B.u.g. Big Ugly Guy (9781101593523) by Adam Jane; Stemple Yolen Page A

nice with James Lee for a week. Give him my homework and my gum for a week. And my allowance. Write him a B paper or an A paper. Though that might be pushing it. No one would believe he could write an A paper.
    He stood up. Slipped into his robe.
    That’s if I make it past the squeaky door, again.
    And again.
    And again . . .
    He made himself a mental note to find some 3-IN-ONE oil in the morning. Or if necessary some of his mom’s cooking oil. Oiling the door should solve the squeaking problem.
    It’s all doable one problem at a time.

    Once again in his father’s studio, Sammy went to the very back of the stacked clay bricks and found a small pile of four. He figured his father would never miss those.
    Taking one back into his room, he spent the next two hours shaping the golem’s feet.
    He smoothed the clay down with his hands and a putty knife he’d filched from the workshop for some long-ago project and forgotten to return. Then he used the edge of the knife to carve in details like toenails, then pinched ligaments and veins to the surface. The golem’s feet ended up a size larger than his own. As his mom liked to say, “You’re a small boy for such big feet.” Then she would laugh, and add, “The first time I ever got you shoes, the salesman said ‘Never mind the shoes, I’ll wrap up the boxes they came in.’”
    Now his big feet proved perfect as a measure for making the golem. But only the feet. The rest would have to be done by guesswork. The golem had to be much larger than Sammy if it was to work reliably as his protector.
    It had to be at least as tall as James Lee, and—he hoped—taller.
    Strangely, Sammy was energized by the clay feet . . . and laughed at the joke of them. “My golem protector,” he whispered to himself, “has feet of clay!”
    He began to giggle. Then he stood, wrapped the feet well in the plastic the clay had come in, and stuck them in the closet.
    At that same moment, the start of a new song for the band came to him.
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    I wanted a monster, to feed and to play.
    I made him by nighttime, and never by day.
    But then I discovered his feet were of clay,
    Singing hey and a ho and a go-lem-oh!
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    It was awful.
Boy,
he thought,
I must be really goofy from lack of sleep.
But it didn’t stop him from going back for a second clay brick.

    He woke to a knock on his bedroom door. Sunlight was flooding through
    â€œSammy . . . you’re going to be late,” his mother said. “Breakfast is on the table.”
    â€œBe right there.” He’d fallen asleep before working the second brick, and it was still in its protective plastic wrapping. He got up and hid it in the back of his closet beside the clay feet, then got dressed. At the last minute, he stripped his bed because it was filled with clay bits, and threw the sheets and pillowcases down the laundry shoot they called the “Rabbit Hole.”
    Opening the door, he called to his mother, “I’m not feeling all that well. And I’m so tired. Maybe I have mono. My sheets were soaked, so I threw them down the Rabbit Hole.”
    She came in and put a hand to his head. “You do feel a little warm,” she said. “I’ll let you stay home today, but you’ll have to remain in bed.”
    â€œNo problem,” he said, thinking that once he’d slept, he could tell her he was doing a super-secret project for school.
A science project!
After all, didn’t the science fiction writer Arthur Clarke say something like “Any sufficiently advanced science is indistinguishable from magic.” Or was that technology? Either way, he could talk himself out of anything with his mom.
    His dad—that was going to be a harder proposition.
Especially if he finds out there’s some missing clay.
    Sammy went into the kitchen to get some breakfast. His dad was already in the studio.
    â€œEat a