My Life as a Busted-Up Basketball Backboard
Page 3
The second girl spoke, her voice sounding even mushier than the first. “Not only is he courageous, he is sooo humble.”
“And even more gorgeous in person than on TV,” Girl Three sighed as she shoved up her glasses and shifted her weight on her crutches.
“TV?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” Girl One said, nodding enthusiastically. “We saw the way you saved that poor woman’s life this morning in the runaway car.”
“It was so cool,” Girl Two said.
“And dreamy,” Girl Three sighed.
I threw a nervous glance over at Mr. Slicko,who was giving me a thumbs-up sign. I cleared my throat. “Well, actually, you see, the person who stopped the car really wasn’t—”
“And after you’ve given her your autograph, will you sign my wrist?” Girl Two asked as she shoved her hand in front of me.
“And my leg cast,” Girl Three said, blinking her eyes at me faster than a strobe light.
Finally, I was starting to get it. “Well, sure,” I said. It was hard not to smile as I grabbed a pen and reached for the first girl’s paper. It felt a little strange that someone would actually want my autograph. But it also felt kinda good.
“Oh, thank you, thank you.” Girl One sighed as I finished signing her paper. “I will treasure this always.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Girl Two said as I finished signing her wrist. “I will never wash my hand again.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Girl Three said as I finished signing her cast. “I will never take this off.” My smile kept growing. I couldn’t help it. It was finally happening. I was finally getting popular. “So tell me,” I asked the girl with the cast, “what happened to your leg?”
“She threw herself down the stairs,” Girl One explained.
“That’s right,” Girl Three replied as she fondly looked into my eyes.
“Why would you do that?” I asked.
More giggles all around until she answered. “Because that’s what you do, silly.”
“Well, yeah, but I’m . . . I’m a natural klutz. I don’t do it on purpose. I just sort of—”
“Show him your glasses,” Girl Two said.
Girl Three took off her glasses and poked her fingers through where the lenses were supposed to be.
“I . . . don’t understand,” I said.
She batted her eyes some more and explained. “Unfortunately, my eyes aren’t as bad as yours, so I can’t wear real glasses like you. But that doesn’t stop me from getting to wear the frames.”
“You want to wear glasses?” I asked.
“You bet.”
“And the reason you want to wear them is?”
“Because you do, silly.”
Another round of giggles.
Once again, I felt that strange combination of greatness and uneasiness. But before I had a chance to sort it out, a giant stretch limo squealed around the corner and pulled up beside us.
“Great,” Mr. Slicko called from behind the camera. “Your limo’s here. Come on, Willard, we’ve got to get going!”
I looked up, surprised. “Where to now?”
“To the rock concert,” he said.
“Rock concert?” I asked. “We’re going to a rock concert?”
“That’s right.”
“Whose?”
“Yours, of course.”
If I was surprised before, I was downright astonished now. This was incredible. First working out with the basketball team, then signing autographs for my fans, and now taking off in a limo to star in my own rock show.
“This is great,” I said as we climbed into the car. “I figured you’d like it, Willard.”
“You keep calling me that, but my name is Wally, remember? Wally McDoogle.”
He frowned. “No, that name is too goofy. Sounds like a hero in some kid’s comedy book series.”
“Well, actually, now that you mention it—”
He cut me off. “I like Willard better. Willard McDorkel. Yeah, that’s got a nice ring to it.” Then, slapping me on the back, he grinned. “Looks like you can kiss the old Wally McDoogle good-bye, son. I’m turning you into someone entirely different. I’m turning you into somebody worshiped and adored by millions. Wally McDoogle is history. Now there’s only Willard . . . Willard McDorkel, superstar!”
Chapter 4
Rockin’ and Rollin’
“AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN . . . MEN . . . MEN,” the announcer’s voice echoed through the packed auditorium.
I stood backstage waiting to go on. As I waited, I nervously adjusted my bald wig. Earlier, when we were in the dressing room putting it on, I had asked Mr. Slicko why I had to wear it.
“It makes you look like a punker,” he explained. I shook my head, causing all my fake earrings, fake nose rings, and any other fake body piercings to clang into each other. All the jewelry seemed a bit extreme but, hey, if that’s what it takes to be famous, it was worth it, right? Still, I thought the bald wig was a little much. “This isn’t what I look like,” I said. “I’m no punker.”
“Oh, I know that and you know that”—Mr. Slicko gave me a little wink—“but your new fans out in the audience don’t.”
I was getting that uneasy feeling again, but I wasn’t sure why.
Once they had put the bald wig on, the next thing were the tattoos (also fake). Fake serpent heads, fake skull and crossbones, fake bloody daggers. You name it—if it was in bad taste, they put it on me. “But this stuff is all so creepy,” I complained. “I don’t like it.”
“Of course you don’t. But if you want to be popular and famous, you’ve got to pretend you do.”
“But it’s not me.”
“That’s the whole point, Willard. If you want to be famous, you gotta be somebody else.”
“But I like who I am.”
Mr. Slicko arched an eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I do,” I insisted. “Well, kinda.”
“Fine. If you want to be you, then you’ll have a fan club of one. But if you really want to be popular, if you really want to be famous, then you’ve got to be who they want you to be.”
Before I could argue, he’d shoved a lit cigarette into my mouth. “And make sure you keep this in the whole time you’re onstage.”
“But—” That’s all I got out before I accidentally breathed, which caused me to accidentally cough a lung out, then turn green, then throw up. (No wonder smoking is bad for your health.)
“Hmm,” Mr. Slicko said as I continued my coughing, gagging, and dying routine. “Might be better if you don’t inhale.”
That had been half an hour ago. Now I stood backstage all made up, with a guitar around my neck, a cigarette in my mouth, and more graffiti on my body than the wall of an inner city.
All this as the announcer continued his introduction: “AND HERE’S THE MOMENT YOU’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR . . . FOR . . . FOR. LIVE AND IN PERSON . . . SON . . . SON, WILLARD McDORKEL . . . ORKEL . . . ORKEL.”
The audience went crazy.
“Get out there!” Mr. Slicko yelled. “Your fans are waiting!” He gave me a shove and suddenly . . .
I was onstage. The lights were blinding, the audience was screaming, and I was . . . well, once again, I was beginning to think that it might all be worth it. I mean, let’s face it, there’s something pretty exciting about having ten thousand fans screaming . . . especially when they’re all screaming for you.
Things were going great until I took that second step onstage.
K-twist
K-PLOP
Apparently, I wasn’t so great at walking in platform shoes. No problem. I scrambled back to my feet, took another step and
K-twist
K-PLOP
gave a repeat performance.
Once again I got up, and once again . . . well, you get the picture.
The embarrassment continued as I slowly made my way across the stage.
K-twist
K-PLOP
; K-twist
K-PLOP
Unfortunately, it wasn’t too long before I noticed that all of the cheering and screaming had come to a stop. Now there was only silence. Dead silence. (Well, except for the sound of blood racing to my cheeks and ears as I experienced major humiliation.)
I turned to the band members that Mr. Slicko had hired to accompany me.
Their mouths hung open as they stared at me in utter disbelief.
I turned to the audience. Through the glaring lights I could make out enough faces in the first few rows to see . . . their mouths hanging open as they stared at me in utter disbelief.
Uh-oh. It was over. I could tell. As I lay there sprawled out on the stage in front of ten thousand staring fans, I knew I’d been found out. With any luck I could sort of just crawl off the stage and disappear. Maybe I could change my name (again). Maybe move someplace where I was less known. (I hear Antarctica is beautiful this time of year.) And then, suddenly, I heard a noise over by the band.
K-PLOP
I turned to see my lead guitarist throw himself down onto the floor.
What on earth?
He began playing as he leaped up and did it again, this time along with my keyboard player. Then again, with the bass guitarist getting into the act. Before I knew it, the entire band was throwing themselves down on the ground and getting back up, then throwing themselves down and getting back up. (All in perfect rhythm to the music.)
I could only stare, more clueless than usual when, out in the auditorium, I heard . . .
K-PLOP, K-PLOP
K-PLOP, K-PLOP, K-PLOP.
I turned and looked out to the audience. I couldn’t believe my eyes (or ears).
K-PLOP, K-PLOP, K-PLOP
K-PLOP
K-PLOP, K-PLOP
K-PLOP, K-PLOP, K-PLOP, K-PLOP
All over the auditorium people were standing up and throwing themselves down on the ground. Then standing up and throwing themselves on the ground—in perfect rhythm to the music. I looked on, completely amazed. It was incredible. Astonishing. Someway, somehow, I had accidentally started a whole new fad . . . a brand-new dance craze.
K-PLOP, K-PLOP
K-PLOP, K-PLOP, K-PLOP, K-PLOP
I turned back to Mr. Slicko, who was giving me not one, but two, big thumbs-up. His face was cranked up into a major this-is-going-even-better-than-I-had-planned grin.
The music continued—loud and blasting. Even though I was supposed to be the lead singer I had no idea what to sing. But it didn’t seem to matter. The entire audience was too busy screaming and throwing themselves down on the ground to notice. Oh, sure, I’d yell something every so often— while trying to stand and
K-PLOP
K-PLOP
K-PLOP.
But, other than that, there wasn’t much I needed to do . . . except realize that Ricko Slicko’s plan was once again succeeding.
I’d just stepped out of the limo and started toward my house when I heard a familiar voice. “Hey, Wally?”
I turned and there was Wall Street approaching. Beside her was my other best friend, Opera. (That’s Opera as in overweight Italian singers.)
“Did you see my concert?” I asked.
“Yeah.” Wall Street nodded.
I turned to Opera, who also nodded and answered, “Crunch, crunch, crunch.” Besides classical music Opera has this thing about junk food. He loves it. The guy is crazy about any kind of chip.
And it doesn’t matter what type . . . potato, corn, poker; if it ends in “chip,” he’ll eat it.
“So what did you think?” I asked. “I tell you, nothing beats having ten thousand fans screaming for you.”
“We gotta talk,” Wall Street said. “I’ve got to ask you a question.”
“Munch, munch, munch,” Opera agreed.
“I know.” I smiled kindly as I reached into my pocket for a pen. “You want my autograph, too, don’t you?”
“What?” Wall Street frowned.
“Burp?” Opera scowled.
“My autograph,” I said.
“Get real,” Wall Street scoffed.
“Belch,” Opera agreed.
“We just want to know what you think you’re proving!” Wall Street demanded.
“About what?” I asked.
“About pretending to be someone you’re not.”
I grinned. “Pretty cool, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not cool,” Wall Street said. “Actually, it’s pretty pathetic.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about all this fake body piercing, all these fake tattoos. And what’s with that cigarette you were pretending to smoke?”
Her tone bugged me, but I figured it was just jealousy (and who could blame her). I tried to stay calm. “It’s just part of my new image,” I explained. “New image?”
“That’s right. For people to like me, I gotta act the way they want me to act.”
“What about the way we want you to act?” Wall Street asked.
“Burp,” Opera agreed.
“Sorry, guys.” I gave my head a little shake, causing my earrings to jangle. “I guess this is just the new me.”
“But we don’t like the new you,” Wall Street argued. “It’s just not . . . you.”
I was getting tired of all this complaining. Didn’t she know who she was talking to? Didn’t she see me save that car on TV this morning? Didn’t she see me up onstage? “If you don’t like the new me,” I suddenly heard myself say (a lot creepier than I wanted to), “then maybe you should go find a new friend.”
“Crunch, munch?” Opera looked up at me in surprise.
“You heard me.” The words came out faster than I could stop them. “I’ve got thousands of new friends who like me just the way I am.”
“Munch, crunch?”
“That’s right. In fact, they worship the ground
I walk on. So if you don’t like the new me, I’ve got ten thousand other people who do.”
“Make that nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine,” Wall Street said. “Come on, Opera, let’s get out of here. This sidewalk isn’t big enough for us and Wally’s ego.”
“That’s Willard!” I heard myself shout. “Willard McDorkel!”
Without another word they turned and started heading down the street. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Didn’t they know who they were walking away from?
“Go ahead!” I shouted. “I’ve still got nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine friends!”
That was when Opera looked over his shoulder and shouted back, “BELCH!” (Which translated means, “Make that nine thousand nine hundred ninety-eight!”)
I thought of yelling something else, but it didn’t matter. Hey, I was popular now. I didn’t need them. I was famous. I didn’t need to hang with a bunch of losers. Sure, I had to give up little bits and pieces of myself along the way. Sure, I had to pretend to be something I wasn’t. But it seemed a small price to pay to finally have my dream come true.
Little did I realize that my dream was about to become a nightmare . . .
Chapter 5
The Fame Game
It had been quite a day and I was glad to get to bed. But my brain was still reeling with all the cool stuff that had happened—and with all the uncool stuff Wall Street had said. So I decided to unwind a little by getting back to my superhero story.
I grabbed Ol’ Betsy, punched her on, and went to work . . .
When we last left our incredibly intense and intelligent ImaginMan . . . (I’d include information involving his impossibly industrious and idiosyncratic ingenuity, but that’s too many “i’s,” let alone words I don’t understand and that you’d just skip over anyway, so why bother.)
Where was I?
Oh yeah. Our hero has just slipped on his ImaginCape, entered his ImaginCave, and has raced off in his ImaginMobile. (Any similarity to another superhero is strictly coincidental——especially if he happens to be wearing a pointed black mask and is named af
ter a flying rodent.)
But where to begin? How can ImaginMan hope to find the awesomely awful and astonishingly awkward alien? (And you thought I could only do that with “i’s,” didn’t you?)
The last time that creepy KidVid tried to take over the world it was by making everyone watch Teletubbiesthen it was Barney reruns, and don’t even get me started on those Brady Bunch marathons. But now, trying to destroy everyone’s brain cells by making them play video games nonstop? Is there no end to his dubiously diabolical dastardliness? (Or am I trying to wear out your mouth with these tongue twisters?)
In a flash of inspiration, ImaginMan reaches down and snaps on his Bad Guy Detecto Screen (sold at Good Guy Gadgetstores everywhere). Carefully, he begins scanning the area for KidVid’s spacecraft when, suddenly——
BLEEP, PING, BLAM
his Bad Guy Detecto Screen is filled with weird-looking creatures blasting away at even weirder-looking creatures. No, this is not some Power Rangers rerun; it’s KidVid’s new video game!
Great garbanzo beans! He’s striking everywhere! Not only that, but our hero suddenly discovers a set of controls that have been conveniently placed on the seat beside him. He picks them up, and before he knows it, he begins pressing the buttons . . .
BLEEP, BLEEP, BLEEP
PING, PING, PING
BLAM, BLAM, BLAM
“Hey,” he shouts, “this is kind of fun!”
Oh, no! Even ImaginMan is getting hooked! Now he is staring mindlessly atthe screen while mindlessly pressing buttons, and having a mindlessly good time.
“No, ImaginMan,” the incredibly handsome writer of this story types. “Stop playing! You have to resist its power!”
Our hero glances up from the screen. “Who said that?”
“It’s me, Wally McDoogle, your author.” But unimpressed, he turns back to the screen as the dull, vacant look returns to his eyes.
Quickly I type: “You can’t be conquered by KidVid.”
“Why not?” he mumbles while mindlessly pressing the buttons.
“Why not?” I write.
“Why not?” he repeats.
“Why not!”
“I think we got the question covered,” he mutters. “How ’bout an answer?”
Suddenly, I have it and I quickly type, “Because you’re supposed to prove to the world how great it is to use your imagination!” “Imagination?” he asks.