The Mysterious Matter of I. M. Fine

  The Mysterious Matter of I. M. Fine

  Diane Stanley

  Dedication

  For Elaine Scott

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  A few years ago, I made up a game to play with the packing boxes. It was called Find the Treasure. The twins and I would pick something familiar—like the eggbeater, say, or the candlesticks—and that would be the treasure. Then while Mom and Dad were unpacking things and putting them away, we would start madly opening boxes, trying to find it. Whoever found the treasure first got to pick the coolest bedroom in the new house. Of course, since Mom and Dad were under the impression that we were actually helping them unpack, they expected us to do things like take the dishes into the kitchen—not just pile them on the floor and move on to the next box. This provided an added challenge.

  The last time we moved, the idea just popped into my head that it would be a lot more exciting if, instead of a treasure, it was a bomb—and if we didn’t find it in time, the whole house would blow up! We got so frenzied trying to save the family from annihilation that we broke a couple of things and our parents got really annoyed.

  After that, we quit playing the game and just helped unpack like normal kids (normal kids, that is, who move a lot).

  Still, the idea of a time bomb hidden among the packing boxes, with their innocent labels (KITCHEN, BED LINENS, TOYS), haunted me.

  Later, after everything that happened, I remembered the game and wondered what had put the idea into my head, and why it had stayed with me so stubbornly. It was almost as if I somehow knew, way back then, what was going to happen.

  Now, I know this sounds really mystical and off-the-wall, and I apologize about that. And, of course, if you want to be absolutely literal about it, the whole I. M. Fine thing wasn’t about bombs at all. But once you’ve read this story, I think you’ll understand. It was just a different kind of time bomb in a different kind of package. But it was every bit as dangerous as the real thing. And just like in the game, time was running out.

  Well, you’ll see.

  2

  First, I should explain about the moving.

  My father is a consultant to community colleges. Once, he actually started a new school from scratch, and that took several years. But usually he just helps reorganize their programs. Either way, once he gets things whipped into shape, we move on.

  My mom works, too, but moving isn’t a problem for her. Her job is translating books and articles from German into English, which she does out of a home office. She must be really psyched about the fact that she can take her work with her wherever she goes, because she mentions it a lot.

  As for me and Zoë and J.D.—well, apparently they think that all we really need—besides loving parents, of course—are a house to live in and a school to go to. I guess when you get older, you kind of forget what it’s like to start all over in a new school with a bunch of kids who have known one another since they were playing with blocks back in preschool.

  We complain about it every time we have to move. In response, we get a sigh and a lecture, which never fails to cover the following four points. One: Dad has to go where the work is. (Usually, they follow this with a reminder that the money he makes helps put food on our table, like we hadn’t figured that out already. Also, this is supposed to make us feel guilty for complaining.) Two: My Mom grew up in a navy family. They moved all the time, and she turned out just fine. Three: Think how lucky we are to have been so many different places! And four: Think of it as a challenge!

  That last one is easier said than done. Of the three of us, my sister, Zoë, is the only one who can really operate that way. Not that she likes starting over every year—she just doesn’t let it stop her. Every time she arrives at a new school, she’s like a kid on a mission, determined to make friends or die trying. Though she’s only ten, Zoë has developed some kind of inner radar that allows her to figure out everything you need to know to be popular. First day at a new school, she comes home with a whole new vocabulary. Plus, she has to go shopping right away because everybody is wearing pop-beads or socks with cats on them and she has to wear them, too.

  Within three weeks, Zoë will have been invited to a party or at least to spend the night at someone’s house. It’s a real talent. I wish I had it.

  J.D., my little brother, is Zoë’s twin. I used to think he was kind of an “anti-Zoë,” that he just looked to see what she was doing and then did the opposite. But after I thought about it some more, I decided that wasn’t fair to J.D. He just has his own special outlook on life. He doesn’t seem to care whether the other kids like him or not. He’s glad if they do, but he’s not willing to reinvent himself to fit in. And oddly enough, he usually fits in just fine.

  Since J.D. is likely to do or say almost anything that occurs to him at the moment, he sometimes gets labeled the class clown. But that makes him sound like one of those needy types who are always looking for attention—which he isn’t. He’s a happy kid who just rolls along and takes things as they come. That’s a real talent, too.

  And me? My approach to making friends is to hide in plain sight until somebody finds me. I guess I’d better explain.

  It started because I like to read so much. I will read anything: I read the stuff on the back of cereal boxes at breakfast. I read the billboards when we’re driving in the car. I will even read Popular Mechanics or Florida Real Estate Monthly if that’s all they have in the dentist’s waiting room. Of course, I’d rather read a good book, so most of the time I have one with me, just in case I have a spare moment with nothing to do.

  It didn’t take me long to discover that having a book with you at all times can come in handy in other situations besides long waits in doctors’ offices and airport lounges. Like, for example, those embarrassing times when you’re sitting alone in the lunchroom, surrounded by about a million complete strangers who all know one another and are chatting away and having a great time that doesn’t include you. All you have to do is open your book. Suddenly, you don’t look pathetic anymore. Plus, you’re reading something interesting, so pretty soon you forget where you are and it doesn’t matter that you don’t have anyone to talk to.

  A book is like a little room you can carry around with you, and anytime you need to, you can slip in there to get away from it all. So that’s the hiding part.

  But, of course, a book is not really a room. You are standing there—or sitting there—in plain sight. And eventually, somebody is bound to come over and talk to you. Usually, they ask what you’re reading. So you put down your book and smile and start telling them about it—and before you know it, you’ve made a new friend. I’ll admit that’s a kind of wimpy way of going about it, but it works.

  A year ago last summer, we moved to Baltimore, or rather, to a suburb outside of Baltimore. We hit the ground running, since we had only two weeks till scho
ol started, and we had a lot to do.

  The first order of business was to get the above-mentioned boxes unpacked and the furniture arranged and the pictures on the walls and the books on the shelves and food in the kitchen. While we were doing all that, the cable guy and the meter reader and the telephone man all showed up and did what they usually do. Finally, when the house was reasonably livable, we moved on to phase two.

  This involved going to our new dentist to get our teeth cleaned and to our new pediatrician for checkups and shots. All five of us got haircuts. Then Mom took us over to the school to get us registered and then to the office-supply store for notebooks and binders and college-ruled paper and then, last but not least, to the mall to buy clothes. Amazingly, we got it all done.

  Two days later, school started.

  Now, the first day of school is majorly important if you’re the new kid. People tend to notice you and size you up, so if on that day you develop a huge, disgusting pimple or you say something really stupid, or your most recent haircut was kind of unfortunate—well, it takes a long time to undo the damage. I always go out of my way to look as good as I can.

  I put on my new outfit, which we had bought at the mall only two days before and which was probably the coolest outfit I’d ever had. The top was this buttery yellow T-shirt with rainbow trim around the neck and sleeves. It went with a white denim skirt with the same trim on the pockets. It fit perfectly, and Mom said the yellow shirt brought out the golden highlights in my hair. So I figured I was making a pretty good impression.

  Of course, this checking-out business swings both ways. While they were looking me over, I was busy sizing up the school, the kids, and the teacher. And on the whole, my conclusion was that Park Place Intermediate was pretty ordinary. This is a good thing, in case you’re wondering. No big surprises. No weird customs. I like it that way.

  The only thing that was in any way remarkable was my teacher, Mrs. Lamb. Though she was probably older than my mother, she looked like she had just stepped off the cover of a romance novel, with this wild mass of curly red hair and peachy pale skin and bright blue eyes. She wore flowing silk dresses in colorful prints and had a deep, throaty voice. And she had more pep than the Energizer bunny. Like I said, she was not ordinary at all—but everything else was.

  In mid-September, we had a string of gusty, rainy days. The lunchroom was really crowded, since nobody could eat outside in the rain. The only empty seats I could find were at the end of the table where DeeDee Sanderson and her pals were sitting.

  Now DeeDee is not my favorite person, even though she is the most popular girl in the class—maybe in the whole sixth grade. Why she’s so popular, I can’t imagine. I’ll admit that she’s really pretty and has cool clothes and great hair. But the popular girls I’ve known in the past are usually nice to everybody, which is part of why they’re popular. Not DeeDee.

  Let me just give you one example. During the second week of school, DeeDee and her little group passed me in the hall. She gave me this sideways look, then started giggling and whispering to her friends.

  “What?” I said. Did I have a Rice Krispie stuck to my nose or something?

  DeeDee smirked. “You must really like that” is what she said. She sort of glanced down at my clothes—my new outfit with the rainbow trim. “’Cause this is like the fourth time you’ve worn it since school started.”

  After that, every time I opened my closet and reached for my new outfit, I got this sick, embarrassed feeling and picked something else instead. I even started keeping a list of what I wore each day so I wouldn’t repeat an outfit more than every two weeks—which wasn’t all that easy, since I don’t have all that many clothes. Not to mention what a stupid waste of time and energy it was.

  Anyway, as you can imagine, I would have preferred to sit anyplace else on the planet besides DeeDee’s table. Well, except maybe on the floor, which was my only alternative. So I took the very end seat and, doing my best to ignore her, began laying out all my stuff—my cream cheese and olive sandwich on rye, my Granny Smith apple, my brownie, my book—when someone sat down across from me. He plopped his lunch bag onto the table and ripped it open in this noisy way you couldn’t possibly avoid noticing.

  So I looked up, and there sat this tall kid from my class. He had longish hair and a longish nose and very dark eyes. Maybe he got his growth spurt early or maybe he’s going to be a giant when he grows up, but he looked way too big for sixth grade.

  He said his name was Beamer.

  “Like the car?” I asked.

  “The car?”

  “BMW. Beemer,” I said.

  “Who would name their kid after a car?”

  “You never know,” I said defensively. “Somebody named their baby Nylon.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He shook his head in amazement. “Well, it’s just a nickname,” he said. “My real name is Scott.”

  I drew a blank. “And they call you Beamer because . . .”

  “Because I kind of tune out, you know, daydream a lot. My dad goes, ‘Beam me up, Scotty!’ Big joke. So pretty soon I’m Beamer.”

  “Oh,” I said, wishing I had a nickname. Anything would be better than Franny, which makes me sound like somebody’s grandmother.

  “You know Kinko’s—the copy place?” I said. “You know why they call it that?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “The guy who started it? He has kinky hair, and that was his nickname—‘Kinko’!”

  “No kidding,” Beamer said. “Are you some kind of expert on strange names?”

  “No. I just read it in the newspaper.”

  “Speaking of strange,” he said, “what do you make of the worm thing?”

  “‘The worm thing’?” I wasn’t sure I had heard him right.

  “Well, yeah. Take a look.” He pointed down the table to where DeeDee and her gang were giggling hysterically. But this time, they weren’t giggling at me. In front of each girl was a pile of Jelly Worms—those gummy, bright-colored candies. There are also Jelly Bears and Jelly Kitties, but for some reason they only had the Worms—lots of them. They kept sliding them around on the table, making them bump into one another. Every time they did this, they squealed with laughter. They were making the worms run up their arms, putting them on their heads. One girl had even used paper clips to make Jelly Worm earrings.

  “Wow,” I said. “That is so weird!”

  “They’re all doing it,” he said.

  I looked from table to table. He was right. The same thing was going on at every one of them. It was like one big Jelly Worm theme party.

  “This isn’t some strange Baltimore thing, is it?”

  “It’s strange, but I don’t think we can blame it on Baltimore.”

  “So what, then?”

  “I asked you.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and took a bite of my sandwich.

  “It’s a mystery,” I said.

  3

  Zoë got home late that night. She had spent the afternoon over at some girl’s house, working on a poster for a school project, and we had already started dinner by the time she was dropped off. She came rushing through the front door, all pink-cheeked and grinning with excitement, and I naturally assumed this was because she had scored yet another social triumph. But as it turned out, I was wrong. She was all fired up because she was absolutely dying for Mom to take her to the store right after supper. Can you guess what it was she simply had to have?

  Jelly Worms.

  “Put it on the grocery list,” Mom said. “I’ll get some next time I go to the store.”

  “No,” Zoë wailed. “I have to have them tomorrow!”

  “Why on earth?” Mom asked.

  “Everybody has them,” Zoë said. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Both my mom and dad looked puzzled. They really didn’t understand, and who could blame them?

  “It’s true,” I admitted. “I saw it in the lunchroom today—all t
he kids were playing with Jelly Worms. It was beyond weird.”

  “Please!” Zoë begged. “You don’t have to pay for them. I’ll use my allowance.”

  Mom patted her hand. “Calm down, Zoë,” she said. “I don’t mind taking you to the store. I don’t even mind buying the candy. I’m just trying to picture a whole lunchroom full of kids playing with Jelly Worms.”

  “It’s that stupid book,” said J.D., who was busy creating a starburst pattern of peas on his mountain of mashed potatoes.

  “It is not stupid,” Zoë snapped.

  “What are you talking about?” we all said, in more or less the same voice.

  “The Worm Turns,” said J.D. “Everybody’s reading it. Jelly Worms come to life and destroy Cincinnati.”

  “Not Cincinnati, you dope,” said Zoë. “Cleveland.”

  “Whatever,” said J.D. “I’m just saying if there’re Jelly Worms in a Chillers book, it’s going to be the new cool thing.”

  “No kidding!” said Dad. He put down his fork and gazed at J.D. like he had just proved that aliens built the pyramids. If you want my opinion, this was a lot more interest than the subject deserved.

  “Is that a series of books? Chillers?”

  “Uh-huh.” J.D. filched a sprig of parsley from the serving platter and inserted it in the center of his starburst. He seemed pleased with the effect.

  “They’re children’s books? A whole series of books about the same characters, like Nancy Drew?”

  “No, different characters every time,” Zoë said. “But they’re all scary.”

  “Okay,” said Dad, “a series of scary stories for kids. And everybody reads them?”

  “Yeah,” I said, surprised that my dad hadn’t heard of the Chillers series before. It was in the news a lot. Every time somebody wrote an article on how my generation was going to the dogs and how it was all because of violent video games and movies and rock music, there was always some mention of Chillers.

  Now, I used to read Chillers books a lot. You could always count on an exciting story that would scare the poo out of you. In practically every chapter, there’s something that makes you jump. At first, they’re usually false alarms, so that after five or six of them, you kind of relax and think, Oh, it’s just the little brother jumping out from behind the tombstone again. That’s when the really bad thing happens.