Deadman's Castle by Iain Lawrence

Author:Iain Lawrence [Lawrence, Iain]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Holiday House
Published: 2021-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

THE SLEEPOVER

Mom called Angelo’s mother to arrange for the sleepover. On Saturday afternoon I stuffed a few things into a plastic bag and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Dad tried to give me another lecture about the need to stay alert. “Don’t let your guard down,” he said. “This is important.”

It looked like he was getting ready to talk for a long time. But Mom stepped between us and gave me a small box wrapped in fancy paper. “For Mrs. Bonito,” she said. “A little thank-you.”

I was happy when I left the house. But only halfway along the path to the iron gate I began to feel afraid. In my whole life I had never spent a night away from home. What if I got lonely? The farther I went, the more my fear kept building. What if the Lizard Man arrived while I was gone, and I went home on Sunday to find a deserted house? I decided that I didn’t really want to be away from home all night. But as soon as I knocked on Angelo’s door and Mrs. Bonito greeted me, my worries vanished.

“Holy smackerels, my favorite boy,” she said.

She was wearing a different dress, but it still had flowers printed on it, like all her clothes were made from old sofas. She beamed at me.

Smasher came scampering down the stairs, crazy with excitement. Angelo shouted from his room, “Watson?”

“Yeah!” I shouted back.

“Come on up.”

I took Mom’s present out of the bag and gave it to Mrs. Bonito. She almost started bawling. “The nicest thing,” she said. Then she pinched my cheeks and sent me upstairs. “You know the way.”

Up in Angelo’s room, I found him setting up the game. He was looking at the TV, watching my reflection. “So they let you out,” he said.

I nodded. “My dad’s not too happy about it.”

“Your dad’s a freak.”

Angelo pressed some buttons on his controller, and the game came on. He had already made up two characters: for him another Johnny Shiloh, for me a guy called Colt Cabana.

“Where’d you get that name?” I asked.

“From all-star wrestling,” said Angelo. “Me and my dad used to watch Colt Cabana every Saturday morning. We lay on the couch and ate potato chips.”

That was more than he’d ever told me about his dad. But he didn’t say anything else. We started playing the game as Smasher lay on the bed with her ears twitching. Johnny Shiloh and Colt Cabana conquered Iwo Jima, with Angelo giving the orders: “Look behind you!” “Take the point!” When I went hand to hand with an enemy soldier, Angelo called out Colt Cabana’s favorite wrestling moves. “Eat the feet!” and “Give him the Frankensteiner!”

It was one of the greatest times ever. But we didn’t stay up until dawn. At nine o’clock we turned off the lights and told ghost stories in the dark, using a flashlight to make our faces look like fiery skulls. At eleven, Angelo said he was tired, and he turned on the lights again and brought out an old sleeping bag with a tartan lining.

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