishment. I'd probably have a good time.

I followed her to the car, took the money she shoved in my hand, and let her drive me across town to the county park, where the Milltown Fire Company annual carnival had set up.

“I'll pick you up at six,” Mom called as I walked toward the booths.

I saw people I knew, of course. Lots of them. But nobody who'd be happy if I tried to hang out with him. The first booth I went to had one of those wheels with all the numbers on it.

“Come on, son, try yer luck,” the guy running the game said. “It's only a quarter.”

I knew it was a long shot. There were a ton of numbers on the wheel. But he was right—it was only a quarter. I studied the board that ran along the front of the booth.
What number?
Didn't really matter. I put the quarter on number twelve, partly because it was right in front of me. Partly because that's how old I was.

A couple other people stepped up and picked numbers. I sort of hoped someone else would also choose twelve, so we could root for it together. Nobody did.

“Good luck,” the guy said. He spun the wheel.

It stopped on twelve.

I'd won.

“Here ya go, sport.” The guy held out a moldy cardboard box. “You get yer choice.”

I looked inside. Candy bars. Old ones with faded wrappers. Ick.

The guy shook the box. “Move it, kid. I ain't got all day. Just pick something. It's all good stuff. Top quality.”

I grabbed the closest candy bar. Caramel chews. Even the wrapper felt sticky. I tore it open. There were five shiny brown pieces inside on a cardboard tray. I popped one in my mouth. Then I wrapped the rest of the pieces back up, put them in my pocket.

I don't know why they called them
chews.
Maybe the candy had been chewy ten years ago, but now it was closer to gluey. Once I bit down on the piece in my mouth, it pretty much sealed my teeth together. Though it did taste kind of good. I ground down on it and wriggled my jaw. After a couple minutes, I was actually able to get my teeth unstuck.

I tried to figure out how to kill all the time between now and six, when Mom would pick me up. There were rides. That would be fun. Though I knew that if I rode by myself, people would stare at me. I wandered deeper toward the center of the carnival.

After I finished eating the caramel chew, I realized I was thirsty. There was a booth right ahead of me with old-fashioned sodas. Mom doesn't let me have more than one can a day, so this was a great opportunity. I bought the biggest size they had. I loved root beer. And I loved the idea of drinking as much as I wanted. Before I could take my first sip, someone grabbed my arm, sloshing soda on the ground.

“Thanks. I was dying for a drink.”

I looked up. Oh, great. Corbin Malatesta had latched on to me. I was a loner because I had a hard time making friends. He was a loner because he was just too dangerous and mean to hang out with. I let him take the cup from my hand.

He didn't even bother to use a straw. He tilted his head back and chugged my root beer. It was gone in five seconds. I waited for him to burp, but he just grinned and said, “I'm still thirsty. Let's get another.”

“But…”

He glared at me. I sighed, bought another soda, gave it to him, then tried to slip away. But there was no escape. He put an arm around my shoulder and said, “Now what? I know—let's go on a ride. You'd better buy two tickets. I hate to ride alone, like some kind of loser.”

I bought some ride tickets. And then, at Corbin's suggestion, I bought another soda. He gulped that one down, the same way he'd guzzled the other two. I frantically searched for a way to escape. That's when my eyes fell on the Super Scrambler. It was like the old-fashioned Scrambler—four rotating arms, each with four cars on it—but beside spinning, it also shook up and down. As I watched the ride, everything clicked into place, like I was planning out my next three or four moves in a game of checkers.

“That looks kind of scary.” I tried my best to sound terrified.

“Perfect. Fear makes me happy.” Corbin dragged me toward the Super Scrambler. When we got to the entrance, I gave the guy at the gate two tickets and climbed into one of the cars with Corbin.

Now I had a decision to make. I think every kid reaches a point where he finds out how far he'll go to protect himself. I pulled the pack of caramel chews out of my pocket. It looked like I was about to go pretty far. But I felt good about my choice. I was tired of being a victim.

“There are four,” I said. “We can split them.”

“I'm not into sharing,” Corbin said. “It's me first, me last, and me in the middle.” He scooped up all four caramels and popped them in his mouth. I couldn't believe how easy it was to get him to do what I wanted.

As he bit down, the ride started to move. It rotated slowly at first, then built up speed, pressing us against the back of the seat. I heard whoops and shouts from the other riders. Right next to me, I heard something that sounded more like, “Mmmmmuuhhhmmmmm.”

Corbin was trying to talk, but his mouth was sealed shut by the caramels. The ride began to jerk up and down in random, violent ways. Corbin's eyes got wider. His cheeks started to puff up. I guess all the soda in his stomach was being shaken pretty heavily.

I was tossed around by the ride, but I couldn't take my eyes off Corbin. I'd seen this old jazz trumpeter on TV once. When he played, his cheeks puffed out like small balloons. Well, Corbin's cheeks puffed out way more than that. They swelled up bigger and bigger. By now, he was beyond resembling anything human. He reminded me of those frogs who can puff up their necks really far.