Super Creepy Camp Read online

  “What were we saying again?” I asked, falling into step beside Theo once more.

  “Just that I’m the best chance our team has of winning the cup,” said Theo, finishing his baguette.

  “Ha! You’re an even worse liar than I am,” I laughed, then I shrugged. “It might be all right, though, I suppose. The contest, I mean.”

  “Unless Wayne murders you in the woods.”

  “Yeah, unless that happens, obviously. That’d put a bit of a downer on it,” I admitted. “Assuming he doesn’t, though, it might be OK. It might even be fun!”

  “Yeah.” Theo shrugged. “It might be.”

  “But it probably won’t be, will it?”

  “No, it’ll probably be terrible,” said Theo.

  And he was right.

  “Quick, quick, in you come,” said Dad, standing at the front door and beckoning me and Jodie inside. “I want to show you something!”

  Jodie and I both groaned at the same time. Dad works from home writing (terrible) advertising jingles for the radio and whenever he’s excited to show us something, it usually means he’s got bored of being by himself all day and has done something ridiculous. Like the time he’d used four thousand matchsticks to build one really giant matchstick, or the time he painted the entire living room in glow-in-the-dark paint, thinking it’d save electricity.

  Our front door opens straight on to the living room, and Jodie and I stepped through, bracing ourselves for whatever fresh madness Dad had wasted his day on. I looked around cautiously. The walls weren’t illuminated in green so that was a good start. There were no matchstick constructions, no ill-advised science experiments and Dad hadn’t painted his face to look like a tiger. Maybe he hadn’t been messing around all day, after all.

  “I’ve taught Destructo how to dance!” Dad announced.

  No, he definitely had been.

  Jodie and I both blinked at the same time. “You’ve what?” asked Jodie.

  “Look!” Dad grinned and pointed over to the couch. Destructo, our Great Dane, stood on it. He was wearing a frilly pink tutu and I’m sure he actually blushed when Jodie and I saw him.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Dad.

  “That you’ve lost your mind?” I said.

  “Ha ha! No!” said Dad, although even he didn’t sound all that convinced. “You’re thinking, ‘I can’t wait to see this!’”

  “We’re definitely not thinking that,” said Jodie.

  “I’m thinking, ‘Should I call the RSPCA?’” I said.

  Dad picked up his guitar and went to stand beside Destructo. “Just you wait. This is going to make us famous.”

  He launched into a fast strum and began to sing. “Dance dog, dance dog, dance dog, dance dog, dance, dance, dance dog, dance dog...”

  Destructo looked from us to Dad and back again.

  “Dance dog, dance dog, dance, d-dance, dance...”

  Destructo turned so his back end was pointing in Dad’s direction then noisily broke wind.

  Dad recoiled and stopped strumming. “Ugh, wow,” he grimaced, pulling his T-shirt up over his nose. “That’s disgusting.”

  “I don’t think that technically qualifies as dancing,” I pointed out.

  “No,” Dad admitted.

  “I mean, he just farted in your face, really.”

  “Yes, I noticed.” Dad sighed. “I don’t understand – he was dancing around all over the place earlier.”

  “Was he, though?” asked Jodie, dumping her bag in the corner. “Or did you fall asleep on the couch and dream it?”

  “Like that time you thought there was an octopus in the kitchen,” I said. “And kept screaming hysterically when we opened the door.”

  “No!” said Dad. He shifted uncomfortably. “I mean ... I don’t think it was a dream.” His eyes went to Destructo. “Although ... he did seem very agile.”

  “If it was a dream, how come he’s wearing a tutu?” I asked.

  “Ha! Exactly,” said Dad triumphantly. “That proves it!”

  “It proves you’ve put our dog in a massive frilly dress, that’s all,” said Jodie, easing the tutu over Destructo’s back legs. “Where did you get a tutu this size, anyway?”

  “Trust me,” said Dad. “You don’t want to know.”

  Jodie sighed. “No, probably not. Hopefully one day – years from now – he’ll get his dignity back.”

  “I’m going to the toilet for a massive poo,” I announced.

  Dad frowned. “Bit too much information there.”

  “Sorry, it just came out,” I said. “A bit like the massive—”

  “Yes! We get it!” said Jodie, cutting me off before I could finish the sentence. “Just go.”

  “And don’t sit there for ages playing games on your phone like you usually do!” Dad called after me. “Mum’s bringing a takeaway home, and if you’re not back down, I’ll eat yours!”

  One successful toilet trip later (104 minutes – a Jodie-annoying personal best), we all sat round the table, tipping different-coloured curries out of little plastic tubs and on to our plates.

  “So, what’s this in aid of?” I asked. “You never get us takeaways.”

  “We had fish and chips that weekend Jas and Steve were here,” Mum pointed out.

  I glanced across at Jodie. How could I forget? Mum had sent me and Jodie on a quest to find a chip shop, and it was during this fateful search that we’d stumbled upon Madame Shirley’s Marvellous Emporium of Peculiarities, the place where I’d lost all my lying skills. The shop – and Madame Shirley – had disappeared almost immediately after we left and I’d been trying to find them both ever since.

  “Yeah, I wish we hadn’t had those,” I said. “You know, what with the weird shop and the truth-telling machine and everything.”

  “Oh, good, this again,” Mum muttered. She didn’t believe us about the truth-telling machine, and thought it was some strange joke I was playing, even though Jodie had backed me up on all of it.

  Mum picked up a naan bread. “I didn’t fancy cooking tonight.” She glanced over at Dad. “You see, we’ve got a bit of an announcement.”

  “You’re getting divorced,” I guessed. I leaned back in my chair. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. I’m amazed you’ve lasted this long, actually.”

  “No! We’re not getting divorced!” said Dad. He shot Mum a worried look. “We’re not, are we?”

  “No, dear,” said Mum, patting his hand. She took a deep breath. “I’m running for head of the PTA!”

  “The PTA?” I said.

  “That’s right!”

  “Is that the ethical treatment of animals by people?” I asked. “Because, if so, Dad had Destructo wearing a tutu earlier.”

  “That’s PETA,” Jodie tutted. “She means the Parent Teacher Association.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  Mum frowned. “Oh? That’s all you have to say? ‘Oh.’”

  I thought for a moment. “Um ... yep. Yep, that’s pretty much it.”

  “This is huge, Dylan!” said Dad, but I could tell his enthusiasm was mostly put on for Mum’s benefit. “Being the head of the PTA is a big responsibility.”

  “Massive,” agreed Mum.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Yeah, but does anyone really care? Or even know what it is?”

  “Yes!” said Mum and Dad at the same time.

  “I’ve been on that PTA since Jodie started at Nutley Grange,” said Mum, stabbing a chunk of chicken with her fork. “I’ve given that school some of the best years of my life and it’s time my contributions were recognized properly.” She shoved the meat in her mouth and chewed. “Of course, I’ll have to beat that Green woman.”

  “What, She-Hulk?”

  Mum tutted. “No! Not a ‘green woman’, Helen Green. She’s standing, too. And she’s got a good chance. She’s very organized,” Mum said, whispering the last two words for some reason, as if they were a big secret.

  “Aha!” said Dad, reaching for his guitar ag
ain. “But does she have a campaign song?”

  “You haven’t,” said Mum.

  “You haven’t,” said Jodie.

  Dad began to strum. “Oh, he has,” I groaned.

  “She’s amazing,” Dad sang. “She’s tremendous. Whenever there’s a meeting she’ll be there. Claire Malone. Claire Malooooone. CLAIRE MALOOOOONE!”

  He finished with a few dramatic chords, then stood up and took a bow. “I thank you.”

  “You do realize that’s the theme tune to Danger Mouse?” I said.

  Dad shook his head. “What? No, it isn’t.”

  “It is,” said Jodie. “I recognized it right away, and I’ve never even seen Danger Mouse.”

  “It isn’t. Listen,” said Dad. He began to strum again. “She’s amazing. She’s...” He stopped playing. “No, you’re right. It’s the theme to Danger Mouse.”

  “Thanks anyway, dear,” said Mum, patting him on the hand. “The rest of the PTA will be voting on the new head at the next meeting, so we have to hit the campaign trail now, and hit it hard!”

  “We?” Jodie and I both said at the same time.

  “I expect there’ll be some press interest over the next few days,” said Mum, ignoring us both. “That’s why I got my hair done.”

  All eyes went slowly to Mum’s head. “I knew that!” Dad yelped. “I mean... I spotted that right away but was waiting for just the right time to mention it. It’s beautiful.”

  “Really nice, Mum,” Jodie agreed.

  “It looks the same,” I pointed out.

  The temperature in the room dropped a full degree. “No, it doesn’t,” said Mum. “It’s completely different.”

  “Of course it’s different!” Dad laughed.

  “Yeah, you can hardly recognize her,” Jodie chipped in.

  “OK,” I said. “How is it different, then, Dad?”

  Dad’s mouth dropped open. He shot daggers at me for several long seconds but I just smiled back. Eventually, he turned and glanced at Mum’s head. “Well, it’s ... different in a lot of ways.”

  “Such as...?”

  “Well, I mean, obviously it’s ... a different length?” he said, then he saw a flicker of something on Mum’s face. “I mean the same length. Mostly the same length, but the colour is...”

  “The same,” said Mum.

  “Yep. And quite right, too. It’s a lovely colour, why would you want to change that?” said Dad. He banged his fist on the table, as if the answer had suddenly come to him. “It’s curlier!”

  “Straighter,” Mum sighed.

  “Was curlier. Before, I mean,” said Dad, recovering pretty well. “Now it’s definitely straighter. Definitely. Any idiot could see that.”

  Dad quickly shoved three massive forkfuls of rice in his mouth so he didn’t have to speak any more.

  “How much did it cost, Mum?” I asked, watching Dad closely to see his reaction.

  “I got a great deal, actually,” Mum said. “It was only fifty.”

  Dad coughed so violently he sprayed rice all over the table and floor. There was a sudden movement from behind me as Destructo began hoovering up the rice that had landed on the carpet. With his mouth, I mean, not the vacuum cleaner. He’s a bright dog but not that bright.

  “Fifty?” Dad spluttered. “What, pounds?”

  “No, pence, dear,” said Mum. “Of course pounds! I’ve got to look my best for the press.”

  “I doubt they’re going to be interested,” I said.

  “Nonsense! The head of the PTA is an important figure in the community,” said Mum. “After all, the PTA is instrumental in the running of the school.”

  “Do you pick the teachers?” I asked.

  “Well, no,” said Mum. “But we do get to look at them.”

  “Look at them?” said Jodie.

  “Sounds a bit creepy,” I said.

  “No, I mean, we get to look over their applications.”

  “And give input to the head on their suitability for the job,” said Dad, backing Mum up.

  “Well, no, not input, exactly,” said Mum.

  “Not input, that’s not what I meant,” said Dad, still doing his best to be supportive. “But you discuss their suitability at your meetings, don’t you, dear?”

  “Well, no, we can’t do that,” said Mum. “Data protection and everything. The school could get into pretty serious trouble if we did that.”

  “Right,” said Dad. “I see.”

  He shoved another three forkfuls of rice in his mouth.

  A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Wait ... could the PTA get me out of the Wagstaffe Cup?”

  Mum and Dad’s faces both lit up. “You’ve been picked for the Wagstaffe Cup?” asked Mum.

  “Ha ha! Hard luck.” Jodie snorted.

  “Way to go, Dylan!” added Dad, through his mouthful of rice. “It’s a big honour being asked to represent the school.”

  “Yeah, not really,” I said. “We think Wayne cheated and pulled my name out of the hat so he can beat me to a pulp in the woods when no one’s looking.”

  “Wayne? Lawson?” snorted Mum. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  I threw up my hands in despair. “Seriously, how does he do it?”

  Jodie’s phone bleeped. “No phones at the dinner table,” said Mum. “I thought we’d all agreed.”

  “Well, you and Dad agreed,” I said. “Jodie and I both voted against it, so technically it’s a tie.”

  Jodie reached into her pocket. “I better check. It might be an emergency.”

  “An emergency?” said Dad. “Did you join the fire brigade and not tell us?”

  Jodie swiped her screen. She stared at it for a few seconds, her eyes widening in horror. “Beaky, my room. Now!” she hissed.

  “Hang on. You haven’t eaten your dinner!” Mum pointed out.

  Muttering under her breath, Jodie scooped up a massive pile of curry on to a piece of naan bread, then spent the next several seconds shoving the whole lot into her mouth.

  “Are you going for a world record?” Dad asked, as we all watched her struggling with the overloaded naan.

  Once the Korma-laden bread was finally all stuffed in, she turned to me again.

  “Mmm rrrm, Bmmky,” she mumbled through the mouthful. “Nnnw!”

  Then, before I could protest, she grabbed me by the nose, yanked me out of my seat, and marched me through to her bedroom.

  Jodie flopped on to her bed, opened her laptop and began typing in the address bar. I knew within the first few letters what was about to happen.

  “Look, I can explain,” I said.

  Jodie forced down her curry-soaked naan. “Can you, Beaky? Can you really?”

  She finished typing then hit return. The browser window changed to show a website with a yellow background and two words in a large, blue font at the top.

  “Beaky’s Blog,” Jodie read. She scrolled down.

  “You’re probably thinking that’s mine,” I said.

  Jodie shot me a glare, then scrolled down and continued to read. “A complete and detailed account of everything that’s happened to me lately, Dylan ‘Beaky’ Malone.”

  “I mean, it is mine, obviously,” I said. “But I had a very good reason for doing it.”

  “And what might that be?” Jodie demanded.

  I smiled weakly. “I wanted to.”

  “Let’s see what you’ve written, shall we?” Jodie snapped, clicking the link marked “Entries”.

  “No, don’t!” I protested, but it was too late.

  There, in 16 point Arial Bold typeface, were the words: “My Sister Has a Moustache.”

  “Oh my God, it’s true,” Jodie gasped. “This is what Sasha just texted me about.”

  Jodie’s lips moved silently as she read the blog entry. Her scowl deepened with every line.

  Slowly I backed towards the door but my truth-telling got the better of me. “Sneaking away. I’m sneaking away,” I announced.

  “Stay right where you are!” Jo
die yelled, in the voice she usually reserves for telling Destructo to stop eating the telly.

  She finished reading the blog post and glowered at me. “You told everyone I use cream to burn off my moustache!” she yelped. “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “It’s that little pot you keep behind the shampoo in the bathroom cupboard.”

  Jodie blushed. She scrolled down the list of posts. “What else have you got on here?” she demanded.

  I bit my lip but the truth was determined to come out. “Loads! Stuff from your diary, a write-up about all the boys you fancy, a live blog of that time you spent forty-six minutes lip-synching and dancing in front of your mirror, pretending you were on The X Factor...”

  “WHAT?!” Jodie roared. She leaped up from the bed and pushed me against the wall. “It says it’s a detailed account of your life, not mine. Why’s it all about me?”

  “It started off about me and just sort of snowballed,” I admitted. “But there is embarrassing stuff about me, too. About Miss Gavistock and about wetting myself in Madame Shirley’s Machine.” I bounced excitedly, which isn’t easy when you’re being pressed against a wall. “Oh! Oh! And some other people have been in touch about Madame Shirley! They’ve read the blog and emailed me to say they’d seen her.”

  “What people?” Jodie growled, her fist drawn back.

  “I don’t know, I haven’t had a chance to reply to them yet. People. Other people. They’ve seen Madame Shirley’s shop.”

  “Wait ... so random people are reading the blog?” said Jodie, her voice dropping into a low growl. “How are they finding it?”

  I knew I couldn’t lie my way out of this but I could try to be economical with the truth. “Someone may have submitted the link to several thousand search engine and website directories.”

  “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said. So much for being economical.