The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,8

its place was a piece of paper that read:

ITEM REMOVED FOR CLEANING

“Would have been a good one. Don’t you think?”

The woman in the tweed jacket led the class to one particularly cavernous room on the fourth floor. While the group listened to the tour guide’s speech on the far side of the room, Timothy and Abigail stopped in the opposite corner and stared at a large dark canvas.

“Many of the most recent acquisitions were brought to the museum by our new director,” said the woman. “We’re quite lucky to have such a distinguished—”

Someone in the group made a farting sound, and the class burst into laughter.

But Timothy barely registered the noise. His mind was elsewhere.

The painting on the wall in the far corner was an enormous landscape. In the sky, at the canvas edges, clouds roiled, blacker than night. Below the clouds, a stone temple, which resembled the museum’s own classical façade, trembled on the precipice of a deep chasm from which spewed brilliant red flames. On the cliff’s edge, a man stood, dressed in black robes, arms raised, face turned in anguish toward the sky. In the center of the painting, just above the burning pit, the clouds glowed yellow, as if answering him. The title of the painting, noted on a small placard to the right of the canvas, was The Edge of Doom.

Abigail pointed at the painting, then, almost smiling, she said, “That’s the one. It’s so amazing.” She turned to look at him.

“Yeah,” said Timothy. “Really cool.” He pointed at the man in the center of the painting. “What do you think that guy’s saying?” He made his voice really low and grunted, “Um, I could use a little help here? Hello? Anyone?”

Mr. Crane interrupted from across the room. “You may break into your pairs for one last wander around the museum. Meet in the coatroom in an hour, and don’t be late. The bus leaves promptly at noon.”

Timothy turned back to find Abigail now glaring at him.

“What?” he asked. “What did I say?”

“Are you making fun of me?” Abigail said.

“About what?”

“Because I actually like the painting.” Her eyes were filled with fire. For some reason, Timothy remembered her socks. Even though it was a stupid thought, he couldn’t help but laugh a little bit. This only made the fire in her eyes grow brighter. “You’re laughing at me?”

“No, I’m not laughing at you,” Timothy tried to explain, pointing at the painting. “I’m laughing because …” You keep trying to light yourself on fire, his brain finished the sentence silently. But he couldn’t say that to her, at least not now, while she looked like she wanted to kill him.

“You know what?” said Abigail. “Just forget it. Do the project by your stupid self. I don’t care.” She turned around to face The Edge of Doom.

After a few seconds, Timothy tried again. “I said it was really cool. How is that making fun of you?”

Abigail continued to stare at the painting, her arms hugging her torso. Timothy took a deep breath. This wasn’t what he’d expected to happen.

“I’m sorry you thought I was making fun of you.”

Without turning around, Abigail said, “You’re sorry for making fun of me or you’re sorry I thought you were making fun of me?”

“I wasn’t making fun of you,” Timothy answered as simply as he could. “I was just being a … butt-munch.”

Finally, Abigail turned around, amused. After a few moments, she said, “A butt-munch? No. I’d say more of a … fart-slap.”

Timothy laughed. Fart-slap was funnier than anything Stuart had ever come up with. Abigail chuckled too, then stepped closer to the painting. “What do we have to do? Make a chart or a graph or something?”

“I have no clue.”

“I actually wasn’t paying attention in class at all.”

“I noticed,” said Timothy. He could almost hear the click of her little lighter in his memory. “I mean, none of us were.”

“Hey, Abigail!” a voice called into the room, resonating off the walls.

What happened next, happened so quickly, it took Timothy several seconds to even realize he was soaking wet. Abigail screamed. Timothy jumped and nearly slipped as his feet slid across the now-slick marble floor. When he spun around, he saw Abigail holding out her arms helplessly in front of herself. Her T-shirt was drenched. Her face was dripping with water, and her long red hair was plastered to her head.

“What the heck just happened?” Timothy heard himself say.

Some of the class had gathered and were staring and pointing. Laughter echoed