Take Two!

by John J. Bonk

“On a completely different note, it’s our turn to host the Slam-Dunk Basketball Tournament in April. Go, Fireballs!” Futterman cleared his throat. “As some of you may have heard, Claymore Middle School in Lotustown hosted last year and it really put them on the map. But I think we’ll be rubbing their noses in it when they get a load of the brand-spanking new Mascot 2000 digital scoreboard that’s just been delivered to our gymnasium.”

  All the jocks in the room cheered for that news flash.

  “However, due to some minor cutbacks, the new uniforms that were promised have now been scrapped.”

  The cheering went sour and Danny “Pig” Piglowitz lined a spitball at the loudspeaker.

  “Apparently theatrical extravaganzas don’t come cheap,” Futterman added. “My hands are tied, guys, but believe me, if I had my druthers…”

  Buzz. Burp. Click.

  Chapter 4

  No Small Feat

  What are druthers and how come nobody ever has any? I’d planned on looking that word up in the dictionary right after “triple threat.” I wanted to make sure I had the meaning exactly right, but according to The American Heritage Dictionary, fourth edition, it didn’t exist. They had Triple Crown, triple-header, triple play – but no triple threat. I’d just have to take LMNOP’s word for it. My acting chops were solid, but singing and dancing was uncharted territory, so I knew I’d better get cracking.

  All week long I toyed with the idea of cashing in one of my Penny Pincher coupons and taking a free tap class; and all week long the thought of being the only guy there made me squirrelly. But by Saturday morning, I’d talked myself into it. I carbo-loaded with leftover Meatball Mania Pizza, stuffed Dad’s tap shoes into my backpack, mounted my bike and headed for Miss Pritchard’s Academy of Dance.

  I’d reached the center of town way too early, where I saw the screwballiest sight: Wally squeaking down Main Street on a girl’s bicycle, complete with a white wicker basket and handgrips sprouting silver streamers. A cry for help maybe? You be the judge.

  “Hey, Wal, wait up!” Pedaling faster to catch up with him, I had a sudden stroke of genius. “What’re you doing right now?”

  “Juggling chickens. What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Race you to the corner?” I challenged, air-revving my hand-grips. “Vroom-vroom, vroom-vroom! C’mon, winner gets a truth or dare.”

  He looked at me as if I were the weirdo.

  “What are we, like, five?” Wally asked. “You serious?”

  “Yeah. Why not?

  “Well, for starters, I’m lugging my bassoon and it weighs a ton. And this isn’t even my own bike – it’s my cousin’s.”

  “Now that you mention it, what the heck’s wrong with you? Goldilocks wouldn’t be caught dead riding that thing.”

  “My bike has a flat,” he snapped, “and I needed transportation. Cut me a break.”

  At least it didn’t have training wheels.

  “Okay, I’ll give you a five second lead so I won’t have an unfair advantage,” I bargained. “Ready? One Mississippi, two Mississippi –”

  “No, no, that’s not right,” Wally said all cranky, dragging his foot. “I’ll take a twelve second lead – and we’re not playing hide-and-seek. There are no Mississippis in bike-race counting.”

  “There’s no whining either.”

  “Okay, first one to slap the mailbox on the corner of Cubberly and Main wins. On your mark, get set, go!” As soon as he had both feet on the pedals, I shouted, “One, two, three-four-fi-si-sev-eigh-nitenelev-twelve!” and tore after him.

  I was on his tail in a flash, and by the time we’d reached Pig’s Ear Antiques, Wally and I were neck and neck. I could hear him moaning and his bassoon case rattling, so I coasted a little. He was thicker around the middle than he should’ve been and I didn’t want him straining anything. All of a sudden he turned to me and snarled, “You’re goin’ down, sucker!”

  “Oh, yeah?” I shot back. “Eat my dust!”

  I stood up on my pedals, throwing all seventy-six and a half pounds of myself into it. Picturing my legs as powerful steel machines operated by jet propulsion engines, I whizzed past Wally and headed for the finish line. I was pedaling so hard I thought my bike would break in half.

  “Woo-hoo!” I shouted, slapping the mailbox. “Dustin Grubbs wins it by a landslide!” No wonder so many kids love sports. It’s actually kind of exhilarating – as long as you win. “Sweet victory! I am the conqueror, the annihilator! Oh, how the mighty have fallen!”

  Wally squeezed on the brakes and his bike came to a jerky stop. “Ah, get over yourself,” he huffed. His red cheeks were streaked with sweat. “Okay, you won, big whoop – you set me up. Let’s make a pact never to do this again, okay? The carbuncle on my thigh is on fire.”

  I didn’t have a clue what that was, and I didn’t want to know.

  “So what’s it gonna be,” I asked, “truth or dare?”

  “Dare.” He studied the expression on my face while he untwisted his bassoon case strap. “No, truth! No, wait – scratch that. Okay, dare.”

  “Excellent choice.” Saves me having to trick him into it. “Let’s see. Dare-dare-dare-dare…” I paused as if I were browsing a menu of dares in my head. “Okay, I dare you, Wallace P. Dorkin, to take a tap class with me at Miss Pritchard’s Academy of Dance.”

  “Not a chance! Never gonna happen. Besides, you’re supposed to give me a dare I could do right now, like swallow a bug or something.”

  “It is right now.” I glanced at my watch. “In ten minutes. And you don’t even need tap shoes – just hard-soled shoes, like the ones you’re wearing. I called and asked.”

  “I’m meeting up with some band-camp friends.”

  Band-camp friends. Those words were like three poison darts to the chest.

  “I told you,” he said, retucking the rumpled mess he called a shirt, “as soon as I can snag a semidecent French horn player I’m forming a woodwind quintet. I still don’t get why Mozart and Bach and those guys stuck a brass instrument in with a bunch of woodwinds when they wrote their chamber music, but…”

  I didn’t understand half the words spilling out of Wally’s mouth. While he was blabbering away I did a double take. Some guy kept running up and down the steps of the library across the street.

  “Hey, Wal, check out that nut job,” I said snickering. “He doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going.”

  “That’s no nut job.” Wally was craning his neck to see past a Lotustown bus. “That’s that eighth-grader, Zack Kincaid, captain of the Fireballs. The hulky guy standing there with the stopwatch is his father – supposed to be a real jerk.”

  “What do you think they’re doing?”

  “Training. His dad wants Zack to get athletic scholarships, so he’s always cracking the whip.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “How do you not know that?”

  We hopped onto our bikes and began pedaling down Main Street in silence. Well, except for Mr. Kincaid’s distant “Hustle! Hustle!” and the Walrus groaning about his burning carbuncle.

  “There’s another beginning tap class on Wednesday night,” I said, back to the subject at hand. “How about that one? I’ll treat you to a swirl cone after. Large.”

  “No can do, my friend.”

  “C’mon, man! What if I’m, like, the only boy there?”

  “So? Don’t go – no one’s twisting your arm.” Wally sounded annoyed and I could feel the fight in me petering out. “Ask Pepper to go with you.”

  “Pepper’s not a boy.”

  “Half the people in Buttermilk Falls think she is.”

  “Nice talk,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Don’t tell her I said that.”

  I decided to drop the subject of the tap class completely. Didn’t want to spark one of our epic grudgefests. They can get ugly.

  “Well, wish me luck, Wal,” I said, jumping the curb in front of the dance studio. “Call me later, okay?” />
  “You call me.”

  “No, you call me!”

  Miss Pritchard’s Academy of Dance was up a steep, narrow stairway. I cashed in my coupon with a lady at the front desk who directed me through a hallway of noisy little girls to the boys’ changing room. No big surprise that it was dark and deserted. I was nervously changing into Dad’s tap shoes, which were prestuffed with socks for a better fit, when I heard “Class is starting! Let’s go, girls! And boy.”

  Thanks for that.

  Two seconds later, I was standing in a mirror-covered room, white-knuckling a long, wooden bar alongside the wall. Looking down the lineup of little bunned heads on either side of me, I was tempted to make a run for it. But on the bright side I did feel extremely tall.

  “Well, look who showed!” Darlene Deluca said, sneaking up on me. “You’ve got guts – I’ll give you that much. But you always did like standing out in a crowd.”

  “Oh, hi, Darlene.” Did I mention she was the bossiest girl at Buttermilk Falls Elementary? Possibly the entire Midwest? “I didn’t think you’d be in the beginners class.”

  “As if!” she exclaimed, and bent over to buckle her tap shoes – without even bending her knees. “How pathetic would that be after studying for three and a half years? I’m the TA, as in teacher’s assistant. I get paid for it too, as in money.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, as in who cares?

  “I’m only covering the tap classes so far, but –?” Darlene got a load of my tap shoes and fell into a sudden fit of laughter. “Omigod, where’d you find those things? They’re gigantic! Do they explode?”

  The giggles that were spreading across the room from girl to girl came to an abrupt stop when the woman from the front desk floated into the room wearing all black. Probably Miss Pritchard. She was short and spunky – the type of adult you’d swear was a teenager if her face were covered in zits instead of wrinkles.

  “Okay class, we’re going to begin with our usual warm-up,” she announced, as Darlene flew to her side. “And for the new boy, just follow along as best you can. You’ll catch on.”

  Famous last words.

  “Darlene, whenever you’re ready.”

  Darlene grabbed a small drum off the piano and started beating it with a steady boom-boom-boom, like a human metronome. Miss Pritchard matched the beat, chanting, “Flap-heel, flap-heel, flap-flap, shuffle-ball-change…” Everybody knew exactly what they were doing, but I didn’t know a flap from a flapjack.

  “I thought this was supposed to be beginning,” I moaned to the girl in front of me.

  “Beginning level three.”

  “Heads up!” Miss Pritchard barked. “You, the new boy – head up! Loose knees, everyone – stay in demi plié. Good. Shoulders back. Keep a slight relevé.”

  “Why is she speaking in foreign tongues?” I whispered to the same nibblet of a girl. She was wearing head-to-toe pink, and her tights were anything but tight.

  “It’s French. Relevé means –”

  “No talking!” Miss Pritchard yelled. The little pink girl bit her lip.

  Except for the language barrier, I made it through all the warm-ups thinking so-far-so-good thoughts. Then we started doing turns across the floor. In my opinion, they were way too tough for beginning level three – or four or five! During our second go-round, I was whirling out of control like a spastic top, thinking up possible excuses for a quick exit. Sprained ankle? Important phone call? Jock itch?

  “The new boy!” Miss Pritchard called out. I came to a standstill, causing a tapping train wreck. “You’re going to get dizzy if you don’t spot.”

  Too late. My head was still spinning even though my body had stopped.

  “Pick a spot on that far wall,” Miss Pritchard instructed, “and every time you whip your head around, your eyes return to that very same spot. Darlene, please demonstrate.”

  Darlene stuck her nose in the air and spun across the floor like a ballerina on fast-forward. I did my best to copy her, but ended up in a heap on the floor. The bun brigade got a big kick out of that.

  “Well, no wonder you’re tripping all over yourself,” Miss Pritchard said as I scrambled to my feet. “I’m surprised you can even walk in those shoes, let alone dance! I’ll tell you what. Go dig through that green canvas bag under the window and find yourself a pair of tap shoes that fit.”

  There was only one boys’ pair at the bottom of the bag, and they were missing a heel tap, but anything would’ve been an improvement. So I quickly changed into them and set Dad’s tap shoes on the windowsill before rejoining the line of twirling tots. Then I tried – boy, how I tried – with every fiber of my being, to “spot” the lousy clock on the wall. But with each turn it got fuzzier and I got dizzier, while the meatballs in my stomach were being whipped into a frothy frappe. Gawd, I really stink at this and I can’t even blame Dad’s clown shoes anymore! I kept tapping… turning… with my insides thrashing… churning – until I yelled, “Clear the way!” and spun myself right out the door.

  I staggered down the hall, ricocheting off the walls and aiming for the boys’ changing room. I don’t remember if there was a sink in there. Or even a toilet! Plunging into the dark room, I desperately felt around the doorjamb searching for the light switch. A wave of nausea was boiling up inside me like molten lava. And just as I switched on the light, my volcano erupted and liquid meatballs came spewing out my mouth.

  “Blaaargh!”

  “Hey!” someone screeched, and I felt a powerful shove.

  I went flying across the room and slammed my knees into the long bench, not knowing what had hit me. A second eruption was on its way – but the stinging pain from my broken kneecaps and dislocated shoulder must’ve stopped it from coming. Collapsing onto the bench, I turned to see a hysterical guy jumping around in front of me with road pizza all over his sneakers.

  “Jeez! Idiot! Freakin’ idiot!”

  “Sorry!” I said, wiping my sour mouth. “Gawd! I didn’t know anyone was even in here!”

  I limped over to the sink – it turns out there was a sink – grabbed a bunch of paper towels and hobbled back to clean up the mess on the floor.

  “Don’t come near me, wuss!” the kid growled all bug-eyed. “Just back away. Far away.”

  “Okay, okay!”

  I dropped the towels into the puddle and gave him room. While I was frantically changing back into my street shoes, the kid kept pacing back and forth, trying to shake the stuff off his feet. He looked familiar. Tall and gangly; buzz cut; skin so white you could see through it. I was pretty sure it was that Zack guy who we just saw racing up and down the library steps. What were the odds? And why was he hiding out in the dark dressing room of Miss Pritchard’s Academy of Dance? Must’ve been picking up his little sister from class or something.

  “Again, I’m really, really sorry.”

  He let out a cry of anguish and punched a locker before escaping into the hall. I quickly shoved my stuff into my backpack and rushed out after him, bumping right into Miss Pritchard. “Ooh, sorry!”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Accident,” I said, hustling past her. “Should I – do you want me to –?”

  She palmed her forehead when the smell hit her and I think she started cursing in French. “Darlene!” she bellowed. “Protein spill in the boys’ dressing room. Bring the mop quick!”

  “Oh, great!” I heard Darlene yell from the classroom as I was hightailing it toward the exit. “Boys wreck everything!”

  Halfway down the steps I realized that Dad’s tap shoes were still sitting on the windowsill. Halfway up, I decided they’d just have to stay there because I was never going back.

  Chapter 5

  Triple Threat

  Before the weekend had run out, I’d come to the conclusion that becoming a double threat rather than a triple threat wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I mean it was painfully obvious that I wasn’t exactly blessed with the gift of dance. Just ask Zack Kincaid’s shoes.
r />   On my way out of school on Monday, right after the final bell, Miss Van Rye stopped me and asked if I’d give her a hand. I turned and applauded. Not something you can pull with every teacher, but she ate it up. She cackled and did a sort of grand diva curtsy, then told me to follow her. Even though she’d been a kindergarten teacher most of her life, telltale signs of her brief stint as a young actress in New York always bled through.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “The storage room. To see if any scenery from The Castle of the Crooked Crowns is salvageable.”

  “I’m surprised they even kept it,” I said, practically skipping down the corridor. She was an extremely fast walker for a teacher of such epic proportions. “Isn’t it in pretty bad shape?”

  “One can only hope.”

  “Huh?”

  “If anyone asks, I never said that. See, the high school doesn’t have much at all to work with scenery-wise. So if ours is in ruins, it looks like we’ll be –” She stopped short and grabbed both my hands. Her eyeballs were dancing. “We’ll be renting professional sets for the show! Isn’t that thrilling?”

  “Omigod, that’s fantastic!” And we were off again – her brightly-colored caftan billowing in the breeze.

  “The Arts Committee did the math and realized it wouldn’t cost much more than if we had to build it ourselves from scratch. And Lord only knows what it’d turn out like. Anyway, don’t get too excited just yet. It all hinges on what we find in storage.”

  The thought of performing in a musical with professional sets had me so pumped up, I paid little attention to the shouts and whistle blasts echoing through the corridor.

  “So have you guys decided what show we’re gonna do?” I figured I’d take advantage of our face time and squeeze all the info out of her I could get.

  “We have indeed. But I’m not supposed to spill the beans just yet. The sign-up sheet will be posted tomorrow and you’ll know then.”

  All I ask is that Darlene was wrong, and it doesn’t end up being some heavy tap show like Forty-Second Street. And of course there has to be a juicy part in it for me!