Dunc and the Greased Sticks of Doom Read online

  OTHER YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:

  THE HAYMEADOW, Gary Paulsen

  THE COOKCAMP, Gary Paulsen

  THE VOYAGE OF THE FROG, Gary Paulsen

  THE BOY WHO OWNED THE SCHOOL, Gary Paulsen

  THE RIVER, Gary Paulsen

  THE MONUMENT, Gary Paulsen

  HOW TO EAT FRIED WORMS, Thomas Rockwell

  HOW TO FIGHT A GIRL, Thomas Rockwell

  CHOCOLATE FEVER, Robert Kimmel Smith

  BOBBY BASEBALL, Robert Kimmel Smith

  YEARLING BOOKS/YOUNG YEARLINGS/YEARLING CLASSICS are designed especially to entertain and enlighten young people. Patricia Reilly Giff, consultant to this series, received her bachelor’s degree from Marymount College and a master’s degree in history from St. John’s University. She holds a Professional Diploma in Reading and a Doctorate of Humane Letters from Hofstra University. She was a teacher and reading consultant for many years, and is the author of numerous books for young readers.

  For a complete listing of all Yearling titles,

  write to Dell Readers Service,

  P.O. Box 1045, South Holland, IL 60473.

  Published by

  Dell Publishing

  a division of

  Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

  1540 Broadway

  New York, New York 10036

  Copyright © 1994 by Gary Paulsen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The trademark Yearling® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-80384-9

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Yearling Books You Will Enjoy

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  •1

  The phone rang.

  Amos moved.

  He was sitting on the couch watching television—a show about how much people could lift when they were scared—and he was in motion before the first ring was half over. He knew it was Melissa Hansen calling him. He could tell by the certain insistent pulse of the ring. Amos Binder was in love with Melissa Hansen and would marry her someday—even though she had never so much as acknowledged his presence on the planet, let alone called him. He had to get that phone.

  Unfortunately, he forgot about the bowl of popcorn in his lap. Nor did he hear his mother’s scream. He didn’t feel Scruff grab his ankle and pull, and to make matters worse, the dog’s tripping him increased his air speed and hang time. Amos was completely airborne all the way into the kitchen.

  He knew he wouldn’t make it when he hit the chair. Amos ricocheted and flew across the kitchen table where dinner had been set, sending the plate of steaks flying toward a grateful Scruff.

  Amos lay motionless on the floor. His sister, Amy, who cared for the dog way more than she did for him, grabbed the phone and answered it.

  “Hello?”

  She listened for a moment, then handed Amos the phone with a look of disgust and stepped over him as if he were road kill.

  “Amos, did you try for the phone again?” It was Dunc, his best friend for life.

  “Naw, I just dropped the phone. What’s going on?” Amos tossed the steak on his chest to Scruff and stood up.

  “What do you know about skiing?”

  “Only that you strap two waxed sticks to your feet and let gravity drag you down a hill at a deadly speed. Why?” Amos wiped meat juice off his forehead.

  “My parents and I are going skiing over Christmas vacation. They said you could come if you wanted to go.”

  “Dunc, I know we’re friends. But the trouble you always get me into would be disastrous on the ski slopes. Besides, I have to go to my grandparents’ house on Christmas.”

  “Think about what you’re saying, Amos. You’d rather go eat peanut brittle and have your cheeks pinched than bomb down the slopes of a mountain at death-defying speeds? At least ask, you never know. They might say yes.”

  Amos hoped his parents would say no. That way he wouldn’t have to lose honor with Dunc. So he asked as nonchalantly as possible. When his parents didn’t hesitate, he knew he was in trouble.

  They said yes as though he were asking to go to the mall. Didn’t they realize he would probably end up a smudge on a mountain?

  There was silence on the phone line.

  “Amos, are you still there?”

  A grunt was all Amos could manage.

  “Well, can you go?”

  Amos then said the word that would begin the worst Christmas vacation of his life.

  “Yes.”

  •2

  They arrived on Christmas Eve after a long boring drive across endless flatland. There was almost nothing to do except play cards hour after hour, and Dunc won. All the time.

  This gave Amos plenty of time to think. Inside one hundred miles he was certain he would be a stain in the snow. He had never skied before, and now they were going to ski at a place called the Bloody Ridge Ski Resort. The name did not inspire confidence.

  They drove into the lodge area of the ski resort after dark. Dunc pointed out a sign that hung over the entrance. He always paid close attention to signs and warnings.

  WELCOME TO THE FIFTH ANNUAL

  SPEED SLALOM RACE

  “Maybe they’ll close down the steeper slopes for the race.” Amos studied the sign. “And I’ll live …”

  Dunc shook his head. “See? There’s a small run called the Fuzzy Bunny slope. That’s where we’ll start.” Dunc was pointing to a gentle-looking hill with a few beginning skiers struggling down it.

  But Amos wasn’t looking at the Fuzzy Bunny. He was seeing a different slope. It was an evil-looking vertical white cliff. People were plummeting down at speeds that made them almost disappear.

  As they walked into the lodge, Amos stopped in front of the map of the ski area.

  “The names of the runs read like horror movies.”

  “The Mogul Mutilator, Blood Drinker, Skull Masher, Spleen Ripper, Disemboweler—yeah you’re right. Sounds great.” Dunc had his usual grin. “Let’s get to the room. I’ll write up an itinerary for us before we go to bed. That way we can maximize our slope time in the morning.”

  “You mean minimize my chance to survive.” Amos walked upstairs.

  They went to bed, but Amos couldn’t sleep. He kept tossing and turning and dreaming horrible nightmares about plummeting. He hated the thought of plummeting.

  In a little while the dream changed. He dreamed he was swimming peacefully in a gentle woodland pool—away from the skiing. Away from his nightmare.

  Amos woke up with a start.

  His head was soaking wet, and he felt as if he were trying, to breathe water. He opened his eyes to find his head in the toilet.

  “Amos, you could at least use the shower.” Dunc stood at the bathroom door.

  “I guess I was sleepwalking. Ever since that time with the monk
ey who stole toilets, I’ve had this problem. I mean, at first I dreamed of skiing, and then it changed to …” He coughed up some toilet water.

  “Let’s get our skis and get to the slopes.” Dunc was dressed and halfway out the door while Amos was still struggling with his pants.

  •3

  Twenty minutes later they stood at the top of the Fuzzy Bunny listening to a boring instructor with a monotone voice. He droned on and on about skiing. He made skiing sound like Mr. Trasky’s history class. Amos’s attention wandered.

  There were people gathering by the entrance of the ski lodge far below. Many looked like reporters—no, ant reporters, with their ant cameras and ant microphones ready and waiting by the main doors to the lodge.

  “… watch out for the left side of the beginner’s slope. It drops off onto the Spleen Ripper, a slightly more advanced ski slope.” The instructor pointed toward the side of the hill that dropped off almost vertically toward the ski lodge.

  Amos’s attention snapped back at the mention of Spleen Ripper, but he was too late.

  “What was that warning?” Amos looked concerned.

  “Oh, nothing to worry about.” Dunc stepped into his ski bindings. “This is gonna be great.” Dunc had a broad smile on his face. His cheeks were rosy from the cold.

  “Yeah, I can hardly wait.” Amos was straight-faced, looking sick and a little green.

  Amos watched Dunc start down the slope, carefully “snowplowing” with his ski tips aimed inward. This, so the instructor said, gave you control. “Shift something from one leg to the other to turn,” Amos remembered the instructor saying—but he couldn’t remember what to shift.

  Amos heaved a sigh and began a creeping descent of the Fuzzy Bunny with a semisuccessful snowplow. At first he attempted to follow Dunc’s path. But his left ski hit a patch of ice.

  The skis seemed to dart out from under him. Frantically he managed to push forward enough with the poles to help his body catch up to his legs, but that only increased his speed.

  In moments he was completely out of control.

  The trees screamed past. Everything became a white blur. He roared downward faster, and without knowing it he committed a fatal error.

  He slipped off of the Fuzzy Bunny.

  Onto the Spleen Ripper.

  He felt like the chickens he had read about that they used for testing airplane windshields. They fired the chickens at aircraft canopies from giant air guns to test the effect of birds on the glass.

  Amos was now an “air chicken.”

  All he needed was a window.

  He saw camera flashes. Below him a group of people were gathered—the ant reporters who had distracted him in the first place. He was bearing down on them at the speed of light.

  It was already too late. He plowed through them in a giant white explosion of skis and snow.

  And then he found his window.

  At something near terminal velocity he hit the huge picture window in the restaurant of the lodge.

  The window only slowed him a little—it was the stuffed Kodiak bear by the fireplace that really stopped him. The bear was mounted to look ferocious, reared up on its hind legs with its teeth bared.

  It was the last thing Amos saw before he lost consciousness.

  •4

  “Young man, are you all right?” It was a calm voice from somewhere in space.

  Amos opened his eyes to see an impossibly handsome man. He had short-trimmed dark hair. His teeth were pearly white, and he was smiling gently. There was a dimple in his chin. He looked like Superman or a game show host. The man wore the latest fashion in fluorescent ski clothes and could have been a model from a ski catalog.

  “Air chicken. I’m an air chicken.” Amos spat bear fur and rubbed his head. They were the last words that had gone through his mind. “Are you a ski angel?”

  He looked around. He saw camera flashes sparkling everywhere around him. No, not around him—at him. For once, he was the center of attention, and the first words out of his mouth were, “I’m an air chicken.”

  “It seems you’ve been rapped on the head.” The man turned to a waiter. “Get him some hot cocoa.”

  Dunc came walking through the broken window toward Amos, and his face instantly lit with recognition.

  “You’re Francesco Bartoli.” Dunc stopped in his tracks staring at the man, ignoring Amos.

  “Hello. Are you a friend of his?” Francesco pointed toward Amos, still sprawled in front of the stuffed bear.

  “Oh … yeah. Amos, are you all right? I saw you pass me and fly down the Spleen Ripper.”

  “Window. Big window.” Amos couldn’t get his mouth to work.

  “We better get him to his bed.” Francesco pointed toward the stairway that went up to the rooms.

  “Right.” Dunc helped Francesco carry Amos to the room and put him on the bed.

  “Are you here for the race?” Dunc asked Francesco, throwing a cover over Amos. He tucked the corners with a crisp hospital fold.

  “Yes. You’re here to ski, I take it?”

  “Amos and I just started, but I’m a big fan of yours. You did great in the Olympics.”

  “Thank you. I have to get back to the press, but maybe if you and your friend are up to it, I could give you some private lessons later.”

  “Are you kidding? That would be excellent, wouldn’t it, Amos?”

  “Bear, big bear.” Amos stared glassy-eyed as Francesco left. His mind came back. “Who was that?”

  “I owe you again, Amos. That was Francesco Bartoli, the famous skier. I never would have met him if it wasn’t for you running through his press conference.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Amos tried to get up, but the sheets were tucked so tight, he couldn’t move.

  “He’s won five gold medals. My dad always watched him on the Winter Olympics. And now he’s going to teach us how to ski. Isn’t that great?”

  “Gee, I can hardly wait.” Amos picked the last of the bear fur from his teeth.

  •5

  “Mom and I are going to the mall. Are you coming?” Dunc was putting on his jacket, lining the side seams of the jacket exactly with the side seams of his ski pants.

  “Yeah, wait up.” Amos had just awakened from his nap. The morning’s air chicken incident had taken a lot out of him.

  “I’ll wait down in the car.” Dunc left.

  Amos was happy to be doing something besides skiing. In fact, he was happy to be doing anything but skiing. He put on his coat and went to the parking lot.

  The rental van was sitting there, its engine idling. He could see people inside, and what appeared to be Dunc sitting behind the tinted window. It’s time, Amos thought, to get a little revenge.

  Amos crouched and hid in back of a trash container, sliding it along in front of him until he was next to the window. Then he took a deep breath, inflated his cheeks, smudged his face into the glass, blew as hard as he could, and made a sound like a rhino with gas.

  Amos opened his eyes.

  The blood drained from his face.

  It wasn’t Dunc.

  It wasn’t even a boy.

  It was Melissa.

  Melissa here at the Bloody Ridge Ski Resort.

  She stared back at him, her eyes wide.

  “Uunnnggg …” Amos’s mind reeled. He wanted to say something witty, anything. But he couldn’t. He tried again. “Thuuunngg …”

  Frantically he looked for the right van, found it, and slithered into the seat next to Dunc.

  “Amos, what’s wrong? You’re white.” Dunc had been picking loose threads off his ski pants.

  “M-M-M-Mel—Melissa.” Amos was shaking violently.

  “Melissa, here?” Dunc smiled. “Now you’ll have to ski.”

  “No, no more death in the snow.”

  “What better way to impress her than by showing off your abilities on the slopes?” Dunc nudged Amos with his elbow. “Besides, with Francesco giving us private lessons, you’ll be a great skier
in no time.”

  “After this morning you would be lucky to get me back into the state again. Let alone on the slopes.” Amos’s color began to return. “Do you think she saw me skiing this morning?”

  “She probably wouldn’t have recognized you—you were moving so fast. You also have to remember, she doesn’t really know you’re alive.”

  Amos ignored that comment. “Do you think private lessons would really help me?”

  “It’s a beginning.” Dunc knew he had Amos now. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

  •6

  “Are you hungry?” Dunc pointed toward a restaurant called the Gooey Spoon Eatery. “I’m starving.”

  “Sure, whatever.” Amos was still depressed. He hadn’t quit thinking about Melissa in the two hours they had been at the mall.

  Amos decided to eat light and ordered only two Belly Bomber Bucket o’ Burgers and a Bushel o’ Fries and sat down.

  “You know, Amos, those burgers are bad for you.” Dunc sat down with his chef salad and carefully arranged his plastic silverware.

  “What’s the difference? I won’t live to be eighteen if I follow you around.” Amos unhinged his lower jaw and pounded down a burger.

  “Hey, look.” Dunc pointed toward a man wearing sunglasses and a full-length black leather coat. He was carrying a briefcase, standing by the pay phone. “He looks like he’s waiting for someone.”

  “No, absolutely not.” Amos swallowed like a wolf. “You want to investigate, and that always means trouble.”

  “Come on, Amos.” Dunc folded his napkin and started to get up. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “It’s smeared somewhere over the Spleen Ripper.”

  “He’s meeting somebody.” Dunc looked at another man, who seemed exactly the same as the first one. They met and talked briefly. Then they started walking away together. “We’ve got to hurry.”

  “Oh, all right.” Amos gave in. He had finished his burgers anyway. He burped. “I’m going to regret this.”

  Dunc and Amos left the Gooey Spoon and walked toward the men.

  “They’re going toward the bathrooms,” Dunc pointed out. “I bet they’re going to trade briefcases. Do you think they’re spies?”