EIGHTEEN

Luke Puke uttered a sick groan and climbed to his feet. “Where’s the best place to throw up my dinner?” he said.

“At the Perfects’ house next door!” Wacky Jackie joked.

“No time for that,” I said and turned to Handy Sandy. “Sandy, start the water going in the tub.”

“I’ll need pliers for that,” Sandy said. “Someone stole the knobs off the faucet.”

“Just get it going,” I said. “Make the water real deep. We want Rob to stay in there a long time.”

“Not too hot,” Rob said. “I have sensitive skin.” He scratched his arm and several ants fell off and scurried away.

I gave Rob a gentle shove. “Go get undressed. Adam and Luke will escort you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep him underwater for a long time,” Luke said. “He needs to soak the stink off.”

“But he has to br-breathe!” Nervous Rex said.

“He can breathe after his bath,” Luke said.

“Find him some soap,” I told Sandy.

Rob looked thoughtful. “I saw a photo of soap once,” he said.

A few minutes later, I heard the water running in the tub in the bathroom across the hall. Then I saw Rob Slob, in a ragged brown bathrobe, trotting to the bathroom. Adam Bomb and Luke Puke were behind him, holding their noses.

We all listened until we heard the splash of Rob plopping into the tub. It was a seriously awesome sound. It meant the air was going to smell a lot sweeter.

Everyone—and I mean everyone—was smiling. Except for Cranky Frankie. He had the usual scowl on his face.

“Frankie, what’s your problem?” I asked. “Rob is finally taking a bath.”

“A bath isn’t going to help,” he muttered. “Rob smells from the inside!”

“That’s not n-nice!” Nervous Rex exclaimed.

Cranky Frankie turned to him. “Haven’t you noticed? I’m not nice. But I’m honest.”

We were all listening to the sounds of Rob splashing around in the tub when Adam Bomb poked his head out of the bathroom.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“It’s going okay,” Adam reported. “But as soon as Rob got into the tub, the water turned a yucky green. Algae, I think.”

“Just make sure he soaps himself up,” I said.

“Anyone care for some Mulch Chunks?” Junkfood John asked. He held up a bag. “Very crunchy. And they really do taste like mulch.”

No one took John up on his offer.

Then the doorbell rang.

I blinked in surprise, then glanced at the clock over the mantel: it read 8:30.

Who would come to see us at this time of night?

I pulled open the door—and let out a cry.