Allergic to Girls, School, and Other Scary Things Read online

  “Aren’t you supposed to be going to piano lessons?” she asked when we reached Jules’s house. Jules was no longer in the bushes.

  “I heard there were going to be snacks,” I said. “Just thought you might want to come along.”

  Anibelly stopped. She put her hands on her hips. She put her left foot out like in the Hokey Pokey, which is her favorite dance. Then she looked at me sideways. “Is that the tooth, Alvin Ho, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth, so you can help God?” she asked.

  Anibelly tapped her toe and waited for an answer.

  “Okay . . . I’m allergic,” I finally coughed.

  “Allergic to piano lessons?”

  “No. Allergic to the piano teacher.”

  “Why?” asked Anibelly, puzzled. “Does she have three fingers?”

  “Three fingers???!!!!” A piano teacher with three fingers is like an airplane with only one wing! “I thought she was just the witch from ‘Hansel and Gretel’!” I cried.

  Anibelly gasped. She hated that witch as much as I did.

  “What are you going to do?” Anibelly wanted to know.

  “There’s only one thing to do!” I said. “Capture her and tie her up!”

  “Hooray!” cried Anibelly. She sprang up and down. Then she did her Hokey Pokey foot again, which was not a good sign. “Then what?” she asked.

  “Then we’ll . . . we’ll . . . we’ll figure something out,” I said.

  Anibelly shook her head. “Take me home, Alvin Ho,” she said. “Take me home right now.”

  “But I need you,” I pleaded. “You’re good with strangers. They’re always nice to you. And they’re nicer to me when you’re with me.”

  “You might be Hansel, but I’m no Gretel,” said Anibelly. “I’m Anibelly Ho and I dig holes. I don’t sit in cages.”

  Then Anibelly clung to the bushes in front of Jules’s house like a tick to flesh. I could not pry her free until I had promised to take her home. So I did. I took her home. Maybe it was the gentleman thing to do, but I don’t know. I didn’t care. She really was no use anyway, all balled up like that.

  “Don’t worry,” said Anibelly when she was safely back in our yard and had unballed herself. “Just hold your head high and be a gentleman.”

  A gentleman? I needed to be Firecracker Man! But it was too late. I would never find all the pieces of my costume in time. I was already late. And late is not good if you’re a gentleman, I think.

  So I turned and headed back toward the witch’s creepy old house.

  Just as I was passing Jules’s house again, something strange ambled out of Miss Emily’s house and started coming toward me.

  I froze.

  It got closer and closer. . . .

  My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  “Mr. Ho?” the figure called. “Are you little Master Ho?”

  I did not nod. I did not shake. I did not even breathe. I was not Mr. Ho. I was Alvin Ho. Mr. Ho was my dad. And who was Master Ho?

  “Heavens, child, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said the old woman who stopped in front of me. “We all know there are plenty of ’em around here!” she cackled. It was only a little cackle, but it was a cackle, just the same. “I’m Miss Emily. Your mother called and said you were on your way. We were both worried that you had not yet arrived.”

  She was just as I had imagined. She was about three hundred years old and a half. She bent like a question mark toward the sidewalk and she looked exactly like her pictures in The Complete Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales, Deluxe Edition. There was no doubt that this was the very same witch who had fattened Hansel and Gretel and tried to feed them into the fire. She was the most evil witch in the world, and even worse now for being disguised as a piano teacher.

  “Come along, sweetie,” she said.

  Sweetie? I put my foot down, just like Anibelly, in the Hokey Pokey way. I was going nowhere.

  But then I caught a whiff of my pohpoh’s almond-scented hand lotion, which is very pleasant. Miss Emily smelled exactly like my pohpoh! Strangely, my feet began to move . . . and before I knew it . . . I was following her like her own shadow! If only Anibelly were with me! She would have helped me resist following my nose, which I have no control over.

  Soon I was at the place where the trees hang low.

  And the grass grows tall.

  And shadows spill like ink across the road.

  We floated past the sign in Miss Emily’s yard that I couldn’t read because we were moving too fast. Then we went right into the mouth of the house that sags sadly to the right.

  Inside, it was a dark and stormy night.

  A painting of a young woman sitting at a piano stared straight at me.

  An enormous white head of Beethoven with blank eyes scowled angrily from a corner.

  A plate of brownies sat obediently on the coffee table, a glass of milk beside it.

  My eyes moved from the painting to Beethoven to the brownies. Then they stayed on the brownies, which were perfectly dusted with the kind of sugar that looks like fresh-fallen snow. My mouth watered.

  “Would you like a snack before we begin?” Miss Emily read my mind. “I made my special brownies. Quadruple fudge . . . they’re still warm from the oven.”

  Oven?

  Gulp.

  “Just learn your scales,” Jules’s voice echoed inside my ears. “But don’t eat anything.”

  I stepped back. Then I tripped and fell over the piano bench.

  “Oh dear,” cackled Miss Emily. It was only a little cackle, but it was a witchy kind of cackle just the same.

  I was speechless. I didn’t know what to say. If I had known that taking my dad’s Johnny Astro would end me up in such trouble, I never would have taken it.

  “Let me help you up,” said Miss Emily. Her bony hand and crooked fingers stretched toward me . . . closer . . . and closer . . . until . . . I could see—she only had three fingers!

  I can’t tell you what my lesson was like after that on account of there was no lesson.

  I was completely frozen, like a piece of sausage off a truck.

  no one can explain why I can’t talk in school and now at piano lessons, so once a month, after school, my mom drives me to see a children’s psychotherapist to get to the bottom of it.

  A therapist is a very smart person who wears glasses and can help you with your problems by asking a lot of questions instead of giving you shots, which is really amazing. But a psycho, as everyone knows, is a crazy person in the movies that you never want to run into in real life. So a psychotherapist is a very smart crazy person that you should stay away from for your own good.

  I tried to explain this to my mother, but I can never get the words out on account of it’s hard to talk about scary things. So I have to outsmart the psycho on my own. It’s not easy, but I had it figured out.

  So when my mom dropped me off, I was ready.

  “Did you have a good day in school today?” the psycho asked.

  I avoided all eye contact.

  “Do anything special?”

  I kept my hands in plain sight.

  “Working on your pitching?”

  I nodded. I am always pitching and catching with my gunggung.

  “That’s good,” said the psycho. “I bet you’re terrific.”

  I nodded again.

  “How are the piano lessons going?”

  Silence.

  “Read any good books lately?”

  I nodded. I had read a bunch of great books with my dad. We love true tales of courage and accounts of dangerous expeditions. Tenzing Nor-gay and the Sherpas of Everest was especially exciting.

  “How’s Lucy?”

  It was a trick question. There is always so much to tell about my dog. But I caught myself. I’ve never said a word in therapy. It is too scary. What do you say to a psycho?

  The clock on the wall clicked tick, tick, tick.

  Outside, cars swooshed by in the rain.

  The psycho sighed. />
  She shuffled some papers.

  “Want to play cards?” she finally asked.

  Usually, playing cards is okay. When she runs out of questions, the cards come out and it means the therapy part is over, and when it’s over, it’s over, and it is just me and the psycho . . . alone . . . with nothing to do . . . but play cards . . . and wait for my mom or dad to pick me up . . . tick, tick, tick.

  Psychos sure can shuffle. Flip, flip, flip.

  But she doesn’t play very well. She talks too much.

  “Making friends is tough, isn’t it?” she jabbered.

  I held my cards.

  “Making friends is hard for grownups too,” she went on. “So I know how you feel.”

  I did not move.

  “Do you sometimes want to play with kids who don’t want to play with you?” she asked.

  I nodded. Then I won the first hand.

  Shuffle, shuffle. Deal, deal.

  “We can’t make people play with us who don’t want to,” said the psycho.

  Then I won the second hand. It was too easy. She wasn’t paying any attention to her cards.

  Then I won the third hand. “But there’s always someone great to play with,” the psycho jabbered on, “who is also looking for a friend.”

  The longer we played, the more I won . . . and the more she lost. But she didn’t just lose, she hardly even looked at her cards! If I played like that, Calvin would have a few unsavory names for me.

  “Wipe thy ugly face, thou weedy earth-vexing whey-face,” Calvin would say. “Methinks you stink, thou pribbling beetle-headed harpy.”

  The psycho stopped. “What?” she said. “What did you say?”

  Oops. Did I say something?

  I kept my eyes low. I kept my hands in plain sight.

  “I had no idea you knew Shakespeare.” She sounded surprised.

  I was surprised too. I didn’t know Shakespeare. Shakespeare lived a long time ago. Now he’s dead. How could she think I knew him?

  “Why, that’s really wonderful!” she continued.

  But it wasn’t wonderful. I hadn’t meant to say anything at all. It had just sort of slipped.

  “I don’t know Shakespeare very well,” the psycho went on, “but I’m thrilled that you can express yourself in that way.”

  “Sit thee on a spit,” I muttered, “then eat my sneakers, thou droning beef-witted nut hook.”

  Oops. I couldn’t stop myself! That’s the problem with cursing. Once you start, it’s hard to stop.

  “Grow unsightly warts, thou half-faced horn-beast!”

  “Bathe thyself, thou reeky reeling-ripe pigeon egg!”

  The psycho gasped. The look on her face said she didn’t think it was so wonderful anymore.

  So I made a break for it.

  I bolted from my poker hand and ran as fast as I could.

  Unfortunately, the psycho was even faster.

  She nabbed me as I got to the stairs.

  So I let her have it.

  “Away, I say, thou currish milk-livered mold-warp!

  “Get thee gone, thou beshibbering onion-eyed f lap-dragon!

  “THY MOTHER WEARS ARMOR!”

  my dad arrived just in the nick of time. If he had been a minute later, I would have gone to Plan B, and who knows how scary that might have been!

  My dad did not scream.

  He did not yell.

  He did not turn eggplant or edamame or Chinese radish or danger-alert orange.

  He was not pleased with the psychotherapist’s report, but he did not bust me either.

  Louise headed for home, making all right hand turns because she cannot turn left anymore. She has AA, Automotive Arthritis, she is that old.

  And I knew I was headed for trouble. I was thinking of getting a head start on all the crying and wailing I needed to do to soften the blow coming to me, when Louise made a couple of unexpected right turns and before I knew it, she had pulled right in front of Brigham’s Ice Cream!

  “Did you take a wrong turn?” I squeaked from the backseat. Usually we go to Brigham’s to celebrate a birthday or a good report card, but never before for cursing a grown-up.

  “No, son,” my dad said. I love it when he calls me that. I like it even more than my own name, which I like a lot.

  “Then why are we here?” I asked.

  “Therapy is rough, right?”

  I nodded.

  “I had a rough day too,” said my dad.

  I held my breath.

  “So we need to stick together,” my dad went on, “and we need some ice cream.”

  “Oh?” I said. The last time I didn’t get the punishment coming to me, I ended up with something worse . . . way worse.

  “You mean I’m not getting busted?” I asked.

  “No, son,” said my dad. Normally, I love it when he calls me that. But this was not normal.

  Inside, my dad and I walked past other children eating ice cream with their parents. We scooted into a booth.

  Tears streamed down my cheeks.

  “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” I wailed, just in case. Our waitress stepped back.

  Then I wailed some more. After that I felt much better.

  The Triple Monkey Triple Fudge with whipped cream and cherries on top helped too.

  But my dad was the most helpful of all.

  We had a heart-to-heart, man-to-man talk, just between me and my dad. And this is what I discovered . . .

  1. My dad tries to be kind to everyone.

  2. He loves superheroes.

  3. But he wouldn’t rather be one.

  4. He’d rather be my dad than anything else in the whole universe.

  5. If he could change anything about himself, it might be his bald spot, maybe.

  6. If he could change anything about me, it would be nothing.

  7. He didn’t have a friend until he traded someone a Carl Yastrzemski Rookie for a Hank Aaron Rookie.

  8. After that they were best friends.

  9. His wish for me is to find a good friend.

  10. His second wish for me is that I’d enjoy Shakespearean curses only for fun, not for insulting someone.

  “Son,” said my dad. “I know it’s frustrating and change comes very slowly, but you’re making good progress in your therapy.”

  Then my dad explained that while Rule No. 1 of being a gentleman is no hitting, Rule No. 2 is no cursing or insulting.

  “Not at all?” I asked.

  “Not one word,” he said. Then my dad stood up and puffed out his chest. He looked ten feet tall. My dad is amazing.

  I stood up. I puffed out my chest. I did not look ten feet tall. I didn’t even look half that size. But it was okay.

  “Ready, son?” he said.

  “Ready, Dad.”

  Then I put my arm around him and we went home.

  It was the best time I ever had with my dad.

  i was making great progress. I could finally remember some things about being a gentleman:

  I could hardly believe it! Suddenly I was closer to being a gentleman! But I was not any closer to having friends.

  Fortunately, I remembered that I had some good advice about that from Calvin. It was right there in my PDK:

  The list was useless . . . until I crossed off:

  1. Say hello.

  2. Just say hello.

  Now it was perfect! And since the advice had come from Calvin, I was sure that he meant his baseball cards, on account of I didn’t have any. And because he didn’t write his name on his baseball cards, it could only mean one thing . . . but I asked anyway.

  “Calvin,” I said, “could I borrow a couple of your best cards?”

  Srrrrr, srrrr, said Calvin. It was late and he was fast asleep. I should have been asleep too, but I am often up with my flashlight, reading or making lists, because I am afraid of the dark. It’s a great time to talk to Calvin on account of he is always pretty agreeable, not like he is during the day, and it certainly sounded like C
alvin said “Sure, sure.”

  The next day, I gave the Hank Aaron Rookie to Pinky.

  He said nothing.

  Then I gave him the Carl Yastrzemski Rookie.

  He said nothing.

  Then I had nothing else to give.

  “Man,” Pinky finally said. He stuffed the trading cards into his back pocket and walked away.

  Then slowly, my life began to change . . . at recess, Pinky kicked the soccer ball past where I was standing. It was fantastic!

  Then during library time, Pinky grabbed Sam’s book, so Sam grabbed it back. Then Pinky took it again, so Sam kicked him, which made Nhia jump on Pinky. All this happened right in front of me, between the shelves on earthquakes and volcanoes and the shelves on bats and whales. If I had poked out my arm I could have gotten it broken in several places, which is practically an invitation to jump right in, which I would have done if the librarian hadn’t leaped first.

  Then in math class, we got a worksheet on the cost of Henry David Thoreau’s house:

  Math is okay. I don’t have to read anything out loud. No one holds their breath to see if I am going to take my turn or pass.

  The first question asked “What material cost Henry the least?” That was easy.

  Next, “How many bricks did Henry buy?” That was easy too.

  “Pssssst,” hissed Pinky. “What’s the answer?” I was on his radar again! I could hardly believe it! My dad and Calvin were right. Baseball cards really do work!

  Pinky leaned over and copied my answers onto his paper. Not only was I on Pinky’s radar, but all my answers were on his paper too! Then he motioned for Eli to copy his paper. Then Scooter leaned over and copied from Eli.

  “Ahem,” said Flea. Flea has only one eye, which is okay, but unfortunately, that eye sees everything, which is annoying. “Cheaters are losers,” she said disapprovingly.

  “Cyclops are losers,” Pinky hissed back.

  Flea gasped.