by John J. Bonk
Uh-oh. Mom and Granny took a seat on the couch. I dashed over to the phone and positioned my finger on the nine, just in case I had to dial 911. The Grubbses were famous for their overreactions.
Gordy’s face was all twitchy. He probably got caught for drinking beer on school property again, and this time they were throwing him in the slammer for five to ten. No great loss. Hey, if the wall between our two bedrooms isn’t load bearing, we could tear it down and I could have one gigantic –
“What is it, Gordon?” Mom was using her worried voice.
“All right, I’ll just spit it out.” But he didn’t. “This might freak you out – but I’m not kidding around or anything. This is for real.”
Omigod, he’s joined a cult!
“I’m – I’ve decided to go to college.”
Dead silence.
“Bartender or clown?” I asked.
“Shaddup, Freakshow!”
“Oh, Gordy!” Mom gushed. “That’s incredible news!”
Ten to one it’s Rebecca’s idea. That girl deserves a medal.
“Well, I can’t be too choosy about colleges ’cause of my grades. That’s what Becca says.” See! “Plus, I ain’t got no extra-curricular activities on my record. But I’ve still got my senior year to bust my behind, right? And at least I made up my mind to go – if we can afford it.”
Mom was beaming. “We’ll find a way,” she said. “I’m just so proud!”
There was a crack of thunder outside, and I realized Gordy had just stolen mine. I sauntered across the room and perched on the radiator, listening to the outpouring of encouragement raining down on my brother. Here’s the thing about juvenile delinquents: Everyone’s so used to them being in trouble, just a hint of something respectable eeks out of them and suddenly they’re heroes. If you’ve been on the honor roll your whole life, no one even blinks when you get all A’s on your report card again. It’s no big whoop. “What’s that, Dustin? Oh, you’ve just won the Pulitzer Prize? That’s nice. Now move out of the way of the TV – we can’t see through you.”
“This house is going to seem so empty next year,” Aunt Birdie said dreamily. A series of rapid-fire hiccups escaped, taking her by surprise. “Ooh, pardon me. What with Gordy off at college – hic – and Olive moving to Hinkleyville…”
“I’m pretty sure I’ll end up at the community college,” Gordy said between taking hits of air from the empty can-o-cheese. “So I ain’t movin’ nowhere prob’ly.”
“Ain’t movin’ nowhere prob’ly,” I echoed. “Mmm, you keep talking real good English like that and you’ll make the dean’s list for sure!”
“Bite me, scrod.”
“Whoa, back up a minute,” Granny said, zeroing in on the bride-to-be. “Let me get this straight. You’re moving out of the house, Olive? Out of Buttermilk Falls – for good?”
My aunt sat upright. Her eyes were darting around like she was trying to do math in her head. “Of course. What’d you think?”
“I didn’t think,” Granny snapped. “You didn’t give us time to think. You just sprang this whole thing on us at the last minute.”
You could feel all the joy in the room fizzling out, like the bubbles in the champagne.
“Dennis’s brother has a thriving extermination business in Hinkleyville and – to make a shong story lort, they’ve decided to partner up,” Aunt Olive said, twisting her engagement ring like she was trying to unscrew her finger. “It makes good business sense. And, besides, it’s not that far away.”
“Might as well be on the moon.” Granny’s mouth formed a tight pucker, as if she were fighting to keep the rest of her words locked inside.
“Oh, Ma,” Aunt Birdie said, “don’t be such a party – hic – pooper. She’ll come visit us, and we can visit her… and she’ll come visit us…”
Nobody said anything after that. There was just the tick-tick-tick of the wall clock and the hic-hic-hic of Aunt Birdie. You could definitely feel the “tension you could cut with a knife” that everyone talks about. Finally, Granny struggled off the couch and shuffled around the room fluffing pillows that didn’t need fluffing and straightening pictures that didn’t need straightening. My butt was getting deep-fried, so I popped off the radiator and started cleaning up. I swept the crumbs off the dining room table and grabbed the empty champagne bottle.
“A delightfully refreshing nonalcoholic alternative to traditional sparkling wine” was printed in tiny letters on the bottom of the label. “Contains less than 0.3 % alcohol by volume.” Somehow my aunts had gotten sloshed on sugar water and bubbles. Pretty hysterical, but definitely not a good time to poke fun. I followed Granny into the kitchen, keeping a safe distance, but I could still hear her grumbling to herself:
“First Teddy – now Olive. Running off with some bug man – to Hinkleyville, of all places. Might as well be on the doggone moon.”
Chapter 8
Three Lawyers, an
Aardvark, and a
Substitute Teacher…
“Thanks, Ted. I haven’t laughed that hard in quite a while. It’s been kind of intense around here lately – I really needed that!” Mom was winding up her phone conversation with Dad, wiping her eyes from busting a gut. After being incommunicado for a third of a decade due to Mom’s righteous anger, my crazy parents were hitting it off these days better than ever. Now he was causing happy tears – not sad. A complete 180.
“Okay, I’ll hand you over to your son now. Yeah, talk to you soon, hon.”
Hon? Move over Aunt Olive – was there another wedding in the works? I took the phone and heard Dad’s voice radiating through.
“Hey, kid! So, break a leg at that audition of yours. When is it again?”
“Tomorrow after school. I’m singing your favorite song – the ‘Broadway’ one. And Aunt Olive helped me with it, so I’m not too worried. She said it doesn’t matter too much if I can hit all the high notes, the important thing is that I sell it.”
“And if you screw up, just launch into a joke or something. Funny never fails.”
“Right.”
“Play up your strengths and they won’t notice your weaknesses.”
“Got it.”
“Wow ’em with a big finish and they’ll forgive you for anything.”
“Hey, read my lips. I said I wasn’t worried.”
“I can’t read your lips – we’re on the phone.”
“Good one. You should be a comedian.”
“Haaa! Let’s see… what else can I tell ya?”
“There’s that thing about picturing everyone in their underwear, but that’s just wrong.”
“Oh, wait – I know. I was gonna say drink a lot of water. It’ll keep your phlegm down and your energy up.”
“Copy, good buddy.”
“I’ve got a few surprises up my sleeve for when we meet in Chicago, so stand warned. On the twenty-third, right?”
“Right. See you then.”
“Okeydokey, smokey.”
“Later, dude – I mean Dad!”
* * *
The next day after the three-fifteen bell, all auditioners were told to congregate in the cafeteria, which was being used as a kind of holding tank. Bad idea. Ever since the janitors cleaned up after the food war, it smelled like a combination of fish sticks and industrial-strength pine. Eesh! I was queasy enough already with my first big musical audition just minutes away – I didn’t want a repeat of that dance studio incident.
“Okay, kiddles,” Miss Van Rye said, poking her head into the cafeteria, “we’ll be starting in just a few minutes and you’ll be going into the auditorium in groups of ten. So when I call your name, form a line at the door. Quick like bunnies!”
Dad’s advice about drinking a lot of water seemed to be panning out – I had energy to spare and no sign of phlegm. Miss Van Rye was leading my group to the backstage area and I topped off my tank with a few final sips from the water fountain. When I looked up at the bulletin board where the sign-up sheet had hung, there was a DANCE IS M
Y SPORT! bumper sticker plastered over the one that said SPORTS RULE!
“If you have sheet music, hand it to the accompanist, then stand center stage and announce your song,” Miss Van Rye said in a hushed voice while we formed a tight, sweaty line in the stage-right wings. “And for goodness sake, only one song per customer unless they specifically ask to hear more. Break legs, munchkins!”
I was fifth in line behind Stewy Ziggler. It kind of surprised me that he showed up, but I was sure glad he did – he being a boy and all. Plus, it was good to see that mini-egghead coming out of his shell. He looked as if he were waiting in line for the guillotine, though, and I think he was releasing toxic nerve gas.
“C’mon, give us a break,” I said, fanning the air. “Are you cutting SBDs?”
“Huh?” he asked.
“Silent-but-deadlies?”
Stewy sniffed the air all around him, looking like one of those bobble-head dolls. “Not that I’m aware.”
I was expecting maybe a “he who smelt it dealt it.” Why was he talking like some snooty butler?
“You’re not fooling anyone. Just try clenching, will ya? I’m suffocating here.”
Darlene’s name was called first, and she ripped off her sweater to reveal a bright red Orphan Annie dress, spouting, “Watch and learn!” I’ll be darned if she didn’t spin out onstage and sing a medley of practically the entire score from Annie. Jeez, what a hardhead! The Arts Committee had already turned down her stupid petition and announced we were definitely doing Oliver! Talk about pushy. She finished by belting out the song “Tomorrow” and sliding into the splits; then she asked the casting people if they wanted to hear a ballad that showed off her soprano range. It sounded like a unanimous “no,” but Darlene, being Darlene, launched right into, “The hills are alive with the sound of –”
“You suck!”
Someone had shouted it from the back of the house.
Man, I thought, tough crowd.
Darlene stopped singing. There was a door slam; a loud commotion. Silence.
“What’s going on out there?” Stewy asked me, all wide-eyed and fidgety. “What’s happening?”
“Got me.”
I peeked around the black curtains with the other auditioners trying to see what the deal was in the auditorium. Finally Darlene stomped passed us, complaining, “Some juvenile delinquent’s out there yelling stuff! Gawd, this is so unprofessional.”
Hopefully the heckler wouldn’t be back during my five-minute time slot!
“You did awesome, Dar,” Maggie gushed as Miss Van Rye rushed her out onto the stage next. When I heard her lyrics about “washing that man right outta my hair” being sung over and over, I got a sudden urge to go to the bathroom. Sudden and severe. I motioned to Miss Van Rye, who came trotting over. She seemed on edge.
“May I take a time-out for a potty break? It’s just number one. I’ll be quick as a bunny.” You have to appeal to kindergarten teachers on their level.
“Oh, hon, you’re up after Stewart. With that disruption we’ve lost precious time, and I just want to keep things flowing.”
Flowing – yeow!
“Is it an emergency or do you think you can brave it out?” she asked, her eyes penetrating mine. “The drama teachers from Fenton High are out there and I don’t want to make waves.”
Waves – eesh!
“I can suck it up, I guess.”
“That’s my little trouper.”
I was going over my song lyrics in my head to get my mind off all things H2O. Stewy was up next. Someone from the back of the line yelled, “Good luck, squirt.” Squirt – ooh! But when he opened his mouth to sing, he was interrupted by more distant taunts and door slamming.
“Geeks!” “Nerds!” “Losers!” “Turds!”
“If I catch you boys, I’ll see to it that you’re suspended for life!” Futterman bellowed from somewhere in the auditorium.
From the wings poor Stewy looked so worked up I thought they were going to have to call in the paramedics. He attempted his song a second and third time, but kept screwing up the lyrics. In the meantime, my teeth were floating, like Granny says, and I had to bounce up and down to keep my sprinkler system from going off.
“Stewart, sweetie, just relax,” Miss Honeywell said from the center of the house in her soothing Southern twang. “You’re getting all flustered, bless your heart. Principal Futterman’s taking care of things right now, so we won’t have any more rude interruptions.”
“Uh, maybe this was a mistake,” Stewy said, inching toward the wings.
“No, you’re doing great, pum’kin. Maybe try singing something you’re more familiar with, like – oh, I don’t know – ‘Happy Birthday’ or ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat.’”
No boats!
I tried to stick it out, but when he got to “gently down the stream,” I had to haul butt swiftly down the hall – to the john. My bladder was about to splatter! Thanks for the great advice, Pop. My heart was thumping like a bass drum as I push-push-pushed to answer nature’s call.
On my way out of the bathroom I caught a glimpse of Zack, Tyler, and Pig tearing up the back steps. Talk about a triple threat! They were obviously the meatheads yelling stuff, which came as no surprise. But I wasn’t going to rat on them, because Zack already hated my guts and I didn’t want the whole basketball team out to get me.
“Dustin Grubbs! Where did he disappear to?” I heard Miss Van Rye call as I flew toward backstage. “There go my ulcers. Last call for Dustin Gru –”
“I’m here!”
I took a deep breath and let the tension blow out of me. Waterlogged no more, I walked onto that stage as if I owned it. Relaxed. Confident. Dare I say dazzling? I felt bad for Stewy, but after his train wreck of an audition I was going to knock ’em dead – hecklers or not.
The pianist turned out to be Mrs. Sternhagen, my old second-grade teacher. I don’t know why I was so surprised. She played “The Star Spangled Banner” at every assembly and was pretty good at tickling the ivories. Still, I had her pegged as an enemy of the arts. She greeted me with her usual glacial stare.
“Did you bring sheet music?”
“Uh – no, was I supposed to?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m singing ‘Give My Regards to Broadway.’ You know that one, right? It’s my dad’s favorite.”
She thumbed through a big, thick book of songs that was sitting on the piano, clicking her tongue.
“Here it is. You’re very lucky,” she said, pushing her glasses up her pointed nose. “Are you taking it from the verse or the chorus?”
What’s the difference?
“Take it from the top,” I said, as if I knew what I was talking about.
I strutted to center stage, where the stage lights were hotter than I’d remembered. Mrs. Sternhagen’s rancid perfume must’ve followed me. It smelled like Stewy Ziggler in a petunia patch.
“Dustin Grubbs,” I announced to the faceless blobs sitting in the dark auditorium. “‘Give My Regards to Broadway.’ Hit it!”
“What tempo?” Sternhagen asked.
Man, I didn’t know there was gonna be a pop quiz.
“Uh, medium, please.” I was just guessing, but that was the way I ordered my burgers and it always worked out pretty well.
She played a fancy introduction, but I wasn’t sure exactly when to jump in. I must’ve gotten distracted by Futterman pacing the rear of the auditorium, policing the joint. Sternhagen stopped and gave me a sharp look, then played the intro again.
“No, no. ‘Give My Regards,’” I told her, “‘to Broadway.’ That’s not it.”
“That’s the verse. You said to take it from the top, didn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, but I think I meant a different top.”
“Why don’t you just take it from the refrain?”
“Okay.” Whatever that is. Just get on with it – this is embarrassing.
Mrs. Sternhagen played a shorter intro this time and hit one key on the piano to give me my st
arting note. I hummed it to myself, but my brain couldn’t match it.
What the heck’s happening to me? Finding the starting note is the easiest part!
“Give…” I sang. But that wasn’t it. She hit the piano key again. “Give – give – give –” And again, and again. Her arm flab was jiggling as she pounded that one key a thousand times, but I could not for the life of me find my starting note.
“Mr. Grubbs, you’re simply not hearing it,” Mrs. Sternhagen complained, followed by an annoyed, drawn-out sigh. I could tell that her patience, like the underarms of her drab, brown dress, was wearing thin. Then she went and did it. She turned to the auditioners in the audience and uttered the two deadliest words in the world of musical theatre: “Pitch problems.”
“Only in baseball!” I blurted out, coming to my own defense. “It might be my earwax buildup – that runs in our family.”
“Well, be that as it may,” the Devil Woman said, banging the life out of that one yellow piano key, “you still should be able to reproduce the correct note instantaneously, unless –” A look of horror washed over her face. “You’re not tone-deaf, are you?” She said it in an anxious half-voice, like when my aunts whisper about feminine products.
“Not that I’m aware.”
I could hear the words tone-deaf being murmured by the teachers who were deciding my fate. “Tone-deaf!” ringing in the balcony. “Tone-deaf!” echoing off the walls.
“Come stand by the piano.” Mrs. Sternhagen waved me over. “Try singing it along with me.”
This can’t be happening. I felt like one of her slow second-graders.
She plunked out the melody and croaked, “Give my regards to Broadway…” I joined in, sounding a little shaky. “Remember me to Herald Square –” My voice cracked. Puberty kicking in, but they’d probably take that into consideration. “Tell all the gang at Forty-second Street that I will soon be there.” I was back on track. “Whisper of how I’m yearning…” Sternhagen cut out and it was all me, belting it out. “To mingle with the old time throng…” Back to full tempo, really working the stage. “Yeah, give my regards to old Broadway” – wow ’em with a big finish and they’ll forgive you for anything – “and say that I’ll – be – there – hair – looong!”