Take Two!

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Take Two! Page 16

by John J. Bonk


  Dad

  It was like a sucker punch to the soul. I lay frozen staring at the note, feeling numb – except for the paper cut I’d gotten, which was stinging. Throbbing. Burning. I thought I’d hit rock bottom before, but somehow I’d slipped through the cracks onto a layer of broken glass and worm guts. The logical part of me was thinking, Oh, well, that’s Dad for you. What’re ya gonna do? Another part of me wanted to hunt him down and pummel him!

  Mom didn’t say a thing when I showed her the note, as if nothing Dad did could surprise her anymore. But I heard her swearing under her breath while she stuffed Aunt Olive’s wedding dress into the trunk of the car. I thought we were going to drive all the way home in silence, but halfway there she asked, “Who’s Shelly?”

  “A purple mermaid dummy. Part of his new ventriloquist act.”

  No further explanation was needed.

  “No one has to know about any of this, okay?” Mom asked it like a question, but it was clearly an order. “His showing up at the wedding was going to be a surprise anyway, so not a word. You hear me?” She shot a look to me in the backseat and I nodded. “You hear me?” she asked Gordy directly. He grunted and kept staring straight ahead. Whenever he was really upset he always turned to stone.

  Mom switched on the country classics radio station to wallow in some “he done me wrong” songs. I almost asked her what the deal was with all the hand-holding and that hug that I’d spied through the motel window, but Tammy Wynette started belting out “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” and Mom ripped the knob right out of the dashboard. So I’d decided to keep my big mouth S-H-U-T.

  Traffic was thick when we got back to Buttermilk Falls, practically coming to a standstill near Fenton High. People were flocking to the school like it was All-You-Can-Eat-Ribs-Night at the Hog & Heifer. “What’s going on?” Mom snapped, looking around. She kept honking her horn, getting more aggravated by the minute. “If I don’t get that dress to your aunt real soon she’ll have a conniption.” Finally we came to a complete stop. “Look,” she said, rolling down her window, “isn’t that Pepper?”

  I called out to her, giving her the international sign-language shrug for “What’s going on?” The next thing I knew Pepper was shoving herself into the backseat of our Hyundai. That image of her all puckered up, covered in mall makeup, flashed in my brain and I scooched to the opposite side of the car.

  “Don’t worry, you’re not gonna catch anything,” she said, half out of breath. “Anyway, you won’t believe what’s happening. Out-and-out war! The Arts Committee and the Fenton High drama club are super P-O’ed. Excuse my French, Mrs. Grubbs. They’ve accused the jocks of stealing their spotlight.”

  “Well, duh,” I said. “That’s nothing new.”

  “No, their actual spotlight – from the high school auditorium. It happened last night. Nobody can figure out how they broke in, or how they managed to rip it off ’cause that thing weighs a ton. Now the whole town has gone bonkers! They called an emergency meeting.”

  “When?”

  “Right now. C’mon!”

  Pepper threw open the car door and pulled me onto Cubberly Street.

  “Isn’t your brother coming?” she asked, more to him than me. We gave it a three-count, but Gordy didn’t budge. “Guess not.”

  “The wedding’s at two, mister, so you’d better be home and in your suit no later than one o’clock,” Mom warned through the window. “I’ve had enough trauma for one day.”

  War chants were spilling out of the Fenton High auditorium, and the inside looked like one of those wild political conventions you see on TV. Only instead of red, white, and blue bunting dressing the stage, there was a droopy backdrop of London Bridge. A podium stood center stage, and to the left of it, in a lineup of chairs, were Miss Van Rye, Miss Honeywell, Mr. Lynch, and some angry high school drama teachers. Miss Blodget and a bunch of gym-teacher types were assembled to the right. Even Deputy-Sheriff Lutz was there, standing next to the American flag, with a hand resting on his nightstick like he might have to use it.

  “Hey-hey, clap-clap, ho-ho, clap-clap, the Arts Committee has got to go!” rang out from the right half of the auditorium – the SLUDGE-shirt-wearing half. “Ho-ho, clap-clap, hey-hey, clap-clap, the Arts Committee has got to stay!” echoed from the left, where Pepper and I sat. There were a gaggle of cheerleaders in the middle rows, neutral like Switzerland, cheering for who knows what?

  “People, people!” Futterman bellowed, stepping up to the podium and waving his arms. “Settle down. The principal from Fenton isn’t here yet, so it looks like I’m running the show. People, please!” The chanting petered out and the shouting died down to a dull rumble. “Apparently there’s been some criminal behavior here at the high school – but I can only address the tensions going on at BMF Elementary that might’ve led up to it.” He cleared his throat. “Now I realize a lot of you are upset about the phys ed cutbacks, which may or may not have resulted in the Slam-Dunk Tourney going to Claymore this year – not to mention Coach Mockler.” A chorus of boo rose up from half the audience, but Futterman overpowered it with “Believe me, I feel your pain. As everyone knows, I’m one big athletic supporter!”

  That got a huge laugh. Futterman was clueless.

  “But why all this rage is being directed at the Arts Committee and our musical is beyond me,” Miss Van Rye complained.

  “Ah, shut your piehole, lady,” some guy heckled. “Everything was just fine until you artsy-fartsy folk entered the picture. I say we cancel that expensive theatrical of yours and put the money back into the sports teams where it belongs!”

  A roar of approval came from the ESPN zone.

  “But what about culture?” a woman shouted from the front row of our section. I think it was Miss Pritchard. “What about artistic expression? Feeding your soul?”

  “That’s a load of horse manure. Just feed my belly and pass me the remote!”

  While half the crowd was rolling in the aisles, Maggie’s mother popped up from our section hoisting a large plastic container. “I brought homemade fudge!” she announced. “If anyone’s interested.”

  “How thoughtful, Mrs. Wathom,” Futterman said, motioning for her to sit. “All right, pipe down, people. Everyone’s entitled to an opinion, but here’s the bottom line: The Oliver! performances will go on as planned – with or without a spotlight. Case closed.”

  Jeers from the SLUDGE side. Cheers from the fudge side.

  “That ain’t gonna stop us from picketing outside the auditorium,” a man in overalls growled, “banging pots, and causing a ruckus! It’s our fifth amendment right.”

  “First amendment, Otis,” the deputy said, clomping toward the podium. “Bang a pot and I’ll have to slap the cuffs on you. I’m pretty sure a peaceful demonstration is allowed, though – I’d have to look it up.” He stepped up to the microphone, edging out Futterman. “Uh, pertaining to the matter of the felony committed on the premises, alls I got to say is whoever ripped off that spotlight had best return it, or I’ll hunt ’em down and throw their butts in jail. Thank you for your time.”

  Pepper and I looked up at the balcony all sectioned off with yellow DO NOT CROSS police tape. “You think it was Zack and his two stooges?” she asked.

  “Who else? With the help of Zack’s Neanderthal dad, I’ll bet.”

  “You heard the man – jail!” Futterman warned, regaining his position at the mic.

  “All right then, if anyone has any questions or comments they’d like to make, please raise your hand and we’ll take you one at a time. Yes, Mr. Kincaid? Come up to the microphone so everyone can hear you.”

  As Zack’s dad was steamrolling his way toward the stage, Pepper leaned in close to whisper something and I flinched. Knee-jerk reaction. Okay, maybe just a jerk reaction. Whatever she was going to say turned into, “Remember when I pretended to put the moves on you at the mall? You knew that was a joke, right?”

  “Good one.”

  “I was just horsin’ around.”


  “Yeah, I know” – that you’re lying through your teeth.

  Truth is, she probably still had a crush. I can’t believe I wasso clueless. Maybe it would fade away eventually like a summer tan. As long as our friendship stayed put – that’s all that mattered.

  “Can everybody hear meeeEEEEIIIKK!” Feedback. Mr. Kincaid backed off the mic. “I’m just gonna cut to the chase,” he said, holding up a bunch of rumpled papers. “What I got here is a petition signed by half the people in this town in favor of canning the Arts Committee and their show. For good. Like Emmett said, it wasn’t until they came along with their crazy ideas that our athletes started getting the shaft.”

  “That’s absurd!” Mr. Lynch snarled. Hot, angry murmurs came from the other teachers onstage. I could feel the heat that had been brewing inside me all morning bubbling up to a boil as well. Even though I had turned down the show, Mr. Kincaid’s words really ticked me off.

  “I mean where are the new uniforms these kids were promised?” he fumed on. “Where’s the digital scoreboard? Where’s the coach?” He was tapping his finger on the podium as he spoke, like a hostile orchestra conductor with his baton. “Some of these boys got real talent. And everyone knows darn well if they’re gonna have half a shot at going pro, they’ve gotta start young. Our schools need more funding to support these gifted kids – not less!”

  “But what about the other gifted kids?” I hollered, shooting out of my seat. “Like the drama geeks or the music nerds?” My feet were starting down the aisle – I don’t know what had possessed me. “Or that strange boy who’s always hiding out in stairwells making up haiku? I’m sure you remember them, sir. You used to steal their lunch money when you were little.”

  The audience cracked up, fueling me even faster toward the stage.

  “Listen, smart-mouth, Buttermilk Falls has always been a sports town!” Mr. Kincaid’s whole head turned bright red. Really lit up, like Rudolph-the-Red-Necked-Reindeer’s nose. “If folks want that sissified stuff they should move to the city with the rest of the freaks. That’s all I got to say.” He pushed away from the podium and slapped his petition into Futter-man’s chest.

  “Good afternoon,” I said taking over the microphone. “Dustin Grubbs, arts advocate. Sissified stuff, Mr. Kincaid? Meaning, like – oh, I don’t know, ballet, for instance? It’s funny, ‘cause I happened to stop by Miss Pritchard’s School of Dance the other day and you’ll never guess who I ran into –”

  I caught a glimpse of Zack’s purple face scowling up at me, surrounded by an arsenal of Fireballs. Brace yourself, sucker. It’s payback time. I was a breath away from getting even with him for all the shoves, the T-shirts – the Raid. But as I watched his gorilla of a dad barreling toward him, something clicked in my brain. Suddenly I saw Zack as just a gung ho kid with an impossible dream and a messed-up father. Suddenly he was me.

  “Uh, never mind,” I muttered, and left it at that. I could actually hear Zack’s sigh of relief. “Anyway, here’s how I see the situation. Some kids are great at shooting baskets, right? Like Zack Kincaid. And other kids are great at – maybe weaving baskets.” The crowd groaned. “Some kids can wow a crowd with a triple play; other kids can wow a crowd with triple pirouettes and acting in a play.” Ugh. “Well, you get my drift.”

  “Yeah, but what’re you getting so high and mighty about, Benedict Arnold?” Darlene yelled from the second row. “You quit our play!”

  “Excellent point.” I wanted to wring her chicken neck. “Well, maybe I made a big mistake. It happens. Maybe I’m back in again – if it’s not too late.”

  I turned to the Arts Committee to see Miss Honeywell and Miss Van Rye smiling big and nodding. Mr. Lynch actually gave me the thumbs-up! Our Mr. Lynch? There was a smattering of applause and a flashbulb went off. Paparazzi? This was getting cooler by the second. I was back at the mic, about to wrap things up when I felt a tugging at my rear end – and a draft. The next thing I know, London Bridge wasn’t the only thing falling down! I bent over to hike up my sweatpants, then – boom – cut to me flailing on the ground drowning in slobber!

  “No, baby, no!” I heard over running footsteps.

  “I begged you not to, Vicky, but you did it anyway,” Futterman groused as I struggled to my knees, wiping drool from my eyes. “You took him to the Pampered Pooch, didn’t you?”

  It was Shatzi! I should’ve recognized him by his pungent breath, if nothing else. He was sporting a new French poodle, pom-pom, show-dog cut – topped off with his fierce Doberman head. You didn’t know whether he was going to dance the cancan or rip your face off.

  “Shatzi, how ya doin’, boy?” I gushed, scratching behind his pointed ears. “Did that nice vet in Normal make your leg all better?” It was wrapped in an embarrassingly pink bandage that matched his embarrassingly pink rhinestone collar. Have mercy.

  “Wait a second – that was you?” the woman asked excitedly. She turned out to be the new and improved Mrs. Futterman, all platinum blond and inflated. “You’re Dustin Grubbs, right? You rescued my baby?”

  “Yeah, with my – my dad.” Weird how I almost couldn’t get the D-word out. “Didn’t the vet tell you?” I said, rolling to my feet. “We left all our info with him – at least I think we did. We were in such a hurry that night – gawd, who knows?”

  Mrs. Futterman took to rummaging through her purse while Shatzi took to humping my leg. With gusto. The audience was grumbling impatiently and I was struggling to save my dignity when Mrs. Futterman handed me a piece of a paper. A check – made out in my name. For “A thousand dollars?”

  “Didn’t you see our fliers? It’s the reward money we’d offered. I have to say you’ve more than earned it.” I’d barely gotten my “thank you” out when she turned to the audience and announced, “This young man saved my baby with the breath of life.” She was gesturing to me like I was a washer-dryer combo on The Price is Right. “From what I’ve been told, he’s a bona fide hero!”

  Applause. More flashbulbs. I held up the check for the audience to see while my leg was still under heavy attack. I swear it was like we were putting on the strangest show on Earth. “Mon Dieu! Shatzi, nein. Nein!” Mrs. Futterman scolded, pulling the dog off me. He whimpered and whined as she led him offstage.

  “Well, this is all real sentimental-like,” that Otis guy complained, scooting through his row, “but it ain’t solved diddly. I’m going home to watch the Bears game, but as far as I’m concerned this war ain’t over – it’s only begun.”

  “Wait!” I lunged for the podium. Divine inspiration was showering down on me and I had to act fast before I had time to reconsider. “Okay, here’s the deal. Whoever took the spotlight, returns it with no questions asked. Got it?” I looked over at Zack to make sure he was listening. He was. “Promise you’ll let us put on our production of Oliver! with no picketing, no – pot banging… and I – I sign this check over to the Fireballs right now. To buy a scoreboard, or uniforms, or whatever the heck you guys want!”

  I couldn’t believe what had just come out of my mouth – but it turned out to be a real crowd-pleaser. Even Shatzi was barking from the wings.

  “A measly grand ain’t gonna solve nothing,” Mr. Kincaid snarled, jumping to his feet. Zack yanked him right back down with “Give him a freakin’ break, Dad!”

  “It’s a start, Mr. Kincaid,” I said with a steady gaze. “Look, if a Doberman pinscher and a poodle can coexist peacefully in the same dog, why can’t sports and culture coexist peacefully in the same town?”

  “Oh, brother!” Darlene spouted. “You really stink with those metaphors.”

  Okay, not exactly Shakespeare. But before the week was out, that idiotic quote would appear in the Penny Pincher, the Buttermilk Falls Bugle, and the Hinkleyville Herald. (Stick it, Darlene!) Right under a photo of me holding the check in my “Give Peas a Chance” sweatshirt, with Shatzi doing the dance-of-love on my leg.

  Chapter 21

  Something Borrowed,

  Something Blue />
  “Happy wedding day!”

  “Oh, Dustin, you scared the bejesus out of me,” Aunt Olive said, clutching the top of her robe. “But don’t you look dapper in your blue tweed suit.”

  “Blue!” Aunt Birdie exclaimed. Her hair was piled a mile high and she was frantically picking threads off the wedding dress, which was spread out across the bed. “You’ve got Nana Grubbs’s lace hanky for your something old, and your dress is new – but you need something blue, Olive.”

  “How about my varicose veins?” They both erupted in a glass-shattering cackle.

  “We’ll all be turning blue if it gets any colder outside,” Aunt Birdie added.

  I was already blue – both inside and out. Being back in the play and everything (whatever the role) gave my spirits a boost, but the Dad incident was still gnawing away at my guts. As my aunts were in a tailspin muttering “blue-blue-blue,” it dawned on me that it was perfect timing to present my gift.

  “I didn’t have time to wrap it,” I said, snatching the tiny, white box from my pocket and plucking off the lid, “but will this do?” My aunts turned to look.

  “Oh!” Aunt Olive gushed. Her cheeks went wet with tears faster than her hand could cover her mouth. “It’s breathtaking.”

  The blue crystals on the dragonfly pin did look awesome, glimmering against the purple, velvet lining. Aunt Olive pinned it onto the jacket of her dress, then pinned me in one of her bear hugs. They usually made me squirmy – but with her moving to Hinkleyville in a matter of hours, I didn’t want this one to stop.

  “Okay, Olive, pull yourself together.” Aunt Birdie took her by the arm and sat her in front of the vanity mirror. “Let’s get your wiglet attached right now so we have time to squeeze you into that girdle.”

  That was my cue to leave. “What about Granny?” I whispered on my way into the hall. “Is she still acting all – crotchety?”

 

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