The Boy Who Ate Fear Street Read Online Free PDF Page A

behind me shriek, “Sam! WHAT ARE YOU EATING?”

9

    I whirled around.
    â€œSam.” Kevin stared at me in disbelief. “What are you doing?”
    My heart pounded in my chest.
    I glanced down at my palm. A glob of paste sat in the middle of it.
    I lifted my hand—and stuffed the paste in my mouth.
    â€œSam!” Kevin shrieked. “Stop!”
    I broke out in a cold sweat.
    I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. I shoved another handful of paste in my mouth.
    Kevin’s eyes filled with disgust. He yanked the jar from my hand. I tried to grab it back.
    â€œWhy are you eating paste?” Kevin demanded.
    â€œI—I thought it was mayonnaise,” I blurted out.
    Kevin rolled his eyes.
    â€œOkay, I knew it was paste.” I shifted nervously from one foot to another. “So what? Lots of kids eat paste.”
    â€œNo one eats paste after kindergarten, Sam!” Kevin declared.
    â€œWell, I was hungry,” I lied. “And it was too late to go to the cafeteria.”
    Kevin stared at me, trying to decide whether to believe me or not. I could tell he didn’t, but he handed the jar back to me. “Come on,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “We’re going to be late for gym.”
    I returned the jar of paste to the art room. Then we headed to the gym. As we changed into our gym clothes, I caught Kevin stealing glances at me and shaking his head. He didn’t mention the paste again, but I knew he was thinking about it.
    I sure was. As I tied my sneaker laces my hands began to tremble.
    I ate a half a jar of paste? And I couldn’t stop. What is wrong with me?
    â€œMove it, boys. Bleachers today! Everyone out of the locker room. NOW!” Mr. Sirk’s voice cutthrough my thoughts. Mr. Sirk is the gym teacher. He works out with weights a lot—and he looks it. He walks around with his chest puffed out to show off. I don’t mind though. I’d puff my chest out, too, if I looked like Mr. Sirk.
    I jogged into the gym. I love running the bleachers. I’m the best in the class. I could run them all day.
    â€œWe ran the bleachers twice last week,” Chris Hassler complained.
    â€œWe’ll do them twice this week too,” Mr. Sirk announced sternly.
    â€œCan’t we play football instead?” Zack Pepper asked.
    â€œYou boys aren’t in shape yet,” Mr. Sirk replied. “You’ve got to get rid of that summer flab. Nothing like running the bleachers to do that. Shape you up in half the time of anything else.”
    I liked the sound of that. This year I really wanted to shape up. I know if I had muscles like Mr. Sirk and a scar like Kevin’s, I’d really look tough.
    Zack and Chris grumbled, but they didn’t argue. There was no point in arguing with Mr. Sirk. He never changed his mind.
    â€œReady, guys?” Mr. Sirk shouted.
    â€œReady!” we yelled back.
    â€œGo!”
    We all sprinted to the bleachers. One, two, three, four—I flew up the first four rows and took the lead easily.
    Five, six, seven, eight—no problem. I was flying! I could hear the other kids behind me, huffing and puffing. I wasn’t even breathing hard.
    When I reached the top, I spun around and started down. The rest of the kids still struggled on their way up. I glided by them. As usual, I made it down before everyone else.
    â€œGo for it, Kinny!” Mr. Sirk shouted. “Two more laps!”
    Two more laps. No problem. Last week I ran six laps without breaking a sweat.
    I started back up as everyone else made their way down. But when I reached the third row, I began breathing hard.
    I took two more rows and my heart started to pound. I pushed myself higher and higher. Sweat poured into my eyes.
    The other kids started their second laps. A few of them passed me on the way up. What was going on? Nobody ever passed me.
    I struggled up two more rows, clutching my sides, gasping for air.
    â€œKinny, are you