I stared at my friends. I counted them. One, two, three. “You guys are going to do a Three Stooges act?” I said.
“Wow. How did you guess that?” Feenman asked.
“Check out the act, Bernie,” Crench said. “We’re not just funny. We’re a riot. The judges at the Talent Contest will fall down. Really. Forget Wes Updood. We’ve got it won! Watch!”
Belzer disappeared into their room across the hall for a minute. He came back carrying a baseball bat. “Okay. Ready, guys?” he asked.
“Here goes, Bernie,” Crench said. “Get ready to laugh.”
“I’m ready,” I said. “Go ahead. Be funny.”
They started their act.
“Hey, you—!” Feenman said to Crench.
“Don’t say hey,” Crench said.
“I’ll say whatever I want,” Feenman said. He slapped Crench’s face.
Crench raised his hand to slap Feenman. Feenman ducked, and Crench slapped Belzer instead.
“Hey! What did I do?” Belzer shouted. He punched Crench in the stomach.
Crench doubled over.
Feenman poked Belzer in the eyes.
Belzer punched Feenman in the chest. The punches and slaps flew. Crench slammed the baseball bat into Belzer’s stomach.
“That really hurt!”
“Ohhhhh. I’m bleeding. I’m bleeding!”
“You poked my eyes out! I can’t see! You poked my eyes out!”
“Help me!”
“It hurts! It hurts!”
“My head hurts! I can’t see!”
I started to laugh. “Good work, dudes!” I said.
“That’s a riot! That’s totally funny!” I laughed some more.
They were rolling on the floor, moaning, holding their heads and their stomachs.
“Not…funny,” Belzer groaned. “Bernie, we’re in pain. We’re not faking it. We really destroyed each other!”
“I think I got a concussion,” Feenman wailed.
“My…head,” Crench moaned. “It feels like my skull is fractured!”
I stopped laughing. “Guys, guys—get up!” I tried to pull them to their feet. But they were doubled over in pain.
“You know,” I told them, “I don’t think the Three Stooges really injured themselves in those old movies. I think they kinda faked it.”
“You…think…so?” Crench groaned, holding his stomach.
“They faked it?” Feenman said, hands covering his eyes.
“Yeah. They didn’t really punch each other and poke out each other’s eyes. They just pretended,” I said. “You guys have to work on the pretending part. I think you need more practice.”
Crench groaned. “Why didn’t someone tell us they faked it?”
They couldn’t stand up. So I rolled them out into the hall. Then I closed my bedroom door.
“What am I gonna do?” I asked myself. “The rehearsal for the Talent Contest is tomorrow night. And I’ve got nothing. Nothing.”
I have to search the dorm from top to bottom, I decided.
There has to be someone in Rotten House with some talent.
I decided to search every room on every floor.
I opened my door and walked into the hall. I had to step over Belzer, Feenman, and Crench to get to the stairs.
I made my way down to the second floor—and stopped.
I froze. My ears stood up on end. My heart started to pound.
“Whoa!” I cried. “What is THAT?!”
Chapter 11
THE GREATEST ROCK GUITAR EVER!
I grabbed the banister and listened. Where was that music coming from?
I held my breath. The music was awesome. Rock-and-roll guitar. Wailing, soaring, rocking sounds.
It’s a CD, I decided.
One of the guys is playing a CD of a totally great guitar player.
But no. The music stopped for a moment. Then started up again, playing the same song, only in a different rhythm.
My fingers were snapping in time to the beat. I didn’t even realize it. My legs were moving. My knees were dipping. I was DANCING!
I couldn’t help it. The guitar totally kicked!
I’d never heard rock-and-roll guitar like that in my life!
Now, I gripped the banister with both hands. Sweat poured down my broad, handsome forehead. My heart was doing a rock-and-roll beat in my chest!
“Someone in this dorm can play awesome guitar,” I told myself. “I’ve gotta find him. I need him! He’s gonna win the Talent Contest for me!”
I jumped off the stairs and into the second-floor hallway. Down at the far end of the hall, a bunch of second graders were laughing and shrieking, pulling down one another’s jeans. They have de-pantsing contests just about every night.
They’re so immature.
I grabbed the doorknob on the first door I came to, and pushed open the door.
My friend Nosebleed was sitting at his desk, staring at a blank sheet of paper. “What are you doing?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just staring. It helps me think.”
“Think about what?” I asked.
He shrugged again. “I don’t know.”
“Were you playing that rock guitar?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “No way. I can’t play a musical instrument. It gives me a nosebleed.”
I slammed his door and hurried to the next room. Down the hall, the second graders were all dancing around in their underpants.
I pulled open the next door and saw Billy the Brain sitting at his desk.
Billy has a solid C-minus average. Incredible, right? He’s the smartest kid in school.
“Who’s there?” Billy called. He was sitting at his desk, doing his homework blindfolded.
“It’s me. Bernie,” I said. “Why are you blindfolded?”
“To make it harder,” Billy said. “I read all of my textbooks blindfolded so I won’t have an unfair advantage over the rest of you dumber guys.”
What a brain!
“Were you just playing guitar?” I asked him.
“I don’t play guitar,” Billy said. “But sometimes I play the piano blindfolded.”
I told you he’s brilliant!
I slammed his door and hurried down the hall. I took the stairs two at a time to the second floor.
I could hear the rock guitar even louder now. Twanging, swooping, rocking!
Where was it coming from?
I stopped outside Chipmunk’s door. The music grew louder. Was it possible?
Chipmunk is the shyest kid in school. He’s so shy, he inhales when he burps!
I like to help my guys. I’ve been working with Chipmunk. Trying to get him over his shyness. But so far, even Bernie B. has failed.
“It can’t be Chipmunk playing this awesome guitar,” I muttered. “No way.”
I pressed my ear to the door.
Yes! The music was definitely coming from inside.
I pushed open the door. “Chipmunk?” I called. “Is that you playing?”
My eyes searched the room. No one there.
“Chipmunk?”
Where was he?
Chapter 12
A STAR IS BORN
I stepped into the room. The rocking guitar swooped and soared and twanged. “Chipmunk?” I called.
I followed my ears—to the closet. I pulled open the closet door. “Yo—Chipmunk!” I cried.
He sat on a pile of dirty shirts and pants, a shiny, new guitar in his hands.
“Hi, Bernie,” he said, blushing. He blushes whenever he talks.
I stared down at him. “Chipmunk—were you playing that awesome guitar?”
He blushed some more. “I’ll stop if you want me to,” he said, lowering his eyes.
“Huh? Stop?” I cried. “You don’t understand. You’ve gotta keep playing.”
“I—I do?” he stammered, gripping the guitar in both hands.
“Why are you in the closet?” I asked.
“I don??
?t want to bother anyone,” Chipmunk replied, his eyes still down.
“Don’t you realize?” I shouted. “Don’t you realize you play the wickedest rock guitar I ever heard!”
He shrugged. “I practice a lot,” he whispered. “I think I’m getting better.” He blushed again.
I grabbed him with both hands and tugged him out of the closet. “You’re gonna be a winner, Chipmunk!”
He blinked. “I am?”
“You want to get over your shyness, right? Right,” I answered for him. “Well, this is your big chance.”
He started to shake. “What do I have to do?” he asked in a trembling voice.
I slapped him on the back. “Play guitar, that’s all,” I said. “You’re going to play at the Talent Contest rehearsal tomorrow after school. You’re gonna be our talent.”
“I—I am?” He squeezed his guitar so hard, his hands turned red.
“Chipmunk, you rock, dude! No way you can lose,” I told him. “Everyone will fall on the floor and beg you to play some more. You’ll kill! Kill!”
Chipmunk swallowed a few times. His big Adam’s apple slid up and down. “But—but—” he sputtered.
“No buts,” I said. “You’ve already won.” I started for the door. “I’m gonna bring all the guys downstairs to hear you play.”
“But, but—Bernie—”
“Don’t move,” I said. “The guys have got to hear you rock out!”
I ran upstairs. No. Actually, I flew upstairs.
I rounded up everyone—Feenman, Crench, Belzer, Nosebleed, Billy the Brain, Farley Mopes, Beast, and a bunch of other dudes. I led them all down to Chipmunk’s room.
“You’re gonna fall to the ground!” I told them. “You’re gonna rock till you drop! This is totally amazing!”
I pushed open Chipmunk’s door, and we all rushed inside.
“Chipmunk?”
He was gone.
Chapter 13
HELP FROM A WATER BOTTLE
I glanced all around. “Where is he? Where is he? He couldn’t have gone far! Find him!”
We scrambled all over the room. I pulled open the closet door. No sign of him. I tossed out the pile of dirty clothes. No. He wasn’t hiding under them.
We looked everywhere—even in the dresser drawers.
Finally, Feenman found him hiding under the bed. “What are you doing under there?” he asked.
“Uh…I do this sometimes,” Chipmunk replied. “It’s, um, nice under here.”
“It’s nice out here, too,” I said. “Come out and play.”
Feenman and Crench grabbed his arms and legs and pulled him out. I handed him his guitar. “Play,” I said. “The guys can’t wait to hear you.”
He swallowed a few more times.
“Play,” I said. “Rock-and-roll forever—right?”
“I guess,” he muttered. He carried his guitar into the closet and closed the door behind him.
“Bernie,” Feenman said, “what’s with the closet?”
“Just shut up and listen,” I said. “The dude is an artist. He can play wherever he wants.”
A few seconds later, Chipmunk started playing. The guitar totally rocked!
Chipmunk’s playing had a pounding beat. It was bluesy and hard-driving and wailing. It sounded like there were FIVE guitar players in that closet.
I turned to my guys. They were dancing along to the guitar music. Waving their hands high above their heads. Rocking and bopping.
“I…I can’t believe it! Chipmunk is talented!” Belzer shouted.
“I told you,” I said.
“Rotten House is gonna win the contest!” Crench exclaimed. “No way we can lose now!”
I grinned. “Know what, dudes?” I said. “I’m gonna make sure we don’t lose.”
“Uh-oh,” Crench said. “What are you going to do, Bernie?”
My grin grew wider. “I’m going to pay a visit to Nyce House and help Chipmunk out a little.”
“You’re going into Nyce House?” Feenman asked. “Bernie, you know you start to shake and sweat when you go there.”
“Help Chipmunk? What do you mean?” Belzer asked.
I held up a water bottle. “I’m going to sneak into their dorm and water Wes Updood’s saxophone,” I said. “You know. Fill it up a little.”
I pointed to the closet. “A little help for my best buddy Chipmunk, who is going to take me to The Plopps concert.”
Crench stared at the water bottle. Then he frowned at me. “But, Bernie—isn’t that cheating?”
I clapped my hand over Crench’s mouth. “Cheating? Don’t ever say that word,” I told him. “It’s not cheating. It’s helping!”
Chapter 14
NOT NICE IN NYCE HOUSE
A bright full moon glowed down on me as I crept across the campus to the Nyce House dorm. I had the water bottle hidden deep in my backpack.
I kept smiling as I pictured Wes Updood stepping onstage tomorrow after school. He raises his golden saxophone to his lips. He starts to play…
And instead of musical notes, we hear GURGLE GURGLE GURGLE.
Yes, Bernie B. was about to play a very mean trick.
But, come on. Isn’t Talent Contest another word for WAR?
I started to shake and sweat as I let myself into Nyce House through the front door. But I didn’t care. I was on a mission. A mission to help my buddy Chipmunk.
The front hall was empty. The wood floors gleamed brighter than the moonlight. Sam and Janet Pocketlint must polish them every day.
In Rotten House we’ve never even seen the floor! It’s too cluttered with all our junk.
I crept toward the back. I passed three big posters on the wall. In Rotten House we have NASCAR posters in the front hall. And a couple of football posters.
In Nyce House they have posters of angels on the wall. Old-fashioned paintings of women floating in the clouds, with big, white wings and halos over their heads.
Well, they don’t call it Nyce House for nothing! I guess Sam and Janet Pocketlint want all their boys to act like angels.
I heard voices in the Commons Room. I stopped at the doorway and peeked in.
Sherman Oaks was in there. And Wes Updood. And a bunch of other Nyce House guys. Sherman was showing off his drum machine.
“If I push this button, I can get a Latin rhythm,” Sherman was saying. He pushed a button, and a tango-type beat started up.
“If I push this button, it sounds like cymbals crashing,” Sherman said. He pushed the button, and cymbals crashed.
“You have to be a great musician to push the right buttons,” Sherman said.
Yeah. Right.
I was happy. Sherman and Wes were busy here. That meant that Wes’s room was empty. That would make it a lot easier to sneak in, fill the sax with water, and sneak back out.
Wes’s room was just around the corner. I slid the backpack around to the front so I could grab the water bottle.
I was shaking and sweating. My heart started to pound out a Latin rhythm.
I stepped up to Wes’s door—and someone grabbed me from behind.
Chapter 15
THE MUSIC LOVER
I spun around—and stared in horror at Sam and Janet Pocketlint!
“H-h-h-hi!” I stammered. I wanted to faint. But Bernie B. never panics. I got it together fast and flashed them my best dimpled smile. “Nice to see you!”
Mr. Pocketlint wore his school blazer and tie and baggy, khaki pants. His wife wore a black, pleated dress, down to her ankles.
He has a slender, pink face, a very long, pointed nose, and tiny blue eyes, very close together. He looks a lot like one of those anteaters you see in cartoons.
Mrs. Pocketlint has gray hair, held in place with a headband. Round, gray eyes, and a large nose that always seems to be sniffing the air.
“Young man, what are you doing here?” Mr. Pocketlint demanded.
I kept the grin on my face. I know no one can resist my adorable dimples. “Well…you se
e…”
Mrs. Pocketlint sniffed the air and squinted at me. “Aren’t you Bernie Bridges? We’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Lies! All lies!” I said. “People who are jealous make up lies about me.”
“Well, we try to keep the riffraff out of Nyce House. What are you doing here?” Mr. Pocketlint asked again.
“Uh…Wes Updood asked me to get his saxophone for him,” I said.
They both stared at me. Mr. Pocketlint blinked his tiny, anteater eyes. “Oh, I see,” he said. “You’re interested in music? Do you like Mozart?”
“I play sonatas on the harpsichord,” Mrs. Pocketlint said. When she smiled, her pink gums showed. She had two rows of tiny, pointed teeth.
“My left hand is very good,” she continued. “But my right hand is only fair.”
She smiled her gummy smile at her husband. “Sam plays the ocarina,” she said, squeezing his arm.
“Come. Listen to some Mozart,” Mr. Pocketlint said. “We heard you were a scheming, fast-talking, troublemaking brat. We didn’t know you were a music lover.”
“For sure,” I said. “I love music. I live for music. And of course Mozart is one of my fav’s. But if I could just get that saxophone…”
They each grabbed one of my arms. “That can wait,” Mrs. Pocketlint said. “First Mozart.”
“But—but—”
They dragged me into a large room at the end of the hall and locked the door behind me. I saw a grand piano, a harpsichord, two music stands, and a couch. The walls had shelves and shelves of old record albums and CDs.
“This is our music room,” Mr. Pocketlint said. He picked up his ocarina. It looked like a white plastic potato. He pointed with it. “Sit over there.”
“But I really need to—”
Mrs. Pocketlint sat down at the piano. She sniffed the air and arranged her music in front of her. “Sam and I will start out with some familiar sonatas,” she said. “I’m sure you know them.”
“Which one is your favorite?” her husband asked.
“Well…” I swallowed. “I guess I like them all,” I said.