“Well, rumour has it that the Subtractions are going the other route. They wrote a song called ‘Losman Is Tops, Man,’” said Daniela.
“What a bunch of suck-ups,” laughed Sludge.
Suddenly, there was a timid knock on the garage door. I got up to answer it. There, holding a gleaming triangle, stood my new mortal enemy, Eldrick Hooperberg. I tried to shut the door but he jammed it open with his triangle wand.
“You said I could try out today,” he reminded me meekly.
“Forget it,” I told him. I was trying to keep my cool and not blow a gasket in front of the band.
“But a triangle will add charm to your music,” tried Eldrick.
“Then I’ll play the triangle and the piano,” I said firmly, attempting to hold my temper in check.
“But I don’t just play the triangle. I’m an auxiliary percussionist,” he said.
“I don’t know what an auxiliary percussionist is and I don’t care,” I responded flatly.
“I play the tambourine, finger cymbals and ratchet—you know, anything you can hit or scrape. Except the drums,” he added hastily as Sludge opened his mouth to protest. “I work with the drummer.” His list was met with silence. “I can write lyrics, too,” he offered as he stared at the tops of his shoes.
“So write some lyrics and then hand them in to Mr. Papernick,” I said acidly.
He looked helplessly at Daniela. “But—”
“But nothing!” I yelled at him, finally blowing my stack. “Do you know how much trouble I’m in because of you? Mr. Papernick is probably speaking to my parents right now! As long as I am in this band—and that might not be for long—you are not. Find another band to bother.”
Eldrick was staring at his shoelaces like they were telling a very sad story. “I thought you might need an all-city percussion champion,” he mumbled.
“We don’t, so you can go,” I replied curtly.
He left without another word. I turned to Daniela. She wasn’t smiling. “You were pretty hard on him, don’t you think?”
“Daniela, I’m going to have to spend weeks in detention because of him! Weeks that could have been spent practicing the piano, you know. You think he can do no wrong because he made you a dumb bottle of coloured liquid paper in grade three. Wake up and see the big picture here.”
“Don’t use that tone with me, cousin,” said Daniela angrily.
We might not have been brother and sister, but we could fight like we were. We argued back and forth until Sludge finally banged on his drum.
“Time out!” he called, getting our attention. “Remember us? Care to explain what’s going on here? Who was that little guy and what did he do to make you so mad?”
“He’s the new transfer from Greer Street Middle School,” said Beena to Sludge.
“No,” corrected Meena, “from Everett Elementary.”
In all of my anger, I had forgotten about Sludge and the Z’s. They were huddled together, wide-eyed with surprise at the sudden turn of events. Not being in my math class, they were clueless about my eventful day. Reluctantly, I told them the whole sorry story.
“I was throwing away my cheat sheet,” I stressed, “and he just up and waved it around in front of the class. I’ll never forgive him—not that I’ll ever have the chance when my dad finds out. He’ll probably kill me.
“That’s rough,” sympathized Sludge.
“Really rough,” agreed Beena and Meena.
It was hard to concentrate after all of the drama. We agreed to call it a day and have another practice Sunday morning—barring my punishment, of course. We also agreed to start working on some lyrics. The goal was to be practicing an original song by early next week. Daniela and I watched the rest of Sick on a Snow Day hop on their bikes and cycle home. When they were dots in the distance, I turned to Daniela.
“How could you do that?” I asked accusingly. “Aside from making me look bad in front of the guys, how could you think I’d want that rat in the band?”
“I’m sorry, Adam. I just felt bad for him. He really wants to be part of a group, especially after being dissed by the Subtractions.”
Suddenly, my mom popped her head in the door. My heart plummetted into my stomach. That earlier feeling of nausea was back. I gripped Daniela’s arm tightly.
“Dinner in one hour,” she called cheerfully. It was a strange tone of voice to use with your soon-to-be-in-big-trouble son. I waited for her to continue: no television, no PlayStation. But that was all she said.
“The calm before the storm?” wondered Daniela.
Our fight was quickly forgotten. We united as we prepared for the upcoming battle. My parents didn’t say anything about the subject when we sat down to eat. I tried to read between the lines.
“Adam, can you pass the potatoes, please?” asked my dad. Was he trying to catch me off guard before coming down with the hammer?
“Do you want more chicken?” asked my mom. Was she trying to fatten me up before sending me to my bedroom for the next month and a half? Maybe I’d got lucky and Abigail or Josh had accidentally deleted the message. Perhaps I was off the hook? It sure seemed that way.
I managed to relax a bit and eat dessert.
But my luck gave out after dinner. My parents waited until I was strategically trapped between them on the couch.
“Your dad and I love you, Adam,” began my mom.
Uh oh! With an opening like that, I knew I was in for some trouble.
“But we were shocked when we spoke to Mr. Papernick,” finished my dad sadly. It was never a good sign when they did the old double-teaming tactic.
I tried to interject, “But I was throwing away the cheat sheet. I wasn’t going to cheat!”
“Yes, Mr. Papernick told us that side of the story, too, even though he isn’t totally convinced that you weren’t going to cheat. However, we know you and we love you—so we are willing to give you the benefit of the doubt there, Adam. We’d like to think that you know right from wrong. But we’re disappointed you went so far as to make a cheat sheet,” said my mom.
My cheeks flushed. Knowing that they trusted me at least that much meant a lot.
“The truth is, your school work has been terrible all term,” said my father, finally getting to the crux of the matter. “The fact that you felt the need to make this cheat sheet is proof that you knew you were unprepared to write the test. We did a little investigating and found out you took an ‘incomplete’ on your last book report and history assignment.”
I couldn’t believe they’d talked to all my teachers! The walls were suddenly closing in. Now my bedroom looked like it might become a jail cell. For a moment there, I had been hoping for a mild, two-week sentence with time off for good behaviour; but now the situation was looking grim.
“We’re worried about this, Adam. Do you remember last term’s report card?” My mom had it in her hand just in case I didn’t. She read aloud. “Mr. Papernick called you a daydreamer. Mr. Kagan said you had a vivid imagination but didn’t use it in your English assignments. Ms. Pemberley said you were clever in history but didn’t apply yourself. She wondered what you were always gazing at out the window. And now, you’re so focused on this new band. We’re worried you’re forgetting that you have other commitments—first and foremost, school. We’re thrilled you found something that interests you so much. But—”
This ‘but’ was not heading to a good place. I tried one last time, “I didn’t—”
“Adam,” said my mother seriously. I knew better than to argue with Mom when she used that tone of voice. “We support your dreams, dear, but it’s our responsibility to make sure you don’t neglect your school work. So…”
Here it came.
“...we’ve set some targets that we’re sure you can reach—motivational targets.”
Motivational targets! This did not sound good.
“B’s on all of your tests and assignments.”
“Including math?” I asked, panicking.
&
nbsp; “Including math,” answered my parents together. My mom continued. “We’ve arranged to have regular meetings with Mr. Papernick to make sure you’re staying focused.”
“But, Mom, Dad, what if I can’t reach these targets?” Even though I knew the answer, I had to ask.
“Then you’ll have to leave the band,” said my father sympathetically. He seemed to be taking this harder than my mom.
I could barely breathe. Getting B’s in all of my classes would take hours of studying! I felt like I was choking in a room full of smoke.
“Take a big breath,” said my dad.
I tried gulping back some air. This deal meant tons of work, especially if I wanted to fit in weekly piano lessons. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had taken away my TV and PlayStation privileges, because I had no more free time! But I didn’t have a choice. If it took a report card of B’s to win Wilcott’s Got Talent, then a report card of B’s it would be.
I turned to my parents and gave them a weak smile. “Well, I guess I gotta start on my homework if I’m going to reach my motivational targets.” But inside, I wasn’t smiling. Worried, I headed to my room to try and make sense of that mess of numbers called algebra.
Luck seemed to be on my side. I got a B on my geography test and eked out a B-minus on a spelling quiz. My parents weren’t happy about the B-minus.
“You didn’t tell me what kind of B I had to get,” I argued successfully. “Think of it as a B with decorations.”
But even better than my grades was the fact that Sludge had turned out to be a genius at song-writing. He’d written “Detention Blues” overnight and we had been practicing it ever since.
“I’m not sure about this,” Daniela confided to me at first. “Did you notice the lyrics?”
She sang them to me:
I’m just a girl with flaming red hair
Singing to you that things aren’t fair.
Falling for a guy from the wrong side of the ‘hood
Between us, many weeks of detention stood.
After school I was free as a bird
But he was trapped until December 3rd.
The Detention Blues, oh so blue
And you’re also grounded, too.
Pulling the fire alarm wasn’t so bad.
The principal shouldn’t have been so mad.
Maybe he can cut your sentence short
If you write an eight-page book report.
The Detention Blues, oh so blue
And you’re also grounded, too.
Maybe you’ll get out at the end of May
And then we can go to a nice café.
“He wrote a love song about me!” Daniela concluded, sounding a little alarmed.
“You don’t know it’s about you. Sure, you have red hair, but there are a couple of strawberry-blondes in our school,” I pointed out. “And, yes, maybe Sludge served a lengthy stint in detention last year for pulling a false fire alarm, but I heard he had a few accomplices. Maybe the song is about one of them? One of them and Nat Caplan? She is sort of red-haired-ish if you look closely at her highlights.”
Daniela was still reluctant. “I don’t know if I can go in front of the school and sing a love song about me and Sludge.”
But, after practicing the song a few times with the whole band behind her, Daniela had to admit the song was special. The melody was perfect for her low voice and the chorus was stick-in-your-head catchy. Sludge had written a kicking solo for Meena and a simple piano part I could cope with easily enough. Even my siblings thought we sounded good.
“Keep practicing—you’ll be fine,” said Josh.
“Not awful!” agreed Abigail.
Sludge had done some stealth scouting. “I heard the Flying Perogies jamming and they sound pretty tight. And we need to watch out for Marty Jenkins, the Swedish Meatball. Competitive eating is always a hit with the audience.”
We decided to up our practices to four times a week.
“Are you sure you’ll be able to keep on top of your schoolwork?” asked Daniela doubtfully.
“Let me worry about that,” I told her. “You just worry about hitting those high notes at the end of the song.”
The competition was right around the corner. I was doing my best to clear my mind of guitars and amps and focus on numbers and letters. But it was a struggle.
On the morning of the competition, something about Daniela just didn’t seem right. First, I heard retching noises in the bathroom, followed by a long flush of the toilet. She looked pale as she went into her bedroom and closed the door behind her.
“You can do it. You’ll be fine,” I thought I heard someone say to her. But when I opened the door, Daniela was alone.
The plan was for the band to wear coordinated outfits. The Z’s agreed to drop the mauve and the blue so we would all be dressed alike in black pants and funky tuxedo t-shirts.
“Daniela, your t-shirt is on backwards,” said my mother as we came down for breakfast. She started to pour six glasses of juice.
“No breakfast for me, Aunt Elisha. I’m not hungry. I’ll just meet you guys in the car,” said Daniela as she went to fix her t-shirt. Her legs seemed wobbly as she left the room.
She didn’t say more than two words during the drive to J.R. Wilcott. When we arrived, we went straight to the gym. The bands in the talent show were allowed to perform a sound check. The Z’s were already there, bubbling with enthusiasm.
“I thought blue was my best colour,” said Beena, “but I love these black-and-white shirts.”
“Me, too!” enthused Meena.
Sludge was busy setting up his drum kit onstage. He waved when he saw us.
“What’s up?” he said when I reached him.
“I’m worried about Daniela,” I confessed. “She’s not acting like herself. She hasn’t eaten anything and she’s barely said a word to me.”
Sludge looked over at Daniela, who was slumped against the wall.
“Look at her—she looks like she might pass out!” I said, panicking.
“Don’t worry,” said Sludge, trying to calm me down. “She’ll be fine once she sings the first few bars of ‘Detention Blues.’ You know,” he confided, “she doesn’t know it, but I wrote the song for her.”
We were the last band to have a sound check, but when it was our turn, Daniela was nowhere to be found.
“I think I know where she is,” said Beena heading to the girls’ washroom. She emerged with her arm around our shaky lead singer.
“I’m okay,” Daniela muttered. “I’ll be fine.”
She wobbled over to the microphone. Sludge counted the beat and we launched into “Detention Blues.” Sludge had a point: the song was written for Daniela and it was perfect for her. Even though Daniela wasn’t at her best, she managed to pull it off. But as soon as we were finished, she collapsed into a chair backstage.
A few minutes later, the doors opened and kids flooded the gym. Soon, the room was packed with students and teachers. Our school president, Michael Wise, took the stage and explained the rules of the competition.
“Remember, Wilcotters, you choose the winner. Cheer as loudly as possible for your favourite act,” he told us, “so we can crown them champs and send them on to the District Donnybrook.” The room roared with approval. Michael smiled. “Let’s get the show rolling with Wilcotters for the Ethical Treatment of Poor Defenseless Animals singing their original song, ‘Frogs are People, Too.’”
WETPDA hopped onstage in matching green outfits. The competition was on! After they croaked out a few notes, we realized that WETPDA was better off sticking to protests. Their performance was met with weak applause. We Wuz Framed, four guys from the back row of detention, fared a bit better with their interpretive break-dance. While the guys weren’t naturals, Wilcotters appreciated anyone who challenged Principal Losman’s strict policy on homework. The audience cheered as We Wuz Framed moonwalked their way out of detention.
Wilcott’s Got Talent was frontloaded with musical
acts. The Subtractions were next with their tribute to our principal, “Losman is Tops, Man.” Principal Losman grooved to the beat, but the song didn’t go over well with the rest of J.R. Wilcott. Light applause was mixed with a smattering of boos. Averagely Mediocre performed decently, but was a bit lacklustre.
Genevieve Simon was next. She had recently been the female lead in Wilcott’s Great Eight Extravaganza Extraordinaire. She had played Juliet to Sludge’s Romeo.
“Not a bad smoocher,” Sludge had told me privately.
The play had been a smashing success and Genevieve was sticking with what worked. Her arms waved wildly as she recited a passage from the play. She flung her head from side to side dramatically. She laughed; she cried; she threw herself on the ground all in the name of Shakespeare. But, as a solo performer, Genevieve didn’t have what it took to move the audience. Only her friends clapped.
The next few acts weren’t very memorable: three dance crews, a juggler who only juggled two balls and a tap dancer from grade eight.
Next up was grade sevener Brad “Mumbles” Fedkowsky. His nickname said it all. Teachers were always asking Brad to speak up because they couldn’t understand him.
“My tlunts spkn bkwrds,” muttered Mumbles.
“Can’t hear you!”
“Speak up, Brad!” yelled a few people from the audience.
“His talent is speaking backwards,” yelled his best friend, Marc Rosenberg, from the back of the gym.
Mumbles began to warble. “Dunal evitan duna emoh ruo adanac o.”
As usual, we couldn’t understand a word coming out of Mumbles’s mouth. A bunch of kids turned to Marc. “What’s he saying?”
“He’s singing ‘O Canada’ backwards,” said Marc proudly. “You go, guy!” he yelled encouragingly to Mumbles.
Up next was our real competition, the Flying Perogies. They ripped into their rock opera, “Filled with Potato and Cheese.” Sludge was right. They were awesome. Ed Nojna had cracked their line-up and, believe it or not, was wowing the school with his mad accordion skills. As he launched into a rocking solo, the rest of the band laid down their instruments and started to hop up and down. They waved their arms and encouraged the room to get up. Wilcotters quickly got up on their feet and joined the party.
The BEDMAS Conspiracy Page 3