Rotten School
Got Cake?
R.L. Stine
Illustrations by Trip Park
For Sumner
–TP
Contents
Map
Morning Announcements
1. How to Be Popular
2. No Pain, No Gain
3. Lighting Up the Dimples
4. “Ack. Ack. Ack.”
5. April-May Says Something Nice
6. Why I Look Like a Duck
7. Total Embarrassment
8. The Secret Is Out
9. Belzer Can’t Keep a Secret
10. I Bernie
11. Sherman Knows How to Be Popular
12. Belzer Is a Spelling Champ
13. Smile for the Camera
14. Boos and Hisses
15. A Natural Swing
16. A Reminder from The Upchuck
17. Time to Party
18. Surprise!!!
19. Got Cake?
20. And the Winner Is…
About the Author
Other Books by Rotten School Series
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Map
MORNING ANNOUNCEMENTS
Good morning, students. This is Headmaster Upchuck wishing you all a Rotten Day in every way. I know you are all proud to be Rotten Students. And I know you are looking forward to my morning tradition of reading the day’s announcements.
Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. You know I care deeply about you all.
Coach Manley Bunz has a reminder for the first-grade track team. You’ll win a lot more races if you all remember to run in the same direction.
Are you interested in water sports? Fourth-grade comedian Hardy Harhar will be demonstrating how to do a water spit at the second-floor water fountain at three today.
The after-school meeting of the fifth-grade Pick-Your-Nose-and-Eat-It Club will not be held today because THERE IS NO SUCH CLUB!
One of our oldest school traditions—the Tap-Dance-Swim-with-Arthropods Night—has been canceled because no one can remember what you’re supposed to do.
Tonight is Lucky Dessert Night in the Dining Hall. It’s called Lucky Dessert Night because Chef Baloney promises you won’t heave your dinner until after dessert.
Chapter 1
HOW TO BE POPULAR
The most popular kid at Rotten School? Well, that’s me, of course. Bernie Bridges. I suppose I’m probably the most popular fourth grader in history.
But don’t ask me. Ask my hundreds of friends.
I’m a modest guy. I would never brag about how popular I am. Bragging is totally uncool.
How could I be the greatest dude who ever walked across campus if I bragged all the time?
So I’m not bragging. You can ask my twenty best friends.
They’d do anything for me. Anything.
It’s easy to be surrounded by friends all the time. Really. You can do it, too. Here are my three rules for being popular:
Be generous
Be kind
Don’t bite
I always try to follow all three rules.
That’s why it was such a total shock to me when I had to prove how popular I am.
Whoa. Bernie Bridges in a popularity contest?
Could I lose? I don’t think so.
I decided to prove it by throwing the biggest birthday party in the history of the known universe. But believe me, dudes and dudettes—it wasn’t a piece of cake.
It all started on a sunny afternoon after classes. My friends and I were out on the Great Lawn, stomping on each other’s shoes as hard as we could….
Chapter 2
NO PAIN, NO GAIN
STOMP.
“Ohhhhh! It hurts! It HURTS!”
Maybe The Stomp hasn’t come to your school yet. It will. It’s the most popular sport at Rotten School now. Even more popular than opening your mouth wide at lunch and showing off your chewed-up glob of spinach.
You can see kids stomping on each other all over campus. And you can hear their cries of pain and watch them hopping up and down on one foot until the pain fades away.
“Give me a break!”
“Stop! You broke all my toes!”
The Stomp started whenever some dude would show up wearing new shoes or new sneakers. As soon as we saw the shiny, clean shoes, we’d all hurry to stomp on them and scuff them and smash them and make them look old.
It’s just the natural thing to do when you see new shoes. It probably started with the cavemen.
We begged our parents not to send us new shoes. We all knew how painful new shoes would be.
And then some guys got the idea to stomp on shoes that weren’t new! That’s how the sport was born. Some kid walks by. You stop him. You stomp your heel down on his shoe. Then you take out a stopwatch and see how long he can hop on one foot.
It hurts! It HURTS!”
Hop hop hop hop.
“Good work, Feenman!” I called to my friend. “You beat your old record. You hopped for twenty-three seconds.”
I raised my stopwatch. “Try again, dude. If we can get it up to twenty-eight seconds, you can beat Joe Sweety’s school record.”
“But I don’t want to beat the school record!” Feenman moaned. His face was bright red, and tears rolled down his cheeks. He stood on one leg and rubbed his sore foot.
“Don’t be selfish,” I said. “You know I bet Sweety twenty dollars we could beat his record.”
I signaled to Crench, my other good buddy. “Get Feenman started.”
STOMMMMMMP!
Crench tromped down on Feenman’s shoe.
Feenman let out a howl and started hopping up and down on one foot.
I cheered him on as I stared at the stopwatch. That’s another reason I’m popular. I’m always eager to cheer my guys on.
Feenman fell on his face after only fifteen seconds. He lay in the grass, whimpering softly.
I could see he needed more cheering.
“One more try!” I shouted. “You can do it. You know my motto, Feenman. No pain, no gain.”
“But, Bernie—” he moaned. “You’re not the one who’s in pain!”
“But I’m the one who wants to gain,” I said. “I’ll gain twenty bucks if we beat Joe Sweety’s record.”
I motioned to Crench. “Get him on his feet. We’re not quitters—are we?”
Crench bent down and started to pull Feenman up. My friend Nosebleed came by. He had a fat wad of tissues pressed to his nose.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Mmmmww, mwwwww,” he said.
“I can’t understand you,” I said.
“That’s cuz I have a fat wad of tissues pressed to my nose,” he replied. “Wes Updood stomped on my new sneakers, and it gave me a nosebleed.”
He shook his head sadly. “It ruined my yearbook photo. Do you believe I have a nosebleed in my yearbook photo? How totally uncool is that?”
I slapped my forehead. “It’s yearbook photo week? Oh, wow. I forgot all about it!”
“They call you when it’s your turn,” Crench said.
“I have to talk to them first,” I said. “You know my photo has to be perfect. Kids won’t buy the yearbook unless they know they’re getting a perfect Bernie Bridges photo. Something to remember me by.”
I spun away from them and starting jogging across the grass. The yearbook office was in the School House building, and I had to get there fast.
“Bernie—” I heard Crench shout. “Should I stomp on Feenman’s foot and get him going again?”
“Stomp on your own foot!” I shouted back. “Maybe you can beat the record!”
“Okay. I’ll give it a try.
Chapter 3
LIGHTING UP TH
E DIMPLES
The School House is a tall, redbrick building at the end of the Great Lawn. We call it Mouse House.
If we get bored in class, we count the mice that run by. Except some of us can’t count that high.
We all sit with our legs crossed under us in class. That keeps the mice from climbing up your leg. Most of the time.
My friend Beast likes to play with the mice. He swings them by their tails and sends them sailing to the wastebasket near Mrs. Heinie’s desk.
CLANNNNG!
“Yeaaaa! Three points!” Beast shouts every time he makes a basket.
Mrs. Heinie begs him to stop. But Beast just flashes her his special grin with the big white gobs of drool running down his chin.
And then, a few seconds later…
CLANNNNG!
“Yeaaaaa! Three points!”
I hurried down the empty hall and stopped at a door at the end. I read the words on the window: ROTTEN EGG.
That’s the name of our school yearbook. The Rotten Egg. How did it get that name? Who knows? Maybe they just couldn’t think of a better one.
I pushed open the door and looked around for the editor. He’s a tall, skinny, redheaded sixth grader named Leif Blower.
Blower is really into the yearbook. He has a tiny silver egg stuck through one earlobe. And he wears a green-and-yellow cap that says: ASK ME ABOUT ROTTEN EGGS.
He always has a camera around his neck. Even in the shower. He says you never know when a good yearbook photo will come up.
“Yo—Blower!” I called. I didn’t see anyone in the room.
“Yo, Blower! What’s up?” I knew he had to be there. He never went to class. He just stayed in the Rotten Egg office all day and worked on the yearbook.
“Yo—Blower?”
Finally I spotted him on a tall stool against a wall. He had his face buried in a stack of photos on the table in front of him.
He kept shaking his head. “I can’t decide,” he said. “Bernie, maybe you can help me.”
I hurried across the room. “What’s the problem?”
He held up three photos. I squinted at them. I saw a window with gray curtains.
“Which photo of Headmaster Upchuck do you like best?” Blower asked.
I squinted at them again. “I don’t see Headmaster Upchuck,” I said. “I just see a window.”
He frowned. “That’s the problem. Upchuck is too short. His head didn’t come up to the camera lens. I only got the window behind his desk.”
“Maybe you should have lowered the camera a little,” I said.
Blower scratched his head. “Maybe.”
I took the photos from his hands and set them down on the table. “Can we talk?” I said. “I know you’ve been thinking about my yearbook photo. I’m here to help.”
He scratched his head some more. “Maybe I can get Upchuck to stand on his desk,” he said. “Or maybe I should get down on my knees to shoot him. I don’t want to insult the little shrimp.”
“About my photo,” I said. “I’d like a blue sky in the background. With just a few puffy clouds. Think you can handle that?”
Blower didn’t answer. He stared blankly at me.
“I need backlighting,” I said. “You know. To capture the silky glow of my hair. I’m not sure which is my best side. You’ll have to shoot me from both sides. Then we can decide later—okay?”
He still stared at me blankly.
“Or maybe we should do a straight face shot,” I said. “I mean, we need to show off both of my dimples. Everyone says I have killer dimples. Shall we work out special lighting for that? Perhaps a light for each dimple?”
He blinked several times. “Sorry, Bernie,” he said. “I didn’t hear a word you said.”
“But my photo—” I started.
He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got something much more important to think about, Bernie.”
More important than my yearbook picture?
What could that be?
Chapter 4
“ACK. ACK. ACK.”
Blower picked up a bottle from the table and took a long drink from it. He made a face. “This root beer tastes funny.”
“It isn’t root beer,” I told him. I took the bottle and read the label. “India Black Ink.”
“ACK. ACK. ACK.” Blower grabbed his throat and started hacking and coughing and sputtering.
“You should probably see the nurse,” I said. “You’re gonna scare people with that black tongue.”
“ACK. ACK. ACK.”
I picked up the root beer bottle—next to the bottle of ink—and took a slurp. “But before you go,” I said, “can we talk about my photo?”
“ACK. ACK. ACK.”
He “acked” for another five or six minutes. Then he did some very loud spitting into a wastebasket.
Finally he sat down. “I think I’m back to normal,” he said. His lips were black, and so were his teeth.
“Lookin’ good,” I said.
Why worry the poor guy?
“About my yearbook photo…” I started.
“Not now,” Blower said, shaking his head. “I’m totally thinking about one thing. The Most Popular Rotten Egg.”
I stared at him. “The what?”
“The yearbook is a hundred years old,” he said. “Back then they had the Most Popular Rotten Egg page. They picked the most popular Rotten Student of the year, and the student was named Most Popular Rotten Egg. The student got a whole page in the yearbook all to himself. For the yearbook’s hundredth birthday, we’re bringing back the tradition.”
“Wow! That’s excellent!” I cried. I slapped Blower on the back. “This is so sudden. I didn’t even know you were thinking of me. But I gladly accept. Shall we take the picture now?”
He stuck out his tongue. “Is my tongue black?”
“Maybe a little,” I said. “I’m so excited about the Rotten Egg award.”
“Bernie, I haven’t decided who wins it,” Blower said. “It’s a big responsibility. I’m taking it very seriously.”
“You won’t be sorry,” I said. “I’m too modest to say it, but everyone knows that Bernie B. is the most popular dude around here.”
“I have to take my time and think hard about it,” Blower said. “And I have to discuss it with Mr. Pupipantz, the yearbook adviser.”
“I can pose tomorrow afternoon,” I told him. “Let me get a haircut first. That’ll give you time to talk it over.”
Blower scratched his head. “I’m not so sure you’re the winner, Bernie. After all, Sherman Oaks just gave me this video iPod with two hundred movies. That makes him very popular with me!”
I gasped. That spoiled rich kid Sherman Oaks was up to his old tricks.
“Blower,” I said, “you wouldn’t take a bribe—would you?”
He rolled the video iPod around in his hand. “Of course not,” he said. “But I like that guy Sherman. He has a lot of class.”
“But—but—” I sputtered.
“I’m keeping an open mind,” Blower said. “Anyone who wants to be Most Popular Rotten Egg must prove that he or she is the most popular kid at school.”
I squinted at him. “Prove it? How?”
Before Blower could answer, Mr. Pupipantz clomped into the room. He’s a big, red-faced dude with a shiny bald head. He’s shaped exactly like a bowling ball but a lot heavier. He always wears these tight sweaters that don’t fit and show off about two inches of his hairy belly.
“Hi, Mr. Pupipantz,” I said. I flashed him my best smile. “Leif and I were just talking about how popular I am.”
Mr. Pupipantz shook a finger at me. “No tricks, Bridges,” he barked. “No stunts. I’ll be watching you to make sure you don’t pull any tricks.”
I gasped. “Huh? Me? Tricks?”
“Choosing Most Popular Rotten Egg is an important decision,” Pupipantz said. “Give Leif and me a chance to make up our minds. We’re going to be totally fair about this.”
“Of cour
se,” I said. “But I—”
“By the way, Leif,” Pupipantz interrupted. “Did that really nice guy Sherman Oaks leave one of those video iPods for me, too?”
Chapter 5
APRIL-MAY SAYS SOMETHING NICE
I really wanted to be Most Popular Rotten Egg. I knew I deserved it. Sherman Oaks was trying to buy it, the way he buys everything else. I couldn’t let him get away with that. But how could I beat him?
Later that afternoon, I walked across the Great Lawn, thinking hard. In the distance I heard screams of pain and tearful sobs of guys getting their shoes stomped on.
Sure, it sounded like fun. But I wasn’t interested.
I was thinking hard about popularity. I was thinking so hard, my eyes started to spin, my ears flapped up and down, and my hair tried to fly right off my head.
“Whoa. Too hard. You’re thinking too hard, Bernie,” I told myself. I struggled to smooth my hair back down.
I can’t help it. I’m a hard thinker.
I started thinking about having a birthday party. I’d invite everyone in school. Maybe kids from every school in the country. And I’d invite Blower. And he’d be wowed by how popular I am.
Everyone loves Bernie B. If only I could brag about it. But that’s not like me.
Speaking of true love, up ahead on the path was my true love—April-May June. April-May is my girlfriend. She just doesn’t know it yet.