Got Cake? by R.L. Stine Page A

on your own foot!” I shouted back. “Maybe you can beat the record!”
    â€œOkay. I’ll give it a try.

Chapter 3
LIGHTING UP THE DIMPLES
    The School House is a tall, redbrick building at the end of the Great Lawn. We call it Mouse House.
    If we get bored in class, we count the mice that run by. Except some of us can’t count that high.
    We all sit with our legs crossed under us in class. That keeps the mice from climbing up your leg. Most of the time.
    My friend Beast likes to play with the mice. He swings them by their tails and sends them sailing to the wastebasket near Mrs. Heinie’s desk.
    CLANNNNG!
    â€œYeaaaa! Three points!” Beast shouts every time he makes a basket.
    Mrs. Heinie begs him to stop. But Beast just flashes her his special grin with the big white gobs of drool running down his chin.
    And then, a few seconds later…
    CLANNNNG!
    â€œYeaaaaa! Three points!”

    I hurried down the empty hall and stopped at a door at the end. I read the words on the window: ROTTEN EGG .
    That’s the name of our school yearbook. The Rotten Egg . How did it get that name? Who knows? Maybe they just couldn’t think of a better one.
    I pushed open the door and looked around for the editor. He’s a tall, skinny, redheaded sixth grader named Leif Blower.
    Blower is really into the yearbook. He has a tiny silver egg stuck through one earlobe. And he wears a green-and-yellow cap that says: ASK ME ABOUT ROTTEN EGGS .
    He always has a camera around his neck. Even in the shower. He says you never know when a good yearbook photo will come up.
    â€œYo—Blower!” I called. I didn’t see anyone in the room.
    â€œYo, Blower! What’s up?” I knew he had to be there. He never went to class. He just stayed in the Rotten Egg office all day and worked on the yearbook.
    â€œYo—Blower?”
    Finally I spotted him on a tall stool against a wall. He had his face buried in a stack of photos on the table in front of him.
    He kept shaking his head. “I can’t decide,” he said. “Bernie, maybe you can help me.”
    I hurried across the room. “What’s the problem?”
    He held up three photos. I squinted at them. I saw a window with gray curtains.

    â€œWhich photo of Headmaster Upchuck do you like best?” Blower asked.
    I squinted at them again. “I don’t see Headmaster Upchuck,” I said. “I just see a window.”

    He frowned. “That’s the problem. Upchuck is too short. His head didn’t come up to the camera lens. I only got the window behind his desk.”
    â€œMaybe you should have lowered the camera a little,” I said.
    Blower scratched his head. “Maybe.”
    I took the photos from his hands and set them down on the table. “Can we talk?” I said. “I know you’ve been thinking about my yearbook photo. I’m here to help.”
    He scratched his head some more. “Maybe I can get Upchuck to stand on his desk,” he said. “Or maybe I should get down on my knees to shoot him. I don’t want to insult the little shrimp.”
    â€œAbout my photo,” I said. “I’d like a blue sky in the background. With just a few puffy clouds. Think you can handle that?”
    Blower didn’t answer. He stared blankly at me.
    â€œI need backlighting,” I said. “You know. To capture the silky glow of my hair. I’m not sure which is my best side. You’ll have to shoot me from both sides. Then we can decide later—okay?”
    He still stared at me blankly.
    â€œOr maybe we should do a straight face shot,” I said. “I mean, we need to show off both of my dimples. Everyone says I have killer dimples. Shall we work out special lighting for that? Perhaps a light for each dimple?”

    He blinked several times. “Sorry, Bernie,” he said. “I didn’t hear a word you said.”
    â€œBut my photo—” I