Big Nate Goes for Broke
Page 2
Rats. I KNEW I should have picked odds.
I walk into the cafetorium, racking my brain for
a way to weasel out of this. Then I remember the
last thing Mr. Rosa told us:
And talk about timing.
Guess who’s sitting at
the very first table? Dee
Dee and her flock of BFFs
from the Drama Club.
She doesn’t hear me. Why am I not surprised?
“DEE DEE!” I yell a few dozen times. Finally she
turns around.
“What is it, Nate?” Dee Dee says.
“Hm? Uh . . . well, it’s . . .” I stammer. “I . . . um . . .
wanted to ask you something.”
“Okay, go ahead!”
A half-eaten sandwich flies past us, nearly
clocking me in the head. For a second, I lose my
train of thought.
“I . . . uh . . . I forgot what I was saying,” I tell her,
a little flustered.
“It’s okay,” Dee Dee chirps. “I know what you were
about to ask, and SURE! . . .”
Okay, let’s get something straight: I’d ask MRS.
GODFREY to the dance before I’d ask Dee Dee.
But I guess that doesn’t matter now.
What matters is, she THOUGHT I was asking her.
Before I could explain, she’d already turned lunch-
time into show-and-tell.
Dee Dee has a voice that could blow a hole in
a battleship, so right then and there the whole
cafetorium knew: She and I were going to the
dance together.
That’s how I ended up here: half a block from her
house at 7:10 on
Friday night.
For a second, I
think about going
home. But that
would never work.
The Parent Patrol
would see to that.
Besides, I don’t want to miss the dance. They’re
cheesy, but I LIKE school dances. And I actually
know what I’m doing out there—unlike SOME
people. Check out these so-called moves:
Anyway, it looks like I’m stuck taking Dee Dee to
the dance. But how do I do it . . .
Answer: I have absolutely no
idea. But I definitely don’t
want everybody thinking
I’m Dee Dee’s soul mate. I’ve
got to tell her right now . . .
Yikes. Where did Dee Dee shampoo her hair—
in the produce section at Grocery Town? I’m so
surprised by the pyramid of fruit on her head that
I forget about my “just friends” speech. I guess I’ll
tell her while we walk to the dance.
Or maybe not. I try, but I can’t get a word in edge-
wise. Dee Dee never stops yakking. I don’t get it:
When does she come up for air?
By the time we reach the school, I’ve heard enough
of the World According to Dee Dee to last awhile.
Like forever. We step into the lobby and . . .
RANDY’S GOOD QUALITIES:
There aren’t any.
Ugh. It’s Randy
Betancourt,
P.S. 38’s resident
scuzzball. He’s
just like Chad’s
tailbone: a total
pain in the butt.
He snickers and shoots us one of his typical Randy
smirks. Briefly, I consider hitting him in his big
fat nose with a piece of fruit. After all, Dee Dee’s
got a head full of ammo. Then . . .
The smirk slides off Randy’s face in half a heart-
beat. He looks totally stunned. Hey, I’m a little
stunned myself. Did that just really HAPPEN?
She shrugs. “He deserved it,” she says as we hang
up our coats. “If two friends want to go to a dance
together . . .”
I could remind Dee Dee that SHE can make a big
deal out of sharpening a pencil, but I decide not
to. I’m too busy breathing a huge sigh of relief. Did
you hear what she just called us?
So she DOESN’T like
me! Not in “THAT”
sort of way. I can
relax. Dee Dee’s
not going to turn
all sappy and start
calling me stupid
pet names like Lamb Chop, Dumpling Face, Puffy
Bunny, Snuggle Bug . . .
Good idea. I grab my
backpack and slip into
the bathroom. I’m still
feeling pretty pumped.
Knowing Dee Dee isn’t
all gung ho to make me her love monkey has flipped
this whole evening completely around.
He disappears, and all my clothes go with him.
I look down at what I’m wearing, and a sick feeling
settles in my gut. Tighty-whities and a pair of tube
socks won’t cut it as “beach attire.”
I peek out, hoping I’ll
spot a friendly face.
And hoping nobody
spots ME. It would be
just my luck to run
into a reporter from
the school newspaper
right about now.
The lobby’s empty. Everybody’s gone into the
gym. Unless I want to stroll in there looking like
an escapee from a nudist colony, I’m stuck.
She stops, then inches slowly toward me. “Nate?”
she asks. “What are you doing?”
I hesitate. This is pretty embarrassing. But what
do I have to lose? We’re FRIENDS, right? Dee Dee
said so herself. And I need help.
She scowls. “He’s an even bigger moron than I
THOUGHT he was,” she grumbles. Then her face
brightens.
Wait right here? That’s hilarious. Where does she
think I’d go?
This must be some Drama Queen Rule: Always be
ready for a costume change. I don’t know what’s
in that bag, but I’m not picky. It’s got to be better
than what I’M wearing.
“You look fabulous!” Dee Dee beams.
“FABULOUS?” I shout in disbelief. “I’m wearing a
DRESS!”
“It’s a grass skirt, genius,” she says matter-of-factly
as she drags me toward the gym.
Great. Hawaii is five thousand miles away, and
I look like an idiot. But why sweat the details?
Into the gym we go, with me praying that every-
one’s too busy dancing to notice me. But then . . .
A bunch of kids gather around. I brace myself.
Wait, what’s going on here? No finger pointing?
No insults? What’s WRONG with these people?
“That’s AMAZING, Nate!” someone says. “You
look just LIKE them!”
I’m about to ask who “them” is . . . and then I look
up at the stage.
I’m dressed exactly like the band. Or they’re
dressed exactly like me.
“You must KNOW those guys, right?” one kid says.
“How’d you pull it off, Nate?” asks another.
“It . . . well . . . uh . . .” I stammer. I can’t think of a
single word to say. But Dee Dee can.
And that’s that. I get a few more compliments, and
then everybody starts dancing again, leaving me
and Dee Dee standing by the snack table.
Hmmm. NOW
what? I should
probably say
something to
he
r, like:
That’s not what comes out, though. Instead, it’s:
“From the Drama
Club,” she says. Then
she strikes a pose and
gives a sigh so huge, it
practically blows my
shirt off. “I just love
the Drama Club.”
Yes, Dee Dee, we know. Without the Drama Club,
life would have no meaning.
Suddenly I remember what I was doing when this
whole thing started: RECRUITING!
I tell her about the club and what an awesome
adviser Mr. Rosa is. I talk about the fun drawing
games we play at meetings, like Add-On, Connect-
the-Freckles, and Going, Going, Godfrey.
“AND,” I add, “if you join, you’ll be the first girl
Doodler EVER.”
“I’m in,” she announces immediately.
“Excellent!” I say, and I mean it, too. Sort of.
“Let’s boogie!” Dee Dee shouts, and she and I hit
the dance floor.
Whew. Except for the
fact that my clothes
are probably stuffed
in a garbage can some-
where, this all turned
out pretty well! I still
think Dee Dee needs to hit the off button on the
drama-tron, but she kept this dance from becom-
ing a total disaster. She’s okay.
“Do you feel something wet?” she asks suddenly.
Huh? WET? That’s weird. Maybe one of those tan-
gerines on her head just sprang a leak.
Okay, it might not have happened EXACTLY like
that. I was using a little something we cartoonists
call artistic license.
But it DID start
raining inside the
gym. And I DID
come to Dee Dee’s
rescue . . . sort of.
Here’s the real story:
The chaperones didn’t even NOTICE the rain at
first. They were too busy stuffing their faces at
the snack table. But then the fire alarm went off.
THAT made them step away from the bean dip.
But there wasn’t a fire. And the rain wasn’t
coming from a leaky roof, either. After they’d
hustled us out of the gym and into the lobby,
Principal Nichols explained what was going on.
Dee Dee looked crushed. “Well, THAT isn’t very
dramatic,” she grumbled.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to end the dance a little
early,” Principal Nichols went on.
THEN things got crazy. We were all looking for our
stuff in a giant mosh pit, it was still raining, the
fire alarm was still ringing, and Coach John was
marching around like a deranged drill sergeant.
Once I stepped outside,
it was like walking
into a giant snow globe.
Don’t get me wrong—
I love snow. But ever
wear a grass skirt in a
blizzard? My butt felt
like a frozen Popsicle.
Mmm, marshmallows! My favorite food group.
I started to follow the guys, but then . . .
“Uh . . . maybe they’ll show up in the lost and found
on Monday,” I told her. Translation: Life happens,
Dee Dee. Deal with it.
“But what about NOW?” she wailed. “I can’t walk
home in the snow wearing SANDALS!”
Clearly her MOUTH wasn’t
getting frostbite. But I had to
admit, I did sort of owe her
one. If it wasn’t for Dee Dee . . .
Talk about a lousy
end to a lousy night.
Not only did I carry
Dee Dee home on my
back, I had to listen
to her reenact scenes
from her favorite
horse movies.
Note to self: NEVER, not even by accident, invite a
girl to a dance again.
I see a blinking light flash from Francis’s window.
That’s our secret signal! I grab my binoculars and
peer through the snow across the yard.
Tomorrow can’t get here fast enough!
At exactly 10:00 the next morning, Francis and I
are standing at the base of Cluffy’s cliff. It’s not really
a cliff, I guess. But
it’s the steepest hill
in town. It’s perfect
for sledding.
“I wonder where Teddy is,” I say.
Francis’s eyes widen as he looks behind me.
“Wow!” he shouts. “TEDDY!”
“Bought it myself!” Teddy answers proudly.
“I saved the money I made shoveling driveways!”
Now I’m REALLY stoked about taking on Cluffy’s
cliff. We hike up to the top and, after going on a
couple runs himself, Teddy lets Francis and me
have a turn. It’s amazing.
“That’s WAY faster than
a plain old snow saucer!”
I whoop after my first ride.
“I wonder what the speed
record is for snow tubes,”
Francis says.
“Go look it UP, geek,” says
a gruff voice.
It’s Nolan, the kid who ambushed us the other
day. And it looks like he’s got half the Jefferson
wrestling team with him.
“We’re using it right now,” Teddy tells him.
“Aw, come ON!” Nolan says in a fake, you-just-hurt-
my-feelings voice.
He snatches
it right out of
Teddy’s hands.
Then he and
his crew pile
on top of it.
“Hey, get OFF!” Teddy shouts. “It can only hold
two people!”
They push off down the hill. But they don’t get far.
They catch air going over the first bump, and . . .
DISASTER!!
By the time the three of us reach the tube,
it’s flat as a pancake, and Nolan and his gang are
walking away.
“BAD NEWS, chump!” he calls.
It’s a helpless feeling. What are we going to do, try
and FIGHT them? Those guys are huge. They’d
give us the worst face wash we ever had.
Teddy’s about to cry, and I don’t blame him. “I only
got to ride it twice,” he says miserably.
“Let’s take it back
to my house,” I
say. “We can try
to patch it.” But
we can all see it’s
beyond patching.
We trudge along in silence until . . .
A bunch of vans and trucks are lined up in front
of P.S. 38 like it’s afternoon car pool time. What’s
with all the action on a Saturday?
“That’s Dee Dee’s dad!” Francis says, pointing to a
beefy guy on the sidewalk.
“Eventually,” he says. “But first we’ve got to clean
up. It’s a MESS in there.”
You want to clean up the mold? Easy. Shut down
the hot lunch program.
Francis looks puzzled. “But how can we have school
with all THAT going on?” he asks.
Dee Dee’s dad shrugs. “You CAN’T,” he says.
Welcome to the happiest day of my life.
“Yes, I know,” Dad says as we all peel off our snow
gear. “I just read an email from your principal.”
“Does it ALSO explain my master plan for Monday
morning?”
I ask. “I’m going to wake up early, go
stand in the driveway . . .”
Dad shoots me an odd little smile. “Speaking of
Jefferson . . .” he begins.
I groan. “Ugh. Can we not talk about Jefferson,
Dad? That whole school is Jerk Central.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Really?” he asks. Then he
shrugs. “All right, I won’t say another word.”
Huh? Why, so we can read Principal Nichols’s
thrilling description of mildew in the teachers’
lounge? No, thanks. We’ve got better things to do.
Francis looks at Dad’s laptop. “You can forget
about that vacation,” he says. “Listen to this:”
“WHAT??” Teddy and I
cry in unison.
“In other words, we still
have to go to school,”
Francis says.
“Where, in an IGLOO?” Teddy asks.
Francis keeps reading. “‘For the next two weeks,
classes will be held on the campus of our sister
institution . . .’”
It can’t be true. THIS IS AN OUTRAGE!!!
But then Francis and Teddy call home, and guess
what? Their parents got the exact same email.
What a punch in
the gut.
I feel flatter than
Teddy’s snow tube.
Going to another
school for two weeks
is lousy enough . . .
but JEFFERSON?? They already think we’re
pathetic. This pretty much proves it.
“I’m takin’ off,” Teddy mutters.
I know what they mean. The day went bad faster