by John J. Bonk
Oh, no. This is all I need right now.
LMNOP darted across Chugwater and ran to catch up with me, annoyingly cheerful as always.
“Great, we’re both going in the same direction,” she said, flashing her metal-mouth smile. “You’re headed home, right? So now’s the perfect time to talk, right?”
“Not really.”
“Just so you know, I put up five posters already,” she said, sliding her glasses up her nose. “One in the minimart at the gas station; one on the telephone booth at Cedar and Cubberly Place; one in Sow’s Ear Antiques -”
“Okay, I get the picture!” I snapped.
I shifted gears into a power walk, but LMNOP had no problem keeping up with me. A clanking came from her backpack. It was probably jars filled with worm guts or something. I didn’t want to know.
“I just bought some masking tape to put the posters up with,” she said, “but you don’t have to pay me back or anything. Oh, yeah! I put one in Finkelstein & Sons Hardware. That’s four, right?”
“If you say so.”
“Oh! And one in the Jukebox Café.”
“Not now!” I yelled.
Some people aren’t good at getting subtle signals, such as dirty looks and sharp answers. You have to whack them over the head with a two-by-four to get your point across. And even then -
“I hate to be a pain,” she went on, “but my mom wants her plastic container back.” And on and on and on. “Remember, the one that the brownies were in? It’s part of a set.”
“Uh-uh,” I said, practically jogging.
“Hey, you’ll never guess who I saw hanging out with Jeremy Jason Wilder at the Hinkleyville Mall,” LMNOP said, panting and clanking beside me. “Guess! Guess who was hanging out with -”
“Aaargh!” I stopped short and slapped my hands over my ears, dropping the posters.
“What’s wrong?” she squeaked.
“Stop it, Ellen!”
“Stop what?” Her eyes were darting back and forth.
A little voice in my head pleaded with me, Don’t do it! Just keep walking. But my real voice drowned it out.
“Stop this! Stop stalking me, stop annoying me, stop trying to be my friend, okay?”
I’d never seen two eyes flood so fast. A fat tear streaked down her cheek I should’ve ended it there, but I let my volcano erupt.
“You’re not my friend, you’re just my next-door neighbor. I saved your diseased cat once, about a million years ago, and I’m sorry I did, ‘cause ever since then you won’t stop bugging me! You’re nothing but a monumental pain!”
I didn’t know where all that came from. When the smoke in my head cleared, I saw LMNOP racing down the block. Not my fault. That kid doesn’t know when to let up! But by the time I got home, I didn’t like myself very much. I wished I could’ve taken everything back. I mean, if anybody knew all about the pain of rejection, it was yours truly.
For a second I thought I’d walked into the wrong house, ‘cause ours was never so dark and quiet. Right house, just nobody home. I lumbered up the stairs and sat cross-legged on the living-room floor, chewing on a piece of dead thumbnail skin. I’m pond scum. I didn’t even thank her for buying the masking tape. I ripped off a strip of skin with my teeth. It stung. Bled a little.
The phone rang and I jumped. Naturally, it was some girl calling for Gordy. Rebecca something-or-other. She didn’t sound too gross. There was never any paper around, so I had to dig my spiral notebook out of my backpack to write down her info. Scrawled across the opposite page was Dad’s cellphone number - the one Aunt Olive had written down.
I knew I was going to call that number sooner or later. But later always seemed like the better choice. Now is the perfect time. You’re Dustin the Brave, right? And if you get too freaked out when you hear his voice, you can always just hang up.
I ran to the window and back to make sure the coast was clear, limbering up my lips with a few rounds of “Unique New York.” I picked up the phone and dialed. A woman’s voice came through.
“Please press one or wait for the tone if you would like to leave a voice message for -”
“- Teddy Grubbs.”
I hung up. (Dustin the Dweeb.) That was Dad’s actual voice saying his own name. My heart was rattling something awful. I should probably think about what I’m going to say first. Should I shoot for a casual/friendly message? “Hi, it’s me, Dustin. Just calling to shoot the breeze.” Urgent/formal? “This is your youngest son, Dustin Grubbs. I need to speak to you ASAP!” Happy/curious? Bitter/direct?
Too many choices. Just wing it!
I took a gigantic breath and redialed.
“Hello, it’s Dustin… Grubbs,” I said after the message, the choices, and the beep. “Uh, Aunt Olive gave me your number, so I thought I’d try to call and say hi. I hope that’s okay. So I guess that’s it. Just hi. Okay, bye.”
That two-second call probably took ten years off my life.
At school the next day, Wally acted as if I had the bubonic plague. But I wasn’t going to cave and make the first move again, no matter what. I had my pride. I’d have my jaw wired shut if I had to. But he caught me off guard when he showed up for play rehearsal.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
I didn’t expect an answer, and I didn’t get one. Later on I overheard part of his explanation to Cynthia Zimmerman. Something about “my parents made me,” “finishing what I started,” and “just steering clear of that selfish jerk.”
“Before we get to the blocking, kiddles,” Miss Van Rye said, “I’d like everyone to choose the animal that most reminds you of the character you’re portraying. This is a fabulous exercise for making your characters really come alive.”
I picked a chimpanzee, ‘cause Jingle Jangles was always bouncing off the walls. I really got into it. By the time Miss Van Rye shouted, “Scene!” I found myself attempting to swing from the curtain ropes. I caught Wally laughing, but as soon as he saw me looking he stopped.
After rehearsal I was waiting for Pepper to get some junk from the girls’ locker room so I could help her carry it home. I think she was cleaning out her gym locker or something. That’s when Jeremy snuck up on me from behind.
“Dusty, my man,” he said. “Awesome monkey, banana-breath!”
“Your snake was good too.”
Okay, why is he being so friendly all of a sudden?
“You are totally insane!” he said, throwing his arm around my shoulder.
I think he meant that in a good way.
“Bye, guys,” Cynthia said on her way out. “Dustin, you’re gonna steal the show!”
“Thanks. Hey, did you ever do acting exercises like these before?” I asked Jeremy. I hated to admit it to myself, but I wanted our conversation to keep going. He was being pretty decent to me during rehearsals, which was more than I could say for the Walrus. Oh, Jeremy was moody and snobby for sure, but I chalked that up to living in Hollywood his whole life and then being dragged out to Buttermilk Falls.
“No way,” he said. “We were lucky if we had our lines memorized. You’re always racing against time on a sitcom.”
“Wow,” I said. “Pressure.”
Wally rushed by and gave us a dirty look. He slammed the door so hard when he left that the windowpanes rattled.
“What’s his problem?” Jeremy said, loading his black and brown suede backpack, which matched his jacket perfectly. (I didn’t point it out, but the price tag was still on his sleeve.) “Just between you and me,” he said, “I think this stuff Van Rye’s putting us through is a bunch of bull hockey.”
“So why are you even doing the play?” I said. “Did Futterman promise to graduate you a year early or something?”
“I’ve got my reasons,” Jeremy said. “Trust me.”
We pushed open the big metal door that led outside to the top of the stone steps. It was still light enough that we had to squint after coming out of the dark auditorium.
“Don’t you miss it?” I
asked.
“What?”
“Being on television?”
“I guess. But my series lasted for four straight years,” Jeremy said. “Been there, done that. I’m aiming for the big screen, baby!”
“I hear ya. So why Buttermilk Falls?”
“Good question. Ask my parents.”
I heard music. It turned out to be Jeremy’s cell phone/camera/minicomputer. I swear it actually played the first six notes of “Hooray for Hollywood” instead of ringing.
“Talk to me,” he said instead of hello. “Yeah, just now. Lame. I’ll tell you later. Where are you? Tammy’s House of what? You’re cutting out. Well, how long? Five minutes? Okay, bye. On the Spruce Street side. Yeah, bye.”
He flipped the phoneamajig closed and slid it into his jacket pocket.
“Evelyn’ll be here any minute,” he said. “Can we give you a lift?”
“Oh, that’s okay. I’m waiting for Pepper.” I peeked through the window in the door. “I don’t know why it’s taking so long to clean out a gym locker.”
“Whatever.”
“Maybe the fumes from her gym clothes knocked her out cold,” I said. “Nah, the stink factor is definitely a lot lower with girls.”
“Funny,” Jeremy said without smiling. “So how’d you get to be so hilarious?”
“It’s probably genetic. My dad -” I stopped myself. I don’t want to get into the whole Dad thing. “Well, you’ve met my family I probably have monkey blood in me.” I pulled my ears out and gave him my best “ooh-ooh aah-aah eeeee!”
“You’re hysterical,” Jeremy said, snorting. “You’re like Dustin Grubbs, One-Man Show!”
The day before, Jeremy would barely look at me, and now he was shooting off compliments and offering me rides home. In real life he was a lot like the Double Take twins he played on TV. One day, nasty like Buddy Bickford; the next day, friendly like Bailey Bickford. Typecasting.
“Do the whole monkey thing again, Dusty. That cracked me up.”
“I’m all monkeyed out.”
“Oh, come on. Do it!”
“You do it,” I said.
I couldn’t believe it. Jeremy launched into a bad imitation of me imitating a monkey. Armpit-scratching, the whole nine yards.
“Funny!” I said, ‘cause how could I not?
He stopped suddenly when Travis Buttrick came tearing down the street on his mountain bike.
“Real cool, Jer,” Travis yelled. He slowed down long enough to spit a giant loogie onto the curb. “See what happens when you hang out with retards?”
We both ignored him and Travis pedaled off, popping a wheelie. Jeremy took a pair of chrome sunglasses out of his pocket, cleaned them on his shirttail, and slid them on.
“You look like you’re having a blast playing the Jester,” he said quietly. “Not that the Prince isn’t a juicy role - it’s probably the most well written in the whole play.”
“You think?” I said.
Jeremy leaned up against the wall like he was doing it a favor.
“Think about it. This dude comes on the scene looking good, talking pretty, right? And then bam!” He punched the palm of his hand, and I flinched. “He turns out to be the bad guy.”
“Hmm, I guess you’re right,” I said.
“Not much of a stretch for me, though,” he said, running his fingers through his hair in one smooth movie-star move. “Sometimes an actor needs a little challenge.”
A car pulled up in front of the school and honked.
“Here she is.” Jeremy grabbed his backpack and hopped down a few steps. “Uh, this is a rental. Our Porsche is being detailed.”
“Hey, I wouldn’t know a Porsche from a porch.”
“Funny man,” he said. “Are you sure we can’t drop you? Come on. To heck with Pepper.”
“No, she’ll pound me.”
“Okay, then. Later.”
Jeremy glided down the steps and slipped into the passenger seat of the car.
“The play is gonna get a lot of attention, thanks to me,” he said, poking his head out of the window. “You’ll see. Ciao!”
The window rolled up and the car sped off, leaving a trail of black smoke down Spruce Street. I watched the car get smaller and smaller until the covered bridge on Claremont swallowed it up.
I sat on the top step, thinking about what Jeremy’d said. It had never occurred to me before that the role of the Prince was all that hot. Am I missing something? I took out my script and flipped through it. I can see his point. The Prince is a cool part. But when I put it to the ultimate test, it failed. Prince Krispen has exactly thirty-six lines - not even close to the Jester’s whopping ninety-seven.
“What gives?” Pepper said. She was standing in the doorway, holding two full plastic garbage bags. “I thought you left without me.”
“I was talking to Jeremy,” I said.
“Ugh! What did he want?”
“Nothing much. You know, he can be really nice when he wants to. He even offered me a ride. Didn’t want to take no for an answer.”
“Well, obviously he did.”
“Did what?”
“Take no for an answer,” Pepper said.
“What have you got in those things?” I said. “You’re like Mrs. Sternhagen with her shopping bags.”
“Best behavior, Mr. Grubbs!” she said, dropping one of the bags next to me. “Coach Mockler was dumping out a bunch of old equipment - knee pads, grungy softballs. I figured my stepdad could sell ‘em in the yard sale he’s having. You can carry the smaller bag.”
“You’re too kind,” I said.
I unzipped my backpack to put my script away and a piece of paper fell out. I picked it up and unfolded it. It wasn’t my math quiz, as I’d thought. It was from the Tattletaler, one of those tabloid newspapers they sell at grocery-store checkouts.
“What’s that?” Pepper said.
“Dunno,” I said. DOUBLE TAKE STAR IS DOUBLE TROUBLE! the headline read. “I think it’s an article about Jeremy!”
“Read it!”
I began speed-reading the two-page article out loud while we lugged the lumpy bags up Spruce Street.
After months of putting up with Jeremy Jason Wilder’s tantrums on the set of his sitcom, producers threatened to pull the plug on next year’s season. “He’s gone through six tutors since the show began three years ago,” Jonathan Michaels, the show’s executive producer, told us. “And we’ve just lost the seventh. We’re bending over backward to meet Jeremy’s demands, but enough is enough!” When asked to respond to these harsh accusations, representatives for the twelve-year-old Wilder had no comment.
“That doesn’t sound like the Jeremy we know,” Pepper said.
“You’re right,” I said. “The Jeremy we know told us he was eleven.”
“No, I mean he’s kind of stuck up and quiet.”
“Wait! This newspaper is a year old, so now he must be around thirteen!”
“Weird,” Pepper said. “Then why is he still in sixth grade? Keep reading!”
The sitcom star’s mother, Evelyn Wilder, a former child actress herself, broke down in tears when she spoke about Jeremy. “He’s really a good kid, but he’s going through a lot right now, at home and at the studio. People just don’t understand all the pressure he’s under.”
“Then there’s more about infantile behavior… violating his contract… lawsuit pending….”
“Jeez, if all this is true,” Pepper said, flicking the paper, “how come we didn’t hear about it on Show-Biz Beat?”
“I remember hearing some stuff. Nothing this bad, though.”
The picture of Jeremy they’d printed with the article showed his mouth wide open and his fists in the air. You can’t trust the tabloids. It looks like a still shot from the Double Take episode when he sat on a hornet’s nest.
“You know what the real mystery is?” I said, catching my breath.
“What?”
“How did this get into my script? Somebody must
’ve snuck it in when I wasn’t looking. But who?”
“Let’s take a breather,” Pepper said, dropping her bag and plopping down on the bench in front of Finkelstein & Sons Hardware. “Not that I need one.”
I dropped my bag too and collapsed onto the bench next to her. Pepper folded her hands on top of her head, as if she were giving careful thought to my question.
“Well, it had to be someone in the play, right?” she said. “Maybe Darlene - she’s always sticking her nose into everybody else’s business.”
“This whole thing reeks of Wally, if you ask me.”
“Makes sense.”
We both propped our feet up on the garbage bags and sat there thumbing through the rest of the tabloid pages.
“Hey, Pep,” I said, snickering, “I guess if we believe this stuff about Jeremy, then we have to buy the story on the other side of it too.”
“What’s it say?”
“‘Two-Headed Man Runs for Mayor… against Himself!’”
Chapter 16
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?
If real life were a sitcom, mine would sound something like this:
DUSTIN. Hey, if anybody cares, I’m home!
GORDY. Nobody cares.
[Canned laughter]
MOM. Dustin, you’re late.
GORDY. Yeah, dork.
DUSTIN. Juvenile delinquent! I waited around to help Pepper carry some junk home, Mom.
GORDY. That’s about the best you can do. A girl who thinks she’s a boy.
DUSTIN. Jealous! Better than hanging with pizza-face Edith, playing with her barbed-wire collection.
[Canned laughter]
[Gordy gets Dustin in a headlock.]
GORDY. Take it back!
DUSTIN. Eeeoow, you have diarrhea breath! Mom, help! MOM. Gordon, let go of your brother-now! This isn’t the zoo.
GORDY. He belongs in a zoo.
DUSTIN. Oh, good one, brainiac. What would we do without Gordy’s sense of humor? Gordy, what do you do without it?
[Canned laughter]
GORDY. Same thing you’re gonna do without your face when I rip it off.
DUSTIN. That doesn’t even make sense.
[Canned laughter]
MOM. Come on, guys, I don’t have time for this. Company’s coming! [Looking up to the heavens] Why did I have to have boys?