Read Online 28 - The Cuckoo Clock of Doom by R.L. Stine - (ebook by Undead) - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: R.L. Stine - (ebook by Undead)
Ads: Link
Wasn’t Dad
getting carried away?
I thought so.
I wished I could tell them I would turn out all right—at least up to the age of twelve. I mean, I’m no genius, but I get
mostly A’s and B’s.
“Can we discuss this later?” Dad said. “I’ve only got an hour for lunch. If
we’re going to find a dining room table, we’d better get moving.”
“ You brought it up,” Mom sniffed. She wheeled the stroller smartly
around and began to cross the street. Dad followed us.
I let my eyes rove along the storefronts across the street. An apartment
building. A pawnshop. A coffee shop.
Then I found what I was looking for: Anthony’s Antiques and Stuff.
My heart leaped. The store still existed! I kept my eyes glued to that sign.
Please take me in there, Mom, I silently prayed. Please please please!
Mom steered me down the street. Past the apartment building. Past the
pawnshop. Past the coffee shop.
We stopped in front of Anthony’s. Dad stood in front of the window, hands in
his pockets, gazing through the glass. Mom and I pulled up beside him.
I couldn’t believe it. Finally, after all this time—some good luck!
I stared through the window, searching for it.
The clock.
The window display was set up like an old-fashioned living room. My eyes roamed over the furniture: a wooden bookcase, a
fringed table lamp, a Persian rug, an overstuffed armchair, and a clock… a
table clock. Not the cuckoo clock.
Not the right clock.
My heart sank back to its normal low spot in my chest.
It figures, I thought. Here I am, at the antique store, at last.
And the clock isn’t here.
21
I felt like crying.
I could have cried, too. Easily.
After all, I was a baby. People expected me to cry.
But I didn’t. Even though I looked like a baby, I was a twelve-year-old
inside. I still had my pride.
Dad stepped to the door and held it open for Mom and me. Mom pushed me
inside. I sat strapped into the stroller.
The shop was jammed with old furniture. A chubby man in his forties strolled
down the aisle toward us.
Behind him, down at the end of the aisle, in a corner at the back of the
shop, I saw it. The clock. The clock.
A squeal of excitement popped out of me. I began to rock in my stroller. I
was so close!
“May I help you?” the man asked Mom and Dad.
“We’re looking for a dining room table,” Mom told him.
I had to get out of that stroller. I had to get to that clock.
I rocked harder, but it was no good. I was strapped in. “Let me out of this
thing!” I shouted.
Mom and Dad turned to look at me. “What’s he saying?” Dad asked.
“It sounded like ‘La ma la ma’,” the shopkeeper suggested.
I rocked harder than ever and screamed.
“He hates his stroller,” Mom explained. She leaned down and unbuckled the
straps. “I’ll hold him for a few minutes. Then he’ll quiet down.”
I waited until she held me in her arms. Then I screamed again and wriggled as
hard as I could.
Dad’s face reddened. “Michael, what is wrong with you?”
“Down! Down!” I yelled.
“All right,” Mom muttered, setting me down on the floor. “Now please stop
screaming.”
I quieted down immediately. I tested my wobbly, chubby little legs. They
wouldn’t get me far, but they were all I had to work with.
“Keep an eye on him,” the shopkeeper warned. “A lot of this stuff is
breakable.”
Mom grabbed my hand. “Come on, Mikey. Let’s go look at some tables.”
She tried to lead me to a corner of the shop where several wooden tables
stood. I whined and squirmed, hoping to get away. Her grip was too tight.
“Mikey, shhh ,” she said.
I let her drag me to the tables. I glanced up at the cuckoo clock. It was
almost noon.
At noon, I knew, the cuckoo would pop out. It was my only chance to grab the
bird and turn it around.
I tugged on Mom’s hand. She tightened her grip.
“What do you think of this one, honey?” Dad asked her, rubbing his hand along
a dark wood table.
“I think
getting carried away?
I thought so.
I wished I could tell them I would turn out all right—at least up to the age of twelve. I mean, I’m no genius, but I get
mostly A’s and B’s.
“Can we discuss this later?” Dad said. “I’ve only got an hour for lunch. If
we’re going to find a dining room table, we’d better get moving.”
“ You brought it up,” Mom sniffed. She wheeled the stroller smartly
around and began to cross the street. Dad followed us.
I let my eyes rove along the storefronts across the street. An apartment
building. A pawnshop. A coffee shop.
Then I found what I was looking for: Anthony’s Antiques and Stuff.
My heart leaped. The store still existed! I kept my eyes glued to that sign.
Please take me in there, Mom, I silently prayed. Please please please!
Mom steered me down the street. Past the apartment building. Past the
pawnshop. Past the coffee shop.
We stopped in front of Anthony’s. Dad stood in front of the window, hands in
his pockets, gazing through the glass. Mom and I pulled up beside him.
I couldn’t believe it. Finally, after all this time—some good luck!
I stared through the window, searching for it.
The clock.
The window display was set up like an old-fashioned living room. My eyes roamed over the furniture: a wooden bookcase, a
fringed table lamp, a Persian rug, an overstuffed armchair, and a clock… a
table clock. Not the cuckoo clock.
Not the right clock.
My heart sank back to its normal low spot in my chest.
It figures, I thought. Here I am, at the antique store, at last.
And the clock isn’t here.
21
I felt like crying.
I could have cried, too. Easily.
After all, I was a baby. People expected me to cry.
But I didn’t. Even though I looked like a baby, I was a twelve-year-old
inside. I still had my pride.
Dad stepped to the door and held it open for Mom and me. Mom pushed me
inside. I sat strapped into the stroller.
The shop was jammed with old furniture. A chubby man in his forties strolled
down the aisle toward us.
Behind him, down at the end of the aisle, in a corner at the back of the
shop, I saw it. The clock. The clock.
A squeal of excitement popped out of me. I began to rock in my stroller. I
was so close!
“May I help you?” the man asked Mom and Dad.
“We’re looking for a dining room table,” Mom told him.
I had to get out of that stroller. I had to get to that clock.
I rocked harder, but it was no good. I was strapped in. “Let me out of this
thing!” I shouted.
Mom and Dad turned to look at me. “What’s he saying?” Dad asked.
“It sounded like ‘La ma la ma’,” the shopkeeper suggested.
I rocked harder than ever and screamed.
“He hates his stroller,” Mom explained. She leaned down and unbuckled the
straps. “I’ll hold him for a few minutes. Then he’ll quiet down.”
I waited until she held me in her arms. Then I screamed again and wriggled as
hard as I could.
Dad’s face reddened. “Michael, what is wrong with you?”
“Down! Down!” I yelled.
“All right,” Mom muttered, setting me down on the floor. “Now please stop
screaming.”
I quieted down immediately. I tested my wobbly, chubby little legs. They
wouldn’t get me far, but they were all I had to work with.
“Keep an eye on him,” the shopkeeper warned. “A lot of this stuff is
breakable.”
Mom grabbed my hand. “Come on, Mikey. Let’s go look at some tables.”
She tried to lead me to a corner of the shop where several wooden tables
stood. I whined and squirmed, hoping to get away. Her grip was too tight.
“Mikey, shhh ,” she said.
I let her drag me to the tables. I glanced up at the cuckoo clock. It was
almost noon.
At noon, I knew, the cuckoo would pop out. It was my only chance to grab the
bird and turn it around.
I tugged on Mom’s hand. She tightened her grip.
“What do you think of this one, honey?” Dad asked her, rubbing his hand along
a dark wood table.
“I think
Similar Books
