by John J. Bonk
“Ah, your ponytail’s pulled too tight,” I said, sucking away on my orange wedge. “A musical based on an old, dead comic strip is more educational than a Dickens classic? Fess up. You just wanna play Annie.”
“Oh, butt out, butt face,” Darlene snapped, “nobody asked you to sign.” I flashed her a citrusy smile, with orange peel covering my teeth. “It just makes better sense. There’re hardly any female roles in Oliver! – and no boys have even signed up to audition for it yet. Except one weirdo.”
“Hey!” I shouted.
Darlene bit the cap off her pen and handed it to Pepper. “There’s no tap dancing in it, either, Dustin-bin. So it looks like you totally humiliated yourself for nothing at Miss Pritchard’s. Ha! Too bad, so sad.”
“Which you totally lied to me about,” I snapped, staring her in the face. “What the heck’s wrong with you? Who would do a thing like that?”
“Listen, the more kids we pack into the tap classes, the more I get paid. It’s called being resourceful.”
“Well, that was a slimy thing to –”
“Live with it. C’mon, Pepper,” Darlene whined, “you’re holding me up. Are you gonna sign or not?”
“Don’t rush me. Umm… uhhh…” Pepper was twirling the pen through her fingers; then positioned it on the paper as if she were going to sign. “Not!” she said, tossing the pen into the air.
“Fine! Who needs you?”
Darlene retrieved the pen and the petition, and stomped over to the Geyser Girl table. I strained to hear what she was yammering about, but couldn’t really hear much until: “I just wasted five minutes of my lunch hour on a certain redheaded girl with a Y chromosome. Oops! My mistake.”
“That’s it. She’s toast!” Pepper lurched out of her chair with a screech, but I pulled her back down.
“No, don’t.”
A stream of heavy rain suddenly pelted against the windows, sounding like machine-gun fire as the chatter from across the aisle got louder and louder. It was as if the fury of the downpour was stirring things up in the cafeteria. Zack was sticking his nose in the situation now too, peering over Candy’s shoulder and making fun of the whole petition idea. “You guys can’t sign this thing,” he proclaimed.
Candy asked, “Why not?”
“Who cares which lame puppet show the Arts Committee wants to put on? Coach Mockler says they’re dipping into the phys ed budget in order to do it.”
“That’s bogus.” Darlene’s hand flew to her hip. “Why would they need jock money? Think about it, genius. Fact: The Castle of the Crooked Crowns was a big, fat hit. Fact: It earned more profits than all the PTA bake sales and candy drives for the last three years combined.”
“Yeah, and this time Fenton High’s pitching in,” Maggie added, sauntering up to their table, picking at a cupcake. “It’s about time us thespians got a little attention.”
“Thespians!” Tyler spouted, elbowing Pig. “I can’t believe she came right out and admitted it.”
“You’re an idiot!” Maggie snapped.
I kept feeding my face like it was best lunch ever, but I really was eavesdropping. I could tell Pepper was doing the same. Hard to tell with the Walrus, though.
“Well – er, but,” Zack was sputtering, “the school shouldn’t have reneged on their promises to the Fireballs. How’s it gonna look? Us hosting the Slam-Dunk Basketball Tourney without a freakin’ scoreboard?”
“Well, boo hoo for you, Betty Sue.” Darlene made a pouty face and mimed drying pretend tears. Maggie laughed outright, but Zack looked steamed. You could practically see flames shooting from his eyes, like the ones on his Fireballs sweatshirt.
“Where’s your team loyalty?” he yelled in Darlene’s face. “I thought you guys wanna be cheerleaders!”
“Not anymore! I ain’t cheering for you lunkheads.”
“Most cheerleaders are dancers, Zack – and dancers like doing shows,” Candy said calmly. She was still perusing the petition as if she were tempted to sign; twisting her mane so tightly it looked like a long, thick licorice stick. “I don’t see why we can’t do both.”
“Because you can’t!”
Zack ripped the petition from her hand and bolted across the room with Darlene in hot pursuit. All eyes followed their wild chase around the cafeteria as a loud crack of thunder rattled the windows. When the lightning follow-up came, they were face-to-face in the aisle next to us, breathing heavily. Nostrils flaring. An irresistible force meeting an immovable object – or however that thing goes. And the lunchroom monitor was nowhere in sight.
“Give it!” Darlene ordered, jutting out her hand.
“Shove it!”
Zack slowly and joyfully proceeded to rip her Annie petition into a million pieces while his cohorts cheered him on from their table. Darlene watched as the last piece of paper hit the floor; then she grabbed an unopened bag of potato chips from our table and punch-popped it in Zack’s face.
“You die, Deluca!”
Chips shot up into the air and rained down on us like confetti. Cafeteria ladies were scurrying around in the background, like water buffalo fleeing a tsunami. Some kids ran too, but I sat tight and let the chips fall where they may.
“C’mon, you guys,” I pleaded. “This isn’t how civilized middle-schoolers settle their –”
Before I could finish my sentence, Zack clobbered Darlene with a lime Jell-O surprise and she let out a bloodcurdling scream. Just then lighting flashed across her face. I wish I’d had my camera because I swear she was a dead ringer for the Wicked Witch of the West. Maggie and some other girls came rushing to her defense; and the Fireballs were scrambling over tables to back up Zack.
“Kill the drama geeks!” Tyler hollered, slicing the air with a banana-sword.
Pepper joined the action too, countering with, “Kill the no-neck basketball freaks!”
“Yo!” I cried out. “What’re you doin’, man?”
“If you can’t beat ’em –”
Then the whole cafeteria went ballistic – I’m talking major food fight! It was unreal. Sandwich buns spun across the room like helicopter blades. Oranges were catapulted through an onslaught of Twinkie torpedoes and corn kernels. Meatball bombs dropped. Juice-box grenades exploded. The air was thick with the four basic food groups!
Being a pacifist, I ducked under the table for cover. Plus, I didn’t want to ruin the only stain-free shirt I owned. A split second later Wally buckled under too.
“Hey, you gonna finish your chocolate milk?” he said, dragging his bassoon down with him. “Grab it for me. It’s just gonna go to waste.”
“Jeez, what a mooch. We’re in the middle of a war here.”
“C’mon! I’ll thumb wrestle you for it.”
“That’s your answer to everything.”
I peeked over the edge of the table, barely dodging a Grubbs-seeking pickle missile. Just as I reached for the milk carton, a loud whistle blast came from the doorway. It was Coach Mockler.
“Time out! Time out!” he shouted, and blew his whistle so hard that it shot out of his mouth. Everything came to a sudden standstill except for half a PB&J sandwich that was sliding down the wall.
“Holy… holy… holy,” Mockler uttered. He couldn’t quite get the “cow” out of his mouth. “In my twelve years at this school I have never seen anything like this! This place is really going to pot. Holy… holy… holy…”
After Mockler’s blessing, questions were asked; fingers were pointed; and Darlene and Zack were collared. They were slip-sliding past me en route to Principal Futterman’s office when I heard Zack mutter, “You’re goin’ down, Grubbs.”
“Huh?” I was totally confused. “What’d I do?”
“Dunno. But wherever you show your ugly face, disaster always follows.”
Warped logic. But definitely food for thought.
Chapter 7
Bubbling Trouble
After school I practically froze to death in my flimsy jacket, puddle-hopping over to the Butter
milk Falls Public Library. The endless rain had washed away any traces of summer weather, and the temperature had dropped suddenly, like, don’t look now but, poof, it’s fall. I wanted to beat the rush and get first dibs on all things Oliver! at the library – but they ended up only having one CD of the 1963 original Broadway cast recording and a DVD of the 1968 movie. So I checked them both out along with An Actor Prepares and a book on foreign dialects, shoved them into my backpack, and splashed my way home. This kid had some prep work to do!
“Dustin? Is that you?” Mom called as I was speed-clomping my way upstairs. “Come down here.”
“In a second!”
Even with an umbrella I’d gotten totally drenched. I dropped the good-for-nothing thing on the floor and was peeling off my waterlogged jeans when I realized I was being watched. LMNOP’s cat was stretched across my pillow, staring at me in my tighty-whities with her creepy yellow eyes.
“Umm, excuse me, fuzz face,” I snapped, grabbing a pair of sweatpants for cover, “but this isn’t a free show.” I quickly hopped into them and seized the peeping-Tom-cat. She purred at first, then turned and hissed at me when I dropped her onto the floor. “Love me or hate me, tuna breath. Pick one.”
A picture postcard was sitting on the hairy pillow where Cinnamon had been. Mom must’ve brought it up to my room. ANNISQUAN LIGHTHOUSE, the caption read, GLOUCESTER, MASSACHUSETTS. Jeez, LMNOP wasted no time. I flipped it over to see what she had to say on the back:
Hi, DustiN GRuBBS,
WE’RE HERE AND it’S So SPEctAculAR!
GUESS WHAT?
I’VE GOT BANGS!!
She still manages to annoy me from clear across the United States. I flung the postcard into the trash can; then emptied out my backpack onto my bed. A piece of paper was stuck to the DVD – the permission slip for our field trip. I sat on the edge of my bed half-reading it, half-yanking off my wet socks. They stretched three times their normal size before finally springing off. I gave them a quick sniff (gross, I know, but it’s an automatic thing) and pitched them across the room. Back to the permission slip…
to be signed by a parent or guardian granting my son/daughter permission to participate in the one-day field trip to the Shedd Aquarium of Chicago.
“Mrrr-oow!” All of a sudden Cinnamon bolted, and my umbrella popped open, showering me with cold rain. An icy shiver shot from my head to my shins.
“Of Chicago?” I blurted out loud. “Hold on a second. That’s Dad’s home turf!”
A true “watershed” moment, if there ever was one.
How could I have missed the Chicago part when Lynch brought it up on the first day of school? Must’ve been distracted by Candy’s recent developments.
“A free trip to see Dad in the Windy City! No way.”
“Dustin!” Mom called again. “Come downstairs!”
I sat there wiping my wet face on my T-shirt, letting the news sink in. I hadn’t seen Dad in over three years and the thought of coming face-to-face with him made my teeth itch – but in a good way. The more I thought about it, the more excited I got. My heart was rumbling up a storm – I mean it was actually giving the storm outside a run for its money. It’s a wonder the thing didn’t burst in my chest.
BANG!!
Maybe it just did.
What the heck was that? After I scraped myself off the ceiling I realized the sound had come from downstairs. Could be Gordy’s fireworks accidentally going off in the basement. But it was just a single blast – like a gunshot. Is one of the Grubbs packing heat? Man, how much excitement can a kid take in twenty-four hours?
I darted into the hall and flew down the steps, holding my breath all the way. My family was huddled in the middle of the living room. Aunt Olive was in tears. Did Granny finally crack and plug the deliveryman from Gleason’s Market for busting her eggs again?
“Dustin, come here,” Mom said, gesturing me over.
Was she nuts? I didn’t want to see the body up close.
“You and your brother can have ginger ale for the toast.”
Ginger ale and toast? I moved in a little closer to the crime scene. Aunt Olive was pouring from a big, green bottle, filling everyone’s glasses with bubbles.
“It’s a little warm, I’m afraid,” Aunt Olive said, sniffling. “The store didn’t carry refrigerated champagne.”
Oh, I get it. Cork. Pop. Celebration!
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” Granny said, watching bubbles fill her glass. “Didn’t think I’d be alive and kickin’ to see another wedding around here.”
“Wedding?” I asked, “Whose wedding?”
Maybe Gordy’s? He’d been dating his girlfriend Rebecca longer than any other girl (and there’d been plenty). But he was barely seventeen. I was pretty sure you weren’t allowed to get married until you were eighteen – unless you lived in Vegas or the Ozarks.
“Here’s to the blushing bride!” Aunt Birdie said, raising her glass.
“What blushing bride?” I asked, but my words got lost in the clinking of the glasses. Oh, gawd, it’s Mom! Was she dating behind our backs again? And just when things were going so good with Dad. Panic started to kick in.
“Oooh, that tickles,” Aunt Birdie said, giggling into her glass. “The bubbles went straight up my nose.”
“Who’s getting married?” I asked again, louder this time.
“That would be me!” Aunt Olive said, wiggling her fingers to show off her glittery ring. “I’m officially engaged!”
Instant relief. “Well, congratulations!” I gave my aunt an enthusiastic hug. Maybe too enthusiastic – tears came gushing out of her like a fire hydrant.
“Dustin, why don’t you help your brother with the hors d’oeuvres?” Mom said, gesturing to the dining room table.
“Ugh. You shouldn’t let him near food without rubber gloves and a hairnet.”
I had to wrestle the can of cheese away from Gordy before he sprayed it all down his throat. He bolted and I sat there squirting smiley faces on crackers until the platter was filled; then started making rounds like a cater-waiter. Good practice for when I’m a struggling actor in New York, taking odd jobs to make ends meet. I can’t wait.
“Oh, none for me, hon,” Aunt Olive said, waving me away. “I’m on a strict diet. I’ve got my eye on a gorgeous wedding dress, and I don’t want to look like the great white whale when I march down the aisle.”
“White?” Granny spit a mouthful of champagne back into her glass. “That’s a cockamamy idea if you ask me. You’re not exactly a spring chicken, you know.”
“I’m wearing white, Ma. Possibly bone or ecru, but definitely in the white family.”
“So, who’s the lucky guy?” I asked, changing the subject before there really was a dead body lying on the floor.
“You know Smashum Pest Control, right?” Aunt Olive’s eyes lit up. “Well, Dennis Smashum is the proprietor, and we’ve been keeping each other’s company for a little over a year now. One thing led to another and – we’ve set the date! October eighth, so mark your calendars.” She did a kind of slow twirl across the floor. “It’s always been my dream to get married in a small family ceremony out back – under the rose trellis.”
“Oh, pllllgh!” Granny made her opinion clear with a sloppy raspberry. “Have you lost your marbles? You’ll be freezing your bloomers off.”
“Dennis prefers cold weather,” my aunt told her, swooning into the cushy, blue armchair. “No bugs.”
“Oopsy daisy,” Aunt Birdie snorted. “She’s lost her ball bearings.”
“Just bearings – no ball,” I said, correcting her. “Hey, you guys, since the champagne is flowing, I’ve got some good news too I’d like to –”
“Someone has had enough,” Granny interrupted and grabbed the glass from Aunt Olive. The future Mrs. Smashum was obviously too smashed to care.
“So, guess what?” I hopped up on the ottoman to get their attention. “Guys? Guys!” All eyes were on me now, but I wasn’t sure where to start. I
was tempted to just blurt out the Chicago news, but figured I’d better not. Granny always got cranky when anyone mentioned anything to do with Dad. She was still holding a major grudge for him walking out on us like he did. Better to go with my less touchy news.
“I’ll be back on the boards again this year! That’s theatre-talk for doing a show. We’re doing a musical this time – a joint effort between our school and Fenton High. And it’s gonna be huge.”
“Oh, how wonderful, honey,” Mom said over Aunt Birdie’s enthusiastic applause. “Which musical are they doing?”
“Oliver! You know, based on Oliver Twist? I’ll be tackling the role of the Artful Dodger. He’s a pickpocket – a scallywag, and ’e kinda tawks loik this.” I slipped into my cockney accent to really set the mood. “Wears a top hat, ’e does, and works for the oily Mister Fagin – scouring the foggy streets of London to rip off respectable gentlemen and the like.”
“Nobody cares,” Gordy grumbled.
“It’s gonna be a sellout,” I said, switching back to my real voice, “just like Gordy. So if anyone wants to give me their ticket orders now and pay in advance, I do accept credit cards –”
“Put me down for two!” Aunt Olive cried out and kicked off her shoes.
“You lie like a rug, dweeb,” Gordy snarled. “The sign-up sheets just went up today. You can’t know what part you’re gonna get if they didn’t even hold the stupid auditions yet.”
“A mere technicality.”
“Aren’t you putting the horse before the cart?” Aunt Birdie asked.
“Uh, sorta, but… wait – it’s the cart before the horse, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be silly. How could the cart roll if the horse wasn’t pulling it?”
I give up.
Without warning, Gordy shoved me off the ottoman and I hit the carpet like a sack of turtles.
“Hey, I wasn’t done!”
“Tough. I’ve got an announcement to make too.” He sat with his ankle crossed over his knee on the edge of the ottoman, waggling his foot a million miles a minute. “You guys might want to sit down for this.”