Box of Shocks Read Free Page B

with candy. “Back so soon?” Mom says.
    â€œYeah. I figure maybe I’m finally too old for this trick-or-treating stuff.”
    Dad smiles and nods. “We knew you’d reach that decision on your own.”
    As I head up to my room, Mom calls, “Not so fast, Oliver! Did you make sure to check your candy?”
    â€œI didn’t get any candy,” I say, closing the door. This is not exactly a total lie. Sure, I collected one candy, but I’m not going to eat it. I have bigger plans for my treat from the Milburn house.
    I brace a chair against my bedroom door just in case Mom gets suspicious. Heading to my closet, I push the clothes aside and pull the panel off the back wall. When I reach into the hiding place, I smile as I feel the smooth wood of the box. Slowly sliding it out, I cradle it in my hands as I gently put it down on my bed. I pry open the lid and take a whiff of the musty air wafting out of the empty box. It smells so good! I reach into my loot bag, pick the candy up and carefully place it in the middle of the empty box.
    â€œShock number one,” I whisper.
    From now on, whenever I open my Box of Shocks and see that candy, I’ll remember the night of terror when I risked my life trick-or-treating at the Milburn House. Best of all, no one, including my parents, will ever know but me.
    I take the box back to my closet and slide it into its hiding place. I put the panel back into place and step out of the closet, closing the door behind me.
    â€œOliver! Have you brushed your teeth yet?” Mom yells from the bottom of the stairs.
    â€œI was just heading to the bathroom,” I reply. This is not a lie.
    Usually, I hate brushing my teeth. Not tonight. Brushing my teeth gives me time to think without Mom or Dad interrupting. It gives me time to think about what my next adventure could be. What else can I add to my Box of Shocks?

Three
    O n Tuesdays after school, Mom leaves her job at the bank early to drive me to piano lessons with Mrs. Barker, the nastiest piano teacher in the known universe. She’s about as friendly as a runaway lawn mower.
    Unfortunately, Dad and Mom think that Mrs. Barker is the best piano teacher in the city.
    I tell them I’d rather spend Tuesday afternoons swimming in a pool of hungry dung beetles than take piano lessons with Mrs. Barker. I tell them her breath could kill a rhino at a hundred paces, and that she must use mouthwash from the Black Lagoon. I tell them I’m sure her place has fleas because I’m always itchy by the end of each lesson.
    I could give them a million reasons why I don’t like going to Mrs. Barker, but it’s no use. Whenever I complain about my piano lessons, Mom always says, “Taking piano lessons from Mrs. Barker is a wonderful opportunity. Your father and I think that learning a musical instrument is a valuable experience for you.” There’s no point in arguing. My parents aren’t any good at changing their minds.
    One morning at breakfast about three weeks after Halloween, Mom says, “I’m sorry, Oliver. The assistant manager at work is sick, so I can’t get away this afternoon to drive you to piano. Dad can’t take you because he’s teaching at the college. Grandpa Golley’s away at a pet show and won’t be back until tomorrow. I phoned the Cromwells to see if they could drive you, but they’re in Vancouver this week, and Mrs. Findlayson sprained her ankle, so she can’t drive. We’ll have to cancel your lesson,” she says.
    That’s when I see an opportunity—a golden opportunity.
    â€œNo! You can’t cancel my lesson!” I say.
    â€œOh?” Mom raises her eyebrows. “You mean you actually want to go to your piano lesson?”
    â€œOf course I do.”
    â€œWhat about Mrs. Barker’s bad breath?” Dad says. “And the fleas?”
    I have to come up with a good reason for changing my mind about