by Rick Detorie
The reason I didn’t want to skate during “Ghostbusters” is because every time the word ghost is said in the song, everybody on the ice has to immediately turn around and skate in the opposite direction. That’s not easy for me to do, because I have trouble making sharp turns.
I also don’t know how to stop. My technique for stopping is to slam into the wall or skate into another person, preferably someone large and soft.
Luckily, Brooke took me by the arm and spun me around with each “ghost,” that popped up, and we made it through the entire song with only one or two minor collisions.
The next song was a waltz, and this old guy named Russell, a Meadowbrook regular, skated out to the center and did his Regular Russell stuff: spins, axels, camels, you name it. When he finished he skated off, acting all proud of himself, and some people applauded.
I was about to take a break, when Brooke skated over to me and said all excitedly, “Larkin, do you recognize the song that’s playing?” I did.
That’s right, it was the theme from Titanic.
She dragged me out to the center of the rink. I wasn’t too happy about it, but then I decided, Hey, why not? Let’s go for it.
I said, “Smell ice, can you?” in a very loud voice.
We continued doing one scene after another from the movie until the final scene.
“You must do me this honor,” I said. “Rose, promise me you’ll survive. Promise me now, no matter what happens.”
By that time we were holding on to Brooke’s scarf and she was circling around me like I was a carnival ride or something.
“I promise, Jack,” she said.
“Never let go, Rose,” I said.
But before Brooke could say the last line, a very loud voice shouted: “Whip! Whip! No whips allowed! Call security!”
It was the lady in the baseball cap.
I let go of the scarf, and Brooke fell backwards and plopped onto the ice. We both looked at each other and laughed. Then we clumsily got to our feet and made our way to the bleachers.
A couple of people cheered, and some applauded, but I couldn’t tell if we’d gotten a bigger hand than Regular Russell. I’m pretty sure that we did, even when you take into account that most of the people were clapping with gloves on, so it wasn’t that easy to hear.
After all, we were the bigger hot dogs.
We went to the café and split a hot chocolate, using spoons to sip it, then headed out to the bus stop.
It was pretty cold and the wind was blowing, so we huddled together real close. It felt good.
We were talking about everything, then Brooke started saying how different high school was from middle school, and how she’d made a lot of new friends and all. Then she said, “And how about you, Larkin? Have you found a girlfriend yet?”
At first I thought she was joking, and I smiled at her, but the look on her face said she was dead serious.
All of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe. It was like somebody had kicked me in the gut.
All this time I’d thought she was my girlfriend, and I was her boyfriend. We’re together all the time. We’ve known each other since forever. We share our secrets, our ambitions, our dreams, even our hot chocolate!
I had big plans for the two of us. I’m not exactly sure what they were, but I do know they were big.
It was too much to think about, so I sort of shut down.
The bus came, and we got on, but I don’t think I said anything during the entire bus ride. I don’t even remember Brooke getting off at her stop, or saying good-bye to her.
During the walk home I kept thinking about how stupid I’d been.
Then I thought about all the things I should have said to her when she asked me if I’d found a girlfriend yet.
“Yeah, baby, and I’m lookin’ right at her.”
Or “There’s only one you, there’s only one me, and there’s only one we. Got it?”
Or I’d give her a sexy kiss that’s so long and passionate she gets all dizzy and almost passes out. Then I’d look deep into her eyes and say in a husky, manly voice: “What do you think, baby?” Then I’d wipe my mouth on my sleeve and walk away.
When I got home, I went straight to the kennel to hang out with the Buddies. I might not know much about girls, but there is one thing I know for sure about dogs. They always know exactly who you are to them.
And one more thing.
I want to add this to my list of “Ten Things I Hate about Being 14.” When you’re fourteen, and somebody you really like stabs you in the heart, you don’t know what to say.
I don’t think grown-ups have this problem.
At least not in the movies.
FIVE THINGS I HATE ABOUT P.E.
1. Dalton Cooke
2. Dalton Cooke
3. Dalton Cooke
4. Dalton Cooke
5. Dalton Cooke
GETTING PHYSICAL
It was raining today, so P.E. was inside the gym.
When it rains, we usually play basketball for twenty minutes then run laps around the gym floor until somebody passes out.
The first thing Coach Pierson did was yell at Freddie for wearing bedroom slippers and make him put on the old gym shoes Freddie keeps in his backpack for such emergencies.
We divided up into four teams and played two half-court games. Coach Pierson was so bored that he sat in his office for twenty minutes, then came out and blew his whistle for laps.
He yelled at us to “Keep it moving! Keep it moving!” Then as soon as he returned to his office, we stopped all that moving.
When he blew the final whistle and yelled, “Hit the showers,” we headed for the locker room.
I didn’t sweat too much from all that non-moving, so I decided to skip the shower. While I was getting dressed, I heard a big commotion around the corner.
There, some of Dalton’s guys were holding down Freddie and it looked like they were trying to force somebody’s tighty whiteys over Freddie’s head, sort of like an underpants ski mask. Except there was nothing whitey about these tighties, if you know what I mean.
I went over and tried to break it up by saying, “Hey, come on, you guys,” and Dalton Cooke said:
I did not want to be next, so I went back to my locker, got my stuff, and headed out. A blast of cold rain hit my face, and I decided to turn around and do the right thing.
I went to Coach Pierson’s office.
He was seated at his desk studying something on his laptop, and it didn’t look like game schedules. You know?
“Coach Pierson,” I said. “Dalton and his guys are harassing a guy in the locker room.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said without looking up from his laptop. It was obvious he didn’t care.
So I said, “They’re harassing a minority student.”
That got his attention fast. He lurched out of his seat and out the door.
I snuck a peek at what was on his laptop, then I left.
And it’s not like I lied to the coach. I mean, if a guy who wears bedroom slippers to school isn’t a minority, I don’t know who is.
Later, at lunch, neither Freddie nor I said a word about how I’d rescued him.
And I did rescue him.
I’m not saying I saved his life, but if you’ve got a pair of dirty, smelly underpants on your head, you’re liable to come down with a bad case of jock itch on your face.
Or worse.
I’LL HOOK YOU UP
The last time I was at Mrs. Grubnik’s house, I found out that she does have a TV—two of them, in fact. One is a portable that’s upstairs in her bedroom and has a converter and rabbit ears. It gets four channels.
The other one is in her living room. The reason I didn’t see it before is because it’s in its own cabinet and the cabinet door was closed. It’s real old and doesn’t have a converter, so it doesn’t get any channels.
She also has a DVD player that’s still in its box under a table in the sunroom. Her son Richard gave it to her three years ago
.
Mrs. Grubnik has a problem with Richard. She told me that on Thanksgiving she makes him sit at the kids’ table.
That’s because she really, really hates Richard’s ex-wife, Angie, and Richard has “Angie” tattooed on the back of both of his hands. Mrs. Grubnik says that if she has to see that horrible woman’s name every time Richard passes the candied yams or Brussels sprouts, she’ll get indigestion. So it’s better that he sit with the little kids, since most of them can’t read anyway.
My chore today was to hook up the DVD player to the big TV in the living room so that Mrs. Grubnik could watch a DVD I’d brought her.
But there was a problem. There was no place for the DVD cable to plug into the back of the TV. There was a piece missing, an attachment or something.
I explained the problem to Mrs. Grubnik and offered to get the part at Radio Hut, an electronics store that’s a couple of blocks from Mrs. Grubnik’s house.
“How much do you think it’ll cost?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Ten, twenty, maybe thirty dollars.”
“Okay, I’ll be right back,” she said.
She went briefly into the dining room, then returned and handed me a small patch of tightly folded bills. It was warm, which made me think she probably pulled them out of her bra.
Ick! Not only was it old-lady warm, it was old-lady-bra warm. I quickly put the money in my pocket.
“There are two twenties there,” she said. “If you need more, come back and I’ll give you more.”
There was nobody in the store except a big guy at the counter who was reading a text on his phone. His lips were moving as he read.
I explained my situation, and he told me I needed an RF Modulator and showed me where they were.
The cheapest one they had was $24.99. I knew I could probably get a cheaper one online, but that would take too long, so I said, “I’ll take this one.”
He handed me a clipboard with rows of names and stuff on it and told me to write down my name, phone number, and e-mail address.
Just what I need, I thought, more voice messages and spam. So I wrote down somebody else’s name and info.
“That comes to a total of $37.74,” he said.
“Huh?” I said. “That seems like a lot. I thought it cost $24.99.”
“Yes, plus tax, and ten dollars for the five-year limited warranty.”
“I don’t want a warranty.”
“You said you wanted the five-year warranty,” he said.
“I did not, and I don’t want it!”
“Too late,” he said, “I already rang it up.”
Then this short lady came from somewhere in back and said, “What’s the problem here?”
“I don’t want the warranty,” I told her.
“But I don’t want it,” I said, trying my best to make my voice sound sort of manly, “and I’m not paying for it.” But it came out sounding sort of squeaky.
“I already rang it up, Mommy,” said the big guy.
“You shut up!” she yelled. “If he no want warranty, it his problem!”
She picked up the clipboard, looked at it, and said to me: “You be very, very sorry you no get warranty, Mister Kelly Pace. Big-time sorry!”
So they deducted ten dollars from the bill.
And I wasn’t a bit sorry.
However, I’d like to add one more item to my list of Ten Things I Hate about Being 14: People think that just because you’re fourteen, you’re stupid, and therefore they can take advantage of you.
Back at Mrs. Grubnik’s, I hooked up the DVD player to the TV, and we watched Some Like It Hot, the DVD I’d brought with me. I was pretty sure Mrs. Grubnik would like it for two reasons: One, it’s a classic, and Two, because for some reason, old people think it’s funny when men dress up like women.
I don’t know why. They just do.
THE LOVE DANCE
I was riding with my mom downtown in her pickup, and she was talking about something, fish fillets or caterpillars or something like that, but I wasn’t paying attention because I was thinking about Brooke.
Then my mom said, “Larkin, look!”
There, standing in the doorway of an empty store was an old lady. She was holding a long cardboard tube like a batter at home plate. A lefty batter.
Pretty soon, a man walking along the sidewalk passed by her, and as he did, she leapt out, swatted him on the butt with the cardboard tube, and shouted: “Twenty-six!”
The poor guy tore off down the street.
“Should we wait around and watch her catch number twenty-seven?” my mom asked.
Oh, NO, I thought, why hadn’t I brought my camera with me? This would’ve made an awesome little video.
It’s all Brooke’s fault for making me so forgetful.
“No, why bother?” I said, feeling all angry at Brooke.
And so we drove off.
After riding in silence for a while, I decided to ask my mom about me and Brooke, but I didn’t want her to think it was about me and Brooke.
“Mom, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, honey, anything.”
“Okay, so I have this friend, see? And he, like, has this girlfriend he’s been seeing for a really long time, but they never talk about their relationship or anything. Then one day, his girlfriend asks him if he’s found a girlfriend yet.”
“Oh, dear,” said my mom.
“Yeah, I know!” I said. “Should he be, like, worried?”
“Well, it seems to me that she doesn’t think of him as her boyfriend, and maybe that’s her way of telling him that she’s interested in another guy.”
Oh, no, I hadn’t thought of that.
“But,” continued my mom, “chances are if they’re very young, and they really love each other, there’s always the possibility they’ll get back together again someday.”
“How can you tell if two people are really in love?” I asked.
“Oh, there are lots of ways. For example, look at that couple over there. You can tell by the way they’re walking together that they’re in love.”
There was this guy and a girl walking and talking and moving around each other almost like they were dancing.
I thought real hard, and tried to remember if Brooke and I had ever done a love dance.
I wasn’t sure.
DALTON COOKE
I was standing in front of the school, waiting for my mom to pick me up, when all of a sudden, a sharp whack on the back sent me staggering forwards.
It was Dalton Cooke, of course. His signature “slap” on the back is his way of letting you know who’s boss.
“Hey, Pace Man, you’re just the guy I wanted to see,” he said. “I got a little project for you.”
I try my best to avoid Dalton.
Even though he’s a freshman, he’s a couple of years older than the rest of us because he had to repeat the first and fifth grades.
We were in the same elementary school, but never in the same class. I mostly ran into him on the playground.
Then, when his parents got divorced, and Dalton burned down the garage, he got sent to one of those Thank-You-Sir-May-I-Have-Another schools. When he returned:
Then, when Dalton’s dad married Dalton’s stepmom, Dalton shaved the cat, and he was forced to go to therapy for a year, where:
So anyway, he started telling me about this stunt he and some other guys had pulled at the boarding school he’d attended, and he planned to do it again here, and he wanted me to be a part of it.
It goes something like this: Dalton’s posse would collect about fifty backpacks and hook them together to create an enormous chain. Then they’d strap some guy (me!) in the bottom backpack, and lower him off the roof of the three-story building.
“But why me?” I asked him. “Why not you?”
“Because we need somebody puny who doesn’t weigh a lot. We’d get a girl to do it, but it’s probably against the law or something, so you’re the next best thing.�
��
Oh great, so I’m the next best thing to being a girl.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds pretty dangerous. What if I fall and break my back or something?”
“What are you, a wuss? Now you’re even starting to sound like a girl. Man up, dude!”
Just then, Dalton’s stepmom drove up and blasted the car horn. “Listen, you think about it,” said Dalton. “I’ll get back to you later.”
He tried to smack me on the back again, but I ducked, lost my balance, and tumbled face-forwards onto the sidewalk.
Why is it, I thought, that the biggest jerks have all the luck? Dalton has it made: all the girls in school want him, and he has a hot stepmother and a totally cool dad.
His stepmom, Darbi, has actually appeared in a store catalog in her underwear, which I keep under my bed—the catalog, not the underwear.
She also gets paid to lean against cars and have her picture taken with old guys at the auto show.
His dad, Jack Cooke, used to coach our soccer team for half a season, and I’m not sure what he does for a living, but he’s rich. He buys Dalton anything he wants: motorbikes, jet skis, and three ATVs.
And that brand-new sports car his stepmom had just driven up in? It’s Dalton’s as soon as he gets his driver’s license.
Compare that to a dad I know, who won’t even lend his kid the money to buy one basic camcorder to help his son get a jumpstart in the career he’s been dreaming of since Day One.
And that’s all I’m going to say about that.
For now, anyway.
SHE WHO MUST GET HER WAY