Death by Eggplant by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe Page B

rotten. The bell rang, and Mrs. M. kept talking.
    Finally there were apologies all around, from Mrs. M. for letting the class get so out of control, from me for not keeping my mouth shut, from Mrs. Dekker for not knowing her son had been causing problems in school. It was a real lovefest. Any minute, I thought we were going to exchange friendship bracelets.
    â€œDon’t let me keep you, Mr. Hooks,” Mrs. M. said to me.
    â€œYeah, I’ve got that long,
long
essay to write, too.”
    This was Mrs. M.’s chance to say, “Why, of course that didn’t apply to
you
, Mr. Hooks. After all, you’re the poor victim in this dreadful mess.”
    Instead she said, “Five hundred words. And I
will
count. One day you’ll thank me, Mr. Hooks. You can go now.”
    Since it was so late, I could leave the building straight from the office. That’s when I realized that I didn’t have my knapsack with me. I had been so shocked about going to the principal’s office that I had left my knapsack in the classroom.
    My knapsack! My toque!
    The class was empty by the time I ran down the hall and burst into the room. The bus kids, after-school-care kids, even walkers like Indra had all left. But there was my knapsack, just where I left it. I grabbed it up, unzipped the inner pocket, and stuck in my hand. The feel of cotton was smooth, cool, and comforting.
    Relieved, I scooped up the pens and paper on my desk in one hand and went to grab Cleo with the other.
    Cleo was gone.
    And on the floor beside my foot, as ghastly as a smear of blood, was a smudge of flour.

DAY TEN
    It was three A.M. I had spent five sleepless hours tossing in bed. I was a wreck.
    Over and over, I kept thinking, what can I do? What can I possibly do?
    Absolutely nothing.
    I had failed the assignment. Now I would have to go to summer school, maybe even repeat eighth grade. My own class would be gone, and I would be left alone to tower over shrimpy seventh graders. Worse, my having to repeat a grade would look horrible when I reapplied to the Culinary Institute.
    Worser—Indra would be gone, too, over to the high school across town. No way would she want to be seen with someone from junior high, even though I was older than her fiancé.
    At last I fell asleep. The worrying became a dream with a very sarcastic voice.
    â€œOh, boo hoo,”
it said.
“Poor Bertie might have to go to summer
school. What about poor Cleo? Have you given a second’s thought to her? Her life is in danger!”
    â€œShe’s a flour sack,” I answered.
    â€œShe’s your baby!”
    Cleo appeared.
“I’m your baby!”
she pleaded. She started to grow little arms and legs. Then Cleo turned into Chuckie, the demon doll from all those horror videos I never should have watched.
    â€œAh ha!” Cleo/Chuckie crowed. “I’m the child of lies!”
    Suddenly I was in school, running down an endless hallway, as Cleo/Chuckie chased me with a knife. A door appeared. I rushed through it into a huge kitchen. I began to throw egg grenades. From nowhere, I grabbed a hose and milk spurted out. The powdery white legs became sticky. Cleo/Chuckie got stuck to the floor and couldn’t move. I had just turned on the electric beater when Cleo/Chuckie became Cleo again.
    â€œSave me,” she whispered. “Be brave, Chef Bertie, and save me . . . ”
    She melted into a puddle of white goo, wailing pitifully, “Save me, save me!”
    I woke up, heart pounding, body sweating. I rushed to my parents’ bedroom.
    â€œMom! Dad! Help!”
    My mother popped straight up.
    My father, snoring loudly, lay sprawled on his stomach. His hand was stretched toward the floor, where his cellphone, calculator, pen, sheets of paper, and a book light, still on, were scattered.
    â€œDad!” I grabbed the big toe that stuck out beneath the sheet and shook hard. “Wake up, Dad!”
    â€œSixty-two one