Читать книгу The Planetoid of Amazement - Mel Gilden - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

YELLOW STICKERS

Rodney tried something with the cherries he’d once seen a cousin do. This cousin had a real talent for putting a whole cherry in one side of his mouth, and without seeming to stop for anything, roll a pit out the other side of his mouth. Rodney got the hang of it after a while, but by that time he had tracks of juice on his chin. He decided that he was too grown-up for this kind of thing and put the cherries away.

He’d just begun his math homework (everything they hadn’t done in class because of the singing, they had to do for homework) when the phone rang.

While grumbling about being interrupted, Rodney leaped down the stairs and grabbed the phone on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Rodney? This is your father.”

“Oh yeah. I recognize the voice.”

They both chuckled at the familiar little joke.

“So,” said Rodney, “how’s the conference?”

“My idea about putting Chocolatron into oatmeal went over very big.”

“That’s nice.”

“You don’t sound so good. Everything okay?”

Rodney was fine. He just wasn’t about to get ex­cited about Chocolatron. He said, “Sure. Do you want to hear about the mail?”

Mr. Congruent did. Rodney read him the copy on each envelope, and only one of them interested Mr. Congruent at all. He’d heard all the other pitches be­fore. He said, “Open the one with the weird writing on it.”

“Looks like more advertising to me,” Rodney said.

“Yeah, but for what? Think about it.”

Rodney didn’t have to think about it. It was advertising. He put the phone down and tore open the envelope. He pondered the contents until he heard a tiny voice coming from the phone.

“Yeah, Dad. Sorry. I was just looking at the stuff in the envelope.”

“Don’t keep it to yourself, Rodney. What is it?”

Rodney said, “There’s a pad of small yellow stick­ers, each about an inch square.” He dropped the pad back into the envelope and took out a sheet of paper. “And this,” he said, “looks like instructions.”

“Looks like instructions?”

“Well, there are no words. Just pictures. Like the directions you get with a Japanese radio.”

Excitedly, Mr. Congruent asked him what the instructions were.

“It looks,” said Rodney, “as if they want you to tear off a sticker and stick it on your forehead.”

A moment later, Mr. Congruent said, “Go ahead.”

“Go ahead? You mean you want your only son to just go ahead and stick this thing—which may be full of exotic skin poison—on his head? Just like that.”

“It’s not poison, Rodney. It’s an adventure.”

Well, here it was. His big chance. He studied the instruction pictures over and over again, as if they could somehow tell him more. There was no way to know how dangerous applying a sticker might be. Was this how his parents had started? Had they been as un­certain about their futures as he was? Had their hearts beat as loudly? Had they sweated as much? Rodney could hear himself breathing into the telephone.

“Listen, Rodney. If somebody wanted to murder any of us with an exotic poison, they could just have put the poison in the paper the instructions were printed on. You’d already be a goner.”

Rodney nodded.

“Are you nodding, Rodney?”

“Yeah, Dad, I’m nodding.”

“Besides, any adventure involves an element of risk. That’s one of the things that makes it an adventure. If I hadn’t taken a chance, I might still be shoveling Chocolatron into the atomic furnaces of those crazy aliens.”

“You’re right, Dad. But these stickers are for you. The envelope has your name on it.” Rodney hated himself for saying this. His dad was pitching him the chance of a lifetime, and Rodney was lobbing it right back.

“You’re my son. I’ve already had my adventure. I’m willing to give this one to you.”

“Thanks.” Right back in his court. Part of Rodney was horrified. A major part. But he knew if he didn’t apply that sticker right now, he’d never do it. He’d never do anything except play the kazoo and maybe write the first movement of a symphony over and over again. And he’d continue to be jealous of his parents. More jealous, probably, knowing they’d suc­ceeded and he hadn’t. A terrible life.

Rodney set the telephone receiver on the table next to a folded cardboard model of the Great Auk and skidded his hands down his jeans to get rid of the sweat. He tore the top sticker off the pad. It came away easily. He looked at it. From this moment on, his life would be different. No more of this boring stuff. The excitement would never stop. He applied the sticker to his forehead and waited.

“Rodney?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Did you do it?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“How do you feel?”

“About the same. I don’t think these stickers do anything at all.” Rodney was aware of his lighthearted tone. He felt as if he’d just taken off a backpack full of bricks.

“It’s a strange sort of joke,” Mr. Congruent said.

“Maybe it’s not an adventure after all.” Rodney was disappointed that this was such a relief.

“Don’t give up so easily, Rodney. With adventures, you have to expect the unexpected. That’s something else that makes an adventure.”

“I suppose.”

“If you have time, call me and your mother when something happens. You have the number?”

“If I have time?”

“Adventures sometimes come swiftly. You’ll call?”

“Sure, Dad. If I have time.”

“That’s great. Anything else?”

They spoke for a few minutes more. Rodney asked Mr. Congruent to pass along his regards to his mom, and they hung up.

Rodney sat by the phone waiting to feel different. He felt a little nauseous, but that was probably be­cause he’d eaten too many cherries. Nothing else. He was just some kid sitting next to a telephone with a square yellow sticker on his forehead. Rodney went lack upstairs and started his math homework. When fifteen minutes had gone by, Rodney figured he’d given the adventure his best shot. Besides, the skin under the sticker was itching. He lifted his hand to pull the sticker off.

“Yow!” he cried. Rodney’d expected the sticker to just about fall off in his hand. But it didn’t. Rodney pulled gently but firmly. The sticker stuck to his fore­head as if it were a scab or something. He pulled harder. Nothing. He pulled hard enough to make his forehead hurt, but the sticker wouldn’t come away.

Rodney rushed to the bathroom. He rubbed soap all over the sticker, then baby oil. Nothing would loosen it. He looked at himself in the mirror, breath­ing hard from excitement and from the exertion of trying to pull off the sticker.

Whoever sent these stickers had had their rea­sons. It could still be poisoning him, or twining through his nervous system, or who knew what? Rodney thought of calling his parents but decided not to. His father had given this adventure to him. It was up to Rodney to figure out what to do about it. Even if it killed him.