that closet.”
I could see him thinking hard about that. A few minutes later, he left. I grabbed my paintbrush, leaned over the poster, and went back to work.
“What’s that mess you’re making, punk?” Nick came bursting into my room a few minutes later.
“I have to paint a poster,” I said.
“A poster? It looks more like you puked up your lunch.”
“Thanks, Nick. You’re a nice guy,” I said.
He moved closer until he blocked out the light. I couldn’t see what I was painting.
“What does ‘I’ stand for?” he asked.
“‘I’?”
“Yeah. ‘I,’” he repeated. “What does it stand for?”
I thought hard. “Uh…idiot?”
“At least you know your name,” Nick said, grinning. “But you got it wrong. ‘I’ stands for ice cream.”
I rolled my eyes. “Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“Because we don’t have any good ice cream in the freezer.” He nudged me softly in the side with one of his big boots. “Get going, punk. Buy two pints, okay? Use your own money. I’m a little broke this week.”
“No way, Nick!” I shouted. “I’m not doing it! I’m not!”
“Hurry back,” Nick said. “It’s almost dinnertime. You don’t want to be late.”
“No!” I shouted. “No! No! NO!”
He raised his boot and held it over my poster. “Do you think your poster will look better before or after I step on it?” He started to lower the boot.
“No! No way!” I insisted. I shoved his foot away. “I have to get this poster done! I’m not going for ice cream, Nick! Now, beat it! BEAT IT!”
He backed up a step. “Okay, okay,” he muttered. “Don’t have a hissy fit.” To my surprise, he turned and stomped out of the room.
“Wow! I won!” I exclaimed.
What a victory! I had never stood up to Nick before. Never. And the first time I did—I won!
I leaned over the poster and started to paint again.
But I didn’t have long to paint. A few minutes later, I heard Mom calling from downstairs. “Spencer,your dad is back from the supermarket. Come help him put away the groceries.”
“But, Mom, I’m busy,” I protested. “Why can’t Nick do it this week?”
“Because it’s your job!” Mom shouted. “Hurry. I’ve almost got dinner ready.”
I had no choice. I dropped the paintbrush into the can of red paint and hurried downstairs to help my dad.
It didn’t take long. I set the world record for emptying shopping bags. Then I hurried back upstairs.
I stepped into my room—and let out a sharp cry. “Oh, NO!”
A thick red stripe. Someone had painted a thick red stripe down my bedroom wall.
No. Not a stripe.
The letter I! A long red I!
“NICK! YOU JERK!” I screamed. “YOU JERK! YOU JERK!”
24
“Huh? What’s your problem?” Nick stepped out of his room. He waved the phone in his hand. “Can’t you see I’m on the phone?”
“You jerk!” I shrieked. “How could you do that? How could you ruin my whole wall?”
“I don’t know what you’re babbling about,” Nick said. “Go back in your cage, okay?”
“No!” I screamed. “It’s not okay!” I ran down the hall and grabbed him by the arm. “Come on! I’m telling Mom and Dad!”
Nick brushed me away. He raised the phone to his ear. “I’ll have to call you back,” he said into it. “My little brother is freaking out.”
“What’s going on?” Dad called. He and Mom appeared at the top of the stairs. Mom was carrying a blue suit on a hanger.
“He ruined my room!” I wailed. “He painted my wall!”
“He what ?” Mom shrieked.
She and Dad hurried into my room. Is heard their cries of shock and horror.
“Nick—get in here!” Dad growled.
Nick rolled his eyes. “What’s up with all of you?” he muttered. He pushed me out of the way and strode into my room.
“Wow!” he exclaimed. “Spencer—you missed the paper by a mile!”
I stood in the doorway, my legs trembling. My heart pounded. “You know I didn’t do it!” I told Nick. “You did it!
I could see him thinking hard about that. A few minutes later, he left. I grabbed my paintbrush, leaned over the poster, and went back to work.
“What’s that mess you’re making, punk?” Nick came bursting into my room a few minutes later.
“I have to paint a poster,” I said.
“A poster? It looks more like you puked up your lunch.”
“Thanks, Nick. You’re a nice guy,” I said.
He moved closer until he blocked out the light. I couldn’t see what I was painting.
“What does ‘I’ stand for?” he asked.
“‘I’?”
“Yeah. ‘I,’” he repeated. “What does it stand for?”
I thought hard. “Uh…idiot?”
“At least you know your name,” Nick said, grinning. “But you got it wrong. ‘I’ stands for ice cream.”
I rolled my eyes. “Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“Because we don’t have any good ice cream in the freezer.” He nudged me softly in the side with one of his big boots. “Get going, punk. Buy two pints, okay? Use your own money. I’m a little broke this week.”
“No way, Nick!” I shouted. “I’m not doing it! I’m not!”
“Hurry back,” Nick said. “It’s almost dinnertime. You don’t want to be late.”
“No!” I shouted. “No! No! NO!”
He raised his boot and held it over my poster. “Do you think your poster will look better before or after I step on it?” He started to lower the boot.
“No! No way!” I insisted. I shoved his foot away. “I have to get this poster done! I’m not going for ice cream, Nick! Now, beat it! BEAT IT!”
He backed up a step. “Okay, okay,” he muttered. “Don’t have a hissy fit.” To my surprise, he turned and stomped out of the room.
“Wow! I won!” I exclaimed.
What a victory! I had never stood up to Nick before. Never. And the first time I did—I won!
I leaned over the poster and started to paint again.
But I didn’t have long to paint. A few minutes later, I heard Mom calling from downstairs. “Spencer,your dad is back from the supermarket. Come help him put away the groceries.”
“But, Mom, I’m busy,” I protested. “Why can’t Nick do it this week?”
“Because it’s your job!” Mom shouted. “Hurry. I’ve almost got dinner ready.”
I had no choice. I dropped the paintbrush into the can of red paint and hurried downstairs to help my dad.
It didn’t take long. I set the world record for emptying shopping bags. Then I hurried back upstairs.
I stepped into my room—and let out a sharp cry. “Oh, NO!”
A thick red stripe. Someone had painted a thick red stripe down my bedroom wall.
No. Not a stripe.
The letter I! A long red I!
“NICK! YOU JERK!” I screamed. “YOU JERK! YOU JERK!”
24
“Huh? What’s your problem?” Nick stepped out of his room. He waved the phone in his hand. “Can’t you see I’m on the phone?”
“You jerk!” I shrieked. “How could you do that? How could you ruin my whole wall?”
“I don’t know what you’re babbling about,” Nick said. “Go back in your cage, okay?”
“No!” I screamed. “It’s not okay!” I ran down the hall and grabbed him by the arm. “Come on! I’m telling Mom and Dad!”
Nick brushed me away. He raised the phone to his ear. “I’ll have to call you back,” he said into it. “My little brother is freaking out.”
“What’s going on?” Dad called. He and Mom appeared at the top of the stairs. Mom was carrying a blue suit on a hanger.
“He ruined my room!” I wailed. “He painted my wall!”
“He what ?” Mom shrieked.
She and Dad hurried into my room. Is heard their cries of shock and horror.
“Nick—get in here!” Dad growled.
Nick rolled his eyes. “What’s up with all of you?” he muttered. He pushed me out of the way and strode into my room.
“Wow!” he exclaimed. “Spencer—you missed the paper by a mile!”
I stood in the doorway, my legs trembling. My heart pounded. “You know I didn’t do it!” I told Nick. “You did it!
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