A Bad Day for Voodoo Read online

  “I can’t believe you went all the way to Duncan Street for that junk.”

  “This creepy old lady works there. She did all of the enchantment and everything.”

  “For eighty bucks?”

  “Well, yeah, and also a trade.” He pulled up his shirtsleeve, revealing a bandage. “A pint of blood. I’m not sure what she’s gonna do with it.”

  I gaped at him. “You gave her blood ?”

  “Why not? My mom donates blood for a Popsicle and a free Thermos. Why not some virgin blood for a discount on a voodoo doll?”

  “I can’t believe you!” I said, silently vowing that in college I’d find friends who were less deranged. “How could you possibly think this was real?” I asked, shaking the doll.

  “Stop that!” he shouted, grabbing the doll away from me.

  “You could snap his spine! Look, Tyler, this is serious stuff, and you can’t goof around. We’re not eleven years old anymore.”

  At that point, I realized to my slack-j awed, bug-eyed, gasp- inducing amazement that Adam actually believed in the doll. He truly thought that this ridiculous little doll could harm Mr. Click. I’d always known that he wasn’t Adam Westell, Boy Genius, but this was far beyond anything I would’ve expected from him.

  “Humor me,” he said, carefully placing the doll back in the box and closing the lid. “If it doesn’t work, then I’m dumb, and you don’t have to pay back the eighty bucks. If it does work.c’mon, imagine how sweet it’ll be to jab a pin in that thing right in the middle of class!”

  “What’ll happen?”

  “His leg will hurt. Right in the middle of class!”

  “And why exactly is that awesome?”

  Adam sighed. “He’s standing in front of the class, talking about some war. You poke the doll in the leg. ‘Ow! Ow!’ Mr. Click gets a sharp pain in his leg! You poke the doll in the arm. ‘Ow! Ow!’ Sharp pain in the arm! He’ll be freaking out! Poke him all over the place. He won’t know if he’s having a heart attack or his appendix is going to burst or if he caught an STD.” “And that’s hilarious?”

  “Do I really need to explain why having Mr. Click feel pain is a good thing? The guy is Satan in a blender with Hitler!”

  “You know you wasted your money, right? It’s the most wasted eighty bucks you’ll ever spend.”

  “I did it for you.”

  “Well, in the future, don’t do things like that for me. Figure out other things to do. Buy me a gift card. C’mon, Adam, voodoo dolls aren’t real! What’s the matter with you?”

  Adam traced his index finger along one of the symbols on the box lid. “I’m not saying that I completely believe it, but you should’ve talked to that old lady at the shop. She was really convincing. The way I look at it, even if the doll turns out to be a complete rip-off—”

  “Not if. When.”

  “—if the doll turns out to be fake, it’ll still make you feel better to jab pins into it during class, right? Like when you put somebody’s picture on a dartboard? That always feels good.” “I’m not doing it.”

  “I went to a lot of trouble to figure out a way for you to get even with Mr. Satan Hitler. You’re not even going to humor me? How is your life worse if you poke pins in a doll?”

  I supposed Adam had a point. This was really stupid, but it wasn’t like he was asking me to run naked through a pep rally. (He had in the past, and I had declined.) Ultimately, sticking a pin into a doll was not a big deal.

  “Why don’t you do it?” I asked.

  “I’m not the one who got screwed. I deserved my F. This is about you.”

  “All right. Fine. Whatever. How does it work?”

  Adam grinned. “Exactly the way you’d expect a voodoo doll to work.” He removed the box lid and picked up a pin from inside. “You stick the pin into the doll, and Mr. Click feels it. Take it out, and the pain goes away.”

  “Does it have to be that pin?”

  “Nah. The old lady just threw in a couple of them for free.”

  “Have you tested it?”

  Adam shook his head. “It’s no fun if you can’t see his reaction. Do it today in class. Don’t tell Kelley.”

  That wasn’t going to be a problem. Kelley kind of liked Adam, dubbing him “quirky,” but if I told her that I was thinking about playing along with a voodoo-doll scheme, she would’ve instantly broken up with me. She was very practical about those sorts of things. “Dabbling in the nonexistent supernatural realm? New boyfriend, please.”

  When we got to school, I put the box in my locker and went to algebra class. I didn’t think about the doll much during the day because, as I’ve said before, it was stupid. Between sixth and seventh period, I went to my locker, took the doll out of the box, and put it in my backpack.

  I wished that I could just lie about it (“Pinned it. Nothin’.”), but Adam sat right next to me.

  Is it possible that maybe, just maybe, a small part of me believed that the doll was truly enchanted with the magical power of voodoo? Was there some insignificant part of my psyche that wanted vengeance with such intensity that I subconsciously convinced myself that this could work?

  Nope. The doll was a bunch of crap.

  When I sat at my desk, I left my backpack unzipped on the floor next to me. I wasn’t going to actually take the doll out, because voodoo or not, I sure didn’t want anybody to see me holding a doll in history class.

  The bell rang, and Mr. Click gave us his traditional afternoon scowl. “Did everybody read pages two-forty through two-fifty- three like you were supposed to?”

  Most of the kids nodded.

  “Good. Then this pop quiz should pose no problem.”

  The class groaned. Mr. Click handed a stack of papers to the first kid in each row so they could pass them back. I had a sudden desire to poke a voodoo doll right between the eyes, but I definitely didn’t want him to see me reaching into my backpack before a quiz. The quiz sucked.

  After ten minutes, Mr. Click told us that our time was up and to pass the quizzes forward. As we did so, Mr. Click stared right at me, and his beady eyes seemed to say, “I know you have a voodoo doll in your backpack, and if you try to stick a pin in it, I will destroy you and everyone you’ve ever loved.”

  A moment later I decided that his eyes probably weren’t saying that. It was more likely “Cheating is bad.”

  Mr. Click collected the quizzes, set them on his desk, and then began the lecture. It’s worth noting that he was not an engaging speaker. He tended to ramble and repeat himself and drain every possible bit of potential interest from the subject matter. Though I was no history buff, some of this stuff was kind of cool.. .but not when the words came from Mr. Click’s mouth.

  To get the basic gist of what I’m talking about, pick any paragraph from this book and read it out loud in a monotone. Reread it over and over and over and over until you want to bash your head against a hard surface over and over and over and over so that your brain can escape and flee for sanctuary. That’s what his lectures were like.

  About half an hour into the class, when Mr. Click had his back turned because he was scrawling something onto the chalkboard, Adam reached over and poked me in the shoulder. He glared at me and mouthed, “Do it.”

  Fine. I’d do it.

  Mr. Click turned back toward us and continued his agonizing lecture. It was about four or five minutes later (felt like sixty or seventy) before he returned his attention to the chalkboard.

  I casually leaned down and reached into my backpack. It shuffled a bit, but the nice thing about having a straight-A student for a girlfriend is that she was paying too close attention to what the teacher was saying to turn around and see what her idiot boyfriend was doing right behind her.

  The pins were in a small pouch that I’d purposely left unzipped. I quickly picked up one of them.

  I poked it deep into the doll’s left leg.

  Mr. Click let out a shriek of pain that ripped through my eardrums.

  And then his leg
shot off from his body in a spray of blood and bone as if it had been fired from a cannon.

  The leg slid across the tile floor, leaving a thick red trail and stopped only when it struck the wall.

  I guess it goes without saying that everybody in the classroom began to figuratively scream their heads off.

  CHAPTER 3

  Kelley was the first one up. Mr. Click lay on the floor, bellowing and clutching his stump, while I thought, Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God...

  Kids were sobbing and screaming and panicking, and there were at least two confirmed vomiters. There was blood everywhere. I couldn’t breathe.

  I plucked the pin out of the doll. Sadly, Mr. Click’s leg did not slide back and reattach itself.

  What had I done?

  What kind of horrible monster was I?

  What the hell kind of steroid-enhanced voodoo doll was this?

  “Get me a ruler!” Kelley shouted, obviously thinking, tourniquet. There was blood on her glasses, but none had yet spurted onto her blonde hair, which was pulled back into a ponytail.

  I stood up, feeling dizzy. A few kids had their cell phones out and were frantically dialing. Two girls, Helen and Andrea, ran out of the classroom to get help.

  Adam was frozen in his seat, looking positively horrified. Which was a relief—that was much better than seeing him sitting there, rubbing his hands together, and cackling in malicious glee.

  I stumbled up to the front of the room, pausing for a moment as my vision blurred. Then I crouched down next to Kelley and Mr. Click. Kelley was clearly freaked out yet was staying composed. Somebody handed her a ruler.

  “Give me your shirt,” she said to me.

  I stripped off my shirt and gave it to her. She wrapped it around the ruler and Mr. Click’s stump, then began to twist the ruler.

  I don’t have a solid memory of the next few minutes. I know that Mr. Jenkins, who taught economics next door, came in to see what all of the commotion was about. He didn’t think we were overreacting. Then the principal, a couple more teachers, and finally some cops and two paramedics arrived.

  They got Mr. Click onto a gurney and wheeled my screaming history teacher out of the classroom. Yes, one of the paramedics brought his leg with them.

  After they left, I gave Kelley a hug, and she totally lost it, sobbing against my bare chest.

  Our three-month anniversary was tomorrow. Apparently, my present to her was a ghastly, horrific experience that would forever haunt her. She’d probably give me a book.

  This went way beyond any thirst for revenge I might have had. Even if I’d believed that the doll would work, which I’ve already clearly established that I most certainly did not, I didn’t expect any reaction stronger than “Ow!” Maybe a “Dammit!” If I could have gotten an “Ow!” and a “Dammit!” out of him, I would have felt avenged enough.

  Obviously there were certain questions that I wanted to ask of my good buddy Adam. I supposed that they should wait. Pointing at him and shouting, “What did you make me doooooo?!?” would be a bad idea until such a time as there weren’t twenty-eight kids, three teachers, and a principal in the room.

  Everybody in class was quickly questioned by the police, who were quite understandably confused as to how such a thing could happen. I’m not sure how my fellow history students reported the afternoon’s events, but I assumed that they were all variations on “He was talking about World War I, and then suddenly, his leg flew off!”

  Did I need to be nervous? Somebody might have seen me reach into my backpack seconds before the incident, but so what? What could I have had in my backpack that made somebody’s leg shoot off? A detonator? How could I strap explosives to Mr. Click’s upper left leg without him being aware of it? There hadn’t been an actual bang, and if explosives were involved, there’d be burn marks on his leg, so the police would quickly rule that out, which meant that the only possible connection between me reaching into my backpack and his leg coming off could be “voodoo doll,” and I didn’t think they’d go there.

  When it was my turn to give a statement, the cop was reasonably polite and even had somebody find me a new shirt to wear. Though I babbled a bit (Okay, a lot...Okay, more than a lot), under these circumstances, I don’t think it seemed suspicious.

  By the time we were allowed to leave, the press had surrounded the school. Kelley, Adam, and I gave a quick “No comment!” and got into the back of Kelley’s mother’s car. Other kids were enthusiastically talking to reporters about what had happened, but we just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. The doll was still in my backpack, but though I’d put it back inside its box, every bump on the road sent a jolt through my heart. I was glad I wasn’t the one driving; it’s hard enough to keep your hands at ten and two without worrying that you’re going to jostle a voodoo doll and kill your teacher.

  Kelley’s mom had always been nice to me in an I-know-my- daughter-can-do-better-but-I-suppose-she-could-also-do-a- whole-l ot-worse manner, and she seemed genuinely concerned about my mental health as we pulled up in front of my home. I assured her that I’d be fine, and Adam assured her that he didn’t need to be dropped off at his own house.

  I gave Kelley the kind of kiss you give your girlfriend when she’s been through a traumatic experience and her mom is right there, and they drove off.

  Finally, Adam and I were alone.

  “So,” I said, keeping my voice as calm as possible, “is it safe to say that you thought something else was going to happen?”

  “I had no idea!” Adam insisted. “Not a clue! Did you see that? Did you see it? I—I—I—I didn’t think legs could do that! Oh my God! That was insane! Did you see it?”

  “Why did it do that?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  “They didn’t give you any kind of warning?”

  “No! It was only supposed to sting! I swear to you what happened wasn’t the plan!” Adam closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.

  “What if he dies?”

  Adam opened his eyes. “He won’t, will he? People don’t die from losing legs, not if the ambulance gets there right away, do they?” “Did you see how much blood he lost?”

  “Yes! It was all over the place! That was, like, ten times as much blood as I thought somebody would lose if their leg got cut off. Oh my God!” He was almost crying now. “Do you think they’ll find out we did it?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, if you think about it, I don’t see how they could. A CSI team isn’t going to expose a voodoo curse, are they? We just need to get rid of this doll!”

  Adam brightened. “We’ll burn it!”

  “No, we won’t freaking burn it!”

  “Oh yeah, right, right, right. Terrible idea.”

  “Can the old lady.. .you know, deactivate it?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. She’d have to be able to, right?” “Maybe that’s something you should have researched before you bought a voodoo doll!”

  “You’re the one who stuck the pin in it!”

  I did not punch him. Praise me for my restraint.

  “Don’t hit me,” he said, noticing my clenched fist. “I’m sorry. It was all my fault!”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll make it right. I’ll fix it, I promise.”

  “How can you possibly fix it?”

  “I mean I’ll fix the doll. The surgeons will fix Mr. Click. They’ve got his leg with them—they’ll just use lasers to put it back on. He’ll be okay. He never wears shorts. Should I call the old lady?”

  I shook my head. “If this does come back to us, we don’t want any record of any calls to a voodoo shop.”

  “Yeah, yeah, good thinking. I’ll take it back tonight. We’ll be fine. Leg lasered back on, doll deactivated...everything will be awesome.” He reached for my backpack. “Give me the doll.” Put yourself in my position. Your friend, who is looking crazy-eyed and a little scary, wants you to give him a doll with unspeakable powe
rs. This particular friend has demonstrated on numerous occasions that he is prone to very poor judgment. He’s a good pal, and you like hanging out with him; yet you also suspect that if he is left responsible for the doll, he might drop it, lose it, or somehow accidentally cause your history teacher to become a four-limb amputee.

  So you tell him, “I’ll hang onto it.”

  Adam’s eyes turned crazier and scarier. “Are you going to hand it over to the cops?”

  “No!”

  “You’re going to turn me in, aren’t you?”

  “No! That would be like turning myself in! What’s the matter with you?”

  “Why won’t you give me the doll?”

  “We’ll take it there together!”

  “Give me the doll!”

  Adam lunged at me, knocking me to the ground. I got the eagerly awaited opportunity to punch him, though there was no joy or satisfaction in the act, just a hurt fist. Adam, who didn’t get punched very often, howled in pain and crawled off me, hand against his jaw.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m flipping out, okay? I admit it! My brain is weak.”

  “Well, stop it! You could have wrecked the doll even more! We have nothing to worry about, as long as we don’t act like complete morons!” I picked up my backpack and stood back up. “Can I please have the doll?”

  “No.”

  “I’d really like the doll.”

  “We’re taking it back together, all right? My mom will get home before yours, so when she does, we’ll borrow the car and take the doll back to the voodoo shop.”

  “What do we do until then? Twitch?”

  “Let’s see what they’re saying on TV.”

  We went inside my house, plopped down on the living room couch, and after the usual five-minute hunt for the remote control, I turned on the television.