by John J. Bonk
Cynthia droned on with her boring narration; the lords and ladies did their circle dance, which looked more like medieval bumper cars. I couldn’t wait until my next scene so I could liven things up.
Enter the Prince to a fanfare of - crickets? Leonard is so dead! Felix Plunket really looked the part: tall, skinny, blond hair, blue eyes. He hit his mark center stage and stood tall, with his hands planted firmly on his hips.
“Welcome to Galico!” I said, cartwheeling onto the stage. “Lengthy journey, my lord? If you don’t mind my saying so, Your Majesty looks a tad weary. And your fine robes smell -well, like the insides of a sick goat.”
That got a laugh. Jeremy, did you catch that?
“I’m afraid I’m the bearer of some unfortunate news for Your Princeliness. Let me see, how can I put this delicately?” I said, scratching my hat. “You’re late!”
I sang my little song, dancing a lively jig around Felix.
The festival is ending now,
The mead is drunk; we ate the cow,
It seems your trip was made in vain,
So, on your horse and back again!
Felix stood taller, looking even more princely, and stared into the audience.
Jeez, he’s really milking it.
“So, on your horse and back again!” I repeated.
Nothing. He wasn’t acting - he was panicking! I tried to feed him his line without moving my lips.
“Be. Gone. You. Oaf.”
“B-b-b-buh…”
His stutter kicked in, and a sweat ball dripped off the tip of his nose. Now I was panicking!
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said, wiggling my fingers in his face. “’Be gone, you oaf! Or you’ll squash me like a caterpillar!’”
“Young fool, away!” Wally shouted, stomping onto the stage. “That is not the proper way to greet a prince.”
Saved by the Walrus. He had on a red tunic with brown spots. His mom must’ve reworked his pepperoni-pizza costume from last Halloween.
“A thousand pardons, Your Highness,” I said, “but I -”
“Hold your tongue, Dustin!”
“What?”
“I meant, Jingle Jangles.”
Wally started cracking up. I socked him in one of the pepperonis.
“Oww! What’d you do that for?”
“And ten-times-a-thousand pardons to you, Prince Kris-pen,” I said to Felix, who was starting to wobble. Some Prince.
“The Jester’s son is high spirited but surely meant no harm,” Wally said, strolling downstage. “Your visit to my kingdom is most welcome indeed.”
As if things weren’t going badly enough, I noticed that the back of Wally’s tunic was tucked into the elastic band of his tights. And his dinosaur underpants were showing through!
“Allow me to reveal our most magnificent sights!” he said, bowing low to Felix.
The audience roared.
I said my next line staring at the floor so I wouldn’t lose it. When I looked up, Wally was gone. Right in the middle of the scene!
Now it was just me and the petrified Prince again - and a packed house, with Jeremy sitting out there, laughing with the rest of them, and not in a good way. After a pause you could drive a truck through, someone from the audience started tossing pennies at us. I wanted to exit stage left and just keep running. But I decided to wing it.
“Since Your Highness insists, I shall summon the Princess at once! Princess Precious!” I shouted, running upstage. “You have company. Wherefore art thou, Princess? Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
The backdrop rippled.
“I’m coming!” Pepper shouted. “Hold your horses!”
I heard running footsteps, then rip! - Pepper came busting through the middle of the paper drawbridge, leaving a giant hole just like in the Road Runner cartoons.
“Gentle Princess,” I said, clutching her arm, “I’m sorry to have awakened you from your royal nap.”
“Huh?” she said with her eyes closed. “Is that in the script?”
Before I could get another word out, there was a loud crack! I looked at Felix to see if he’d broken in half, but he was still rock solid. Pepper must’ve knocked a wooden support loose.
Leonard hollered, “Heads up!” A scream came from stage right. I looked up and saw the tall flat with the tower painted on it toppling over.
I grabbed Pepper with one hand, Felix with the other, and ran across the stage, shouting, “Twister! Run for your royal lives!”
Trumpets blared, horses whinnied, crickets chirped, babies cried. And the audience howled.
The collapsing flat took another one with it, barely missing us. I pushed Pepper out of the way but slammed into the flagpole stage right. It knocked the giant speaker off the wall, and then boom! - the speaker smashed through the top of the baby-grand piano. The tremendous sound of piano strings vibrating shook the auditorium. Shook my bones.
“Curtain!” I cried. “Pull the curtain!” But Leonard was gone. I threw myself onto the ropes and yanked with all my might.
“Wait!” Wally said, zooming toward the stage. “Just two seconds!”
I wasn’t waiting for anything. I just kept pulling. But I couldn’t pull fast enough to hide what was happening center stage: Wally was standing on a pile of rubble, bowing. He was wearing costume number four (a zebra-print rug?). One final tug and the curtains were closed.
It was over.
Backstage was a disaster area. Four girls were crying, Felix was kicking the wall, and Pepper was screaming at Darlene.
“This is all your fault! The hot lights melted that eyelash adhesive. I told you not to use so much!”
“I didn’t use any at all!” Darlene snapped. “I ran out, so I used rubber cement.”
Miss Honeywell appeared, looking crazed.
“Is everyone all right?”
“Yeah,” Darlene said.
“Speak for yourself!” Pepper hollered.
“Pepper, darlin’, your eyes are all swollen!” Miss Honeywell said. “Darlene, please accompany her to the nurse’s office. Everyone else, collect your belongings and proceed back to the classroom immediately.”
The backstage door slammed.
“When I get my hands on - that was the biggest fiasco I have ever -”
It was Principal Futterman, too hot to finish a sentence.
“Now take it easy, Dan,” Miss Honeywell said. “The good news is, no one got seriously hurt.”
Futterman went ballistic, but I tuned out the yelling - just like when Mom and Dad were at each other’s throats. I started going around collecting all the loose change that the mean kids had thrown on the stage.
Too bad Jeremy Jason Wilder had to sit through that disaster. I’ll bet any money he switches to homeschooling after this. Hmm, eight cents and one Canadian nickel.
It’s funny, this was my first paid performance, in a way. My first professional gig. That’s Dad’s word -gig.
“- and someone is going to be held accountable!”
The door slammed again, and when I turned around everyone was gone - except for Wally, who was sucking the cream out of a Twinkie.
“We should get back to class,” he said. “The play went well, don’t ya think?”
“What?”
“Well, the audience liked it.”
“I can’t believe you!” I buried my head in my hands.
“Why?” he said. “Oh. Sorry. Did you want a bite?”
Chapter 8
As Good as It Gets
“Everybody up!” Mom said, ripping my covers off. I didn’t budge. “Come on, sleepyhead, you’re going to be late for school.”
“No, I’m not,” I mumbled into my pillow, “’cause I’m not going.”
“But you love school. And it’s Friday - no phys ed. Just one more day till the weekend.” She tickled the bottoms of my feet. It didn’t work.
“Mommm!” I croaked. “Stop it.”
“Okay, now you’re going to make me late for
work. You’re not sick, are you?”
“Yes. No. Maybe. It depends on how you define sick.”
“Come on, Dustin, I don’t have time for this. If you’re sick, I’m taking you to the doctor; if you’re not sick, you’re going to school. Pick one.”
Tough choice, but school won out. Luckily, having a real, live TV star inches away from us in class seemed to wipe the play out of everyone’s memories. Jeremy Jason Wilder looked just as he did on TV - same blue-black hair and dark eyes, maybe a little taller, and definitely thinner. I guess the camera really does add ten pounds. At lunchtime I expected a stretch limo to arrive and whisk him away, but he sat all by himself in the cafeteria, pretending to be a normal kid. No bodyguard. No bottled water. Not even dark sunglasses.
Pepper was wearing her sunglasses, though, ‘cause she still had raccoon eyes from the rubber-cement incident. She was sitting with me and the Walrus, one table away from Jeremy. We were all playing it ultracool. But trying to ignore Jeremy was like trying to ignore a polka-dotted hippopotamus twirling fire batons. Wally decided to use his spoon as a mirror to follow his every move. Nobody dared cross the line and actually speak to Jeremy, though - that is, until Darlene came clomping in, wearing high heels and makeup.
“Hi, I’m Darlene,” she said, dropping her tray down on Jeremy’s table. “You’re in my class.”
“Jeremy.”
“I know. I mean, who doesn’t? I mean, it’s nice to meet you.” She was batting her eyelashes so fast you’d think she was trying to keep her eyeballs from falling out. “Mind if I sit?”
Darlene pulled up a chair without waiting for an answer.
“Well, if motormouth could talk to him, we could too,” Wally said. “Come on!”
He and Pepper grabbed their trays, turned their chairs around, and scooted in next to Darlene. I stayed put and pretended to be absorbed in New Horizons in Environmental Science, Level D. But I tuned in to every little sound and move that was happening at the next table.
“Hey, Jeremy!” Wally said. “Double Take is my favorite show! Well, was my favorite show. I’ve seen every episode at least three times.”
“Introduce yourself, ignoramus,” Darlene said.
“Oh, sorry. Wallace P. Dorkin. This here’s Pepper.”
“Howdy,” she said, peeking over her shades.
“Hi,” Jeremy said.
“You must be, like, a millionaire, right? Do you have your own private jet?” Wally asked, shoveling coleslaw into his mouth. “Do you get to fly it?”
“You’re not supposed to ask money questions,” Darlene said, punching Wally’s arm. “What’s wrong with you?”
“No planes, no yachts, no race cars - yet,” Jeremy said. “A lot of my money’s tied up in some special account, and I don’t get to see it until I’m, like, eighteen.”
“Bummer!” Wally said, pounding the table so hard the trays rattled.
A hysterical third-grader wearing nothing but pink ran up to their table. “Omigod! Do you know who you are?” she gushed. “I love you, Jeremy. No, you don’t understand. I really looove you!” She dug a marker out of her pencil case and handed it to him. “Sign my arm, pleeeze? I swear I’ll never wash it off.”
As soon as he signed her arm, she screamed bloody murder and four of her friends stormed Jeremy, holding out assorted body parts for him to autograph.
“Okay, that’s it!” Darlene barked. “This table is for sixth-graders only. So just move along quickly and nobody gets hurt.”
“That’s something I’ll never get used to,” Jeremy said, watching the squealing girls run back to their table. “Just imagine walking into a room and total strangers are falling all over themselves just ‘cause you’re you.”
“I can relate,” Darlene said, propping her head on her hand.
“So, tell me, Jer,” Pepper said, “why would anyone in their right mind move from Hollywood to Buttermilk Falls?”
“Were you friends with any big-time movie stars out there?” Wally asked.
“One question at a time,” Darlene said.
Jeremy emptied the last of his trail mix into his mouth and crumpled the bag. Darlene’s hand snuck over and grabbed it. She was probably planning to auction it off on the Internet.
“After my series ended,” Jeremy said, “the parental units decided we needed to get away from all the craziness of Tinseltown. That’s why we moved here. They want me to have a little taste of normal.”
Pepper was in sunglasses, chewing on her calluses, Darlene was dressed like someone’s mother, and Wally was licking the sandwich he’d made out of fish sticks and potato chips. If Jeremy was looking for normal, he’d come to the wrong place.
“So, what street do you live on?” Wally asked.
“Come on, man, I can’t tell you that,” Jeremy said, brushing his hair back. “It’s just outside of Butterfat Falls, okay?”
“Hey, Dustin!” Pepper said, throwing a cherry tomato at me. “Are you antisocial? Get over here already.”
I choked on my chocolate milk. Part of me wanted to meet Jeremy face to face more than anything, and part of me - the bigger part - wanted to bury my head in my mashed potatoes. With any luck maybe he won’t recognize me. I picked up my tray and took the long haul over to the next table.
“Here comes your biggest fan!” Wally said, all excited. “Jeremy, Dustin. Dustin, Jeremy. Dustin wants to be an actor too.”
Wally was officially dead meat.
“Hey,” I said, sliding into a chair.
“Hey,” he said back.
A giggle erupted from another gaggle of little girls, who were hovering next to Jeremy, staring holes through him.
“Jeez,” Darlene said. “Take a picture - it’ll last longer.”
One of them actually did.
“Darn paparazzi!” Darlene said.
Travis (wanna-see-a) Buttrick appeared out of nowhere, snatched the girl’s disposable camera, and held it high over his head.
“Give it back, jerk-o!” the girl yelled, reaching for it.
“Just say the word, Jeremy,” Travis said, ignoring her, “and I expose all her film.”
“No, don’t,” Jeremy said. “I don’t mind the pictures.”
“You sure?”
Jeremy nodded. Travis tossed the camera back to the girl, who was close to tears, and she and her friends disappeared.
“I’m Travis,” he said, extending his hand to Jeremy. They shook. I shuddered. “Anybody else give you any trouble, just let me know. I got your back, man.”
Travis swaggered away, surveying the lunchroom as if he were Jeremy’s official bodyguard.
“Don’t let him fool you. Travis is a dirtbag,” Darlene said, covering her leftover fish bits with napkins. “Now, what were we talking about before we were so rudely interrupted?”
“About how Dustin wants to be an actor too,” Pepper said. “So, you’re a pro, Jer. What’d you think of him in the play? I mean, before the set caved in and everything.”
I knew she meant well, but Pepper was dead meat too.
“You were good,” Jeremy said, looking me right in the face.
“Huh?”
“In that play. I thought you were good.”
“Oh.” My heart hiccuped. “Thanks.”
Sure, he was forced into an answer - but he didn’t say “you weren’t bad” or “you were pretty good.” He said “good”! A solid compliment. The Jeremy Jason Wilder, international celebrity, said I was good! And international celebrities must know what they’re talking about.
“If you have any questions about acting or anything,” Jeremy said, “just ask.”
Was he kidding? I had tons. It was funny, though - I couldn’t think of a single one. Still, I didn’t want the lunch hour to end. I wanted to kick back, chew on a pretzel rod, and talk shop with my good pal Jeremy.
All of a sudden, a steel vise clamped down on my left shoulder.
“Mr. Grubbs. Come see me in my office after school. We need to talk.”
Fee-Fi-Fo Futterman. His monster hand had probably left a permanent imprint.
The wooden bench outside the principal’s office was big and hard, built just to make people sweat. It was working. I zeroed in on the doorknob, waiting for it to turn, dreading walking into that room “where seldom was heard an encouraging word.” I had to snap out of it or I might spontaneously combust. Fortunately, I was an expert at getting my mind to switch topics at will.
I opened my spiral notebook, printed the word good, and turned the o’s into doughnuts. Then I began sketching banner designs for Granny Grubbs’s upcoming seventy-fifth birthday bash. I remembered what Mom had said about inviting only one guest each. “All of our relatives are coming, and we can’t afford to feed them plus the entire neighborhood.” I knew Wally was going to be my one guest, because he was my best friend and - well, it was always Wally. But I couldn’t help thinking how cool it’d be if I could invite Jeremy instead:
“So, who’d you invite to the party?” someone would ask.
“Oh, just a friend. Jeremy.”
“Jeremy who?”
“Jeremy Jason Wilder.”
“Not the TV star! You know him?”
“We hang out,” I’d say. “It’s no big deal.”
Plus, a celeb at the party might distract my distant relatives from bombarding Mom with snide remarks and dirty looks because of the divorce and everything. I mean, they’re all Dad’s blood relations, and Mom isn’t really a Grubbs anymore - only in name. But there’s no way I could ever invite Jeremy. And there’s no way he’d ever come. Not in a million years. Not in a kazillion-trillion -
“Come in, Mr. Grubbs.”
Futterman held the door open and ushered me into - Jock World. The walls were covered with banners and plaques, and the shelves were crammed with trophies for every sport known to man. A signed baseball in a Plexiglas box sat at the front of his desk, and next to it was a framed photo of Futterman with his arm around a tiny blond lady and two boys with basketball-size heads.
“Jeez,” I said. “You’ve won a ton of awards.”
“Well, I’ve lived a lot of years, and I love sports,” Futterman said. “Baseball especially. I was in the minors, you know. Probably could’ve made it into the major leagues, but I got a groin injury that ended my career.”