Christina Uss - Erik vs. Everything

Copyright 2021 by Christina Uss

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

hmhbooks.com

Illustrations by Alan Brown

Cover illustration 2021 by Alan Brown

Cover design by Catherine Kung

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file.

ISBN 978-0-358-12671-3

eISBN 978-0-358-12662-1
v1.0721

This book is for you, anytime you wish you could hide under a bed.

Look backward to find the way forward.

Sheepflattener Family Lore

Eriks heart hammered in his chest as though Thor himself were tunneling out of his rib cage. His mother sat next to him, reading a romance novel.

Erik whispered, Please. Please dont make me go in there.

What? Mrs. Sheepflattener put a finger inside the book to mark her place and turned to Erik. Youll need to speak up, dear, I cant understand a word youre saying, she said. Loudly. Loudly was the only way Mrs. Sheepflattener said anything.

The other children and parents glanced over. A dozen eyes focused on Erik. He had opened his mouth to try begging for mercy again when the door marked STUDIO #3 opened. It was too late.

A blond girl with a neat ponytail walked out. Very good, Emma. Keep practicing those minor scales, now, said Mrs. Loathcraft, waving goodbye. She saw Erik cowering in his seat, and her face creased into a frown. Erik, she said, as though his name had a funny taste. Youre next. Come in. She turned and disappeared into the room.

Erik didnt move. His insides prickled, and the hammering in his heart grew more insistentka-thump! Ka-thump! KA-BLAM! KA-BLAM! The veins in his ears throbbed. The arteries in his eyes pulsed. His whole body said NO.

Eriks mother clucked her tongue. She grabbed his arm and lifted him out of his seat. Honestly, show your teacher some respect. Hupsy-daisy! she said. In three steps, she dragged his entire body across the waiting room and propelled him into the studio. Have fun! The door shut behind him.

Forty-five minutes later, Eriks weekly piano lesson was over. It is safe to say that having fun as his mother had commanded was never an option.

After Erik and Mrs. Sheepflattener arrived home, Erik shuffled in from the garage and found his older sister Brunhilde had her battle-axe out and did not look pleased. Her twin, Allyson, was clutching a sweater to her chest and yelling, I told you, this sweater is MINE. Yours is, like, gray! This one is SLATE!

Brunhilde squinted at the sweater for a few seconds and shook her head. She started hefting her axe from hand to hand and growled, Mine.

Erik knew better than to get in the middle of this. He stayed near the wall.

Allyson grabbed a vial of nail polish off the kitchen counter and said, Dont wave that old axe at ME, sister. You come one step nearer, and Ill totally douse the sweater with this and neither of us can ever wear it again! She started to untwist the cap, glaring at Brunhilde.

The axe-wielding twin rocked back on her heels, assessing Allyson with clear blue eyes. You would ruin it rather than let me claim it? she asked.

Allyson snarled and nodded.

Well played. Brunhilde put the axe down next to the pantry and tossed a blond braid over her shoulder. Their mother came into the room with bags of groceries from the car. Mother, by Valhallas rafters, I am hungry. My victory in the soccer scrimmage will be sung of for centuries to come. What is for dinner tonight? Brunhilde had been speaking and acting this way ever since the last time Granny Vigdis had come to visit. After Granny announced that the teenager was the spitting image of some Viking-era relative known for her battle-planning skills, it was if shed flicked some switch connecting Brunhilde with the Middle Ages. Erik might have been irritated by his sisters obsessive channeling of her ancestral Viking spirit if it hadnt suited her so perfectly well.

Their mother, ignoring the axe in the corner, started sorting groceries on the countertop. Fish hunks, fish chunks, fish lumps, and mutton, dear, she said. Both of you, start setting the table, please. Were eating early so Erik can make it to baseball practice. Erik, go find your uniform.

Allyson slipped the slate-gray sweater over her head and bounced over to the cupboard. Disagreements between the sisters were easily forgiven and forgotten, especially when Allyson ended up wearing the clothes she wanted to wear. Your scrimmage actually was pretty songworthy, Bru. Did you hear the cheer I was working on with the squad? I was trying out rhyming leap tackler with Sheepflattener, although youre not, like, technically supposed to tackle anyone in soccer. The girls discussed tricky rhymes and why more sports need tackling while they got out the silverware and dishes.

Erik plodded upstairs to his small bedroom. He gathered himself on the threshold, took a flying leap, and landed on top of his bed. He jumped up and down three times as hard as he could, huffing, Out! Out! Out! He then flopped down flat on his stomach and peered into the dusty space below his quilt. If he saw any hint of a squirrel under there, he was ready to leap back out the door in three-quarters of a secondhed clocked himselfbut he saw nothing more than empty wood floorboards and his stack of comic books. As he saw every day. There had never yet been a squirrel under his bed, or any animal of any kind, for that matter. But every day was a new day, which was why he always came into his room the same way.

Satisfied it was safe, Erik slid to the floor and crawled under the low-hanging quilt. His bed was shoved up against two walls in the corner, plus hed layered rocks and bricks to block off most of the rest of the space between the floor and the bed frame. There was only one opening big enough for a skinny nine-year-old to slither through.

His mom had been annoyed when hed blocked it off, since she couldnt fit a broom under it, and insisted that Erik keep it clean himself. He didnt. He lay among the dust bunnies and Scooby-Doo comics with barely enough energy left to dread his upcoming baseball practice, falling into an uneasy doze until Brunhilde knocked on his door to announce dinner was on the table. He glumly changed into his uniform and went downstairs.

Thorfast Sheepflattener towered over the head of the table. His wife passed him a slab of bread, and he got busy slathering it with butter and honey. His father, Granddad Golveg, visiting for a month from Norway, sat to Thorfasts right with a bowl of mashed turnips. (Granny Vigdis had stayed home, saying she needed a month without her husband underfoot to do a really good spring cleaning.) Granddad was smiling to himself and sneaking bits of turnip to Spjut, the familys tiny terrier, whose name meant spear.

Spee-yoot, Spee-yoot, Spee-yoo-hoo-hoo-hoot, he murmured in a creaky singsong voice. Even the littlest spear can slash. Spjut thumped his stubby black and white tail on the floor, clearly enjoying this acknowledgment of his spearlike doggy toughness as much as he enjoyed the turnip morsels.

Erik sat down and pushed his mutton around his plate. He nibbled a bite of bread. His stomach swayed like a hammock in anticipation of baseball practice. Maybe if he ate less than normal, he wouldnt throw up quite so much this time when he went up to bat.

How was work today, Dad? Any good corporate raiding going on? asked Allyson, heaping her plate with meat and fish.