Big Nate Flips Out Read online

  “You GOT it!” I exclaim. “Lemme see!”

  “Let’s wait ’til we get outside,” Francis whispers.

  We step out into the school

  yard, and Francis hands

  over the camera. It’s in a

  leather case, and there’s

  a tag on the strap that says

  “Property of P.S. 38.” How

  fancy can you get?

  “You heard what Mrs. Godfrey said, right?”

  Francis asks. “About it being expensive?”

  “Yes. RELAX, will you?” I tell him. “All I’m going

  to do is take a few pictures!”

  Great. It’s Randy Betancourt and his band of Merry

  Morons. As usual, he’s acting like a total slimeball.

  “Give it back,” I growl.

  Randy just smirks.

  What can we do? If Randy were just one guy, the

  three of us could take the camera back. But he’s

  NEVER just one guy. And we’re no match for his

  whole posse.

  “It’s not a PURSE, butthead,” Teddy says.

  Randy opens his mouth to speak, but then . . .

  Coach John walks by.

  He hasn’t seen us yet . . .

  but he MIGHT. Randy nods at his buddies, and

  they quickly form a wall to block him from Coach

  John’s view. So much for the whole teacher-to-

  the-rescue thing.

  Randy and his posse scatter. I watch in horror

  as the leather case soars into the sky. In about

  five seconds, that camera’s going to smash into

  a million pieces on the pavement—unless it

  doesn’t HIT the pavement. I start running.

  “Very interesting,” Dad says over my shoulder, and

  I almost jump out of my jammies. Doesn’t anybody

  ever KNOCK around here?

  “The part where I’m wearing tights and flying

  through the air is made up,” I tell him.

  “Got it.” He chuckles, and sits down on the bed.

  Oh, yippee. Looks like Dad’s in one of his tell-me-

  everything-about-your-life moods.

  “Did Randy really get detention?”

  I snort. “Are you kidding?”

  “And that’s coming from an authority on the sub-

  ject,” Dad says. But not in a mean way. He’s just

  busting my chops a little bit.

  “So what DID happen?” he asks.

  “. . . and it wasn’t like

  there was anyplace SOFT

  for it to land. So I bombed

  across the school yard.

  I’ve never run that fast

  in my whole LIFE.”

  “And did you catch it?” Dad asks.

  “I was ABOUT to,” I grumble. “It was going to be

  the most amazing catch of all time. Then Kim

  Cressly got in my way.”

  “Who’s Kim Cressly?”

  “Just some girl,” I say quickly. No way I’m telling

  Dad that Kim wants me to be her love puppet.

  Parents get all weird about that stuff.

  “Anyway,” I continue, “while I was trying to . . .

  uh . . . get past Kim, guess who came bumbling

  along: NICK BLONSKY! And then . . .”

  “Let me guess,” Dad says. “Nick caught it.”

  I nod in disgust. “Yes, and believe me, that was a

  total MIRACLE. He was on my SPOFF flag football

  team last fall . . .”

  “Well, at least the camera

  wasn’t broken,” Dad notes.

  “EXACTLY! That’s what I told him! But he STILL

  laid this huge LECTURE on me!”

  Dad notices the case next to my bed and opens it.

  “Wow,” he exclaims. “This IS a nice camera.”

  “Uh-huh,” I agree. “And starting tomorrow, I’ll be

  using it to shoot some KILLER candids!”

  “Well, ‘Killer,’ there’s more to being a yearbook

  photographer than playing Gotcha,” he says. “Now

  go to sleep. It’s getting late.” He turns to leave.

  On the walk to school the next morning, the guys

  and I talk strategy.

  “Chester fell asleep in there last week, and he was

  drooling all over the beanbag chair!” Teddy laughs.

  “Now THAT would have made a great candid!”

  “If Chester caught you taking his picture,

  he’d probably kill you,” Francis points out.

  “Right,” Francis says, rolling his eyes. “I forgot

  I was talking to a master photographer.”

  “What was THAT supposed to mean?” I ask the

  guys. “I haven’t even TAKEN any pictures yet!”

  Teddy points at the bulletin board. “Uh . . . I think

  they were talking about THAT one.”

  “That—that’s ME!” I sputter.

  “Brilliant observation,” Francis deadpans.

  Gina. I should have known.

  “You think you’re funny, Gina?” I snap.

  “The ‘big idea’ was to

  let people know about

  Retake Day, genius,”

  she says.

  “How, by plastering my picture all over the school?”

  “Oh, RELAX,” she huffs. “You’re on ONE POSTER.”

  She pulls some sheets from under her arm. “I used

  plenty of OTHER pictures, too. Look.”

  “See?” she says with an innocent little grin.

  “A whole BUNCH of us made posters!”

  “That’s DIFFERENT! You used my REAL school

  portrait! THOSE are FAKE!” I shout. “You were

  trying to look dorky ON PURPOSE!”

  “Yes.” She smirks . . .

  Behind me, Teddy

  snickers. Remind me

  to noogie him later.

  “Take it down if you want.” Gina shrugs. “But if

  you’re so INSECURE that you can’t poke fun at

  yourself . . .”

  “I can poke fun at myself just fine,” I mutter.

  “I just don’t like when SHE does the poking.”

  “So what are you gonna do?” Teddy asks.

  I open my backpack and pull out the camera.

  “I have an idea. It’s still a little fuzzy . . .”

  “Skippy has $20. He buys four bags of tortilla

  chips to bring to Pepper’s party. Each bag costs

  $2.60. Sales tax is 5 percent. How much money

  does Skippy have left?”

  I hate problems like this. Plus, what’s up with

  these stupid NAMES? “Pepper” sounds more like

  a HORSE than a person. And the only Skippy I’ve

  ever known was that labradoodle that used to

  poop every day in Francis’s mom’s garden.

  Uh-oh. I feel a yawn coming

  on. And that’s never a good

  idea during math.

  First, Mr. Staples gets a little squirrelly if you look

  even a tiny bit bored.

  And second, your best friend might almost KILL

  you by choosing exactly the wrong moment to

  toss you a note.

  “Nate!” Mr. Staples jumps up from his desk. “Are

  you all right?”

  I quickly spit out the note and stuff it into my

  pocket. “Yeah, I’m okay,” I tell him.

  “Why don’t you go drink some water,” he suggests.

  Not a bad idea. I’ll get a two-minute break from

  Skippy and Pepper, AND I’ll get to read this note

  that I halfway choked on.

  I step into the hallway and fish the note from my

  pocket. It’s a little moist. But readable.

  Hmmph. Not so ho
t, that’s how. My target isn’t

  cooperating.

  “O.C.” stands for Operation Candid. It’s my plan to

  get even with Gina for that little stunt she pulled.

  She wants to put a goofy-looking picture of me on

  a poster? Fine.

  There’s just one minor problem: I don’t HAVE a

  goofy-looking picture of Gina. And I can’t seem

  to GET one, either, because . . . well, this will

  explain why.

  See what I mean? Gina just doesn’t do goofy things.

  I always knew she was obnoxious. But until now,

  I didn’t realize how BORING she is.

  Hey, now THAT’S friendly. I come right back at

  him. “What are YOU doing here?”

  He puffs out his chest.

  Sounds about right. Hall monitors are dorks.

  “You’re SUPPOSED to be in class.” A spray of Nick

  spit flies everywhere. “I could REPORT you.”

  I brush past him and stalk back into the math

  room, slamming the door behind me. Whoops.

  That was kind of loud.

  “If you’re feeling better, Nate, please resume your

  work,” Mr. Staples says.

  “What’s the matter?” Teddy whispers as I flop

  back into my seat. “Your EARS!”

  I roll my eyes and

  wave him off. There’s

  no need to tell him

  what a weasel Nick

  is. He already knows.

  EVERYBODY does.

  I slog through the

  rest of math—in case

  you were wondering,

  Skippy has exactly $9.08 left—and then, just as

  the bell rings at the end of the period, things start

  looking up for Operation Candid.

  “Did you hear that, guys?” I exclaim as we file out

  of class. “Here’s my big chance!”

  Teddy looks confused. “To jump rope?”

  “She’s about as graceful as a rock in a blender!” I

  continue. “I bet I can get some GREAT shots of her

  looking like a total DOOFUS!”

  “What’s the matter?” Francis asks.

  “Nothing, nothing,” I answer, my throat

  tightening. “It’s just that . . .”

  “The CAMERA?” Teddy says in disbelief.

  “It’s here somewhere,”

  I assure him as my

  heart starts pounding

  through my chest.

  But it’s NOT here

  somewhere. With my palms turning sweaty,

  I paw through the pile again. And again. I’m in

  full panic mode now.

  Then I hear Francis behind me.

  “What?” I ask. My voice sounds faraway.

  “You lost the camera,” Francis says.

  “No, I didn’t, I just—”

  He nods his head. “Yes, you did, Nate. Just admit

  it. You lost the camera . . .”

  “I DID NOT lose it!”

  I protest. “I’m . . .”

  “Oh? Then WHERE IS

  IT?” he snaps.

  “I . . . it’s . . .” I stammer.

  “You can’t answer!” Francis says, his voice rising.

  “You have NO IDEA where it is!”

  I can feel my ears starting to burn. Francis isn’t

  being fair. It’s not like I left the camera lying on the

  GROUND somewhere. It was in my locker. I KNOW

  it was!

  “No, you WEREN’T!” Francis explodes. “This is so

  TYPICAL, Nate! You always screw up, and then

  I’M the one who has to FIX everything!”

  Now I’m mad. “Well, we can’t all be PERFECT like

  YOU, can we?” I say bitterly.

  “I never SAID I was perfect!” he yells.

  It’s like getting punched in the face. Francis has

  called me a loser before. But not like this. Not

  like he really MEANS it. I can feel my answer

  rising in my throat. Before I even know what I’m

  saying, before I can stop myself, I open my big,

  fat mouth.

  Silence. For the

  first time, I notice

  the crowd. Half

  the school’s been

  listening. And they

  just heard me break the promise I made to Francis

  in third grade.

  I told them his secret.

  A few people laugh along with Randy. Other kids

  seem stunned. Francis looks pale. He opens his

  mouth for a second, then closes it. He shakes his

  head. Then he turns away.

  I catch up to him. He

  doesn’t stop walking.

  “H-hey,” I stutter.

  “I shouldn’t have . . . I didn’t . . .” My voice trails

  off. I can barely talk.

  I start again. “Francis,” I say, forcing the words

  out. “I . . . I made a mistake.”

  He doesn’t even look at me. “So did I,” he says.

  Yeah, that IS it! Why didn’t I think of it BEFORE?

  Dee Dee flops down next to me.

  “I just figured out who stole that camera from my

  locker!” I tell her.

  Then Dee Dee starts

  nodding like a dash-

  board bobblehead.

  “It sounds like the

  sort of mondo jerko

  thing he’d do. . . .

  . . . But how can you prove it?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admit. “Maybe just by following

  him around. Spying on him.”

  I’m about to tell Dee Dee that the whole point of

  being a spy is NOT to be noticed, when . . .

  We walk in silence—which NEVER happens when

  Dee Dee’s around—but after a few minutes, she

  can’t resist saying something.

  Just hearing Francis’s name makes my stomach

  hurt. I don’t really want to go there, but Dee Dee’s

  going to keep asking until I spill my guts. So why

  not? Maybe I’ll feel better.

  Dee Dee waggles her finger at me. “Never say

  never, Nate! Sure, Francis is upset NOW . . .”

  “Except it’s about more than just the camera,”

  I remind her.

  “Yes, I know, the whole ‘Butthurst’ thing,” Dee Dee

  says, waving her hand impatiently.

  “Like what?”

  “Like mine,” she answers. “It’s Dorcas.”

  I snicker. “Sorry. I’m picturing a gazelle named

  Dorcas.”

  Good ol’ Teddy. At least HE’s not mad at me.

  He claps his hands once, then rubs them together.

  “So!” he says. “What are we gonna do?”

  “About what?” I ask.

  “About YOU AND FRANCIS, fool!” he answers.

  I hadn’t really thought of that. It’s probably no fun

  for Teddy to be stuck in the middle.

  Teddy nods. “Just a couple minutes ago. He was

  on his way to tell Mrs. Godfrey about the camera.”

  There’s no mistaking Mrs. Godfrey’s voice. It

  sounds like a head-on collision between a foghorn

  and a chain saw. Teddy, Dee Dee, and I sneak down

  the hall toward her classroom to listen in.

  Francis isn’t easy to hear. “I . . . um . . . can’t

  remember. I must have . . . misplaced it.”

  There’s a pause, then Mrs. Godfrey’s voice booms

  again. “This doesn’t sound like you, Francis. Are

  you sure YOU lost the camera? . . .”

  I brace myself. Here it comes. Here’s where

  Francis tells her the whole story.

>   “He didn’t rat you out!” Teddy whispers. “What

  a PAL!”

  “Yeah,” I mumble, feeling worse than ever.

  Mrs. Godfrey gives a long sigh. I can practically

  smell her onion breath from here.

  I wince. Hearing that from a teacher will cut

  Francis to the bone.

  “You have detention for one week,” Mrs. Godfrey

  continues. “And if the camera doesn’t turn up

  during that time, you will pay the school the cost

  of replacing it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Francis says quietly.

  “You may go,” she tells him.

  “Guess he’s still mad at you,” Teddy says sadly.

  “Poor Francis!” Dee Dee cries.

  “I’m going to do more than

  that,” I mutter.

  Teddy looks baffled. “What do you mean?”

  “Francis said it yesterday: I always screw up, and

  then he has to fix everything.”

  “People can’t just change by snapping their

  fingers,” Teddy scoffs.

  Dee Dee’s face lights up like a Christmas tree.

  “Not unless they’re HYPNOTIZED!”

  All three of us speak at once.

  Teddy’s uncle Pedro is . . . well, it’s hard to describe

  him. He’s sort of an inventor-magician-handyman-

  mad scientist sort of guy.

  Oh, yeah. And he hypnotizes people.

  No, I’ve never been

  hypnotized. But with

  the camera missing

  in action and Francis