If you’re afraid of bees, I have to warn you—there are a lot of bees in this story. In fact, there are hundreds.

Up until last month, I was afraid of bees. And when you read this story, you’ll see why.

It all started in July when I heard a frightening buzz, the buzz of a bee.

I sat up straight and searched all around. But I couldn’t see any bees anywhere. The scary buzzing sound just wouldn’t stop. In fact, it seemed to be getting louder.

“It’s probably Andretti again,” I told myself. “Ruining my day, as usual.”

I’d been reading a stack of comic books under the big maple tree in my back yard. Other kids might have better things to do on a hot, sticky summer afternoon—like maybe going to the pool with their friends.

But not me. My name is Gary Lutz, and I have to be honest. I don’t have many real close friends. Even my nine-year-old sister, Krissy, doesn’t like me very much. My life is the pits.

“Why is that?” I constantly ask myself. “What exactly is wrong with me? Why do all the kids call me names like Lutz the Klutz? Why does everybody always make fun of me?”

Sometimes I think it might be because of the way I look. That morning, I’d spent a long time studying myself in the mirror. I’d stared at myself for at least half an hour.

I saw a long, skinny face, a medium-sized nose, and straight blond hair. Not exactly handsome, but not terrible.

Bzzzzzz.

I can’t stand that sound! And it was coming even closer.

I flopped over on my stomach. Then I peered around the side of the maple tree. I wanted to get a better view of my neighbor’s yard.

Oh, no, I thought. I was right. The buzzing sound was coming from Mr. Andretti’s bees. My neighbor was at it again. He was always hanging out in the back by his garage, messing with those bees of his.

How could he handle them every day without worrying about getting stung? I asked myself. Didn’t they give him the creeps?

I climbed to my knees and edged a few inches forward. Even though I wanted to get a better look at Mr. Andretti, I didn’t want him to see me.

The last time he caught me watching him, he made a big deal out of it. He acted as if there were some kind of law against sitting outside in your own back yard!

“What’s this?” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Did someone start a neighborhood watch committee without informing me? Or is the FBI recruiting ten-year-old spies these days?”

This last remark really steamed me, because Mr. Andretti knows perfectly well that I’m twelve years old. After all, my family has lived next door to him for my entire life. Which is bad luck for me. Mainly since I’m afraid of bees.

I might as well confess it right away. I’m scared of a few other things, too, such as: dogs, big mean kids, the dark, loud noises, and swimming in the ocean. I’m even scared of Claus. That’s Krissy’s dumb cat.

But, most of all, I’m scared of bees. Unfortunately, with a beekeeper for a neighbor, there are always bees around. Hairy, crawly, buzzing, stinging bees.

“Meow!”

I jumped up as Claus the cat came creeping up behind me. “Why do you have to stalk me like that?” I cried.

As I spoke, Claus moved forward and wrapped himself around my leg. Then he dug his long, needle-sharp claws into my skin.

“Ouch!” I screamed. “Get away from me!” I cannot understand how Krissy can love that creature so much. She says he only jumps on me because he “likes” me. Well, all I can say is that I don’t like him! And I wish he would keep away from me!

When I finally managed to chase Claus away, I went back to studying my neighbor. Yes, I’m scared of bees. And I’m fascinated by them, too.

I can’t seem to stop watching Mr. Andretti all the time. At least he keeps his hives in a screened-in area behind his garage. That makes me feel pretty safe. And he acts as if he knows what he’s doing. In fact, he acts as if he’s the world’s greatest living expert on bees!

Today, Mr. Andretti was wearing his usual bee outfit. It’s a white suit, and a hat with a wire-screen veil hanging down to protect his face. His clothes are tied with string at the wrists and ankles. He looks just like some kind of alien creature out of a horror movie.

As my neighbor carefully opened and closed the drawerlike sections of his hanging hives, I noticed he wasn’t wearing any gloves.

Once, when I was with my dad, Mr. Andretti had explained this to us. “It’s like this, Lutz,” he said. Lutz is my father, Ken Lutz. Naturally, during this entire conversation, Mr. Andretti had acted as if I wasn’t even there.

“Your average beekeepers usually wear gloves,” he explained. “A lot of the brave ones use gloves with no fingers and thumbs so they can work with the bees more easily.”

Mr. Andretti thumped himself on the chest and went on. “But your truly outstanding beekeeper—such as myself—likes to work with his bare hands. My bees trust me. You know, Lutz, bees are really a lot smarter than most people realize.”

Oh, sure, I said to myself at the time. If they’re really so smart, why do they keep coming back to your hive and letting you steal all their honey from them?

Bzzzzzz.

The humming from Mr. Andretti’s hives suddenly grew louder and more threatening. I stood up and walked over to the fence between our two back yards. I gazed into the screened-in area to see what was going on.

Then I gasped out loud.

Mr. Andretti’s white suit didn’t appear white anymore. It had become black!

Why? Because he was totally covered with bees!

As I stared, more and more of the insects oozed out of their hives. They crawled all over Mr. Andretti’s arms and chest, and even on his head.

I was so grossed out, I thought I might puke!

Mr. Andretti’s hat and veil shimmered and bulged as if they were alive!

Wasn’t he scared of all those stingers?

As I leaned over the fence, Andretti suddenly yelled at me: “Gary—look out!”

I froze. “Huh?”

“The bees!” Mr. Andretti screamed. “They’re out of control! Run!”