Read Online Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen by Wendelin Van Draanen - Free Book Online
Authors: Wendelin Van Draanen
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know,
mature.
And I was clear up at the intersection of Broadway and Main, still duking it out with myself, when I noticed a kind of strange-looking guy walking along Broadway. He was big—thick, with a heavy jaw. His shoulders were kind of hunched, and his arms swung a little ahead of him, his body sort of careening from left to right as he moved down the sidewalk.
At first he reminded me of a little albino gorilla. But when he reached Slammin' Dave's and opened the door, I thought, No, he looks more like an albino caveman.
The light changed, so I crossed over Main Street thinkingthat maybe that was even his wrestling name—The Albino Caveman. Or maybe just The Caveman. Or wait—The
Arctic
Caveman. Yeah! That'd be a cool name—The Arctic Caveman.
It wasn't until I was clear across Main Street that it hit me—he didn't look like a caveman.
No, he looked like …
A bulldog.
Holy smokes. A bulldog! Just like the Psycho Kitty had said! And there had been a dead cat in the Pup Parlor trash. Right next door to Slammin' Dave's!
But… why would the Bulldog be killing cats at Slammin' Dave's?
It didn't matter how much sense it
didn't
make, in a flash I was crossing Broadway, heading straight for Slammin' Dave's.
Now, instead of sneaking peeks through the curtains, I decide to get gutsy and go inside. The place is pumping with music and steaming with big men wearing small amounts of spandex and lots of sweat. And you'd think they'd notice a scrawny thirteen—scratch that—
twelve-year-old
girl, but no one seems to.
I scan the place looking for the Bulldog but don't see him anywhere. There's a class of guys doing hill climbers on the floor mats, and Slammin' Dave's got his back to me as he's pacing in front of them, yelling, “Get your knees up. Get your knees
up.
Benny! I'm talkin' to you! No slackin'! You can be a wrestling-school dropout, or you can sweat some bullets and get to the big ring. It's all on you, man, all on you!”
Benny kicks into gear a little bit, but it only lasts a few steps. No doubt about it, the guy's ready to drop.
“Where are we?” Slammin' Dave shouts over the music. “I can't hear you!”
“Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one …,” the guys on the mats bark as they move, but their voices fade fast.
Now, I know that any second, someone's going to spot me and throw me out. Trouble is, there's nothing to use for cover. No trash can, no plant, no wall—nothing. And I'm thinking I
could
hide behind the curtains, but not only would people outside be able to see me, something about it seems really, you know,
stupid.
Like it's what a
six
-year-old would do.
Being twelve was bad enough.
Then I notice something: The wrestling ring isn't solid to the ground—it has a red vinyl skirt around it. And the mat's off the ground, way higher than a bed.
A door to my right starts to open, so I don't waste another second thinking about it—I scurry under the ring. And after waiting a minute for my eyes to adjust, I start crawling through the jungle of junk that's stored there. I maneuver around two-by-fours, and pieces of drywall, and plywood, and spools of wire, and buckets, and paint, and extra mats, and just… garbage. And I start asking myself, Why? Why are you here? And now what? How are you planning to get
out
of here?
Then I hear the music cut off, and all of a sudden there are heavy footsteps above me and Slammin' Dave's voiceis calling, “All right. Today I'm gonna teach you how to take a back bump.”
I crawl forward until I get to a split in the skirting, and when I peek through it, I can see a bunch of students standing on the floor mats. Their bodies are shiny with sweat, and some of them have rivers of it running down their temples. Their eyes are all totally fixed on Dave, who's giving them instructions from inside the ring. “What's
key
is, don't hit the back of your head. If you do that, you'll see colors. Or stars. Or, if you do it hard enough, the night
mature.
And I was clear up at the intersection of Broadway and Main, still duking it out with myself, when I noticed a kind of strange-looking guy walking along Broadway. He was big—thick, with a heavy jaw. His shoulders were kind of hunched, and his arms swung a little ahead of him, his body sort of careening from left to right as he moved down the sidewalk.
At first he reminded me of a little albino gorilla. But when he reached Slammin' Dave's and opened the door, I thought, No, he looks more like an albino caveman.
The light changed, so I crossed over Main Street thinkingthat maybe that was even his wrestling name—The Albino Caveman. Or maybe just The Caveman. Or wait—The
Arctic
Caveman. Yeah! That'd be a cool name—The Arctic Caveman.
It wasn't until I was clear across Main Street that it hit me—he didn't look like a caveman.
No, he looked like …
A bulldog.
Holy smokes. A bulldog! Just like the Psycho Kitty had said! And there had been a dead cat in the Pup Parlor trash. Right next door to Slammin' Dave's!
But… why would the Bulldog be killing cats at Slammin' Dave's?
It didn't matter how much sense it
didn't
make, in a flash I was crossing Broadway, heading straight for Slammin' Dave's.
Now, instead of sneaking peeks through the curtains, I decide to get gutsy and go inside. The place is pumping with music and steaming with big men wearing small amounts of spandex and lots of sweat. And you'd think they'd notice a scrawny thirteen—scratch that—
twelve-year-old
girl, but no one seems to.
I scan the place looking for the Bulldog but don't see him anywhere. There's a class of guys doing hill climbers on the floor mats, and Slammin' Dave's got his back to me as he's pacing in front of them, yelling, “Get your knees up. Get your knees
up.
Benny! I'm talkin' to you! No slackin'! You can be a wrestling-school dropout, or you can sweat some bullets and get to the big ring. It's all on you, man, all on you!”
Benny kicks into gear a little bit, but it only lasts a few steps. No doubt about it, the guy's ready to drop.
“Where are we?” Slammin' Dave shouts over the music. “I can't hear you!”
“Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one …,” the guys on the mats bark as they move, but their voices fade fast.
Now, I know that any second, someone's going to spot me and throw me out. Trouble is, there's nothing to use for cover. No trash can, no plant, no wall—nothing. And I'm thinking I
could
hide behind the curtains, but not only would people outside be able to see me, something about it seems really, you know,
stupid.
Like it's what a
six
-year-old would do.
Being twelve was bad enough.
Then I notice something: The wrestling ring isn't solid to the ground—it has a red vinyl skirt around it. And the mat's off the ground, way higher than a bed.
A door to my right starts to open, so I don't waste another second thinking about it—I scurry under the ring. And after waiting a minute for my eyes to adjust, I start crawling through the jungle of junk that's stored there. I maneuver around two-by-fours, and pieces of drywall, and plywood, and spools of wire, and buckets, and paint, and extra mats, and just… garbage. And I start asking myself, Why? Why are you here? And now what? How are you planning to get
out
of here?
Then I hear the music cut off, and all of a sudden there are heavy footsteps above me and Slammin' Dave's voiceis calling, “All right. Today I'm gonna teach you how to take a back bump.”
I crawl forward until I get to a split in the skirting, and when I peek through it, I can see a bunch of students standing on the floor mats. Their bodies are shiny with sweat, and some of them have rivers of it running down their temples. Their eyes are all totally fixed on Dave, who's giving them instructions from inside the ring. “What's
key
is, don't hit the back of your head. If you do that, you'll see colors. Or stars. Or, if you do it hard enough, the night
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