Dancing Dudes

by Mike Knudson

  The week flew by, and in no time at all it was Friday. All day, Graham was excited about the maturation program and couldn’t wait for it to start. Deep down, I think he still thought that going to the meeting would make him more mature. We ended our dance practice early so we would be finished in time for the program.

  We left the lunchroom where we practiced and walked quietly back to our classroom. I could smell old-lady perfume on my arm where Mrs. Gibson and I had to swing around.

  Within a few minutes, parents started to arrive for the program. As they showed up, Mrs. Gibson had them stand in the back of the class until it was time to start. The girls were having their program in the library, and we were having ours in the auditorium. Within a few minutes, almost every parent was there, except mine. It was almost time to go, and my dad still hadn’t arrived.

  “Okay, girls,” Mrs. Gibson said. “Why don’t you show your mothers down to the library?” They all stood up and filed out of the room.

  I looked out the door and down the hall, but there was still no sign of my dad. This would actually be perfect if he didn’t show up. I could still learn all the stuff about being mature, but I wouldn’t have to sit next to my dad and be embarrassed.

  “Okay, boys,” Mrs. Gibson said. “Your turn. You can show your fathers, or whoever came with you, to the auditorium.” We all got up and headed down the hall. I followed the pack and sat in the back row. Graham was pulling his dad up to the front so he wouldn’t miss anything. Graham’s dad was also short. He was bald on top with a thick ring of red hair around the sides of his head.

  A lady in a white nurse uniform walked onto the stage. “Hello, I want to welcome everyone to the maturation program,” she said. “My name is Nurse Suzanne. I work for the school district. And today—”

  “Excuse me,” interrupted a loud voice from the doorway. “Raymond, are you in here?”

  I know that voice, I thought to myself. It was Gramps! I couldn’t believe it. I stood up and waved to him.

  “Sorry I’m late, everyone,” Gramps said, even louder than before. “Have I missed anything?”

  “You’re just in time,” Nurse Suzanne said. “We’re about to begin.”

  “Wonderful,” Gramps said, making his way to an empty seat next to me. “Raymond’s dad is stuck in a meeting, so his mother called me. She thought Raymond would feel more comfortable with a man—even an old man.” Gramps laughed. “Although I see you are a woman and you’re teaching the class, so maybe it would be fine if Raymond’s mother—”

  “Gramps, just sit down,” I interrupted, pulling his arm. He stopped talking and sat down next to me.

  “Howdy, partner,” Gramps said to me in his whisper voice, which was just about as loud as his regular voice. Nurse Suzanne started talking about how we need to wash our hair every day and use soap whenever we shower. She also told us we were probably going to get some pimples sometime soon. She talked about a bunch of other embarrassing stuff, and finally it was almost over.

  “Are there any questions?” she asked the audience.

  “I have one,” Graham said, raising his hand. “When do you think I’m going to get taller and be able to grow a mustache?”

  I couldn’t believe he was asking that. I felt embarrassed for Graham. However, not as embarrassed as I was about to feel for myself.

  “Can I answer that?” my grandpa yelled out.

  “Be my guest, sir,” Nurse Suzanne answered.

  “Great,” Gramps said. “Now, where is the young man who asked that question?”

  Graham stood up and waved at Gramps.

  “Oh, you’re Raymond’s little friend,” Gramps started. “I thought you looked familiar. Well, let me tell you, both you and Raymond are still pretty small, and while the time will come someday for both of you to grow, judging from the size of you, it may not be for a long time. For instance, I was quite the late bloomer myself. I don’t think I had to shave until I was in the army. And I don’t know about you, but if Raymond here takes after his grandpa, he can count on being a late bloomer, too.”

  I couldn’t believe this. Everyone in the whole auditorium was staring at us like we were crazy. David was laughing and pointing at me. His dad was also laughing. I started feeling dizzy. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom, Grandpa, I’ll be right back,” I said.

  “Hey, not a bad idea,” Gramps said. “I’ll join you.”

  We got up and made our way out of the auditorium. I was so embarrassed I thought I was going to die.

  “Well, I’m glad I could be here for you, partner,” Gramps said, putting his arm around my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want you to have to sit through this alone.”

  “Yeah, well . . . thanks, Gramps,” I said. By the time we made it back, the meeting was over and everyone was leaving. There was a big box by the door with a sign on it that said TAKE ONE. It was full of bags that had little bottles of shampoo and sticks of deodorant in them.

  “Hey, do I get one of those?” Gramps asked Nurse Suzanne, who was standing by the door.

  “Sure, help yourself,” she said with a smile.

  We both grabbed a bag and left. Grandpa took me to get an ice-cream cone on the way home.

  “One scoop for my grandson who just graduated from the maturation program,” Gramps proudly told the girl at the ice-cream counter.

  “Congratulations,” she said, holding back her laughter. “What flavor would you like?”

  “Chocolate,” I said.

  “Very mature choice, partner,” Gramps said. “I’ll take the same.”

  We ate our ice cream and Gramps dropped me off at home. I walked in, went straight to my room, and plopped onto my bed. What a lousy day.

  10

  Toilets and Toothbrushes

  I LAY ON my bed for a while, not feeling any more mature than I had before the maturation program. There had to be more to not being a baby than shampoo and pimples. I thought about it for a few minutes. I got up and walked to the bathroom to wash my hands. They were sticky from the ice cream.

  As I walked into the bathroom, something familiar caught my eye. I rushed up to the sink. There was my old Peter Penguin toothbrush. I couldn’t believe it.

  Peter Penguin was my favorite cartoon when I was in kindergarten. I had Peter Penguin toys, shoes, clothes . . . everything. I even had Peter Penguin underwear. But by the time I was in the first grade, I had grown out of my Peter Penguin clothes and all of my friends stopped playing with Peter Penguin stuff.

  I did, however, keep my Peter Penguin toothbrush. I thought no one could take that away from me. It was my all-time favorite. I don’t even remember what I brushed my teeth with before I had that. Anyway, one day my toothbrush disappeared and a new plain blue one showed up in its place. Mom said she had replaced it because it was worn out and too small.

  Anyway, when I walked into the bathroom and saw my old friend Peter Penguin on the counter by the sink, it felt like a miracle. How else could my favorite toothbrush simply appear in the bathroom? I picked it up. It did look pretty worn out, but I didn’t care.

  As I was examining my long-lost toothbrush, a terrible thought came over me. If Graham were here, I’ll bet he would say, “Rule number six: No cartoon character toothbrushes.” Maybe I was a baby after all. I mean, I cry when I get hurt, I’m embarrassed about the maturation program, and now I want to brush my teeth with a Peter Penguin toothbrush. Why does being manly have to be so hard? I thought to myself.

  I walked over to the small garbage can next to the toilet and was about to throw it away. Then I thought to myself, Maybe just one more brushing for old time’s sake.

  Immediately, I rushed back to the sink and turned on the water. I usually don’t brush my teeth during the day, but this was a special occasion. My old friend Peter Penguin and I were reunited at last. I put a little water and a dab of toothpaste on the brush, and in no time at all, I was scrubbing like crazy. I looked in the mirror and it seemed like my reflection was six years old again. Memories of
good times passed through my mind. After spitting and rinsing my toothbrush, I stuck my mouth under the faucet and got a drink. I looked in the mirror again and smiled. My teeth looked whiter already. Yes, there was something magical about that toothbrush. I decided to keep it. Who cares if there is a rule about cartoon character toothbrushes? I was never going to tell Graham anyway.

  I ran out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. Mom was on the phone with Grandma. “Hey, Mom, I found my toothbrush! I thought you threw it out, but it—”

  “I’m on the phone, sweetie,” she said. “Give me a couple of minutes.”

  I knew just the thing to do in those couple of minutes: brush my teeth again. I ran back to the bathroom, loaded up Peter with toothpaste, and started scrubbing. A few minutes later, I heard my mom.

  “Raymond, I’m off the phone. What did you need?” she asked.

  “Nothing, Mom,” I said happily. “I was just wondering where you found my favorite Peter Penguin toothbrush. My teeth feel better than ever!”

  “I’m sorry, Raymond, what toothbrush are you talking about?” she asked, walking into the bathroom.

  “This one,” I said, holding it up.

  “Oh, dear!” Mom yelled, grabbing it from my hand. “Don’t put that in your mouth! It’s been in my cleaning bucket for ages. I use it to scrub corners and around the toilet.”

  All of a sudden it seemed like she was speaking in slow motion. I tried to talk but couldn’t. “This was in the toilet?” I was finally able to say, feeling sick. The fresh, clean taste in my mouth suddenly disappeared, and terrible thoughts of what I had been scrubbing onto my teeth filled my brain.

  “Yes, Raymond. I use that to clean the hard-to-reach areas of the toilet,” she said.

  “Aaaaah, yuck!” I yelled, spitting into the sink. Then I stuck my mouth under the faucet for about five minutes. I’m going to die! I thought as water from the faucet filled my mouth.

  “Mom, how could you?” I yelled, turning off the water. “Why didn’t you say anything about using my toothbrush to clean toilets? And why did you leave it here on the counter for me to use?” I went back to spitting into the sink.

  “I’m sorry, Raymond,” she said, rubbing my back. “I was cleaning in here today and must have forgotten to put it away. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “You’re sure I’ll be fine?” I cried. “How can I be fine? I’ve been scrubbing my teeth with a toilet brush!”

  I went to my room to lie down.

  “Why don’t you rest, and I’ll bring you a snack,” Mom said.

  As I lay there wondering what was going to happen to me, Mom came back with a little plate of cookies.

  “Mom, if I die from this, please don’t tell anyone that it was from some toilet disease. That would be way too embarrassing. Just tell everyone I died trying to rescue you or something.”

  “Raymond, don’t be silly. You’re going to be fine,” she said. “Have a cookie and a little rest.”

  I was still in my room when Dad came home. Mom must have told him what happened. He opened my door and poked his head in. “Hey, bud, I hear you were chewing on the toilet plunger.”

  “Something like that,” I said. “Do you think I’m going to die?”

  “Nah, look at old Maggie. She drinks out of the toilet every day and she’s fine,” Dad said.

  I thought about that for a while, and he was right. Maybe I would survive after all.

  That night, my dumb plain blue toothbrush had never looked better.

  11

  Dr. Fat Fingers Strikes Again

  THE WEEKEND WENT by way too fast, and it was Monday all over again and we were walking to school. I ended up telling Graham all about my toothbrush experience. I thought he would bring up the fact that real men don’t have cartoon character toothbrushes. But he didn’t.

  “Well, speaking of teeth,” he said, looking down at the ground. “I’m getting out of school early today.”

  “No way,” I said. “Where are you going?”

  “I have to go to Dr. Fat Fingers for a checkup,” he said sadly.

  “Are you serious?” I replied. “All I can say is I’m sorry, hermano. I wouldn’t wish a trip to Dr. Fat Fingers on my worst enemy. Not even on Lizzy.”

  Dr. Fat Fingers is the nickname we gave to Diane’s dad, Dr. Dunstin. Almost all of my friends go to him for their dentist. He’s a nice man, but he should definitely not be a dentist. Mom says he’s a fine dentist and that we need to support our friends. But she never goes to him, just us kids.

  Dr. Dunstin is a huge man. Diane told us he played basketball in college. He’s at least a foot taller than my dad. Being tall isn’t the problem . . . it’s his fingers. They’re humongous! They are at least twice as fat as a normal adult’s fingers. They’re probably great for playing basketball, but they are the absolute worst for working on kids’ teeth. I mean, even though he can barely fit one of those fingers in your mouth, he insists on sticking at least two or three in at a time, whether they fit or not. It should be a rule that people with fingers that big should only be allowed to work on people with huge mouths. I felt sorry for Graham, but I was glad it was him and not me going to the dentist that day.

  Dance practice went well, even without Graham. I have to admit that I was a little jealous that Zach was dancing with Heidi. During a break, I tried to follow manly rule number four and talk to Heidi as much as possible.

  “Hi, Heidi. Are you having fun?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sure. Are you?” she asked. “And where’s Graham? Is he faking sick to get out of dancing today?”

  “No, believe me, he’d much rather be here. He has a dentist appointment with Dr. Fat F—”

  “Don’t even say it!” interrupted Diane, who was listening.

  “No, what I meant to say was . . . um . . .” I stood there, trying to think of something, when Mrs. Gibson started the music and we all ran back to our places.

  After school, I called Graham to see how his visit to Dr. Fat Fingers went. His whole mouth was numb, so I couldn’t understand him very well over the phone. He sounded funny, so I thought I would go down to his house to see if he looked funny, too.

  Whenever I ride my bike to Graham’s house, I always do the same thing. As soon as I get to his driveway, I jump off the back and let my bike ride by itself until it crashes on his lawn. Today was no different. But this time I was going a little too fast, and when I jumped off and let my bike go, it kept going longer than usual and crashed into the bushes. As I was dragging it out, Graham opened the door. He said something to me, but I couldn’t understand. It sounded like he had a huge wad of gum in his mouth.

  “What?” I said. “What are you saying?” Then I looked closer at him. “Whoa! Look at that bruise! I thought my last bruise was bad. But it was nothing compared to what Fat Fingers did to you!”

  Graham looked at me like he was about to cry.

  “Sorry, Graham.” Then I thought about Graham’s manly rule number one. “Hey, I thought rule number one was that real men never cry.” Then I looked closer at his face. “Hey, you’re not crying,” I said. “You’re laughing!” His face was still so numb his lips couldn’t make a smiling shape. It was crazy. His lips and cheeks were all saggy. He looked like an old man, but without wrinkles.

  “Wash thish,” he said in a slurred voice, pinching himself on the cheek. “Doeshn’t hurt.”

  “Whoa, that’s great!” I said. “Can I try?” I picked up a stick from the ground and poked him in the cheek.

  “Noshing,” he said. Then he grabbed a bigger stick and smacked himself in the face.

  “Nothing?” I asked.

  “Noshing at all,” Graham replied, with that same crazy smile and slurred voice.

  “Hey, try this,” I said, picking up a rock. “Press this on your face. Let’s see if it will make a design.” I pressed it hard against his cheek for about twenty seconds. “It worked!” I yelled. “Go look in the mirror.”

  After looking in the mirror, we
searched for other things to press into his face. We tried a quarter, a bottle cap, a plastic army man, and the bottom of a boot. While he was pressing the boot on his cheek, his eyes got all watery. He dropped the boot, walked into the bathroom, and closed the door.

  “YEEEEOOWWW!!!” he yelled. I could hear him jumping around in the bathroom.

  “Graham, are you all right?” I called to him.

  Slowly, he opened the door. He had all sorts of imprints and cuts on his face. The numbness must have been wearing off, because he was holding his face in pain. I could definitely tell that he was not smiling anymore.

  This really did end up being the day that Graham broke manly rule number one. But I wasn’t going to call him a baby. I gave him a pat on the shoulder and told him he had better get some rest. Then I walked out the door, picked up my bike, and rode home.

  12

  Howdy, Pardner

  FOR THE NEXT two weeks, we practiced every single day for our big hoedown. On Thursday, the day before our performance, Mrs. Gibson reminded us to wear Western clothes. She told us to look for bandanas to tie around our necks, and if any of us had cowboy boots, we could wear them also. Brad Shaw was the only person I knew who wore cowboy boots.

  After school, Graham and I played basketball all afternoon. As we played, we talked about the dance. Graham still had hopes that somehow he would end up dancing with Kelly. I didn’t say anything, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  We kept playing until Graham had to go in and eat dinner. I picked up my backpack and ran home to do the same. When I got there, on my bed was a great red bandana, a new Western shirt, and, best of all, a real cowboy hat. I put on the hat and ran into the kitchen, where my mom was making one of my favorite dinners . . . spaghetti and meatballs.