One Man Show

by John J. Bonk

  “Sorry,” I said, trying not to crack up at “groin injury.”

  “But that’s all ancient history.” He dropped his friendly tone. “We have some serious business to discuss. There’s the matter of the damaged piano in the auditorium, for starters,” he said, folding his arms. “We had it assessed, and the cost to repair it is astronomical. Certainly not in the school’s budget - especially with the damage control we’re doing after that grease fire in the cafeteria. Now, I know you weren’t directly responsible for the state of the piano, but since it was a result of your little play, I’m holding you and Miss Honeywell accountable. So far she hasn’t been able to offer any viable solutions - that means the ball is in your court.”

  Okay, I was going to have to communicate on his level if I was going to get through to this guy at all. I needed a game plan. Think locker room, Dustin. Think ESPN!

  “It was a total accident, sir. A real foul ball. And coming up with a bunch of money isn’t exactly going to be - a slam dunk.”

  For someone who used to think that a quarterback was change from a dollar, I was off to a pretty good start.

  Futterman looked peeved. “Well, you or your teacher will just have to think of a way to resolve this situation. That’s all there is to it.”

  The tap-tap-tap of his hairy fingers on the desk sounded like a ticking time bomb. Did he think I would come up with something on the spot?

  “In our defense, sir, we hardly had any time rehearsing on the set,” I finally said. “A rookie mistake. It won’t happen next time.”

  “Next time?” Futterman growled, lunging forward. “There’s not gonna be a next time!”

  “Why not?”

  “Why do you think? It was a disaster!” He pounded on his desk. “I’m just glad no one got seriously hurt. The last thing we need is a lawsuit.”

  Out of bounds! I’ll sell one of Gordy’s kidneys or get a job after school declaring cats to pay for the stupid piano. Anything it takes. But there has to be a next time!

  “We’re ready to step up to the plate now, sir. If you just give us another chance, I know we could really - uh, knock it out of the park.”

  “You had your chance.”

  He swings, he misses.

  “Oh, and another thing,” Futterman said, narrowing his demon eyes.

  Now what? I needed a time-out. A seventh-inning stretch.

  “That graffiti in the bathroom stall. The cartoon of me in red ink, looking like Frankenstein - I know you did it.”

  Whoa! That one came out of left field.

  “Don’t even try to deny it, Grubbs. You were caught red-handed. Literally.”

  “You’re way off base, sir. The graffiti was already there. I was using my red pen to pry open the lock. I fumbled, and it broke.”

  “Uh-huh. Not to mention lying to me about smoking. You came out of that stall waving a cigar around.”

  “That was bubblegum! It was purple!”

  “Save it, Grubbs,” Futterman said, shooting up from his desk. “You’re lucky I don’t suspend you.”

  “Kill the ump,” I mumbled to myself.

  “I’ll let the other stuff slide, but as far as the piano is concerned, I’m not letting you out of the dugout. You get me?” He held the door open, waiting for me to leave. “You’d better come up with something - and soon!”

  Stee-rike three! And you are outta there!

  I walked into the hall and did an actual double take. Jeremy Jason Wilder was sitting on the bench, fidgeting. He couldn’t have been in trouble already; there were probably some new-kid forms he had to fill out. Or maybe Futterman wanted his autograph.

  “I’ll be right with you, Mr. Wilder,” Futterman said, and closed his door.

  “I heard yelling,” Jeremy said.

  “Yeah. Don’t ask.”

  “So what’s he like?”

  “Godzilla on steroids.”

  Jeremy laughed at that. I was going to just say “see ya” and head home, but something told me to stick around. The blue striped cap that was sitting on his jacket next to him looked familiar.

  “Hey, I know that cap,” I said.

  “You a Yankees fan, Justin?”

  “Dustin,” I said. “A die-hard fan.”

  “Really?”

  “No! I’m kidding,” I said, snorting. He should only know how much. “Just a huge fan of Double Take. Didn’t you wear a cap just like that on the show, when you were Buddy?”

  “Yeah, this is it,” Jeremy said. He spun the cap on his finger and let it fly off in my direction. “Catch!”

  Naturally I missed and had to pick it up off the floor. I’d never laid my hands on real Hollywood memorabilia before.

  “Keep it,” he said. “It’s yours.”

  “No way! For real?”

  “Why not? I have, like, five of them. I walked off with a bunch of cool stuff from the show. Wasn’t really supposed to, but, hey - let ‘em sue me, right?”

  “Right. Thanks!”

  I put the cap on - backward, like Buddy used to wear it. I got such a rush, I think I was vibrating.

  Futterman poked his head out the door. “Phone call. Just give me five more minutes, okay?” He gave me a strange look before pulling the door shut.

  Good. More time for me. After all, it’s not every day you hit it off with a TV star. It’s not every day a TV star showers you with compliments and presents. Ask him, I told myself. What have you got to lose?

  “So, Jeremy, wanna come to a party?” I blurted out. I was Dustin the Brave. “Just a family thing, but there’ll be tons of great food.”

  “When?”

  “The Saturday after spring break. That’s, like, in two weeks.”

  He looked as if he was actually considering it. I rule! I did feel a tiny twinge of guilt, though, since I’d already invited Wally. But he never officially RSVP’d about coming, and he kept whining about having to bring a gift. Hey, when it’s someone’s birthday, you bring a gift. Get over it It’d serve him right if Jeremy said yes.

  “Maybe,” Jeremy said. “I know it’d make Evelyn happy.”

  “Really? Who’s Evelyn?”

  “My mom,” Jeremy said. “She wants me to try to fit in around here, make new friends and stuff. I’ll let you know on Monday, okay?”

  He shoots - he scores!

  Chapter 9

  You Can Have Your Cake arid Edith Too!

  The smell of garlic and spaghetti sauce seeped through my bedroom floor and right into my nose. I woke up blinded by the bill of my new Yankees cap, with one cheek covered in drool. I must’ve been dreaming about Aunt Olive’s meatballs. I squinted at the clock. Seven fifty-eight a.m. The troops had probably been up since dawn, cooking for Granny Grubbs’s surprise seventy-fifth birthday bash.

  Actually, Mom had decided that the “surprise” part of it wouldn’t be such a hot idea. “All she needs at her age is a roomful of relatives she hasn’t seen in ten years jumping out from behind the furniture and yelling, ‘Surprise!’” It was now officially just Granny Grubbs’s seventy-fifth birthday bash. I was sprawled out in the hallway painting the new title on a banner when the phone rang.

  “Hi, it’s me.” It was Wally. “I finally came up with a present for your grandma’s party. My ma has this shawl she bought in Mexico when she and my dad went on that cruise. Never been worn - it’s like brand new. So, what time should I get there tonight?”

  Gulp! Jeremy had accepted my invitation almost two weeks before. He was totally cool and had even told me he was “looking forward to the big event” before he disappeared for spring break. Wally hadn’t mentioned the party at all since I first brought it up, so I was hoping he’d forgotten all about it. Guess not.

  “Hello?” he said.

  Just lie, I told myself. Make it quick and painless.

  “Change of plans, Wal. Party’s canceled. Granny’s sick.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” he said. “So, wanna take a bus to the mall or something instead?”

  “Nah
. I’ll probably just stay in tonight.”

  Okay, quick, but not so painless. Lying to your best friend was on par with kicking puppies. I was sure it’d come back to “bite me on the butt” someday, as Granny says. But a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.

  Twelve hours later my colorful banner was hanging over the dining-room table downstairs, which was covered in goodies. I had thought we were on a tight budget, but to me it looked like enough food for a sumo-wrestling convention. A roasted turkey was hiding the stain on the fancy lace tablecloth, and surrounding it was a tray of lasagna with meatballs, both potato and macaroni salad, plus three different kinds of cheese - and that was just “the tip of the iceberg lettuce,” as Aunt Birdie says. Aunt Olive’s masterpiece was hidden on the top shelf in the pantry: a triple-decker chocolate fudge cake with raspberry filling and sprinkles.

  Second cousins, great-aunts, and great-uncles arrived one after another, piling their jackets on Aunt Birdie’s bed. Mom’s boss from the Donut Hole showed up with two boxes of assorted. “Mr. Ortega - Barry - is my guest,” Mom announced to the family. I wondered if guest meant date. I could tell from the suspicious looks my aunts gave “Barry” that they were wondering the same thing.

  All anyone could talk about (besides “So, who is this Barry Ortega?”) was the big television star who was coming. Whenever the doorbell rang, everyone stared at the front door as if the President of the United States were about to walk in. It almost seemed that the party was for Jeremy Jason Wilder and not Granny Grubbs.

  “Is that TV boy here yet?” Granny kept asking me.

  “Any minute now.”

  Even she was excited about meeting a sitcom star face to face. I’d never seen Granny so dressed up in my life, and I don’t think it was for the sake of Great-Aunt Iris and her husband, Hoyt, from Sheboygan. Her white hair was braided and wound in a bun, like a snake coiled on top of her head. She had on her navy blue church dress - and lipstick! That was a first. Ah, the power of celebrity.

  “Maybe you should phone that TV boy’s house to see if he’s on his way,” Granny said. “I’m going to bed soon and I’d sure hate to miss him.”

  “Bed? But your party barely started!” I said. “There’s gonna be cake - and presents.”

  “I had that mole cluster on my neck removed last week. At my age that’s present enough.”

  “Granny!”

  “Well, I’m just saying.”

  I beelined it to Mom. She’d know what to do.

  “We’re going to have to do the cake right away,” she said, looking worried. “You know your gran - with that arthritis medicine she takes, she can conk out at any minute.”

  The doorbell rang. Nobody budged.

  “That door’s not gonna answer itself,” Granny said. “It’s the TV boy for sure.”

  I hurried to the front door and stood there with my hand on the doorknob. I couldn’t swallow. It felt as if one of Aunt Olive’s meatballs were lodged in my throat. I took a second to breathe, then opened the door.

  “Hi, Dustin Grubbs!”

  It was LMNOP.

  “Sorry to interrupt the festivities,” LMNOP said in her sloppy lisp, “but I wanted to stop by to wish your grandmother a happy birthday. And give her these.”

  She pried the lid off the plastic container she was holding. It was loaded with goopy brownies.

  “Is that him?” Granny asked. “Where did I put my glasses?”

  “No, Gran,” I said. “It’s just the kid from next door.”

  The whole room groaned and picked up their dropped conversations and plates.

  “He looks different in person,” Granny said, squinting out the door. “Kinda girly.”

  “This isn’t Jeremy,” I said. “This is a girl.”

  “I’m Ellen, remember? Happy birthday, Mrs. Grubbs,” LMNOP said, handing her the brownies. “My mom’s gonna need the container back. It’s part of a set.”

  “Well, thank you, sweetheart,” Granny said. She picked up the smallest brownie and inspected it closely. “These don’t have nuts in them, do they? I’ll croak.”

  “No, ma’am,” LMNOP said. “They’re nut free.” Granny popped the whole brownie into her mouth. “They’re chocolate free too. We used organic carob instead.”

  Granny made a face as if she’d just licked the bottom of a shoe. She spat the brownie into a napkin and handed it to me.

  “I don’t think that TV boy is coming,” she said, half yawning. “I’m going to bed.”

  “No, Gran, not yet!” I yelled.

  There was a knock at the door. I must’ve slammed it in LMNOP’s face without realizing it. She was a pain, but I thought I should at least offer her a cracker or something, so I opened the door.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  LMNOP was gone, and Jeremy was standing in her place. He showed!

  My great-aunt’s stepdaughter by her second marriage screamed, “It’s him!” and dropped a glass.

  “That’s what I thought too,” Granny said, “but it’s only the little girl from next door. Don’t eat her brownies.”

  “No, Gran, this is Jeremy,” I said. “Come on in!”

  As soon as he stepped through the doorway, it felt as if everything were going in slow motion, as if this couldn’t actually be happening. But there he was, in the flesh, standing in my house with his black leather pants and his shiny black hair.

  “Everybody, this is my friend Jeremy Jason Wilder.” My stomach jolted when I heard myself say that. “Jeremy, this is everybody.”

  He’d barely taken off his jacket before he was drowning in a clump of distant relatives.

  “Okay, clear the way,” Granny said, trotting toward Jeremy. “Don’t smother the child before the birthday girl gets a hug.”

  The lights went out.

  “Oh, good Lord,” Granny said. “It’s happened.”

  “What’s happened?” I asked.

  “I’ve gone completely blind!”

  “Happy birthday to you,” Aunt Olive warbled.

  Everyone gradually joined in the singing and switched attention from Jeremy to Mom, who paraded out of the kitchen carrying the cake. It had a pink 7 candle and a blue 5 candle glowing on top.

  Aunt Olive took the last “to yooou!” up an octave, drowning out everyone else with her wobbly soprano.

  “Give it a rest, Olive,” Granny said. “You’ll drive all the dogs out of the neighborhood.”

  Jeremy and I joined the guests gathering around the dining-room table, where Mom placed the cake. Granny hovered over it with her eyelids fluttering, as if she was having a hard time settling on a wish. For a split second the candlelight on her face made her look eighteen.

  “Don’t tell your wish, Ma,” Aunt Birdie said, “or it won’t come true.”

  “Oh, darn it anyway, Birdie! Now I forgot what I was wishing.”

  “It’s okay, Gran,” I said. “You’ll think of another one.”

  “I hate to squander the few good wishes I have left. I’m not long for this world, you know.”

  “Just blow them out already,” Aunt Birdie insisted.

  “Okay, on the count of three,” Mom said. “One…” - everyone joined in - “two… three!”

  Granny took another minute. Finally her cheeks puffed out as if she were hitting the high note in a trumpet solo. A gust of air exploded from her that made the Happy Birthday banner flutter and the candle wax splatter. Everyone applauded, and the lights came back on.

  Suddenly the cake didn’t look so irresistible: sitting in the middle of it, gleaming white against the chocolate frosting, were Granny’s false teeth.

  “Lost your uppers!” Aunt Birdie said, and snapped a picture.

  Granny snatched her teeth and sucked them back into her mouth, like if she did it fast enough, no one would even notice that they had flown out.

  Fat chance. The whole room was bent over in hysterics. I thought Jeremy would split his pants from laughing so hard. It wasn’t exactly the scene I was hoping
for, but at least he looked as if he was having a good time.

  Next thing I knew, Great-Aunt Iris asked Aunt Birdie to take a picture of her with Jeremy, and suddenly everyone wanted a picture taken with the big TV star. A line formed.

  “Watch the birdie!” Aunt Birdie said, snickering. She was changing positions like a fashion photographer, snapping away so fast, her camera was smoking. “Just strike a pose, say cheese, and keep on moving, people. Ooh, with that swanky red blouse he has on, these’ll make stunning Christmas cards!”

  I wouldn’t have blamed Jeremy if he’d done an about-face and headed for the hills. But he smiled through shot after shot. Finally I grabbed him and led him into the kitchen, where he could have a chance to catch his breath.

  “Your family sure is - friendly,” he said.

  “You mean crazy. You can say it. Sorry they ambushed you like that.”

  “No prob. I’m used to it,” he said, reaching into an open bag of potato chips on the kitchen counter.

  “You hungry?” I asked. “All the good food is in the other room, but we could eat it out on the back porch, where it’s safe.”

  He nodded, stuffing his face with chips.

  “Okay, I’ll go and get it,” I told him, heading into the dining room. “Grab us some Cokes from the fridge, and I’ll meet you out there.”

  I was counting on my aunts’ cooking to impress Jeremy, ‘cause nothing else was going to do the trick. So I piled a little bit of everything onto two paper plates, crammed some napkins into my pants pocket, put two forks in my shirt pocket, and hustled to meet him on the porch.

  “Nice breeze,” I said, kicking the screen door open. I glided down the stairs, careful not to spill anything, and sat next to Jeremy, who was on the bottom step. “It’s like a sauna in that kitchen. Not that I’ve ever been in one - a sauna, I mean, not a kitchen.” Okay, don’t say anything else dumb like that. I handed him the fuller, neater-looking plate, a napkin, and a fork. “You can have the drumstick if you want,” I told him, but he didn’t want. “Well, you have to try my aunt’s meatballs. You’ll die.”

  “If you say so.”