Well, Stanley thought with relief, at least his toy had been spared. He took Zombiekins and put it in his school bag by the front door.
Then he went back to the playroom, gathered the remains of the other stuffies into a box, and hid them under his bed before he left for school. He didn’t want Fetch to get sent to a farm. After all, the poor dog couldn’t help it if he was born stupid.
7
AT SCHOOL, ZOMBIEKINS WAS EVEN MORE OF A HIT than Stanley could have hoped. Kids from all over the playground stopped whatever they were doing to crowd around him for a look at his weird, one-of-a-kind toy. Girls dropped their skipping ropes. Boys paused in the middle of pummeling each other. One kid wandered off the school grounds blindfolded when the friends he was playing blindfold tag with rushed away without telling him.
“Cool!” exclaimed Kathleen.
“Freaky!” complimented Fiona.
“Ew, gross!” squealed Butch.
“If you come anywhere near me with that thing,” shrieked Big Tony, “I’ll scream!”
But then a growl from the back of the crowd silenced all the others:
“Nice doll, Nudelman.”
It was Knuckles Bruzkowski, the school bully.
The crowd around Stanley split up as quickly as it had formed. Girls hopscotched it out of there. Boys suddenly recalled they had people to punch at the other end of the yard. Somebody remembered the kid who was “it” in blindfold tag and went to retrieve him from traffic.
Knuckles was the terror of every kid in Dementedyville Elementary, but he always reserved a special place in his hurt for Stanley. He never saw Stanley without giving him a sucker punch, wedgie, or purple nurple—so when Stanley could help it, Knuckles never saw him at all.
But this time Stanley had let his guard down, and before he could duck for cover under the play structure, tunnel though the sand to safety, run home and transfer to another school, Knuckles grabbed hold of him.
And the next thing Stanley knew, he was dangling upside down in the chains of the tire swing and Knuckles was clenching Zombiekins in one of his meaty fists.
“Why are its eyes like that?” Knuckles grunted, holding the strange stuffy away from him as if he wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“I-I got it at Mrs. Imavitch’s yard sale,” Stanley stammered.
Knuckles’ eyes widened.
“You got this from the Widow?” he said. Stanley would’ve almost said he looked afraid.
The bell rang. All over the school ground, children stopped laughing and playing and trudged into line like condemned prisoners. Stanley felt a wave of panic, remembering the time Knuckles hung him from the basketball net at first recess on a rainy day and he wasn’t discovered until home time. (His teeth still chattered just thinking about it.)
“Hey,” said a voice behind them. “Give that back to Stanley right now!”
It was Miranda, of course. She was the only kid in school who ever dared stand up to Knuckles.
Knuckles’ lips curled in a snarl, but he didn’t make a move toward her. Instead he just wrenched the swing tighter around Stanley.
“Make me,” Knuckles growled.
“We’re not afraid of you, Duane,” Miranda said.
Knuckles’ eyes flashed with anger at the mention of his given name. He cranked the swing another couple notches.
“Yes, we are!” Stanley squeaked.
Fortunately, at that moment, the duty teacher Mrs. Plumdotty saw them from across the yard.
“Stan-ley,” she called from the back door, where she was herding kids into the school. “Stop playing on those swings and line up. You heard the bell, dear.”
“Yeah, Stanley, dear,” Knuckles snorted. He gave Zombiekins one last, uncertain look and stuffed it into the space where the chain made a collar around Stanley’s neck. Then he wound the swing a couple notches tighter and released it with a spin.
“Catch you later, Nudelman,” Knuckles growled as he lumbered away.
8
ALL THE WAY UP TO THEIR CLASS ON THE THIRD floor, Stanley had to listen to Miranda lecture him for the hundredth time about standing up to Knuckles. She had this theory that Knuckles would leave Stanley alone if only he would stick up for himself. Stanley had his own theory—that whenever Miranda did stick up for him, it only made Knuckles’ poundings worse.
Halfway up the last flight of stairs, they were startled by a voice from above.
“Mister Nudelman . . .”
Their teacher Mr. Baldengrumpy was standing at the top of the stairwell with a look on his face like he’d just bitten into a pickled lemon.
Stanley froze. It was never good when a teacher called you “Mister.”
“Did you really expect to get away with it this time?” Mr. Baldengrumpy croaked.