“My mistake.” Using her spoon, she scratched a boil on her arm.
Kevin got his sandwich and we moved down.
With three kids ahead of us, only three puddings remained. But one was Tammie Spenser; yesterday Matt Jones had called her a heifer. No way she’d take a pudding. Sure enough, she passed by it without a second look.
The last chocolate pudding was all mine; until, like a viper, Kevin’s spindly arm sprung out and snapped it up. “Hey, I thought you were twenty cents short?”
“Yeah, short for a sloppy joe and pudding.”
“I’m never loaning you money again.”
“Who said it was a loan?” Kevin licked the whip cream topping and smiled.
“Sam, maybe you shouldn’t eat that sloppy joe,” I said as we sat down. “I think the lunch lady might have used a special sauce on it.”
Sam looked at his sandwich oozing with chucks of last week’s leftover meat.
“Wow, yours is gigantic.” Kevin reached out. “I’ll trade.”
“Keep your mitts to yourself.” Sam elbowed him away and picked it up.
He hinged his mouth open.
“Seriously, Sam, she pulled it-“
He took a big, fat bite.
I shrugged, then watched Kevin as he took his time savoring my pudding.
“I don’t feel so good.” Sam seemed to be turning a pale shade of green.
“Not surprised. You devoured that sandwich,” Kevin said laughing.
“You shoulda tossed it.” I said.
“Still might.” Sam dropped his head between his knees.
“What’s that?” Kevin pointed to Sam’s plate.
In the remnants of his sandwich, it looked like an actual slice of meat, except something was printed on it.
“I need the school nurse.” Slowly, Sam pulled his head up; his sunken eyes like a zombie from a cheesy cable TV movie.
I pulled the meat looking thing off Sam’s plate. Wiping it clean, I read, “d-Con plus. Kills rats fast.”
Sam’s head rolled around on his shoulders.
“Told you, the lunch lady hates me.” He collapsed backwards, and hit the floor with a thud.
* * * * *
Steven, Space Stowaway
Originally published June 2010 in Spaceports & Spidersilk
Okay, maybe sneaking on board a spaceship bound for Mars wasn’t such a bright idea. I got away with it, so I can’t be a total idiot, right?
Getting inside a three-billon-dollar spacecraft is a lot easier than you'd think. I used my mom’s access card to get past the security scanners and stowed away in a waste receptacle—that's a fancy way of saying, trash can. It wasn't as dirty as it sounds. I only hid there during the launch, so no one had used it (much) yet.
Once we’d taken-off, I squeezed into the air ducts. But it's been three days, and I’ve had just about as much confined space as I can handle.
Outer space isn’t as fun as it sounds. I'm cold, hungry, and my clothes are getting pretty ripe. Fortunately, I brought some candy bars and a clean pair of underwear.
The worst part is that I can tell we're in trouble. I overheard the chief engineer talking to the captain, "There's something wrong with the computer's calculations, but no matter how many times I double-check the numbers, I can't find the error." And the crew keeps having to make unscheduled engine burns to stay on course.
The whole mess is really all my mom’s fault. She decided to go off on a three-year mission and leave me with evil Aunt Zooey.
I tried to explain to her that Aunt Zooey despises kids, but she wouldn’t listen.
So now, I'll be the first junior-high kid to tour the Red Planet—heck, I'm probably the first space stowaway too. I guess I’m famous.
Or will be, as long as we make it to Mars. The crew's really on edge. The chief even thinks we have gremlins. Though, I think he just heard me rattling around in the ducts.
The last message from mission control read, "Unable to isolate calculation error. If course anomalies continue, aborting the mission will be the only option." Which would really suck, because this is Mom’s first ever trip to Mars. She's so looking forward to it. Not to mention the colonists really need our supplies.
The intercom blares, “Dr. McNair, please report to the command level immediately, Captain out.”
Why's the captain calling Mom? Maybe it’s more problems with the ship. If I move quietly, I can crawl to the vent in the command center.
Once in the right duct, I scoot directly over the vent so I can look down and see the whole room.
Even from up here the captain’s clenched jaw is easy to read. He taps his fingers on a table.
‘Whoosh,’ the door opens and Mom walks in.
“Stacy, thanks for coming so quickly. I’m afraid I have some bad news,” the captain says.
“Is it the mission? Are we aborting?”
“No, it’s not the mission. It’s about your son, Steven.”
Uh-oh.
“Steven? What happened? Is he okay?”
“Well, we don’t know. We think he may have been kidnapped-”
"I knew I shouldn’t have left him. What was I thinking?” Tears start streaming down her face. Which makes me feel lower than a Martian slime beetle. “I wish I could see him again.”
There's a snap and the vent starts to give way—looks like Mom's going to get her wish. I try to grab hold of the sides of the duct, but it's no use. I tumble to the floor.
Mom and the captain just stare at me with their mouths wide open. “Aaa, hi Mom,” is all I get out.
“Steven James McNair. What in God’s name are you doing here? How did you get onboard? Do you know how much trouble you're in? And what's that smell?”
I can't answer all her questions at once so I pick the easiest. “That’s me. Haven’t showered in a few days.”
Just then, the chief engineer walks in. “Woah, what’s this? An E.T?”
“It appears we have a stowaway,” says the captain.
“Young man, when we get home, you are going to be in so much trouble.” Well, at least that won’t be for a while.
“I think, we’ve found the source of our course anomalies,” the engineer chuckles. He seems to find the whole thing funny—but he's the only one.
“What do you mean, the source of the anomalies? I haven’t done anything,” I say.
“Didn’t you? You added a good hundred pounds to the weight of the ship. That might not seem like much, but in a spinning cabin it’s enough to throw off all the computer’s calculations.”
“I can’t believe you snuck on board, Steven. What were you thinking?” Mom's shaking her head.
“I couldn’t stay with Aunt Zooey. She’d probably have eaten me.”
“So Captain, what do we do now?” asks the engineer, still grinning.
“Well, I’m afraid there’s not much we can do. Regulations, you know. I’m sorry, Stacy, but the regulations have to be followed.”
“There’s a regulation regarding stowaways?” Mom asks.
“Yes, Regulation forty-six A. Regarding treatment of stowaways.”
Mom frowns as she thinks, then seems to remember. “Oh yes, forty-six A.”
“We’ll have to make the arrangements right away. Of course we’ll let you shower and get cleaned up first.” He pats me on the shoulder.
“Before what?” I don’t like the sound of this. Are they going to lock me in the brig or something?
“Before we escort you off the ship.”
“Umm, say what?”
“I’m very sorry, but if you stay on board we will not have enough fuel to reach Mars. We carry little extra fuel and we need it all to ensure we arrive safely. There’s really no other choice.”
“But I’ll die out in space. Mom, what’s going on?” I start sweating like a pig at Easter.
“I’m sorry, Steven. But if you are old enough to stow away you’re old enough to face the consequences.”
I can tell you one th
ing—I no longer have a clean pair of underpants.
I take a few steps back, wondering if I can make a break for the door.
Thankfully, the engineer can’t contain himself any longer and busts out laughing. He laughs so hard he falls into a chair. Everyone joins in and I realized I'm not going to end up a space popsicle.
Mom’s bout of laughing ends quickly. “Don’t think you’re out of trouble. You are in for a world of hurt. You can’t even imagine the punishment I am going to think up.”
I stare down at the floor.
“It would be prudent to jettison some weight, so we can maintain our safety margin,” says the engineer.
"We'll have to see what we can spare," the captain replies.
"I have some audio equipment I can offer." Mom brought some high quality broadcasting equipment—planning to set up the first Martian radio station. She was going to broadcast Beach Boys twenty-four hours a day. Personally, I think I did the colonists a favor.
In total, we collect one hundred and forty pounds. Sixty of that Mom's stuff.
The whole crew gathers around to see the junk blown out the airlock. Among the radio equipment and used food canisters is the aluminum waste container I snuck on board in. As it flies away from the ship I can’t help but think what might had been, had the captain not been so understanding.
* * * * *
Monitor Mayhem
I swear my brother starts salivating every time the UPS man shows up with a package. It’s like Chad thinks everything’s a present for him. I mean, his birthday isn’t even for another three months.
“Mom, can I open the Amazon box?” he yells.
Besides, every package is for the new baby. By the time Christmas rolls around I’m sure Mom and Dad will have the credit cards maxed out.
Mom hasn’t replied, but Chad’s already ripped the box into half a dozen pieces. Packing peanuts lay scattered across the carpet like the splattered guts of a snow globe.
“Ooo, it’s a spy camera. I know how I’m going to use this.”
“It’s not for you, Chad” I say snapping the package out of his hands. “It’s for the baby—like everything else."
He stomps on the peanuts, smashing them to the size of snowflakes before running out of the room.
Mom walks in. “Oh, the baby monitor’s here.”
“I can’t believe you're going to spy on your own baby. What’s next? A hidden camera in my room?”
“Steph, that’s ridiculous. We need to keep an eye on baby Alex. This connects right to the TV. I’ll have your father hook it up.” She looks at the floor and shakes her head. “And you better pick this mess up before he gets home.”
She leaves before I can explain it's Chad who's the abominable snow stomper.
I'm not my baby brother's biggest fan—one little brother is all the punishment a girl can reasonably be expected to endure. Still, I have a bad feeling about this baby video monitor thing—it just doesn’t seem right. But, with all the burping, crying, and stinky diapers I completely forget about it until that night at dinner.
Everyone’s slumped over the table like they haven’t sleep in a week—at least the mini poop machine is finally quiet—for now.
“What’s that noise?” I ask quickly crossing my fingers, hoping the baby doesn't wake. No one even looks up from their plates; they just continue eating like burnt-out zombies. From the kitchen I hear a thump and then a clank, as if someone just dropped a safe on the floor. “There it is again.”
“Oh, that’s the nanny cam, I left the receiver on. Darrel, can you hook it up to the TV tonight?”
“Can't it wait until the weekend?” Dad says opening his eyes just enough to see the little read veins.
“Once you hook it up, we can check on the baby without getting out of bed—just flip on the TV and we'll be able to see the whole room.”
“Fine, if it keeps me from having to get up every time Alex cries out.”
Dad spends like two hours behind the TV. It's connected just before he starts using what Mom calls, 'language from his Navy days.'
“There,” he says, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Now, all you have to do is press this button and…” a second later the TV flickers and there’s a huge image of the baby’s room; except it’s all eerie shades of green and muddy gray. You can see the crib in one corner of the room, but everything else is shadows.”
“Spooky, there’s no way I’d sleep in there,” Chad says.
I’m about to tell him it only looks that way because it’s night-vision when Mom walks in.
“Wow, you got it connected. Does it work on the TV in the den too?’
“Just hit the AUX button on the remote and it will show on any TV in the house.” Dad sticks out his chest like he invented the thing.
“What if he’s naked and the neighbors are spying on him. What if I’m naked and walk in there.” Chad looks so pale I think he might faint.
“If you’re walking around the house naked we’ve got bigger problems than spying neighbors.”
“Stephanie, don’t talk to your brother that way,” Mom says.
“And it doesn’t work like that, "Dad explains, "it only works in our house. There’s no way the neighbors can see. They scramble each set for privacy.”
That night I take ear-plugs up with me to bed. The baby’s asleep, but I can hear Mom and Dad arguing about who’s going to get the first shift. I set my old box fan on high to drown-out any noise that makes it in.
It’s almost 2am when I wake up. My head’s congested and my ears kinda hurt. They make a popping nose when I pull the plugs out and everything sounds funny. The fan in my room seems really loud and all of a sudden I remember this movie I saw once where some guy with just half a face sneaks up behind this girl; he was holding this big industrial fan with no guard and smashed the blades down on her head, chopping her into red-googy chucks. I changed the channel right then, but I’m pretty sure she died.
I keep looking behind me as I make my way across my room. I quickly turn the fan off then head downstairs.
Digging around in the kitchen cabinet where Mom keeps all the prescription meds, I'm looking for my allergy spray when I hear something behind me.
I spin around expecting to be chopped up by a fan-wilding maniac, but there’s nothing there except the green glow from the baby monitor. Sitting on the kitchen counter, the row of LED’s spike as the speaker cries with a sharp, tinny clank. It’s not baby Alex’s rattle, that’s for sure. It sounds more like someone sharpening a chainsaw.
It’s probably nothing, but there’s just something about the sound that makes me shutter as if a half-melted snowball’s dribbling down the back of my shirt.
A few seconds later another sound, louder and longer. Unless baby Alex is learning to repair heavy equipment, something's wrong in there.
I immediately start yelling for Mom and Dad. They're downstairs a minute later and I don’t realize that I’m still yelling until their faces are staring at me like I've gone crazy.
“Stephanie, what’s a matter?” Dad says, putting down his favorite putter.
“It’s the baby, something-someone is in his room.” I say, my voice cracking with fear.
Mom flips on the TV, instantly the picture fills with shades of muddy green; just like last time, except for the little bundle of blankets sleeping soundly in the corner. “Look, no one’s in there; the baby’s fine.”
“But I heard something on the baby monitor, something, something bad.”
Dad’s already heading back to his room.
“Steph, it was probably just picking up another channel," Mom says. "When you were a kid, the old one picked up the Herrera’s telephone conversations. We won’t be letting any of you kids spend the night at their house, I can tell you that.”
“Dad, said the signals are scrambled.”
“It still picks up static. And didn't you wear ear-plugs to bed?” She puts her arm around me and starts herding me to my room. “
Everything sounds louder when you take them out.”
The next day, I swear, that between yawns Mom and Dad kept giving me nasty looks—apparently they're more concerned with getting sleep than with baby Alex’s safety. At least I didn’t wake Alex up—if I had I bet they would have strung me up from the ceiling fan.
That night I'm so tired I fall asleep even though the baby's still crying. There was no way I was turning the fan on and instead of ear-plugs, I just put three pillows over my head.
It's almost five in the morning when I wake up. The summer sun is just starting to take back the sky. The tiniest bit of gray struggles to seep through my blinds.
A faint noise drifts up from under the door. But I'm not scared, by that hour monsters have all slithered back under beds and Bogymen sleep soundly deep inside their closets. Besides, the light flickering about the edges of the door means it's just the TV. Sure enough, in the bonus room across the hall I find the TV on. It’s volume audible, but lower than normal. Spread out on the couch with his mouth hanging open and potato chip crumbs sprinkled about is Chad.
I pull Chad up and, almost sleepwalking, he follows me to his room. I think I hear him mumble, “don’t tell Mom,” as I turn out the light. I wouldn’t tattle, but I plan to make him sweat it out—maybe even get him to do my chores.
I head back to pick up the crumbs and any other evidence he left behind when I glance at the TV. It was tuned to one of those infomercials where they say you can eat like a pig and still look like stick figure. Girls in tiny workout gear who obviously only eat grass and tofu parade around the screen. Going to turn it off, I wonder if that was what Chad had been watching. I figured he's still too young for that and as I look down at the remote the AUX button catches my eye. My thumb moves almost on its own, as if controlled like a ouija board, it presses the button. The screen fills the walls around me with a grim green glow. Nothing's there except my baby brother. His puffy cheeks still look pink, even in night vision; a smashed nose and hair that's perpetually stuck up—he's so cute—I can’t stand it.
I press the power button and a second before it flashes off I hear a rusty ping. Icy fingers run down my back. Standing alone in the dark, I stare at the screen from the old tube TV, a ghostly glow remains. I want to run to bed, pretend I haven’t heard anything. But I can’t. Even if my parents don't believe it's anything besides static, I know that sound is from something, something terrible, something hidden just out of sight.