Zero Tolerance Meets the Alien Death Ray and Other (Mostly) Inappropriate Stories (4 page)

"Your young bodies are still growing and
changing," another of the player said. "There's no telling how much
this stuff could mess you up."

When the assembly ended, I realized I'd
survived 45 minutes sitting right next to Augie. For the first time
in my life, I was actually eager to get back to my class. Before I
could stand, Augie grabbed my shoulder and said, "Come on. Let's
meet them."

"What?"

He pointed to the stage. "Let's sneak back
there and meet the players. I've never met a real football
star."

"But we'll get in trouble." I didn't feel
like spending the next week in after-school detention, or writing a
three-page essay.

Augie tightened his grip enough to let me
know I'd find myself in even more trouble — or at least, more
painful trouble — if I didn't do what he wanted.

"Why do you care if I come?"

"I might need a distraction."

I didn't like the sound of that. I could
picture him ripping my arm off and batting me to the ground with
it. Then he could stroll past the teachers who were busy trying to
stop the spurting blood. As I was imagining various ways I could be
used as a distraction, Augie dragged me out the side exit and down
the hall to the door that led back-stage.

After we slipped in without getting caught,
I relaxed a bit. It would be amazing to see the players face to
face — okay, face to bellybutton — even if I got in trouble later.
Maybe this would turn out all right. It would definitely be cool to
get an autograph.

Except, there was nobody there. The players
must have headed out the instant the assembly ended. Oh boy — Augie
was going to be unhappy about that. But at least it meant I'd be
able to get to my class quickly enough to avoid trouble.

"Hey, wait," Augie said. He lumbered over to
the far corner of the room, where all the music stands had been
shoved. "Someone forgot a bag. Cool. Maybe there's a football or
something in there."

Augie slid a large canvas bag out from under
a folding chair. He unzipped it and started pulling stuff out. I
wanted to tell him to stop, but I was pretty happy he was
distracted.

He tossed out a bunch of clothes, and some
posters like the ones that they'd put up in the classrooms.

"Anything interesting?" I guess I was sort
of curious.

He shook his head. "Nothing good." He
started to pull his hand out, then reached in again. "Wait. What's
this?"

He pulled out a small bottle. There was one
word on the label, right beneath where his thumb curled around it.
GROWTH. Augie looked at it the way a starving kid looks at a whole
pepperoni pizza.

"Be careful," I said. 'You don't know what's
in there. And you don't know how much to take. You're a lot
smaller—"

"I'm what?" Augie said. "Are you calling me
small?"

I managed to gulp and say, "No," at the same
time. It hurt my throat. I'd just wanted to warn him that the right
dose might depend on how much he weighed.

Augie unscrewed the cap and raised the
bottle to his lips. I had a tough decision to make. I could try to
talk him out of it, and maybe get hurt. Or just keep my mouth shut.
One bottle couldn't do all that much harm, could it? It was a
pretty small bottle, and he was a pretty big kid.

Yeah, it could a whole lot of harm. It could
be super concentrated. For all we knew, there might be 100
doses.

I walked over and grabbed Augie's arm.
"Stop!" It was like grabbing a fence post.

Augie stared at me the way I'd stare at a
chihuahua that was tugging at me sneaker laces. "What are you
doing?"

"Don't drink it. You don't know what'll
happen. They're all grown up already. This stuff is for them.
You're still growing normally. Why mess with that?"

A strange expressions flashed across Augie's
face. I could almost see him thinking. I shuddered as he nodded.
"Yeah. You're right. I'm growing. But you're not. You need this
more than I do." His grin was pure evil now.

"Why don't we share it?" I couldn't believe
my mind was still working well enough to find a way to stall him.
Half the bottle would do less damage to me than a whole bottle.

"Not a bad idea." Augie drank down his share
of the liquid. Then he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

I tried to spin away, but he grabbed my jaw
with his free hand. "Open wide."

"No!"

As he moved the bottle toward my mouth, I
kicked him in the shin as hard as I could. I think he was more
startled than hurt. Either way, the kick was enough loosen his
grip. I raced for the door. Augie was right behind me. Just when I
was about to grab the knob, I felt myself rise into the air. Augie
had me by the back of my neck.

He turned his wrist so I was facing him.
"You're gonna suffer now, shrimp," he said.

I braced myself for a flood of pain. Then I
started to move away from Augie. Which made no sense, since I was
dangling from his grip like a cheap sweater on a clothes hook. But
I was definitely moving. Somehow, my body was inching away from
his.

I looked around for an explanation. When I
found it, I was even happier that I hadn't drank any of that
liquid.

Augie's arm was getting longer. The growth
stuff was working. I was also moving higher. I guess his legs were
growing, too. Everything was growing.

No. Not everything.

That's the second thing I realized. As I
watched his fingers curl around the bottle and his arm extend from
his sleeve, I knew it wasn't his whole body that was reacting to
the stuff he drank. Not his flesh, veins, or muscles. It was just
his bones.

Augie wasn't all that smart, but I guess he
knew something was wrong. And I guess he forgot all about me,
because he let go of my neck. I dropped from his grip and hit the
ground hard, but I was happy to be free, and really happy that I
hadn't taken a swig of that liquid.

He was staring at his hands now, as his
fingers grew even longer. He still had the bottle. When his thumb
shifted, I saw another word above GROWTH. I guess I already knew
what it was. BONE. Yeah, Augie hadn't found the football guys
growth formula. He'd found one for bone growth.

His bones were sure growing.

His head was swelling, too. The flesh
stretched tight on his face as his skull got bigger. He looked like
one of those really old celebrities who'd made too many visits to
the plastic surgeon.

When he opened his mouth to scream, I
noticed that even his teeth were growing.

Well, I guess Augie got his wish. He was a
lot bigger. But the growth seemed to have stopped, now. It's good
for him he didn't drink the whole bottle. I don't think his skin
could have stretched that far without tearing. He was pretty much
pushed to the limit. I shuddered at the thought of his bones
bursting through his flesh.

He was still staring at his hands, but I
don't think he was seeing anything right now. I was pretty sure he
was numbed by the shock.

"Augie? Hey, Augie?" I didn't bother to add,
"Are you okay?" because that would have been one of the top ten
stupidest questions of all time.

He didn't answer me.

"I'll go get the nurse," I said. It was the
only thing I could think to do. Not that it would help much. I
opened the door, then stopped and went back. I pried the bottle
from his hand, found the cap, screwed it back on, and put the
bottle in my pocket.

The stuff was obviously dangerous. But what
if I just took one drop? Yeah, one little drop at a time. Just
enough to make me grow a little bit. That would work. I knew I
could handle it. I was a lot smarter than Augie. And one day, I'd
be just as big.

Duchamp Elementary School was crammed. The
population had grown so rapidly over the past few years that
students swallowed up every available space. Even the cafeteria
fell victim to the overcrowding. With the help of a temporary wall,
it had been turned into four cramped classrooms at the beginning of
the marking period. Because of this, Keenan ate his lunch in Mrs.
Ferule's class. Room 103. The art room. Keenan didn't mind. Instead
of desks, there were large tables. And there were lots of
interesting pictures on the wall. Keenan liked looking at art.
Especially other people's art. He didn't think he drew or painted
very well, himself.

"Whatcha got?" Howard asked as lifted the
lid on his lunch box. A whiff of peanut butter flavored the
air.

"Don't know." Keenan flipped his own lunch
box open. "Phooey. Looks like mom was in a rush this morning."
Usually, his mom made him a sandwich. Today, he found himself
staring at a handful of crackers and a small package of cream
cheese, along with a plastic knife and a paper plate.

"I got peanut butter and jelly," Howard
said. "And a chocolate cupcake." He unwrapped the cupcake and ate
it, starting at the top and working his way down.

Keenan took out his lunch and spread the
cream cheese on the crackers. Since he had a long lunch period and
a little bit of food, he took his time. For fun, he swirled
patterns into the surface of the cream cheese, like he did with ice
cream when it got soft. He'd just finished spreading cream cheese
on the last cracker and placed it with the others when Mrs. Ferule
walked past and glanced down at his plate.

She let out a gasp. Keenan let out a sigh,
figuring he was about to get a lecture on the importance of a
balanced meal. That didn't seem fair, especially when he was
sitting next to Howard, who was wearing half a cupcake on his
face.

But Mrs. Ferule didn't mention fruits,
vegetables, or nutrition pyramids. Instead, she snatched the plate
from the table. "Keenan, that's fabulous!"

He spun around in his seat. "Huh?"

"I've tried and tried to get my classes to
understand art. I was sure I'd failed. But this — Keenan — this is
true art." She rushed to the front of the room and put the plate on
her desk.

"That's not art," Keenan said. "That's my
lunch."

Mrs. Ferule ignored him and continued to
gush with enthusiasm. "Look at the majestic sweep of the strokes,
the simple yet complex use of pure white against a textured field.
You have the boldness of a young Picasso, and a style that could
rival Van Gogh. Brilliance! Genius!" she shouted.

"Lunch...?" Keenan said, his stomach
rumbling.

"I must tell the world!" Mrs. Ferule grabbed
the plate and dashed from the room.

Keenan leaned out the art-room window and
watched Mrs. Ferule skitter across the street to the KDDA TV
building. A moment later, she rushed back, followed by a camera
crew from the six o'clock news.

The room filled with people. Someone thrust
a microphone in Keenan's face and started asking him questions that
didn't make any sense at all. He made up some answers, but he had
no idea what he was saying. It didn't matter. The reporters seemed
happy.

More people showed up — this time from the
newspaper. Then a group from the local radio station crammed into
the classroom. Keenan heard the principal boasting to them about
the school's dedication to the arts.

There was no telling how long the excitement
might have lasted, but one of the reporters shouted something about
the bank being robbed and everyone raced out of the school and
zoomed down Broad St. toward the center of town. Keenan checked the
room. Mrs. Ferule was nowhere in sight. Neither were the crackers.
Far down the hall, he heard her saying something about taking this
treasure to the museum.

Someone tugged at his sleeve.

"Can I have your autograph?" Howard asked,
holding out a pen and napkin. "I never knew anyone famous
before."

"Only if I can have half your sandwich,"
Keenan said. He still didn't understand art, but he'd already
learned that fame was nowhere near as satisfying as food.

Greg was the only kid in Potterstown who
really hated the Ulmeyer dogs. A lot of the kids in town were
afraid of the three huge, snarling mixed breeds that guarded the
lawn in front of Mr. and Mrs. Ulmeyer's house. Most of the kids
didn't like the dogs. But, as far as he knew, Greg was the only one
who really hated the dogs.

He hated them because of what had happened
the very first time he'd seen them. The Ulmeyers had just moved
into the neighborhood. The house was brand new. There were a lot of
houses being built in that part of town. Greg had been walking down
Perry Street, right past Ulmeyer's house, when the three dogs
charged from the back yard. They'd raced around the house like a
hunting pack, bursting into the front yard with an anger and fury
that had made Greg jump. He'd actually leaped into the air — like
some kind of scared little kid. Then he'd run. As he tore off, he
looked over his shoulder. The three dogs had started to chase him.
But they'd stopped at the edge of the yard. They wouldn't go into
the street.

Greg's relief at his escape was quickly
washed away by anger. The dogs had made him jump. They'd startled
him. For a moment, he'd been less than cool. He'd run. Greg looked
around. Nobody had seen him jump and run. But that didn't matter.
Greg knew what he'd done. And he knew he wanted to get even.

The next time he came down Perry street,
Greg braced himself. The dogs charged from the back yard again.
This time, Greg didn't jump. It wasn't easy. But as he stood there,
he saw something that made him smile. There was a small sign stuck
in the grass at the edge of the front yard. It said "De-Fence
Electronic Pet Barrier." Then Greg noticed that each of the dogs
wore a collar with a small box on it.

"You can't get me," Greg said. He knew about
these fences. They were some kind of electronic thing, with a wire
around the edge of the yard. There was a signal running through the
wire. The collar shocked the dog if it came too close. The dogs
wouldn't cross the line.