The Ooze by R.L. Stine Page B

math.
    I peered over at Bobby for a clue. He shrugged his shoulders.
    I was toast.
    â€œVinny, I’m waiting,” Mr. Ridgely said, sneering. “The whole class is waiting. What is the answer?”
    I gulped.
    â€œFour?” I squeaked.
    Mr. Ridgely’s sneer faded from his face. “That is correct, Mr. Salvo. I apologize. I thought you weren’t paying attention.”
    Whew! What a lucky guess.
    When Ridgely turned back to the chalkboard, I glanced at Bobby again. He wiped his hand across his forehead and mouthed “How did you do that?”
    I didn’t know how I did it—but I did know I wouldn’t be that lucky again. Which definitely kept me awake for the rest of the morning.
    An hour later, a voice boomed over the loudspeaker system. It was our principal, Mr. Emerson.
    â€œAttention, teachers and students. We will now all proceed to the auditorium for the Art Fair awards!”
    â€œPlease, please make a double line,” Mr. Ridgely ordered.
    The class formed two lines and shuffled down the hall.
    As I stepped into the auditorium Sharon tapped me on the arm. I barely recognized her.
    â€œWhat are you doing wearing a dress?” I asked. Sharon usually wears pants and a vest with pockets. She says it makes her look like a real photographer.
    â€œFor the art awards today,” she answered, tugging at her hem. “I wanted to look nice.”
    â€œOh,” I yawned. Sharon gabbed away about the awards. I nodded sleepily. Her voice sounded farther and farther away.
    â€œHelloooo. Vinny, are you with me? Hey, Vin! Wake up! ” My head snapped up. Sharon’s nose was about an inch away from mine. She waved her fingers in my face.
    â€œUh . . . sorry. What did you say?” I asked.
    â€œWhat is with you today? It’s like you’re on another planet.” Sharon stared into my eyes.
    â€œI didn’t sleep much, okay?” I grumbled.
    She shrugged and pushed her hair back from her face. “Well, fine. But you don’t have to be a major grouch about it.”
    â€œDo you mind?” Emily Nicholson shouted from a group of kids behind us. “You’re blocking the door.”
    Sharon wrinkled her nose at Emily. Then shegrabbed my arm and pulled me into the auditorium. “We need to sit near the front.”
    Sharon dragged me down the aisle, past the rows of worn leather seats. “I want to sit close to the stage. I’m sure my project is going to win.”
    I was sleepy. But not that sleepy. I locked my knees and screeched to a halt. “ Your project!” I shouted. “Since when is it your project?”
    â€œTry since always,” Sharon said matter-of-factly. “ I was the one who thought of doing a photo collage. I was the one who came up with the theme—‘neighborhood garbage.’
    â€œ I was the one who took all of the pictures,” Sharon went on. “ I was the one who developed them in my darkroom—”
    â€œOh, so I didn’t do anything? ” I cut in.
    â€œAll you did was glue them to the poster board and frame the picture.” Sharon tried to drag me into a seat.
    I glared at her. I wouldn’t budge.
    â€œOkay. Okay,” she gave in. “I mean, we are going to win. All right?”
    I gave her a “that’s better” look and we sat down.
    Mr. Emerson stepped up on stage and coughed into the microphone a few times. Then he started one of his long, long speeches. I closed my eyes and dozed off.
    â€œÂ . . . And congratulations to all the students whoentered this contest. Everyone did a great job!” Mr. Emerson finished. He started clapping. Sharon nudged me in the side. I clapped, too.
    Then Ms. Young, our art teacher, took the stage to give out the awards. The kids she announced marched up to the stage. Ms. Young handed them each a ribbon and a certificate, and Mr. Emerson shook their hand. Then they lined up behind him. Big