28 - The Cuckoo Clock of Doom by R.L. Stine - (ebook by Undead) Page A

probably never know.
    But if she caught me, I’d be in really big trouble. And I had enough trouble
now.
    I decided to sneak on to the bus somehow. I knew I could find a way.
    When the kindergarten torture was finally over for the day, I raced out of
the building to catch the bus—
    —and bumped smack into Mom.
    “Hi, Mikey,” she said. “Did you have a nice day?”
    I forgot that she picked me up every day from kindergarten.
    She took my hand in her iron grip. There was no escape.

 
 
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    At least I’m here, I thought when I woke up the next morning. At least I’m
still alive.
    But I’m four years old.
    Time is running out.
    Mom waltzed into my room, singing, “Good morning to you, good morning to you,
good morning dear Mikey, good morning to you! Ready for nursery school?”
    Yuck. Nursery school.
    Things kept getting worse and worse.
    I couldn’t take it anymore. Mom dropped me off at nursery school with a kiss
and her usual, “Have a nice day, Mikey!”
    I stalked to the nearest corner and sat. I watched the other little kids
play. I refused to do anything. No singing. No painting. No sandbox. No games
for me.
    “Michael, what’s the matter with you today?” the teacher, Ms. Sarton, asked. “Don’t you feel well?”
    “I feel okay,” I told her.
    “Well, then, why aren’t you playing?” She studied me for a minute, then
added, “I think you need to play.”
    Without asking my permission or anything, she picked me up, carried me
outside, and dumped me in the sandbox.
    “Mona will play with you,” she said brightly.
    Mona was very cute when she was four. Why didn’t I remember that?
    Mona didn’t say anything to me. She concentrated on the sand igloo she was
building—at least I think it was supposed to be an igloo. It was round,
anyway. I started to say hi to her, but suddenly felt shy.
    Then I caught myself. Why should I feel bashful with a four-year-old girl?
    Anyway, I reasoned, she hasn’t seen me in my underwear yet. That won’t happen
for another eight years.
    “Hi, Mona,” I said. I cringed when I heard the babyish nursery school voice
that came out of my mouth. But everyone else seemed to be used to it.
    Mona turned up her nose. “Eeew,” she sniffed. “A boy. I hate boys.”
    “Well,” I squeaked in my little boy voice, “if that’s the way you feel,
forget I said anything.”
    Mona stared at me now, as if she didn’t quite understand what I had said.
    “You’re stupid,” she said.
    I shrugged and began to draw swirls in the sand with my chubby little finger.
Mona dug a moat around her sand igloo. Then she stood up. “Don’t let anybody
smash my sand castle,” she ordered.
    So it wasn’t an igloo. Guess I was wrong.
    “Okay,” I agreed.
    She toddled away. A few minutes later she returned, carrying a bucket.
    She carefully poured a little water into her sand castle moat. She dumped the
rest on my head.
    “Stupid boy!” she squealed, running away.
    I rose and shook my wet head like a dog. I felt a strange urge to burst into
tears and run to the teacher for help, but I fought it.
    Mona stood a few yards away from me, ready to run. “Nyah nyah!” she
taunted. “Come and get me, Mikey!”
    I pushed my wet hair out of my face and stared at Mona.
    “You can’t catch me!” she called.
    What could I do? I had to chase after her.
    I began to run. Mona screamed and raced to a tree by the playground fence.
Another girl stood there. Was that Ceecee?
    She wore thick glasses with pink rims, and underneath, a pink eyepatch.
    I’d forgotten about that eyepatch. She’d had to wear it until halfway through
first grade.
    Mona screamed again and clutched at Ceecee. Ceecee clutched her back and
screamed, too.
    I stopped in front of the tree. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you,” I assured
them.
    “Yes you will!” Mona squealed. “Help!”
    I sat down on the grass to prove I didn’t want to hurt them.
    “He’s hurting us! He’s hurting us!” the