The Awesome, Almost 100% True Adventures of Matt & Craz Read online

  CONTENTS

  1. UH-OH

  2. LAST TUESDAY

  3. TOO MUCH NOISE

  4. NEW IDEA

  5. SCHOOL STINKS

  6. THE LANTERN

  7. DRAW BETTER NOW

  8. THE WEBSITE

  9. GYM

  10. THE PACKAGE

  11. PEN + INK = AWESOME!

  12. OFF LIMITS

  13. LOCKER SURPRISE

  14. THE SHACK

  15. BEE CAREFUL

  16. SHOPPING SPREE

  17. OLD MAN HANK

  18. BRAINSTORM

  19. TAKE THAT!

  20. GETTING READY

  21. SATURDAY NIGHT

  22. BACK TO NORMAL?

  23. BRAND-NEW DAY

  24. TROUBLE

  25. THE PUNISHMENT

  26. A SKETCHY GETAWAY

  27. AN ISLAND VACATION

  28. CARTOONIST CRAZ

  29. CRAZ’S NEW LIFE

  30. FAMILY DINNER

  31. SNORE-FEST

  32. CRASH COURSE

  33. MEANWHILE . . .

  34. SUBSTITUTE TEACHER

  35. AFTER-SCHOOL SNACK

  36. OOZE NEWS

  37. DISTRACTIONS

  38. NOWHERE TO HIDE

  39. CRAZ TO THE RESCUE

  40. BUZZ

  41. BEE FREE

  42. PHEW!

  43. JUST LIKE OLD TIMES

  44. BIG NEWS

  45. BROTHERS AGAIN

  46. CALLING CRAZ

  47. WHERE’S BOYD?

  48. THE SEARCH CONTINUES

  49. GOOD-BYE

  50. WILD RIDE

  51. PEN AND INK

  52. BACK TO NORMAL

  About Alan Silberberg

  For Jennings­—mentor and friend

  Thank you for laughing in all the right places.

  1

  UH-OH

  IF MATT WAS A BETTER CARTOONIST AND CRAZ hadn’t been dropped on his head as a baby, the gym wouldn’t be a gigantic beehive. The student council would still be populated by humans. And a horde of pirates wouldn’t be sword-fighting with Mrs. Bentz, a decent enough lady, but a terrible English teacher.

  Unfortunately, Matt’s no Picasso and Craz can’t stop making stuff up, which is why they’re both hiding inside a locker, desperately trying to come up with a plan to get Kilgore Junior High back to normal.

  On the plus side—they don’t have to hand in their English assignments.

  2

  LAST TUESDAY

  “COME ON, TURKLE,” CRAZ SAID, WAVING THE rectangular sheet of paper like a flag he wanted to plant in the newspaper editor’s skull. “Don’t be such a jerk. It’s funny.”

  Skip Turkle didn’t have a funny bone in his body. He was 150 pounds of super-suck-up and made decisions based on what would look good on his college transcripts, something he’d been doing since second grade. “Funny is three panels with a punch line.” Turkle reached for the single-panel cartoon in Craz’s hand, which he crushed into a tight ball. “This . . . is a waste of paper.”

  “And ink!” sprang the whiny voice of Diesel McKenzie, star cartoonist of the Kilgore Junior High Lantern, who just happened to be Skip Turkle’s best friend.

  “Yes,” replied Turkle, never one to miss the chance to make Craz feel even worse. “And ink. High-five!”

  Craz watched Turkle slap the mole-size palm that Diesel held up. At four-foot-eight, McKenzie was the shortest kid in the grade, which in a normal universe would’ve made him an easy target for every taller kid in the school. But Diesel Mckenzie was actually a pretty decent cartoonist, which gave him a boost where the lifts in his sneakers didn’t.

  “Better luck next time,” Diesel spat out at Craz. “And tell Matt his lines are droopy.”

  “Yeah, droopy,” added Turkle, trying unsuccessfully to hold in his snort of a laugh that made him look like a pig with indigestion.

  “How can a line be droopy?” Matt was halfway through the peanut butter and potato chip sandwich that was his Tuesday staple. Five days, five sandwiches. That was his lunchtime motto.

  MONDAY—tuna fish and pickles.

  TUESDAY—the already mentioned (and chewed) peanut butter and chips.

  WEDNESDAY—roast beef on a naked bun.

  THURSDAY—bacon and mayo with extra bacon.

  FRIDAY—sandwich surprise.

  Matt Worfle liked order. Socks had to match. Schedules needed to be made and met. Lunch had to be eaten in sequence. Predictable. Edible. It worked for his life and his stomach.

  Craz, on the other hand, took pride in being all over the place. He could eat an entire box of Froot Loops for lunch one day and then snarf down a whole barbecue chicken the next. Out-of-order was his order, and it was something that he was actually really good at.

  “I know Turkle is Lantern editor, but since when is it his job to judge our stuff?” Craz had rescued the balled-up cartoon he and Matt had made, and he now smoothed it out onto the cafeteria table, carefully avoiding the bomb of peanut butter that fell from Matt’s mouth.

  “Sorry to break it to you, Craz, but that’s what an editor does—hands out assignments and holds the hatchet for what lives and dies inside the paper.”

  “But ‘Kitty Litter’ is funny.” Craz loved the cartoons he and Matt came up with. Sure, they were gross and stupid. That was the whole point. “Who wouldn’t laugh at a lazy, poop-eating cat?”

  Matt took another bite of his sandwich. “You got me, bro,” he said. “Cat eating poop. Nothing funnier than that.”

  “Kitty Litter” was just one of the dozens of doomed comic strip ideas that sprang from Matt’s and Craz’s bizarro minds. “Melvin Gherkin—Pickle Boy,” “Seasick and Slaphappy,” “Butt-Ugly Bob,” and “The Adventures of Mary the Meatball Sub” were some of the other twisted ideas the two friends had tried unsuccessfully to get printed in the school paper.

  “We’re ahead of our time,” Craz kept saying every time another cartoon was handed back with a bright red REJECTED stamped on the envelope.

  Matt was much more of a realist. “We’re not ahead of our time,” he told his friend. “We’re just weird.”

  “Weird is good.”

  “Not if we want to get printed in the Lantern. This is junior high, Craz. And weird . . . is just weird.”

  Matt drained his chocolate milk container, purposely leaving a milk mustache that he then licked off. “Oh, well,” he said as he smoothed the crinkled edges of the “Kitty Litter” cartoon before sliding it carefully into the growing “reject” folder inside his backpack. “Back to the drawing table.”

  “You don’t have a drawing table,” Craz said, wolfing down Matt’s last bite of sandwich.

  “Maybe that’s the problem.” Matt laughed. “I just don’t have the right supplies.”

  “If only!” Craz said, his crooked smile showing off the gob of peanut butter stuck to his gums. “That would make life way easier!”

  The school bell rang, putting an end to lunch but not their hope. Craz and Matt weren’t giving up. They’d find a way to get their cartoons printed with or without Skip and Diesel’s help.

  3
r />   TOO MUCH NOISE

  THE MUSIC WAS SO LOUD THAT MATT HEARD IT before stepping off the bus. He hesitated on the bottom stair, instantly wanting to run back to his seat and ride the number 23 all the way to the end of the line and just stay there. Forever. Unfortunately, the last time he tried hiding out on the bus, he got caught by the driver, who ended up making an angry phone call to his mother. And she was not happy that she had to drive all the way to the Rutland bus yard to pick him up.

  Matt had no choice but to let the reverberating bass line and screeching lyrics reel him in toward his house.

  Judging by the decibel level of the music, his mother was still at work, which meant his older brother, Ricky, was home alone with five or twenty of his high school friends, eating whatever food was in the fridge and making a mess that no one would ever clean. In Matt’s house, chaos teetered between dirty laundry baskets, and the growing piles were glaciers that swallowed furniture and surfaces whole.

  It used to be that he’d come home from school to the smell of fresh-baked cookies and a hug from his mother, who’d only worked part-time at her banking job. Of course, now Matt was too big for hugs, but that didn’t stop him from wishing things hadn’t changed so much at home. Standing on the front steps, he could picture the scene inside, and he wished he could just use a big fat eraser to make it all go away.

  “Look who’s home,” yelled Foomer, Ricky’s best friend, who Matt thought looked like a color-blind baboon that’d been let loose in a Gap store.

  A couch pillow smacked Matt in the chest, knocking his sketchbook to the floor. As usual, Foomer was in perfect form. “Look alive. You dropped the pass, doofus!”

  Matt pushed through the tangle of kids scattered throughout his living room, carefully avoiding the sneakers that tried to trip him, and doing his best not to choke on the body-odor stink.

  “Where’s Ricky?” he asked Foomer, whose freakish shrug enforced the baboon image already in Matt’s brain. Matt made a mental note to draw Foomer as soon as he got to the safe haven of his room.

  Wading his way through the jungle of Ricky’s obnoxious friends, Matt worried that he had no way of escaping the curse that seemed to turn normal junior high kids into nasty high school jerks. Ricky used to be the best older brother in the world. Matt could always count on the fact that if he needed help in any way, his older bro would have his back. But as soon as Ricky hit ninth grade, everything changed. No more all-night slasher movie fests or bike rides to Dairy Queen for Oreo Blizzards. Ricky had torn off his Superman costume and tossed it and his younger brother under a bus.

  Sure, Ricky’s ninth grade was also the year their parents split up, and maybe that had something to do with the change. But if Mrs. Petrone, Matt’s health teacher, was right, “growing up is a work in progress,” which meant the possibility still existed that Ricky could grow back into the brother that Matt missed.

  Being surrounded by Ricky’s gang of guys always made Matt even more aware that he didn’t have a “gang.” All he had was Craz. And even though Craz had the personality of ten kids, Matt sometimes wished his social circle wasn’t just a line.

  “Incoming!” Foomer’s voice preceded the splat of cold spaghetti that landed on Matt’s head. Foomer’s ape paw came next, and he rubbed the tomato sauce wig into Matt’s scalp. “Nice fro, bro!”

  Matt fumed, wishing his brother would step in and stand up for him. But as usual Ricky just laughed at Foomer’s idiotic antics. “Foomer, you should go to art school. You sure can make a mess look good.”

  Matt wanted to say something but knew any attempt at retaliation would be a waste of time. And so he headed down the hallway, leaving strings of spaghetti in his wake until he got to the one place where no one could bother him: his desk.

  4

  NEW IDEA

  WUZZUP?

  Zip. U?

  Ditto.

  Craz was at his computer, typing with one hand while the other clutched a frozen burrito, which he ate like a Popsicle. He loved how the cold layers melted slowly, creating a fiesta of flavors in his mouth.

  K where were we? Craz typed with his index finger. O yeah. Nano-Second Newton . . .

  He was just about to share his latest cartoon idea about a kid who could freeze time, when a tundra-size chunk of cheese fell out of the burrito and onto his keyboard.

  Ooops. brb . . .

  Unlike Matt, who didn’t dare allow food or drink within a five-foot radius of his computer, Craz’s desktop policy was more like an all-you-can-eat buffet. Cans of soda, hot soups, icy frozen entrees, were all fine by him. The worst that could happen had already happened too many times to count. Keyboard or motherboard, Craz was a technical whiz who could fix any of the food-related error messages he caused.

  And so a blob of burrito on his keyboard was nothing more than a slight detour in the conversation. With surgeonlike precision Craz rescued the melting jalapeño-cheddar cube from between the delete and + keys, then tossed it into his mouth.

  “Tasty,” he said as he wiped his fingers on his pants, adding a new stain to compete with the others already there.

  U still on? Craz typed out, his fingers just slightly goopy.

  Here, Matt answered. Whatcha got?

  Excited, Craz shoved the whole burrito between his teeth, freeing up both hands to better type out the idea that had come to him while showering before school earlier that day.

  Craz’s best ideas always came to him in the shower. In a perfect world he would give up school and spend every day just dreaming up cartoons underneath a steady stream of hot, pulsating water.

  Unfortunately, bathroom time in the Crazinski home was a commodity not to be wasted, especially in the morning, when five kids competed for the attention of one groaning bathroom. Becca, his oldest sister, always got the first shower. Then came Hank, Craz’s sixteen-year-old brother. Pete and Meagan, his little brother and sister, fought to go next, which left Craz to take the last shower. Always last.

  It was such a logistical nightmare that Craz’s dad had to create an elaborate schedule that gave each kid a total of 3.5 showering minutes before the hot water tank quickly ran from hot to warm to freezing cold. This was why a white kitchen timer shared space with wedges of soap and bottles of shampoo. One sibling hogging even twenty extra seconds caused a domino effect, which made the last kid’s shower a frozen nightmare.

  It was in such a moment, when the shower had suddenly spat out an ice-cold spray, that Craz had instantly come up with the idea of Nano-Second Newton, a character who could freeze time and do anything he ever wanted. Like take a really, really long hot shower.

  Try this—Newton is just a regular kid who has too many things to do, Craz typed out. Then one day he gets this power . . .

  How? Something he eats? Matt typed back.

  No no no . . . It’s got to connect better. Like Peter Parker. He gets the spider bite and then—ZAP—dude is SpiderMan!

  Ok . . . So Newton gets time-stopping power from, I dunno . . . a cursed alarm clock? A bite from a radioactive stopwatch?

  ROFL! I like the stopwatch. . . . Maybe he finds an antique stopwatch . . .

  Could it belong to his father? wrote Matt.

  Sounds good 2me. Maybe his dad hid it because he was about to be captured . . . By time gypsies!

  I like it! And it has powers . . . because it was built by . . .

  Chronos!! Greek god of time!

  Yes!!!!!!!!!!!!

  If they could’ve high-fived over the Internet, they would have. Instead Matt celebrated by grabbing a blank piece of paper and his favorite ballpoint pen, while Craz just popped the rest of the melting burrito into his smiling mouth. Sure, there was a better chanc
e of them actually being able to freeze time than getting “Nano-Second Newton” printed in the school paper. But they didn’t care. They just loved making up new cartoons together.

  We rock!

  Totally!!!!

  Sheltered in his room, Matt was already doodling the character of Newton, a dorky kid with an overbite and a mysterious stopwatch, while halfway across town Craz paced the cramped room he shared with his two brothers, busy writing the story that would bring the new character to life.

  It was the hardest part, the most exciting part, and for the two best friends who pushed aside their homework to do the work they loved, it was going to be a late night.

  5

  SCHOOL STINKS

  KILGORE JUNIOR HIGH HAD DEFINITELY SEEN better days. Bricks routinely fell from the facade, and windows that swelled in the heat remained stuck in whatever position they’d last been. The classrooms hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in decades and were cursed with the smell of ancient BO, while the auditorium had more broken chairs than working ones. Even the football field, home of the Kilgore Killer Bees, was a mess, dotted with ruts that seemed to swallow frail students whole.

  It was the oldest school in town, which was a source of pride for anyone who didn’t have to go there. Unfortun­ately, Matt and Craz did have to go there. And neither was doing particularly well. They were both C-average kinds of guys. Matt’s mom was always on him to bring his grades up, something he knew he could do if he only tried. But classroom time was doodling time, and Matt’s notebooks were more full of cartoons than actual notes. He couldn’t help himself. When he saw blank space on a sheet of paper, he had to fill it with whatever images floated into his brain. It was almost as if his pen had a mind of its own that made the squiggles and dots turn into his funny little doodles.

  Craz, on the other hand, tried as hard as he could and still wound up with so-so grades. Luckily, being the middle kid in a large family meant his report cards slipped through the cracks unnoticed, and aside from the occasional “Oh, Larry, C minus again?” there were never any real consequences to suffer back at home.