The Haunted Mask II

I don’t know if you have ever spent any time with first graders. But there is
only one word to describe them. And that word is ANIMALS.

First graders are animals.

You can quote me.

My name is Steve Boswell, and I am in the sixth grade. I may not be the
smartest guy at Walnut Avenue Middle School. But I know one thing for sure:
First graders are animals.

How do I know this fact? I learned it the hard way. I learned it by coaching
the first-grade soccer team after school every day.

You might want to know
why
I chose to coach their soccer team. Well, I
didn’t
choose
it. It was a punishment.

Someone set a squirrel loose in the girls’ locker room. That someone was me.
But it wasn’t my idea.

My best friend, Chuck Green, caught the squirrel. And he asked me where I thought he should set it free.

I said, “How about the girls’ locker room before their basketball game on
Thursday?”

So maybe it was partly my idea. But Chuck was just as much to blame as I was.

Of course, I was the one who got caught.

Miss Curdy, the gym teacher, grabbed me as I was letting the squirrel out of
its box. The squirrel ran across the gym to the bleachers. The kids in the
bleachers all jumped up and started running and screaming and acting crazy.

It was just a dumb squirrel. But all the teachers started chasing after it.
It took hours to catch it and get everyone calmed down.

So Miss Curdy said I had to be punished.

She gave me a choice of punishments. One: I could come into the gym after
school every day and inflate basketballs—by mouth—until my head exploded. Or
two: I could coach the first-grade soccer team.

I chose number two.

The wrong choice.

My friend Chuck was supposed to help me coach the team. But he told Miss
Curdy he had an after-school job.

Do you know what his after-school job is? Going home and watching TV.

A lot of people think that Chuck and I are best friends because we look so
much alike. We’re both tall and thin. We both have straight brown hair and dark brown eyes. We both
wear baseball caps most of the time. Sometimes people think we’re brothers!

But that’s not why I like Chuck and Chuck likes me. We’re best friends
because we make each other laugh.

I laughed really hard when Chuck told me what his after-school job was. But
I’m not laughing now.

I’m praying. Every day I pray for rain. If it rains, the first graders don’t
have soccer practice.

Today, unfortunately, is a bright, clear, beautiful October day. Standing on
the playground behind school, I searched the sky for a cloud—any cloud—but
saw only blue.

“Okay, listen up, Hogs!” I shouted. I wasn’t making fun of them. That’s the
name they voted for their team. Do you believe it? The Walnut Avenue Hogs.

Does that give you an idea of what these kids are like?

I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted again. “Line up, Hogs!”

Andrew Foster grabbed the whistle I wear around my neck and blew it in my
face. Then Duck Benton tromped down hard on my new sneakers. Everyone calls him
Duck because he quacks all the time. He and Andrew thought that was a riot.

Then Marnie Rosen jumped up behind me, threw her arms around my neck, and
climbed on my back. Marnie has curly red hair, freckles all over her face, and
the most evil grin I ever saw on a kid. “Give me a ride, Steve!” she shouted. “I
want a ride!”

“Marnie—get off me!” I cried. I tried to loosen her grip on my neck. She
was
choking
me. The Hogs were all laughing now.

“Marnie—I… can’t… breathe!” I gasped.

I bent down and tried to throw her off my back. But she hung on even tighter.

Then I felt her lips press against my ear.

“What are you
doing?”
I cried. Was she trying to kiss me or something?

Yuck! She spit her bubble gum into my ear.

Then, laughing like a crazed fiend, she hopped off me and went running across
the grass, her curly red hair bouncing behind her.

“Give me a
break!”
I cried angrily. The purple gum stuck in my ear. It
took me a while to scrape it all out.

By the time I finished, they had started a practice game.

Have you ever watched six-year-olds play soccer? It’s chase and kick, chase
and kick. Everybody chase the ball. Everybody try to kick it.

I try to teach them positions. I try to teach them how to pass the ball to
each other. I try to teach them teamwork. But all they want to do is chase and kick, chase and kick.

Which is fine with me. As long as they leave me alone.

I blow my whistle and act as umpire. And try to keep the game going.

Andrew Foster kicked a big clump of dirt on my jeans as he ran by. He acted
as if it were an accident. But I knew it was deliberate.

Then Duck Benton got into a shoving fight with Johnny Myers. Duck watches
hockey games on TV with his dad, and he thinks you’re
supposed
to fight.
Some days Duck doesn’t chase after the ball at all. He just fights.

I let them chase-and-kick, chase-and-kick for an hour. Then I blew the
whistle to call practice to an end.

Not a bad practice. Only one bloody nose. And that was a win because it
wasn’t mine!

“Okay, Hogs—see you tomorrow!” I shouted. I started to trot off the
playground. Their parents or baby-sitters would be waiting for them in front of
the school.

Then I saw that a bunch of the kids had formed a tight circle in the middle
of the field. They all wore grins on their faces, so I decided I’d better see
what they were up to.

“What’s going on, guys?” I asked, trotting back to them.

Some kids stepped back, and I spotted a soccer ball on the grass. Marnie
Rosen smiled at me through her freckles. “Hey, Steve, can you kick a goal from
here?”

The other kids stepped away from the ball. I glanced to the goal. It was
really far away, at least half the field.

“What’s the joke?” I demanded.

Marnie’s grin faded. “No joke. Can you kick a goal from here?”

“No way!” Duck Benton called.

“Steve can do it,” I heard Johnny Myers say. “Steve can kick it farther than
that.”

“No way!” Duck insisted. “It’s too far even for a sixth grader.”

“Hey—that’s an easy goal,” I bragged. “Why don’t you give me something
hard
to do?”

Every once in a while I have to do something to impress them. Just to prove
that I’m better than they are.

So I moved up behind the ball. I stopped about eight or ten steps back. Gave
myself plenty of running room.

“Okay, guys, watch how a pro does it!” I cried.

I ran up to the ball. Got plenty of leg behind it.

Gave a tremendous kick.

Froze for a second.

And then let out a long, high wail of horror.

On my way home a few minutes later, I passed my friend Chuck’s house. Chuck
came running down the gravel driveway to greet me.

I didn’t really feel like talking to anyone. Not even my friend.

But there he was. So what could I do?

“Yo—Steve!” He stopped halfway down the driveway. “What happened? Why are
you limping?”

“Concrete,” I groaned.

He pulled off his black-and-red Cubs cap and scratched his thick brown hair.
“Huh?”

“Concrete,” I repeated weakly. “The kids had a concrete soccer ball.”

Chuck squinted at me. I could see he still didn’t understand.

“One of the kids lives across the street. He had his friends help roll a ball
of concrete to the school,” I explained. “Painted white and black to look like a
soccer ball. Solid concrete. They had it there on the field. They asked me to kick a goal and—and—” My voice
caught in my throat. I couldn’t finish.

I hobbled over to the big beech tree beside Chuck’s driveway and leaned back
against its cold, white trunk.

“Wow. That’s not a very funny joke,” Chuck said, replacing his cap on his
head.

“Tell me about it,” I groaned. “I think I broke every bone in my foot. Even
some bones I don’t have.”

“Those kids are
animals!”
Chuck declared.

I groaned and rubbed my aching foot. It wasn’t really broken. But it hurt. A
lot. I shifted my backpack on my shoulders and leaned back against the tree.

“Know what I’d like to do?” I told Chuck.

“Pay them back?”

“You’re right!” I replied. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.” He stepped up beside me. I could see that he was thinking
hard. Chuck always scrunches up his face when he’s trying to think.

“It’s almost Halloween,” he said finally. “Maybe we could think of some way
to scare them. I mean,
really
scare them.” His dark eyes lit up with
excitement.

“Well… maybe.” I hesitated. “They’re just little kids. I don’t want to
do anything mean.”

My backpack felt weird—too full. I pulled it off my shoulder and lowered it
to the ground.

I leaned over and unzipped it.

And about ten million feathers came floating out.

“Those kids—!” Chuck exclaimed.

I pulled open the backpack. All of my notebooks, all of my textbooks—covered in sticky feathers. Those animals had glued feathers to my books.

I tossed down the backpack and turned to Chuck. “Maybe I
do
want to do
something mean!” I growled.

A few days later, Chuck and I were walking home from the playground. It was a
cold, windy afternoon. Dark storm clouds rose up in the distance.

The storm clouds were too late to help me. I had just finished afternoon
practice with the Hogs.

It hadn’t been a bad practice. It hadn’t been a
good
practice, either.

Just as we started, Andrew Foster lowered his head and came at me full speed.
He weighs about a thousand pounds, and he has a very hard head. He plowed into
my stomach and knocked the wind out of me.

I rolled around on the ground for a few minutes, groaning and choking and
gasping. The kids thought it was pretty funny. Andrew claimed it was an
accident.

I’m going to get you guys back,
I vowed to myself.
I don’t know how.
But I’m going to get you guys.

Then Marnie Rosen jumped on my back and tore the collar off my new winter
coat.

Chuck met me after practice. He’d started doing that now. He knew that after
one hour with the first graders, I usually needed help getting home.

“I hate them,” I muttered. “Do you know how to spell hate? H-O-G-S.” My torn
coat collar flapped in the swirling wind.

“Why don’t you make all of them practice with a concrete ball?” Chuck
suggested. He adjusted his Cubs cap over his hair. “No. Wait. I’ve got it. Let
them take turns
being
the ball!”

“No. No good,” I replied, shaking my head. The sky darkened. The trees shook,
sending a shower of dead leaves down around us.

My sneakers crunched over the leaves. “I don’t want to hurt them,” I told
Chuck. “I just want to scare them. I just want to scare them to death.”

The wind blew colder. I felt a cold drop of rain on my forehead.

As we crossed the street, I noticed two girls from our class walking on the
other side. I recognized Sabrina Mason’s black ponytail swinging behind her as
she hurried along the sidewalk. And next to her, I recognized her friend Carly
Beth Caldwell.

“Hey—!” I started to call out to them, but I stopped.

An idea flashed into my mind.

Seeing Carly Beth, I knew how to scare those first graders.

Seeing Carly Beth, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

I started to call to the girls. But Chuck clamped his hand over my mouth and
dragged me behind a wide tree.

“Hey—get your clammy paws off me. What’s the big idea?” I cried when he
finally pulled his hand away.

He pushed me against the rough bark of the tree trunk. “Ssshhh. They haven’t
seen us.” He motioned with his eyes toward the two girls.

“So?”

“So we can sneak up and scare them,” Chuck whispered, his dark eyes
practically glowing with evil excitement. “Let’s make Carly Beth scream.”

“You mean for old times’ sake?”

Chuck nodded, grinning.

For many years, making Carly Beth scream had been our hobby. That’s because
she was a really good screamer, and she would scream at just about anything.

One day in the lunchroom last year, Chuck tucked a worm inside his turkey sandwich. Then he gave the sandwich to Carly
Beth.

She took one bite and knew that something tasted a little weird. When Chuck
showed her the big bite she had taken out of the worm, Carly Beth screamed for a
week.