Mom, There's a Dinosaur in Beeson's Lake Read online

  “Let go, Pigford.”

  “Is that one wearing a tutu?” He loosens his grip. I ease up too, and he whips the towel from me. “Suck-errrrrr!”

  “Give it back, Pig—”

  “Un-be-lievable.” He circles me. I hunch over and try to cover my trunks with my arms, but—dang it—there are just too many squirrels. “Hey, Mapanoo!” Lewis yells to Henry, but of course everybody looks because they are all swimming this way. “Check out McNally’s dancing rodents—”

  Suddenly a head pops up out of the water next to us. It’s Ashlynn. She flips her dark bangs back with one hand. “Hey, Scab, I almost forgot—”

  AMAZING SQUIRREL TAILS!

  IF A SQUIRREL FALLS FROM A TREE, IT WILL FIRST use its tail as a parachute to slow itself down, before turning it into a cushion to land on. Flying squirrels rely on their flattened tails to help guide them as they glide through the air. Asia’s giant flying squirrel can glide up to 1,500 feet! Squirrels also use their tails to communicate. When a squirrel quickly flips its tail at another squirrel, it means, “Get away, this food is mine!” If only that would work on Lewis! He’s always stealing other people’s food.

  “Yeah?” I swallow hard. She saw that I didn’t swim the length of the pool with the other kids. She noticed that I only made it halfway. And she is going to ask me why. What do I say? What do I do?

  “Great trunks,” she says, and disappears under the water.

  Lewis throws my towel at my feet. I pick it up and shake it out. Flipping it over my shoulder, I calmly stroll into the locker room. I’m whistlin’ all the way.

  On the drive home my mother says, “We’re going to the mall this weekend, Scab, to pick out some new trunks for you. This time, I don’t want any argument—”

  “Don’t sweat it, Mom,” I say. “I’ll keep these.”

  A stunned face looks at me in the rearview mirror. “You’ll keep those? But it took you fifteen minutes to come out of the locker room. You said you looked stupid—”

  “They’re not so bad.”

  Isabelle snickers. I lightly punch her in the shoulder. She punches back harder.

  “‘They’re not so bad,’” mumbles my mother. “He couldn’t stand them an hour ago, but now he’s keeping them.” My mother talks to herself when we confuse her. She’s been talking to herself a lot this year.

  “It’s all right if I keep them, isn’t it?”

  “Well, sure. But what on Earth made you change your—”

  “Not what,” my sister says, jumping in. “Who. And I know—ewww!” She waves her hand in front of her nose. “Mom! Scab let a toot out the chute! He did it on purpose.”

  “Salvatore,” my mother warns.

  “Sorry,” I say, but proudly fold my arms and grin.

  It’s true. I can fart on cue pretty much anywhere, anytime, anyplace. It’s my superpower. I am Scab McNally, Fart Boy. I definitely need my own theme song. I’m thinking something with a booming tuba would be nice. You know, a superpower like tooting can really come in handy. Right now Isabelle’s got her head out the window, gulping fresh air. She looks like my dog, Joe, except he’s got better hair . . . uh, fur. And no fleas. Ha! My sister has forgotten all about telling my mother what Ashlynn said to me. See? Very handy. I’d teach it to you if I could. Honestly, I would. But like I said, it’s a gift.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Reelin’ in the Big One

  If anybody’s interested, I brought tuna on—”

  “Sourdough with pickles and olives.” Doyle and I finish Will’s sentence.

  Whenever the three of us go fishing, Will brings tuna salad on sourdough with pickles and olives. His mother has been making that same sandwich for Will as long as I’ve known him. And for as long as I’ve known him, Will tries to trade it for something—anything—that isn’t tuna salad on sourdough with pickles and olives.

  “Anybody want to—”

  “No!”

  SCAB’S TIP #47

  WHEN TRADING FOOD WITH YOUR FRIENDS, beware of anything with the word “salad” in it. Chow down on chicken salad, egg salad, or tuna salad that’s been sitting around all day long and you can figure on upchucking your guts all night long.

  Doyle, who’s between Will and me, reels in his line. He checks to see that the earthworm is still on the hook. It is. Doyle casts off again. It’s about eight thirty on a Saturday morning. We’re the only ones at Beeson’s Lake, which is the way we like it. We sit at the end of an old, saggy dock. I don’t know who built the dock or when. Or why, really. There are no houses here. No signs pointing the way. You either know how to get to here or you don’t. We fish here most every Saturday.

  My dog, Joe, lies behind me on the dock. We go everywhere together, except school, of course. He sits in our front window and whimpers when I leave in the morning. The glass is always smudged with his nose prints. Joe hates it when I leave him. I hate it too. I told Doyle I ought to run for class president on the promise that I would let kids bring their dogs to school. I bet I would win in a landslide. Or is it “by a landslide”? Either way, I’d win, for sure.

  JOE AND ME

  FOR MY TENTH BIRTHDAY, MY PARENTS TOOK ISABELLE and me to the shelter to pick out a dog. Isabelle wanted a teacup poodle. Upchuck-o-matic. I wanted a Saint Bernard. My mom just wanted out of there. It was a real bark fest! We finally agreed on a yellow Labrador. My sister named him (we had a deal that if she helped me convince my parents to get a dog, she’d get to name it). I was worried because she was leaning toward Precious Puddles. Yech!! Luckily, she chose Joe. It’s a long story involving sloppy joes and that onionhead, Lewis Pigford. Joe is supposed to be our dog, but he is really my dog. I walk him. I feed him. I scoop up after him. I teach him tricks. He’s the best!

  Tricks Joe can do:

  Play fetch with my sister’s headless Barbie

  Roll over and play dead

  Chase his tail (Is that a trick?)

  Shake hands

  Balance a ball on his nose (almost!)

  I got Joe for my birthday. He was the best present EVER, even better than the Mount Saint Helen replica volcano I got last year and I loved that. I souped up the lava flow engine with extra battery power, maybe too much battery power. My sister got too close and it spewed a half gallon of orange soda pop all over her. Anyway, Joe is one year, one month, and three days old, which is seven years, seven months, and twenty-one days old in dog time. I think. So far, I’ve taught him a few tricks, like how to beg, roll over, and chew on Isabelle’s shoes instead of mine. I’ve wanted a dog my whole life. Joe is the greatest dog in the universe. Doyle would probably tease me for saying this, but when I look at Joe I can tell he’s wanted a boy his whole life too.

  Now and then, Joe’s tail flicks against my back.

  SCAB’S FISH BUFFET BAIT

  1 mini marshmallow

  1 cheese puff

  1 piece of lettuce

  1 slice of uncooked hot dog

  1 glittery pink dragonfly hair clip (borrowed from your sister)

  1 shrimp

  1 worm

  ½ olive

  Get the biggest fish hook you can find. Squish everything on the list onto the hook. Cast off and get set to reel in a ton of fish.

  I’ve got his leash on him, because he likes to chase ducks. Once in a while he’ll spot one on shore and take off after it. He’ll jump right into the lake! It makes my heart take extra beats when he does this, but luckily he never goes far. Ducks can fly. Joe can’t. I check again to make sure his leash is wrapped tight around the dock post. It is. I reach over and scratch the top of his neck under his collar—that’s his favorite scratching spot, besides his belly. Then I get back to baiting my hook.

  “Scab, what are you doing?” Will’s got his pole in one hand and a wedge of sandwich in the other. I can smell the stink of tuna all the way over here.

  “New invention,” Doyle answers first.

  “What is it?”

  “The perfect bait.”r />
  “No such thing.”

  I lift the hook off my lap. “Until now.”

  Will laughs. “Geez, Scab, it looks like you’re trying for every kind of fish in the lake.”

  “That’s the idea,” I say. “Any fish swimming by has got to see something here he likes.”

  “I get it. It’s like when my parents take us to the Happy Troll buffet. My mom gets spaghetti, my dad gets steak, and I get pizza.”

  “You want to donate anything to my Fish Buffet Bait?” I ask.

  SCAB’S SNOT CAP

  1 plastic ring (2 inches in diameter)

  1 baseball cap (make sure you don’t need it for Little League)

  glue

  1 plastic toilet-paper holder

  1 roll of your favorite toilet tissue

  1 small Nerf ball

  Sew the plastic ring on one side of the cap above the ear, near the brim. Glue one end of the plastic toilet-paper holder to the top of the baseball cap (the holder should be sticking straight up). Place a roll of toilet paper on the roller. Cut the Nerf ball in half. Glue half of the Nerf ball on top of the roller to keep the toilet paper secure (keep the other half of the ball as a spare or to make another Snot Cap for a friend). Thread the toilet paper down through the ring so it’ll be ready when you feel a sneeze coming on. Wear your Scab’s Snot Cap with pride and confidence!

  Will plucks an olive from his sandwich and hands it to Doyle, who hands it to me. I am barely able to get the olive onto the end of my bulging hook. “This is the one,” I announce. “This is the one that’s going to make me famous.”

  “I sure hope so,” says Doyle, giving me a sideways smirk.

  I frown. “Just because a couple of my other inventions didn’t work out—”

  “A couple? You mean, like the licorice toothpaste?”

  Will gags. “I had to be the tester on that. Don’t forget about the potato-chip seat cushions—you could only use them once.”

  Doyle nods. “Raincoats for cats.”

  “Glow-in-the-dark sunglasses,” offers Will.

  “What was that one with the hat?”

  “Hat?”

  “You know, with the toilet paper.”

  Will snaps his fingers. “The Snot Cap—”

  “That’s it!”

  I’ve heard enough. “When you guys sneeze in front of Ashlynn and there’s a giant, green booger swinging from your nose, don’t come whining to me,” I say.

  Doyle snorts. “I’ll take a big glob of snot over a roll of toilet paper on my head any day.”

  “Remember Isabelle’s Smell?” asks Will.

  “Who could forget Scab’s sister-repellant spray?”

  “That one worked,” I remind them.

  “Too well,” says Will. “We had to evacuate the school. Pee-ewwwww!”

  “Quiet. You’ll spook the fish.”

  “What fish?” Doyle scratches a blotchy pink cheek. “Not even the minnows are biting.”

  “They will now. Here we go, guys.” I toss out my line. Unfortunately, the cheese puff and Will’s olive fall off my hook while the line is still in midair.

  “Don’t worry,” says Will as we watch the cheese puff sail away. “You’ve still got plenty of bait left. You’ll snag something—”

  I nod. “In less than three minutes, I’ll bet.”

  “I’ll take that bet,” says Will.

  Doyle lifts his wrist. “I’ll time it.” He has the best watch, so he is always our official timer.

  Silently, hopefully, we watch my lucky red bobber float on the surface. Doyle watches his watch and my bobber. Will shifts. Doyle sneezes. I shift. Doyle sneezes again. My dog yawns.

  “How long has it been?” I whisper after what I am sure is three minutes.

  “A minute, twelve,” says Doyle.

  Three minutes comes and goes—nothing. Ten—still nothing. By twenty, Doyle and Joe are stretched out on the dock. Will’s got his head in my bag of mini marshmallows. I am eating the other half of his tuna on sourdough with pickles and olives, while counting lily pads. One hundred twenty-seven, one hundred twenty-eight, one hundred twenty-nine . . .

  Was that a ripple? I sit up. Yes! The bobber on my line is moving. I twitch the pole slightly to get the fish to bite. That’s called setting the hook. A second later, the red ball goes under the water then pops back up. I’ve got something, all right! I get a firm grip on my pole with my left hand and start winding the reel with my right.

  Joe’s ears go up.

  Will stops hoovering marshmallows. He shoves Doyle. “Scab’s got a bite.”

  Doyle opens his eyes. I am winding the reel like a madman. At last, the lead sinker breaks the surface. I see the top of the hook, my sister’s dragonfly barrette, a marshmallow, a slice of hot dog, a wiggly piece of shrimp . . . and . . . the sun is blinding . . . I’ve got . . .

  I’ve got . . .

  CHAPTER

  4

  Boy Overboard!

  An empty hook.

  Bug spit!

  “Tough break,” says Doyle.

  “Good try,” says Will.

  Joe lets out a tiny wail. He puts his head back down like he’s embarrassed to be my dog.

  I know I had something. I know it. What could have happened? A few seconds later I get my answer. The water near where my line went in starts to bubble, then a pond turtle pulls itself up onto a lily pad. Double bug spit!

  Will says what we already know. “Turtle must have gone for your lettuce.”

  SCAB’S TIP #37

  TO KEEP BUGS FROM BITING YOU, RUB A dryer sheet on your arms and legs before you go outside (it would have helped to know this before I went to summer camp and got eaten alive). If your mom is out of dryer sheets, do not substitute them with slices of American cheese. This turns you into a human hamburger and triples your insect bites.

  I slap away an enormous mosquito that’s feasting on my arm.

  An hour later, Will has eaten all my cheese puffs. There’s a huge red welt on my arm where the mutant mosquito tried to suck me dry. And we haven’t caught a thing.

  “I gotta get going,” says Will, licking his orange fingers.

  “Me too,” says Doyle. His cheeks are lobster red.

  I am not ready to give up. “How about another half hour to see if my perfect bait—”

  “No such thing,” says Will.

  WIGGLY

  WORM FACTS

  THE FISH TAPEWORM CAN grow to a length of forty feet—that’s as long as a school bus! Parasitic worms can live inside the human body for up to thirty years, just hanging out in your intestines and eating whatever you eat! They don’t like onions and garlic. Good thing. Neither do I. If I ask nicely, do you think my mom will let me get my own pet tapeworm?

  The guys start packing up. I slump down. Maybe he’s right. So far, my Fish Buffet Bait is a disaster. The score is turtles: 1, Scab: nothing. I open my tackle box.

  “Worms are the best bait,” says Will.

  “Everything likes worms,” says Doyle. “And when you think about it, worms like everything.”

  “Like what?” asks Will.

  “Dead bodies, for one,” Doyle says. His mom runs the Peaceful Meadows Funeral Home, so he ought to know.

  My head snaps up. Was that something? Did the bobber on my line wiggle? Whoa! There it is again. I set the hook. Come on, perfect fish bait! Come oooooon! I have something to prove here.

  Doyle is still talking. “. . . worms eat everything and anything, you know—skin, guts, hair—everything except bone.”

  Ah, the tug. This is it! Gently, gently, gently I start reeling in my line. Right away I know I’ve got something because I can feel the tension this time. And this fella is no squatty minnow, that’s for sure. “Guys,” I whisper. “I’ve got—”

  “Eyeballs are their favorites,” Doyle informs Will.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “What about the casket? Doesn’t that stop ’em from chewing on
the dead guy?”

  “You can buy one of the fancy metal ones, but they’ll still find a way to get in. Face it, Will, after you croak you’re going to get munched on by gobs of gooey earthworms.”

  “Cool.”

  My pole is arcing like a rainbow. It’s getting tougher to crank the reel. Blue veins are popping up on my forearms. This fish is huge. I grit my teeth. “Guys?”

  “E-roo?” squeaks Joe, lifting an ear. At least somebody’s paying attention.

  “My cousin Norwood has a tapeworm,” says Will, shutting his tackle box. “He ate raw meat or something.”

  “Now that is cool,” says Doyle. “Is the worm eating his eyeballs from the inside out?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask.”

  My rod is about to break. So are my arms. My feet are skidding toward the edge of the dock. Dribbles of sweat are falling into my eyes. “GUYS!”

  They turn. “What?”

  Doyle’s lobster face goes chalk white. Will drops his tin of bobbers.

  “Scab!”

  “Hold on! We’re coming.”

  Joe trots back and forth behind me. “Ow-ooooo!”

  Now he’s going to do the Lassie warning howl. Great timing. Thanks, boy.

  My strength is going, along with most of the rubber on the bottom of my tennis shoes. I make up my mind. No matter what happens I can’t let go. I won’t let go. I see my reflection in the black water. It’s coming up to meet me. “Yeeeeee-ahhhhhhhhhh!” I scream. My arms are being ripped from their sockets. This is it. I can’t hang on anymore. I’m going in!

  I shut my eyes, clamp my jaw, and wait for the cold and wet to smack me. I wait . . .

  SCAB’S FISHING JOURNAL

  MARCH 29—I CAUGHT MY FIRST FISH THIS YEAR! Sweet! It was a sunfish, about four inches long, a quarter pound. I think. Unfortunately, I also lost my first fish this year when it slipped through my fingers and back into the lake. Note: Never eat barbecue potato chips while fishing!