by Dan Gutman
Chapter 11
Girls Will Be Girls
Tyler and his basketball-playing gorillas found that, indeed, lots of boys were auditioning to be in the talent show. A group of ten fourth-grade Elvis impersonators danced to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” The kids in the crowd seemed to really enjoy a bunch of guys dressed as penguins riding fake surfboards while strumming fake guitars to the theme song from Hawaii Five-O. Where they found a dozen penguin costumes was anybody’s guess. They even had a fake igloo as a prop.
Probably the lamest act was a group of five boys who called themselves “The Janitors.” They came out on stage dressed in overalls and holding brooms. There was no music. The entire act consisted of one boy dumping a wheelbarrow full of dirt on the stage, and the other four sweeping it up.
“That’s a talent?” Tyler asked his gorilla friends.
After The Janitors were finished cleaning up, the judges felt bad about sending home the boy who wanted to show off his PowerPoint presentation.
Between acts, Tyler and the gorilla boys were milling around backstage, where they found a stack of large plastic garbage cans. It’s a natural fact that if you combine three or more sixth-grade boys, garbage cans, and time on their hands, it invariably adds up to one thing—drumming.
The boys began to beat on the garbage cans with their hands, and they didn’t notice how loud they were until Mrs. Marotta suddenly came backstage to see what was going on.
They stopped beating on the garbage cans instantly.
“Sorry, Mrs. Marotta,” said Tyler.
“Sorry, nothing,” she replied. “That’s going to be your act!”
The Drumming Gorillas were born.
It’s human nature. Boys like to beat on garbage cans, and girls like to dance. Julia Maguire, Anne Zafian, and the other Beach Babes walked into the multipurpose room a half hour late for the audition. Partly it was because they had a hard time fitting the fake palm tree prop into Anne’s mom’s minivan. But the other reason was that Mrs. Zafian wanted the girls to make a grand entrance.
And they did. With matching bathing suits, hairstyles, and sunglasses, it was hard to miss the Beach Babes. When the popular girls entered a room, everybody always stopped what they were doing to watch.
“Sorry we’re late,” Mrs. Zafian said breezily. “Can the Beach Babes still do their act?”
Mrs. Marotta was annoyed, but she tried not to show it. She knew that Mrs. Zafian got pleasure out of ruffling people’s feathers.
“Of course,” Mrs. Marotta said. “Go ahead. It’s your turn anyway.”
Anne’s dad lugged in the palm tree he had built and set it up on the stage. The girls got into position. Electronic hip-hop beach music came out of the speakers, and the Beach Babes did their lip synch dance number.
There’s just one word to describe this act. It was awful. Just awful. The girls were stumbling around, bumping into one another, completely out of rhythm. Their fancy set, colorful costumes, and professional music couldn’t disguise the fact that these girls had zero talent.
Except for Julia Maguire, of course. After six years of ballet lessons, she could hardly believe she had agreed to join this group just so she could be with the popular girls. She wanted to hide her face while they were dancing.
When the Beach Babes finished their horrible act, the back door of the multipurpose room opened and another group of girls came in. They were led by Jenny, the girl who had been kicked out of the Beach Babes. And like the Beach Babes, this group had matching bathing suits, sunglasses, and a fake palm tree. The tree, which was slightly bigger, was carried by Jenny’s mother and Sergei Propopotov, the Russian choreographer.
“What’s the name of this act?” asked Principal Anderson.
“We’re the Sand Kittens!” Jenny announced.
“Hey, you stole our act!” Anne Zafian yelled at Jenny.
“What are you gonna do about it?” Jenny said. “Sue us?”
Mrs. Marotta rolled her eyes. She had seen a lot of spoiled, snot-nosed kids and overbearing parents in her time, but this topped them all. She didn’t want to see a fight break out between the Beach Babes and the Sand Kittens, so she quickly instructed Jenny and her group to get up on stage and do their thing.
Well, the Sand Kittens were even worse than the Beach Babes, if that’s possible. They couldn’t dance. They couldn’t even lip synch. And they sure couldn’t dance and lip synch at the same time. One of them almost fell off the stage. But Jenny was smiling the whole time. She had gotten her revenge on Anne, and that was all that mattered.
A bunch of other acts followed. An accordion player. A girl doing rhythmic gymnastics. A mime. Somebody reciting poetry. A boy riding a unicycle. Some of the kids packed up their stuff and left after they had finished their audition. But most of them hung around to watch their friends and classmates.
Don Potash looked at the list of acts that was posted on the wall. His name was almost at the bottom because he was one of the last to sign up.
He had been standing silently in the back of the multipurpose room the whole time watching the others perform. He saw Paul Crichton and The BluffTones sing “Stacy’s Mom,” only to be told the lyrics were not appropriate for tender young ears. He felt bad for them. Julia Maguire and her lip synching hip-hop dancers were simply awful, laughably untalented. Don felt bad for them, too.
But Don couldn’t really pay close attention to any of the acts, because he was spending the whole time repeating his comedy routine in his head. He didn’t want to mess up.
Why doesn’t anyone else look nervous? Don thought to himself as he scanned the multi-purpose room. Maybe everybody else had performed on stage before. He began biting his fingernails, something he did only when he was feeling pressure.
He wished there were no grown-ups in the room. Mrs. Marotta was a ball of energy, running around and telling kids what to do, where to stand, and when to go on. Mayor Rettino, Principal Anderson, and Reverend Mercun were sitting in the front row, whispering to one another after each act was finished. There was a big spotlight at the back of the room that was pointed at the stage.
Don wiped his palms on his pants. He had never felt this way before.
Finally, after almost all the acts had finished, Mrs. Marotta announced, “Don Potash, comedian? Don? Where’s Don?”
“Here,” Don said, raising his hand.
He wished she hadn’t used the word “comedian.” He just wanted to get up on stage and do his little bit to make the other kids laugh, like he had done in class with the non-toxic crayon bit. Once she said the word “comedian,” everybody turned to look at him. Now he had to be funny. I dare you to make me laugh, they seemed to say.
Don had never performed in front of people before. This was all new. He had a severe case of flop sweat—a nervous condition brought on by the fear of failure. And he hadn’t even said a word yet. His clothes were sticking to him.
He climbed the steps at the side of the empty stage. There was a microphone stand there. It occurred to Don that he had never spoken into a microphone before. He didn’t know how far away he should put his mouth.
The lights were dimmed and the spotlight hit him in the face. He had never been in a spotlight before either, and was surprised at how blinding it was. He couldn’t see anything, or anyone, in front of him. But he knew hundreds of kids were staring at him, waiting to hear what he had to say. Waiting to see if he could make them laugh.
“Go ahead, Don,” Mrs. Marotta urged him when she saw his hesitancy. “Remember, two minutes. Quiet, everyone!”
There was silence. Don closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and thought of his opening line.
But it didn’t come.
What was it? He searched his memory. His mind was a blank. Nothing. He closed his eyes again. His brain seemed to have stopped working. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, and getting in his eyes. We wiped it away with his sleeve. He was afraid he might pass out.
“You okay, Don?” asked Mrs. Marott
a.
“I … uh …”
He was speechless. Frozen. Paralyzed.
“Want to try again later?” Mrs. Marotta suggested gently.
Don tried one last time to come up with the first line of his routine.
Nothing.
“No,” he said. “I’m done.”
Don Potash, humiliated, walked off the stage and ran all the way home.
Chapter 12
No Hard Feelings
It had been a long night. All together, more than thirty acts had auditioned for the talent show. Only two had been knocked off the original sign-up list—the kid with the PowerPoint, and Don Potash, the comedian who couldn’t remember his routine.
It was close to eleven o’clock when the last audition was over. Mary Marotta was exhausted, and there would be a lot of work to do in the week leading up to the talent show. She had to recruit parents to act as ushers, chaperones, and, if necessary, disciplinarians. There were tickets and programs to be designed and printed. Ads to be sold. She had to contact the local media to ask them to cover the event. The cupcakes had to be coordinated to make sure there would be the right balance of chocolate and vanilla. And rehearsals after school every day, of course. There was no guarantee that everything would come together in time for the show. And of course, Mrs. Marotta had to prepare for that unexpected emergency that always seems to happen at the worst possible moment.
But all in all, she was feeling hopeful. Seeing the actual performers up on the stage made the talent show seem more real to everyone in the room. It was actually going to happen. Cape Bluff really did have talent. Elke Villa was awesome, as expected. The BluffTones were a tight band. A few of the singers could actually sing. Some of the dancers could actually dance. And there were a lot of other kids who had shown a surprising amount of talent.
As everyone left Cape Bluff Elementary School that night, they passed by the Hummer that was parked on the front lawn. It was anybody’s to win.
Chapter 13
Sticking It to the Man
“Let’s go, people!” Mrs. Marotta bellowed at the top of her lungs. “Annie Oatman on stage right now. Pronto! Olive Howard and Megan Swick on deck. And K. C. Lynch is on double deck. Get ready, Tammy Russo. You’re next. Keep it moving, you guys! Everybody else, stop the chitchat! Show some respect. Kids are working hard out here.”
There was a week to go before the show. Mrs. Marotta scheduled rehearsals after school each day, and all participants had to be there. She seemed to be everywhere at once—backstage, out in the audience, in the hallway, and even in the parking lot soothing the nerves of anxious kids and parents. She had forgotten to bring along her bullhorn, and her throat was sore from shouting.
Thirty acts. Some needed more rehearsal than others. It wasn’t easy shuttling singers and dancers and ventriloquists back and forth. There was a sense of barely controlled chaos. Some kids had to leave early for their soccer practices. Some kids got sick. Some parents were a nuisance. It was the usual whining you get whenever groups of people are together. Mrs. Marotta was tired and losing her voice, but also exhilarated. She hadn’t had this much fun since she was in Grease, back in senior year of high school.
Paul and The BluffTones played “Wipeout” at rehearsal so many times they were wiped out. They could have played the song in their sleep. In fact, it almost seemed as though they were playing it in their sleep.
“Come on!” Mrs. Marotta yelled at them after one particularly lackluster run-through. “Put a little life into it, boys! The show is in a few days.”
It was all an act anyway. The BluffTones had no intention of playing “Wipeout” at the talent show. But they had to keep practicing it anyway. They hadn’t told anyone outside the band that they would actually be playing “Stacy’s Mom.” They had been rehearsing the song secretly at home. It was hard to keep the secret.
After the first couple of days, the kids were sick of rehearsing. Each act had just two minutes to do their thing on stage, but they had to spend the rest of the time sitting around, tuning up their instruments, eating snacks, doing homework, or just waiting for their turn. It was boring.
The Beach Babes and the Sand Kittens staked out positions in the back of the multipurpose room, as far away as possible from each other. No words were exchanged between the rival groups. Every so often one of the girls would take a peek or glare at the enemy, but other than that, no eye contact was made. It was like a cold war. Each group was convinced that they were better than the other. Neither group had any idea how embarrassingly bad they both truly were. The fact was that neither group had the slightest chance of winning the talent show.
Julia wasn’t having any fun. She never fit in with the other Beach Babes. As they sat around gossiping about everybody and texting their friends, she became increasingly tired of being around them. All they cared about was the way they looked, the stuff they owned, and which boys they thought were cute. Julia wished she had never agreed to be in the Beach Babes. But she couldn’t back out at this point. She was their choreographer. It wouldn’t be right.
As the rehearsals dragged on, Julia would come up with more frequent excuses to go to the bathroom, get a drink of water, or just take a walk. Anything to get away from the other girls.
The BluffTones had set up a little beachhead behind the stage, where Victor’s drum set was being stored. They couldn’t jam, because everyone had to be quiet while rehearsals were going on. The other guys in the band liked to hang out with The Drumming Gorillas in the boys’ bathroom, but Paul would sit on the floor next to the drum set talking with anybody who came by. He was a good talker, one of these kids who could effortlessly strike up a conversation with anyone, even a complete stranger.
He was chatting with one of the stage crew when Elke walked by. Things had been a little awkward between them ever since she turned down Paul’s offer to join the band. When he noticed her, he waved her over. The kid on the stage crew said he had to go work on the scenery.
“Hey,” Paul said to Elke. “I just wanted you to know that, well, I hope there are no hard feelings, y’know, about the band and everything. Good luck in the show. You’re gonna be great.”
“Hey, you too,” she replied. “Thanks for saying that.”
“You want some Skittles?” Paul asked. “My mom gave me this big bag of the stuff, and I don’t even like ’em.”
“Sure.”
Elke sat on the floor next to Paul and took a handful of Skittles.
“Your band is really good,” she said. “Maybe I should have joined when you asked me.”
“Nah, you were right. You’re better off singing solo,” Paul told her. “The guitars and drums would only compete with your voice.”
At that point, Julia walked by and took a drink from the water fountain. She glanced over and saw Paul and Elke talking.
“Hey, Beach Babe!” Paul called out.
“Yeah?”
Julia came over to where Paul and Elke were sitting on the floor.
“Why are you dancing with those losers?” Paul asked. Elke laughed.
“They’re not losers,” Julia said, chuckling.
“Actually, they’re really popular,” Elke said. “All the other girls wish they could be them.”
“They’re idiots,” Paul insisted. “Bubble-brained morons. And except for Julia, they can’t dance to save their lives. They should be in a no-talent show.”
Julia covered her mouth and shushed Paul as she giggled. She didn’t want the rest of the Beach Babes to hear.
“I don’t know what I was thinking when I joined them,” she whispered. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Why don’t you hang with us?” Paul said. “We’ve got Skittles.”
“I love Skittles!” Julia said, parking herself on the floor next to Elke and reaching into the bag.
“Are you really friends with those girls?” Elke asked Julia. “You don’t seem like their type.”
“They asked me to dance wi
th them, so I said yes,” Julia replied.
“If they asked you to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you?” said Paul. “That’s what my dad always says to me.”
The boys’ bathroom was right down the hall, and Richard Ackoon came out of it. Not many third graders had signed up to be in the talent show, so he was one of the youngest kids there, and the only rapper. He saw Paul sitting on the floor eating candy with Elke and Julia. Richard was a little intimidated by the older kids and didn’t usually talk to them. But he really liked candy.
“Are those M&M’s?” he asked, hinting that he wanted some.
“Do you like M&M’s?” Paul replied.
“Yeah!”
“Well, they’re not M&M’s,” Paul told him. “They’re Skittles.”
“I love Skittles!” Richard said.
“You want some?” Paul asked.
“Sure!”
“What grade are you in?”
“Third,” Richard replied.
“Oh, too bad,” Paul told him. “You can’t have any. The Skittles are for fourth graders and up.”
Richard pouted. He looked like he might cry.
“Oh, give him some!” Elke and Julia said, reaching for the bag.
“I’m just goofing on you, dude!” Paul told Richard. “Come on, sit down and have some Skittles with us. Your rap is cool. But you gotta get yourself a cool rap name. Like P. Diddy or R. Kelly. ‘Richard’ is no name for a rapper.”
“How about R. Ackoon?” suggested Elke.
“Raccoon!” said Julia.
“Yeah!” Paul said. “From now on, we’re gonna call you Raccoon. The rapping raccoon.”
Richard liked the name, and he liked the attention from the older kids too. He flopped on the floor next to the drums, taking a big handful of Skittles and slapping it into his mouth.
“Hey, do you guys ever get scared?” Richard asked the others.
“Scared of what, Raccoon?” Paul said.
“Y’know. Getting up there,” Richard said. “I never rapped in front of an audience before. With all those people watching. It’s scary.”