Dancing Dudes

by Mike Knudson

  “Hi, Graham,” Kelly said.

  Graham didn’t answer and just kept running. I watched Kelly pick up the valentines and close the door. We waited for a couple of minutes, then began walking home.

  “Man, Raymond, what were you doing in my way? Why didn’t you move when I rang the bell?” Graham asked in a frustrated voice.

  “It was kind of hard to move with you sitting on me!” I answered.

  “Well . . . I was . . . um . . .” I could tell Graham was trying to say something but didn’t know what it was. “Okay, I guess I was sitting on you.” We both started laughing.

  “At least she’ll know who gave her the valentines,” I said, patting Graham on his shoulder. We walked home feeling pretty good about the day.

  7

  Gray Hair and Glasses

  THE NEXT DAY at school, everyone was talking about their valentines. Heidi came up to me and said, “I think you’re pretty tidy, too, Raymond.” It sounded funny being called tidy. I wondered if Heidi thought my poem to her was a little weird.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Tidy was the only word I could think of that rhymed with Heidi.” She just laughed and sat down at her desk. I went to my desk as well. Just as I sat down, Kelly walked up to me.

  “Hey, Raymond,” she said. “Why did Graham give me this valentine at my house yesterday? I mean, the others he gave me were so nice.” She dropped a valentine on my desk and stood there waiting.

  I picked it up and read it out loud. “‘Have a happy Valentine’s Day or I’ll punch you . . . P.S. I’m going to punch you tomorrow anyway.’”

  Just then David walked by. “Thanks for reminding me,” he said. “I almost forgot.” He slugged me in the arm and walked away. I felt a tear start to form in my eye, but I stayed strong. Be manly, be manly, I repeated in my mind. There was no way I was going to break manly rule number one ever again.

  “Sorry, Kelly, that valentine was to me from David,” I said, rubbing my arm. “I don’t know how it got mixed up with the rest of Graham’s valentines to you.”

  “Thanks, Raymond, it didn’t sound like Graham,” she said. She turned and went to her desk. I decided I wouldn’t tell Graham about that little mix-up. Just then I heard my name being called.

  “Raymond and Graham, could you both come here, please?” Mrs. Gibson called out. We hurried over to her. She was in the back of the class sitting at a table.

  “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to two chairs she had set up especially for us. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or happy. I think it was her wrinkles that always confused me, because sometimes when she laughed, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth made her look really mad.

  “I have already had several students speak to me this morning, and even one parent called concerning the valentines you two gave out,” she said. “They claim you wrote mean poems that hurt their feelings. For instance, Mrs. Shaw called wondering why Graham wrote a poem about Brad’s big hair.”

  Now I could tell for sure that Mrs. Gibson was not happy. “I know you two, and I’m sure you probably didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings, but I can see why some of the kids are upset. For instance,” she said, picking up a card from her desk, “Here is the valentine you wrote to me, Raymond.

  “Your glasses are huge and your hair is gray.

  I hope you have a happy Valentine’s Day.”

  I looked at her big glasses and gray hair as she read my card out loud. I had to admit it was a pretty good poem. It was a great description of her. However, as she raised her eyes from the card, she didn’t seem to see the beauty of the poem.

  “Can you see why these things you wrote, while they rhyme and may be true, might hurt someone’s feelings?” she said, adjusting her huge glasses on her nose. She looked a little sad.

  Suddenly, I understood what she meant. Maybe a good rhyme doesn’t automatically make a good valentine. I looked into Mrs. Gibson’s eyes and, for a moment, instead of a teacher, I saw an old lady who maybe didn’t want to be reminded that she was old and gray. Maybe she would rather have had a valentine that just said, Thanks for being a good teacher, Happy Valentine’s Day. I looked over at Brad Shaw and thought that maybe he can’t help having huge hair. Obviously, it just grows like that. Maybe he didn’t want to be reminded of it in a valentine. I felt terrible. I looked over at Graham and could tell he felt bad, too.

  “We’re sorry,” we both said at the same time.

  “We didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings,” I said. “We just thought we were making good poems.”

  “I know,” Mrs. Gibson said. “And the truth is, they were pretty clever. But always try to think about how the person who receives your poem will feel.” She sat back and looked at us for a minute. Then she smiled and said, “That’s all, you two.” We both stood up and went to our seats.

  At recess, Graham talked to Brad and told him he was sorry about the poem. “I really think your hair is cool,” he said. “It makes you look like you’re three inches taller.”

  Then we went around and apologized to everyone else who got one of our poems. Well, everyone but Lizzy.

  That afternoon we had our first dance practice for the spring hoedown. We all walked in a line down to the lunchroom.

  “Okay, everyone, please line up next to your dance partners,” Mrs. Gibson said. Slowly, I made my way into the line next to Lizzy.

  “By the way, Raymond,” Lizzy said, sticking her snooty face up close to mine, “crinklier and stinklier aren’t even words.” Then she flipped her bouncy curls away from me.

  “Sorry, Lizzy,” I said. “I didn’t mean to make you—”

  “I don’t care,” Lizzy interrupted. “I told on you anyway.”

  Oh, well, I thought to myself, her face does look all crinklier.

  Graham raised his hand. “Mrs. Gibson,” he said. “I don’t have a partner.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Mrs. Gibson said. “We have one extra boy.” She paused a moment to think. “Okay, this is what we’ll do. Since we have one extra boy, could I get a volunteer to—”

  My hand shot up in an instant. I knew what she was going to say, and I was going to be the first to volunteer. She was about to ask for a volunteer to sit out. You know, not to be in the dance. I jumped up and down with my hand in the air.

  “Raymond, you didn’t let me finish,” she said.

  “I know, but whatever it is, I’ll do it,” I said.

  “Great, that’s very nice of you, Raymond. It will help us all out,” she said. “Why don’t you come over here by my side.”

  Lizzy gave me a nasty look. I gave her one back and proudly walked up next to Mrs. Gibson.

  “Okay, boys. Everyone move up one spot to fill in Raymond’s place. And Graham, you go to the end next to Suzy.”

  “But don’t you think I would fit in better right here?” he said, pointing to Matt, who was next to Kelly.

  “No, the end by Suzy will be just fine,” she said. Graham moped over to the end of the boys next to Suzy.

  “Okay, since we have one extra boy, Raymond has volunteered to be my partner,” Mrs. Gibson said. “Raymond and I will be teaching you the dance up here in front.”

  WHAT?! I screamed inside my head. Dance with the teacher? I didn’t know what was worse, dancing with Lizzy or dancing with Mrs. Gibson. Even though Lizzy and I were enemies, at least she was a kid. I looked around at the crowd. Everyone was laughing and pointing at me. Even Graham was busting up. David looked like he was going to fall over. I glanced up at Mrs. Gibson, who was staring down at me with a big smile.

  “Thanks for volunteering, Raymond,” she said. I could tell she sensed my embarrassment, but somehow I think she enjoyed it. I knew I couldn’t hurt her feelings again after my valentine poem, so I just looked up and smiled back.

  Finally, everyone calmed down, and for most of the next hour, Mrs. Gibson taught us the dance. There was a lot of bowing to each other, skipping, and hooking arms and going in circles. Mrs. Gibson’s bony arms were pr
etty strong. Whenever we had to hook arms and swing around in a circle, she would almost pull me right off my feet.

  “Okay, I think we are ready to try it with the music,” Mrs. Gibson said. She walked over and pushed the button on the stereo and hurried back to her spot next to me in front of the class.

  It was square-dancing music. You know, the kind with the fiddles playing and some guy telling you when to do-si-do and stuff.

  “Okay, everyone, in your places and get ready. Watch me and Raymond to see when to start,” Mrs. Gibson said, bending her knees with the rhythm.

  “Ready . . . and . . . begin!” she yelled out.

  Dancing with the music was hard. It was going so much faster than we had practiced. Mrs. Gibson was basically dragging me around to keep up with the music.

  I looked at everyone else. They all seemed to be lost. Some people were bowing when they should have been going in a circle, while others were skipping around each other do-si-doing. After about a minute of out-of-control dancing, Mrs. Gibson turned off the music.

  “Okay, now that we have all heard how fast it s,” she said, “let’s try it from the beginning. And remember, watch up here and follow us.” She pushed the button and hurried back.

  The music started again and all of a sudden, without even my thinking about it, my legs were bouncing up and down to the rhythm. When the guy in the song started talking, I suddenly knew what I was doing. And not only did I know what I was doing, I was liking it. I looked around at everyone else. Some were getting it better than others, but no one was dancing as well as I was.

  I couldn’t believe what was going on. I was skipping perfectly to the beat and I do-si-doed at exactly the right time. When the song ended, I actually felt a little sad, like I wanted it to go on longer.

  A bunch of people came up to me and teased me about having to dance with Mrs. Gibson. David slugged me and said, “What’s wrong, too scared to dance with a girl? Baby Raymond has to dance with the teacher?”

  “I’m not a baby!” I yelled. David just laughed and walked away. But maybe he was right. Did I look like a baby, having to dance with the teacher? I started going through the manly rules in my head when I felt a slap on my back.

  “I really owe you one, hermano,” Graham said, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “Are you serious?” Graham answered. “If you hadn’t volunteered to dance with Mrs. Gibson, it would have been me.”

  “Whoa, I didn’t think of that,” I said. “You really do owe me one. I can’t believe it. I thought for sure she was going to ask for a volunteer to sit out and not have to dance.”

  “Yeah, bummer,” Graham said. “But at least you’re not dancing with Lizzy.”

  “I guess . . . although I’m still not sure what’s worse,” I said. “You know Lizzy got mad at me about her valentine poem. She said crinklier and stinklier aren’t real words. Even though she’s a girl, she obviously doesn’t understand poetic words like we do. And anyway, I actually think crinklier is a word.”

  “Sure it is,” Graham agreed. “Like my shirt is much crinklier than your shirt.”

  “Right,” I said. As we walked back to the classroom, we compared things that were crinklier than other things. We both agreed that nothing was crinklier than Lizzy’s face.

  8

  Being Mature

  THE NEXT MONDAY at school, Mrs. Gibson passed out cards to each of us.

  “Please take these invitations home and show them to your parents,” Mrs. Gibson said. “The maturation program is coming up this Friday for you and your parents.”

  I had heard about the maturation program and about how embarrassing it is. I did not want to go. Graham, on the other hand, couldn’t wait.

  That afternoon our class was in the library checking out books. Graham and I were in the back corner looking for a book about sports.

  “This is going to be great!” he said in his loudest whisper. “You know, the maturation program.”

  “I don’t want to go at all,” I said. “It will be so embarrassing.”

  “Are you kidding? It will be great! I can’t wait to mature. We’ll get to shave, we’ll have deep voices, and all that good stuff. It means we’ll be that much closer to being men. Plus, if you really don’t want to feel like a baby, don’t you think it’s a good idea to find out as much as you can about how to be mature? ”

  I thought about that for a minute. “Maybe you’re right. Being mature is the exact opposite of being a baby.”

  “Of course I’m right. After all, I am your coach,” Graham said. “Which brings me to rule number five: Attend your maturation program and learn as much as possible about being manly.”

  “Yeah, although I still wish I didn’t have to hear about all of that stuff sitting next to my dad,” I said.

  “Not me. I want to find out exactly when I’m going to start shaving and being mature,” Graham said.

  “How are they going to know?” I said. “They can’t tell you when.”

  “Well, they definitely know more than I know,” Graham said.

  Later that day, after school, Diane invited me and Graham to come over to her house to jump on her trampoline with her and Heidi. Graham told me this would be a great time to practice my manly skills of talking to Heidi more. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you get started,” he promised.

  When we got to Diane’s house, I called my mom and told her where I was. Then I ran back outside, where Graham and the girls were already jumping.

  “So, Heidi,” Graham said, “Raymond wants to talk to you about something.” He looked at me as if to say, Go ahead, that was your cue. Everyone stopped jumping and stared at me.

  “I do?” I asked, turning to Graham. He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  “Yes, you do. . . . Remember?” he said, trying to get me started, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. I stood there straining my brain trying to think of something.

  “Well, it must have been really important,” Heidi said, starting to jump around again. Graham gave up on me and started his own conversation.

  “Is everyone as excited as me about becoming mature on Friday?” Graham asked proudly.

  “Yeah, I’m sure you’re going to walk into the maturation program a scrawny little kid and leave an hour later a man.” Heidi laughed as she bounced over Graham, who was lying down in the middle of the trampoline. I was sitting on the side by the springs, taking my shoes off.

  “Right,” Diane said, following Heidi and jumping over Graham. “You’re going to need a lot more than a maturation program to become a man.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, I’m more mature than you guys,” Graham said.

  “You? You’re only about half as tall as me,” Diane said, looking down at Graham.

  “But I’m twice as tough,” Graham answered back, standing up.

  “Oh, yeah? Prove it,” Diane said, pushing him in the chest. They both started jumping around trying to knock each other down. After being thrown down five times in a row, Graham just lay there and yelled, “You win! I give up!”

  Heidi jumped up and grabbed Diane’s hand and lifted it high in the air. “And the new mature champion of the fourth grade is . . . Diane Dunstin!”

  We all cheered and laughed, even Graham. Diane took a bow. Then we got up and all started jumping together. At four thirty, I had to leave. Graham left with me. As we walked down the sidewalk, I turned to him and said, “Diane really got you good. Maybe she should be my manly coach instead of you.”

  Graham looked at me. I tried to keep a straight face, but I started to laugh. Graham just shook his head. “I could have taken her down if I’d wanted.”

  “Right. See you tomorrow, hermano,” I said as we got to Graham’s driveway.

  9

  Late Bloomers

  WHEN I GOT to my house, I showed my mom the maturation-program invitation.

  “Oh, how wonderful, my baby is growing up.”
There it was again. Baby.

  “Mom, do you really think I’m a baby?” I asked.

  “You’ll always be my baby,” she answered, pulling me close and giving me a hug. That wasn’t what I’d wanted to hear.

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” I said. My mom looked down at me.

  “What’s the matter? Aren’t you excited about your maturation program?”

  “No. I don’t really want to go,” I said.

  “Of course you do, sweetie,” she said. “I went with your sister, and it will be nice to go with your father. After all, you will be maturing soon.”

  “Mom! Don’t say that!” I yelled.

  “Well, it’s true,” she said. “It’s just part of growing up. Don’t you want to mature?”

  “Yes, I want to mature. I don’t want to be called a baby anymore. It’s just that I don’t want to discuss my maturing with my mom,” I said.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t be silly,” she said.

  That night at dinner, my mom had to bring it up again. “Honey,” she said to Dad, “can you take off work a little early on Friday? Raymond has his maturation program at school.”

  From the look on Dad’s face, he was more nervous than I was. “Oooh, I, uh . . . aren’t they a little young for this? Or isn’t this something you would like to go to, dear?” Dad said.

  “No, I think this would be a nice father-and-son activity,” Mom answered.

  “What’s the big deal?” Geri snorted. “They’re just going to tell you that you’re a little dork now and soon you’ll be a big dork.” Mom gave her a dirty look.

  “I’ll be there, pal,” Dad said to me, smiling, though he still looked a little nervous. My dad’s a great guy. He loves to play catch with me, take me fishing, and all that fun stuff. But when it comes to having to talk about serious things, he’d rather leave that to my mom.