Calling All Birdbrains (8 page)

Sherman won every game that night. He took every dime I had.

And the whole night, that stupid parrot on his shoulder kept squawking:

Finally, I handed my wallet to Sherman. “Keep it,” I said. “I don't have anything left to put into it.”

“Thanks, Bernie,” Sherman replied, slapping me on the back. “I couldn't have done it without you!” Then he laughed for about ten minutes.

What a sore winner!

I staggered back to the dorm. I could still hear that parrot squawking and crowing.

I trudged into Feenman and Crench's room and dropped weakly onto the edge of their bunk bed. “Root beer,” I moaned. “Bring me gallons of Foamy Root Beer. I love Foamy Root Beer.”

Feenman pulled some cans out from their hiding place under his mountain of dirty clothes. The three of us drank silently for a while, wiping the foam off our faces with the backs of our hands.

After a three-or four-minute burping session, I shook my head sadly. “Thanks to that traitor parrot,” I moaned, “Sherman is now the luckiest dude in school.”

“Who knew the bird would turn lucky again?” Feenman said.

Crench wasn't finished burping.

Foamy Root Beer is very bubbly. Sometimes after you drink it, you burp for two or three days.

“Sherman is bragging all over campus,” Feenman
said. “He says he's going to win
every game
at the I. B. Rotten Competition.”

“He
is
going to win every game,” Crench said. “With Lucky Lippy, no way he can lose.”

I slapped my forehead. “What am I going to do?” I moaned. “When are those games? The day after tomorrow, right?”

Crench replied.

“Jennifer says she and I have to win every game,” I said, shuddering. “If I don't get that bird back, she'll…she'll…”

I knew exactly what Jennifer would do to me. Crack my arms and bend me into a pretzel.

But I couldn't say it.
“Aaaack, aaaack.”
I started
ack
ing again.

“Get Bernie some more soda,” Crench said.

Feenman dove under his dirty clothes pile.

“
Aaaaack
. No time for root beer,” I moaned. “I've got to get Lippy back from Sherman. Now.”

The next day, I brought my pet bulldog, Gassy, over to Nyce House, Sherman's dorm. You can probably guess how my dog got his name.

I found Sherman in the Commons Room with Wes Updood and a bunch of his buddies. He had Lippy on his shoulder. And believe it or not, Sherman was still showing off his new gold cell phone.

“See this bright yellow light? Know what that's for?” Sherman asked. “It's so I can tell which pants pocket the phone is in!”

“It's like a cherry in your ear,” Wes Updood said to me. “Without the stem. Know what I'm saying?”

“No,” I said.

Gassy wagged his stub of a tail.

“Wet dogs don't chew their food,” Wes said. “But you can look up
fiduciary
if you don't know how to spell it. Know what I mean?”

“No,” I said.

Wes is so awesomely cool, I wish I could understand him.

I pushed through the crowd and stepped up to Sherman. “I've gotta apologize,” I said. “I did a bad thing.”

Sherman slipped the cell phone into his pants pocket. I could see it glowing in there.

“I didn't give you the REAL lucky pet,” I said. “And I feel bad about it, Sherm, because you're my buddy.”

I pushed my sweet bulldog up to Sherman. “Here he is—the
real
good-luck guy. He'll bring you so much good luck, you won't know what hit you!”

Sherman squinted down at Gassy. “That
fat thing
is good luck?”

I nodded. “I feel so bad, here's what I'll do. I'll give you Gassy and take Lippy off your hands. It means I'm gonna have a lot of bad luck. But that's okay. I want to do the right thing.”

I reached for Lippy.

But at that moment, Gassy decided to live up to his name.

We all heard it. And then we all smelled it.

It was BAD…. So bad, it set off the smoke alarms!

Sherman's friends were gagging and retching and sick on the floor.

“Take Gassy, Sherman. Don't let his little stomach problems keep you from having good luck,” I said.

Sherman dropped to his knees, holding his nose. “OUT!” he screamed. “OUT! I'm dying! I'm DYING!

Get that dog OUTTA here!”

“Okay, okay, don't shove,” I said. “You don't want good luck? Fine. I'm going.”

I'm a good guy. I'm not a thief.

But what choice did I have? Spend the rest of my life as a pretzel? Or steal Lippy away from Sherman?

That night, I paced back and forth in my room. Feenman popped his head in. “What's up, Bernie?

“What's up? What's up? How can you ask what's up?” I cried. “The games are tomorrow morning. You know I have to help my partner, The Ecch, win every game. What can I do?”

Feenman scratched his head. “I saw a movie about a boy who runs away from home and joins a circus.
He gets a job shoveling up after the elephants, and—”

“Stop right there,” I said. “I'm allergic to big animals.”

Feenman shrugged. “That's all I can think of.”

“Thanks for your help,” I said.

I already knew what I had to do. Sneak into Sherman's room and
steal
Lucky Lippy back.

A piece of cake. Sherman's room was in the back of Nyce House, on the first floor. All I had to do was climb in his window, grab the bird, and run.

I waited until midnight. Everyone was asleep. I crept down the stairs silently in my stocking feet. Then I pulled on my sneakers and slipped out the front door.

A cool, clear night. A full moon and hundreds of twinkling stars to lead my way across the silent, empty campus.

My heart pounded. Not from being scared. From happiness. Soon, all the good luck would be
mine
again—and just in time for the games!

I made my way around to the back of the dorm. Hunching low behind a row of bushes, I counted the
windows to Sherman's room.

The window was open. I grabbed the window ledge and hoisted myself up. I peered inside to make sure I had the right room.

Yes. I could see Sherman's favorite poster on the wall—a poster of a big dollar sign.

I heaved myself onto the ledge and dropped silently into the room. I took a deep breath and held it, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

In the yellow moonlight coming through the window, I saw Sherman in his bed, wearing his favorite dollar-sign eye mask. He was sound asleep on his satin pillow, under his zebra-skin blanket.

I tiptoed around Sherman's bed. Lippy stood on his perch. His feathers had grown back. He was sound asleep, too. Perfect.

I carefully lifted the sleeping bird off the perch.

Holding Lippy in both hands, I turned and crept back to the window. The floorboards creaked under my feet. But Sherman didn't stir.

Holding the bird gently, I made it to the window. And started to lower myself outside.

That's when Lippy woke up. He lifted his head,
opened his beak, and squawked at the top of his lungs:

Sherman's eyes bugged open, and he sat straight up with a startled cry. “Bernie! What are you
doing
in here?”

“I…well…” The Bernie B. brain began to whir. “I…uh…”

“What are you doing with
my parrot
?” Sherman cried.

“I…brought Lippy a midnight snack,” I said. “You know. For old time's sake. His favorite prunes. He always loves some pitted prunes at midnight.”

“OUT, Bernie!” Sherman yelled. “And leave my lucky bird alone!”

“No problem,” I said. I set Lippy down. Then I jumped out the window and took off.

Behind me, I could hear Lippy squawking away:

I ran all the way back to my room. Then I picked up a salt shaker and began pouring salt all over myself. Might as well get a head start. I
knew
I'd be a pretzel by tomorrow afternoon!