Box of Shocks by Chris McMahen Read Free Book Online Page B

on the bolt as I sleep. When I wake up the next morning, I can feel the bolt nestled in my hand. Before heading down to breakfast, I use nail clippers to cut the tape, open my fingers and stare at the bolt. Everything comes back to me—balancing on the old wooden beams of the bridge, trying to loosen the bolt from the beam, somersaulting in free fall and nearly drowning in the river. Nothing can happen to this once-in-a-lifetime bolt.
    Uncle Ned is going to drive me home. I jam my clothes into my duffel bag with my left hand and use my teeth to close the zipper. Luckily, I’m wearing flip-flops, so I don’t have any shoelaces to tie.
    It’s a three-hour drive back to my house, and Stuart gets car sick, so he stays at the farm. Aunt Jean makes me ride in the back of the van because she doesn’t trust the air bags. I hop into the backseat, reach across and pull the door shut with my left hand. Aunt Jean and Stuart stand at the end of the driveway and wave as Uncle Ned and I pull away.
    As we drive along the highway, Uncle Ned blasts country and western music on the stereo. It’s too loud to talk over, but I don’t mind. I’m happy to sit in the backseat. Every once in a while I open up my hand, take another look at my amazing bolt and think about its honored place in my Box of Shocks.
    The drive home seems to take forever. My grip tightens on the bolt with every mile we get closer to home. By the time we’re halfway, my knuckles are white from squeezing so hard.
    â€œCan’t you drive a little faster, Uncle Ned?” I say. My knee is bouncing up and down like a jackhammer.
    â€œI always drive the speed limit,” Uncle Ned replies. “What’s your rush anyway?”
    â€œNothing,” I say. “I just want to see Mom and Dad.” I look out the window at the passing farms—the old barns, bales of hay scattered across the fields, cows, horses—stuff I’ve seen a million times before.
    I’ve also looked in my Box of Shocks about a million times, but that’s different. Every time I pull it out of my closet, my heart speeds up. When I sit on my bed and open the lid, the palms of my hands get all sweaty. I close my eyes, and when the lid swings open, I inhale the musty air. I open my eyes and see all of those stupendous shocks. I feel the chill of a cool Halloween night, the tickle of the tarantula on my arm, the tug of a vicious dog on my pant leg, and the taste of that greasy half-cooked burger. Every single memory is so amazing!
    We reach the edge of town; it won’t be long now before Uncle Ned pulls the van into our driveway. I know exactly what I’ll do. First things first, I’ll give my parents their usual hugs and tell them what a great time I had. I’ll thank Uncle Ned. Then, while my parents chat with him, I’ll run up to my room. I’ll slam the door and barricade it with a chair, then rip the wall panel off the back of my closet. There my Box of Shocks will be, tightly nestled in its perfect hiding place. I will gently lift it out so that everything inside will stay in its special position in the box. The Halloween candy is in the right-hand corner. The picture of Mr. Creepy fits perfectly across the middle. The piece of spike is next to that, and in the opposite corner is the burger wrapper folded in four.
    There’s plenty of room in the box for the bolt, but it needs a special place because it’s probably the greatest stunt I’ve ever pulled—so far. Maybe the bolt should go right in the middle, and I’ll move the picture of Mr. Creepy over to the right side. Then again, maybe the bolt should sit beside the Halloween candy. After all, visiting the Milburn house was pretty crazy—probably second only to jumping from the bridge. But Spike McChomp almost tore my leg off. As I’m thinking of where to put Mr. Creepy’s picture, Uncle Ned turns the van onto our street.
    â€œFinally,” I