Brain Freeze! Read online

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  Chapter 1

  Good

  Morning

  You ever wake up with one half your brain totally psyched and the other half completely frozen by fear? Weird, huh? Well, good morning, Friday! I decided right away to focus on the cool stuff happening today—not the stupid after-school thing my big mouth got me into.

  Okay, so you’re probably wondering who is this split-brained weirdo? I’m Irwin Snackcracker, and I’m heading into the kind of day fourth graders dream about. Well, fourth-grade boys at least. Can’t speak for the girls; besides, they talk enough on their own—“Blah, blah, blah. Giggle, giggle, giggle.” I’m sure there are other things in there also, but that’s what boys mostly hear.

  Anyhow, one half of today was going to be epic: pizza and tater tots for lunch in the cafeteria, plus a grossest booger contest with the guys at recess. I jumped out of bed, leaped over a mountain of stinky clothes, shot a basketball into an open dresser drawer, kicked a soccer ball out of the way, and ran to the bathroom.

  I checked both nostrils, shining a flashlight up there for proper exploration. Nothing too promising yet, but it was still early. No need to panic.

  I was halfway down my banister slide when Mom yelled at me to come down for breakfast. She was gonna freak! It usually took her at least five “I MEAN IT, MISTERS!” before my butt was at the table and ready to eat. Mom turned and saw me sitting there, dressed, ready, and smiling. My hair even looked sort of presentable, meaning it wasn’t sticking out in five different directions. Mom just looked at me kind of shocked. She kept yelling for me anyway, out of habit. Then she cautiously slid a bowl of oatmeal in front of me, covered her ears, and waited for my usual high-pitched whining about the evils of oatmeal and how the Quaker Oats guy looks like someone from the Stranger Danger video we watched in first grade.

  I just looked at the bowl, smiled, and asked, “Could I perhaps have just a smidge of brown sugar to liven it up a bit?” I used my awesome British accent, which makes everything hilarious and NEVER gets old or annoying.

  Then I ate up all the oatmeal.

  “Who are you? And what have you done with Irwin?” asked Mom.

  I just looked up and sweetly replied, “Boy, I’d better hustle so I’ve got time to properly brush and floss.”

  My mother fainted. Wham!

  After brushing my teeth and one last nostril check, I headed back downstairs. Mom was still on the floor from her fainting. I asked her if she was okay, and she smiled and gave me a thumbs-up, so I leaped over her, grabbed my backpack, and shot out the door. Other than the slight hiccup with the oatmeal for breakfast (Pop-Tarts would have been my first choice), it was a perfect day. Man, the sun was even shining. I quickly met up with my best buddy, Trey, and we strode off toward the Mock City School, home of the Screaming Bigfoots . . . or Bigfeet. Either way it’s a weird mascot.

  Trey was cool and smart. He didn’t talk a lot, which was fine. Boys mostly communicate through throwing things, punching shoulders, and burping anyhow.

  “What’s up?” Trey asked.

  “Nothin’.”

  “Did you see that thing on that channel?” he continued.“Totally,” I replied, even though I had NO idea what Trey was talking about.

  This was a normal conversation for us. We avoided talking about stuff like school, family, and anything we ever actually cared for other than sports. It kept things simple.

  Up ahead we could see our friend Elisha coming out her front door . . . skipping. WHO SKIPS AT 8:15 IN THE MORNING?!

  Elisha does.

  Mom once told me her enthusiasm was contagious. That always freaked me out. I thought the flu was contagious.

  Anyhow, me and Trey and Elisha have been friends FOREVER. Like since kindergarten, back when we were kids. Trey and I still owed Elisha because when we were first graders she saved us from a nasty bully . . . Wendy C.

  Unlike Trey and me, Elisha talked a lot . . . A WHOLE LOT. I had found through studies in the field that most girls do talk a lot . . . and giggle . . . and then talk about how fun it was to giggle . . . and then put things in their hair. And then talk about how cute the things in their hair look. I’ve given up trying to figure girls out. It made my head hurt, and everyone knows that heads were made to put baseball caps on, nothing more.

  “Hi, friendboys!” Elisha started talking as soon as she saw us.

  Trey and I just looked at each other. Neither one of us really wanted to reply . . . but I couldn’t take it.

  “What’s a ‘friendboy’?” I asked.

  “Well, Mr. Crankypants, you guys are boys,” Elisha replied.

  “Thanks for clearing that up,” said Trey.

  “AND you’re my friends,” Elisha continued, “but you’re not boyfriends, so I’ve come up with the word ‘friendboys’!”

  Trey and I looked at each other again.

  “So, what do you think?” Elisha asked.

  “About what?” I replied.

  “About the word ‘FRIENDBOYS’?!” she yelled. “Pay attention.”

  Sometimes Trey knew just what to say to Elisha: “If we say that it’s genius, can we move on?”

  “Yes,” answered Elisha.

  “It’s genius,” Trey said.

  “I know. There, now you two can get back to whatever you were discussing. Boogers, or baseball, or baseballs covered in boogers,” said Elisha.

  As far as girls go, however, Elisha was okay. If I DID like girls, which I don’t, I guess she’d be all right. But I don’t like them. We’re clear on that, right? Besides, seeing Elisha reminded me of the dreaded part of today. You see, Elisha was fast—I mean, really fast. Like, she could beat all the boys in a race, even in her sneakers that had flowers and kitties on them, which made losing to her twice as embarrassing.

  Anyhow, I had shot my big mouth off about how I could beat her in a race if I really tried. Which was stupid since I’m one of the slowest kids in my class. Ronnie Herzog challenged me on it and dared me to race her. My reputation as a dude was at risk. We even made a bet. If I won, Ronnie had to tell our teacher in front of the whole class he had made poopie in his pants and needed to be excused. If I lost, I had to kiss Elisha—right on the face! AND tell her I loved her! AAUUGGHH! Not ready for that!

  Elisha had no idea about the bet, and I put it out of my mind for now. I was just glad she didn’t bring up the race as we walked to school.

  The three of us walked through the front doors of school like we owned it, but not in a snotty way. We were just in a good place in life: way past the awkward kindergarten and first-grade years, where the threat of a thumb-sucking slip was still a scary possibility, but not yet an old kid—the ones recently attacked by the Zit Fairy. EWWW. And the last feather in our caps . . . the school nurse, Ms. Scabs, had recently declared us all “cootie free.”

  Chapter 2

  The Contest

  After a pretty regular morning in Ms. Frost’s class of algebra, geometry, spelling, re-creating the entire Civil War out of toothpicks, reading seventy-four chapters in our English book, and making a volcano that actually worked, it was time for lunch. (In case you hadn’t noticed, Ms. Frost liked to keep the class busy.)

  The lunch line seemed to take forever . . . the smell of square pizza slices and unwashed hairnets was killing me! I made a note to myself to create a room deodorizer that smelled like this someday.

  Another million in the bank.

  Me and Trey found our regular spot in the cafeteria: far enough from the youngsters so as
not to be confused for one, but not too close to the fifth graders who could reach you with a flung pea. Those dudes were deadly accurate.

  Lunch was perfect. The pizza had plenty of pepperonis, and each was filled with a glistening pool of grease. The tater tots were made to order: slightly burnt on the outside with a nearly frozen core. Man! Those lunch ladies could cook!

  Well, most of them.

  There was a rumor about some lunch lady years ago whose cooking actually killed some kids! They say she lurks in the halls during fire drills and assemblies, but I don’t believe it. Other people say she’s out prowling the streets of Mock City, waiting for revenge for getting fired. But come on, you kill a couple kids with your meat loaf, you probably deserved at least a trip to the principal’s office.

  The bell rang for the after-lunch recess. Me and the other boys raced outside. We met at the monkey bars for the grossest booger contest . . . well, first we pretended our fingers were loaded with snot and raced at the herd of girls talking by the swings. The girls ran and screamed, “GROSS!” and “STOP IT!”

  Good times!

  The booger contest itself went okay. I came in third with a pretty respectable pick. I was probably lucky to get the bronze considering I got a pretty bad index (digger) finger cramp during my initial entry and was forced to call a time-out for injury. Jimmy Trowbridge won the contest with an absolute gem of a booger. The thing was as long as your thumb and chock-full of dirt, pencil shavings, and what we were all pretty sure was a live snail. The kid was an artist . . . or athlete . . . whatever.

  Since today was Friday, there was one last order of business: ice cream. Our school sold ice cream on Fridays as a fundraiser. No one was sure what the money they raised went for. My guess was that it went toward those fancy cars the teachers drove. Ms. Frost’s car was called a “Pinto” and even had one door that was a different color from the rest of the car. Must have cost a fortune to customize it like that. Pimp my Pinto.

  I never knew if my mother had remembered to give me ice cream money or not. I had stopped asking because Mom wasn’t too thrilled with the whole sticky-sweet program to begin with, but she often would just put quarters in my pants pockets on Fridays to be nice. I hadn’t checked yet this morning. I closed my eyes and made a wish.

  “Boogers and burps, London and France,

  Let me find money down in my pants.”

  I dug deep into my front pocket. And just past what felt like half of an old Oreo . . .

  SCORE! TWO QUARTERS! HOORAY FOR MOM!

  Chapter 3

  Squirrel Chat

  I hustled over to the little ice cream cart inside the corner of the cafeteria. I hoped there was still a good selection. The booger contest, although enjoyable and character building, had taken up a lot of recess.

  There was one person in line, Wendy C., the bully from first grade. (She thought it sounded cool just to go by an initial.) Anyway, one person on an ice cream line was good and bad. A short line meant “no waiting,” but it also could mean “no good ones left.”

  I walked up and got in line behind Wendy C. I asked the ice-cream guy about the selection. Mr. NO RUNNING! (not his real name, just all he ever said) grunted. Wendy C. was halfway down inside the cart. She screamed, “The last fudgesicle!” and came up beaming. Then she did that stupid hair flip she always does and smacked me in the face with her ponytail and all the stupid things clipped to it. She made a motion like she was going to punch me. I flinched. She won.

  “Good luck . . . Irwin,” Wendy C. said as she strolled away. I didn’t have time for a snappy comeback. I usually never had one anyway. Mr. NO RUNNING! popped open the cart’s lid, and I peered down inside. Just ice cream sandwiches, kind of what I expected. Oh well, it would have to do. An ice cream sandwich is better than NO ice cream at all.

  But right when I was digging for my quarters, I saw what appeared to be a slightly different color of paper buried in the far corner of the cart. Could it be . . .

  “YES! FUDGESICLE!”

  I grabbed it, handed over my fifty cents, and bounded back outside. I was grinning from ear to ear, but I tried not to show off. In my triumph, I wanted to be a better person than Wendy C., and I remembered what my parents always said: “Be a good winner.”

  “HA HA, SUCKERS! I GOT THE LAST FUDGESICLE, NOT WENDY!” I yelled. Nothing mean about that. Just stating the facts . . . loudly. I, ripped open the wrapper and chomped into that bad boy.

  Pure deliciousness!

  I chomped down again . . . even more deliciousness, plus a throat chill. I knew I should slow down, but I couldn’t. The excitement of finding that last fudgesicle had taken over. Besides, I’m nine and a half years old, for crying out loud! I’m supposed to eat ice cream like a maniac! It’s in the job description. I bit into my fudgesicle one more time and there it was . . .

  BRAIN FREEZE! AAUUGGHH!

  I’d had brain freeze before, lots of times. (We’ve already established I eat ice cream like a total pig.) That was my thing. But this time something was different. I started shaking, things got a little blurry. My hair tingled. Yes, my hair tingled. My whole body felt, um, energized—electric or something. Probably how Frankenstein’s monster felt after that first jolt! Or Benjamin Franklin when his kite got zapped!

  I felt like I didn’t have control of myself anymore. My legs started vibrating, and ZOOM! Suddenly I took off with blazing speed toward the oak tree at the edge of the playground! I made it there in what seemed like one, maybe two seconds. I’ll bet I was leaving one of those cartoon blurs behind me. When I got to the tree, I zipped halfway up the trunk, did a backflip, and landed right on my feet, as if I’d done it a hundred times.

  WHOA!

  Trembling, I looked down at my fudgesicle. What the heck is in this thing?! I wasn’t sure whether I should throw it as far as I could or take another bite.

  Being a pigboy, I took another bite . . .

  and another brain freeze hit me!

  I got that weird feeling again and did the zoom/climb/flip thing, but this time I looked up when I heard “That back-flip was pretty sweet, dude.”

  A squirrel looked me right in the eyes; I stared back. Then it struck me.

  A . . . squirrel . . . just . . . talked . . . to . . . me.

  I fainted, face-first in the dirt.

  When I woke up, the supersized face of Ms. Scabs, the school nurse, hovered over me, close enough for me to smell the tacos she had for lunch. I was dazed, confused, and had several questions.

  “Am I okay?”

  “What happened?”

  “Did anyone save my fudgesicle?”

  Ms. Scabs put a cold washcloth on my forehead and told me to lie back down.

  Within a couple minutes, my mother had arrived at school. Apparently it’s school policy that if you faint face-first in the dirt, you’re excused for the rest of the day.

  The whole ride home Mom asked me over and over if I was okay, and about what had happened on the playground. I mostly just groaned that I was fine. I felt a little sick, and was starting to worry about how the guys were going to torture me endlessly for fainting. I’d have to come up with something. Maybe I could just say Mr. No Running! was a kid-hating ninja spy and had poisoned me! Yeah, that could happen. Well, at least the race was off for today.

  The other reason I was worried was that I really didn’t want to discuss what had happened. I mean, how do you tell somebody, “Oh, by the way, now I can run a hundred miles an hour, do tree flips, and talk to squirrels.” It’s kind of hard to just slip that into conversation without drawing some attention . . . or a well-deserved wedgie. Mom already said my imagination worked overtime. She’d never believe anything I said again if I told her that. Still, she looked worried. Almost like she knew something but wasn’t telling. Like that look a doctor would have right before saying, “Oh, and don’t be surprised if your butt fal
ls off later today.”

  “Butt” . . . now that’s a funny word. Classic.

  We turned onto Diamond Street, and I saw our house. I also saw Grandpa Gus’s car parked out front.

  “Cool,” I said. “Grandpa’s here.”

  “I told your grandfather what happened and he wanted to be here,” Mom explained.

  I loved my Grandpa Gus. He was a funny, odd old dude who always had a joke for me. Some of them I even understood. My friends thought Grandpa Gus looked older than most grandparents. Like maybe he’d lived a really hard life. Who knows? I just know he’s cool. Maybe I could tell Grandpa about what happened.

  Chapter 4

  In the Genes

  My mother insisted that I go lie down and rest. I talked her into just a couple minutes with Grandpa. I walked into the living room, and there was Gramps, on the recliner, reclined, and snoring . . . loudly.

  I cleared my throat. “Auuh-Ughh.”

  Nothing.

  Grandpa Gus was out like a rock. Well, you know, if rocks wore plaid shirts and black knee-high socks. Sleeping on the floor next to him was Captain, Grandpa’s corgi that had to be at least 207 years old in dog time. Heck, maybe in people time. Captain farted. A lot. And I could swear that goofy-looking little dog smiled when he did it. Like he knew the pain and suffering he was about to bring to others. I respected that about him. I’d kill to be able to toot on command.

  I dropped my backpack on the floor hard.

  THUD!

  Captain barked loudly, waking up Gramps. Mission accomplished.