Say Cheese - and Die Screaming! by R. L. Stine Page B

me.
    It was a matter of life or death!
    “Mr. Saur—you can’t give me an F !” I wailed. I felt like
dropping to my knees and begging for mercy. “You will ruin my life!”
    He stared coldly at me. He didn’t say a word.
    “If I don’t get better grades, I can’t visit my cousins this summer,” I
explained. “You see, my cousins live near Yosemite. In California. And my
parents said that if I get a better grade in your English class, I can spend the
summer with them.”
    He didn’t move. His cold frown didn’t budge. His eyes didn’t blink.
    “If you give me an F, I’ll be stuck all summer in Pitts Landing!” I
cried.
    Finally, Mr. Saur moved. An unpleasant smile spread over his face. His wet
brown eyes flashed. “Then you’ll have plenty of time to make up more crazy
stories,” he said.
    He turned away from me and started scribbling notes in his black grade book.
    “Mr. Saur—please!” I begged. “You’ve got to believe me. My story is true. I
didn’t make it up. Please—”
    He raised his eyes from the grade book. “Okay. Prove it.”
    My mouth dropped open. “Huh?”
    “Bring in the camera,” he said. “Bring it in and prove that it’s evil. Prove that your story is true—or else I have to fail
you.”
    I stared at him, studying his face. Was he serious?
    He stared back for a moment, daring me with his eyes. Then he shooed me away
with both hands. “Go to lunch, Greg. Maybe next time you’ll take my assignment
seriously.”
    I gathered up my backpack and slung it over my shoulder. Then I slumped out
of the room, thinking hard.
    Could I go back to that creepy old house and dig out that camera?
    No. No way.
    The camera was too dangerous. Too frightening. Too evil.
    But I needed a good grade. I needed it desperately.
    What should I do?

 
 
3
     
     
    I found my friends at our usual table in the corner of the lunchroom. I
dropped my tray down with a sigh, and spilled half my drink.
    “Greg—what’s your problem?” Bird looked up from his sandwich. He had egg
salad all over his chin and cheeks.
    “Are you eating that sandwich or wearing it?” Shari asked him.
    “Excuse me?” Bird didn’t understand.
    Michael inflated his brown paper sandwich bag and popped it between his
hands. Then he crushed his chocolate milk carton flat. He always gulps his milk
down first, then crushes the carton. We’re not sure why.
    Michael is a little weird.
    I dropped into my chair. I didn’t start to eat. I didn’t even look at my food
tray. I just stared at the wall until the tiles became a green blur.
    “What’s your problem?” Bird repeated. Now he had egg salad on his forehead, too! I don’t know how he does it.
    Bird’s real name is Doug Arthur. But he looks so much like a bird, everyone
calls him Bird. Even his parents.
    He has small, birdlike brown eyes, close together over a long, beak-shaped
nose. And he has a short tuft of feathery brown hair on top of his head. He’s
tall and thin and sort of bobs up and down like a flamingo when he walks.
    Michael poked a finger through his sandwich. He always makes a hole in the
center of his sandwich and eats it inside out. “Bad day, Greg?”
    “For sure,” I muttered. I sighed again.
    Shari wore a pale blue T-shirt over faded jeans. She tossed back her black
hair. She was busy pulling the bright red pepperoni off her pizza slice. “Come
on, Greg. Spill,” she urged without looking up.
    I took a deep breath. Then I told them what had happened to me in English
class.
    Bird dropped his sandwich onto the table. “Sourball didn’t believe you?” he
cried. He slapped his forehead. When he pulled his hand away, his fingers were
smeared with egg salad.
    “Well, we could all go tell him it’s true,” Shari suggested.
    I shook my head. “He won’t believe you, either,” I moaned.
    “But we all saw it!” Michael protested. “We all know it’s true.”
    “Yeah. It’s four against one,” Bird added. He was wiping egg salad