by John J. Bonk
“On an up note,” Callie said in a cheerier voice, “I hear that the school has dropped the charges for that whole box-office mishap. Now it seems your bad-boy image has turned out to be a real career booster.”
“Unreal, right? Yeah, I just signed on to play the son of a Mafia hit man in Francis Capelli’s fall movie project.”
“Quite a comeback! Before we go, is there anything you’d like to say to your friends back in Buttermilk Falls?”
“Nothing I can say on TV.”
“There must be somebody you’d like to give a shout-out to.”
“Well, there is one guy. We started out as pretty good friends, but things got screwed up in the end.”
“Okay,” Callie Sinclair said, “look right into that camera.”
The camera panned in on Jeremy.
“We should be taping this,” I said, leaning forward.
“Yo, Travis,” Jeremy said, making a weird hand signal. “Hang tough, dude.”
I grabbed the remote and clicked off the television.
“Well, wasn’t that a slap in the face?” Aunt Olive said, opening the Penny Pincher.
That’s just what it felt like. But what did I expect?
“Is it over already?” Granny asked, struggling to get off the couch. Aunt Birdie helped her, and they both headed toward the bathroom. “That boy on the TV looked familiar.”
“It figures,” LMNOP said to me. “I always knew they were in cahoots.”
Cahoots? I stared at her, blinking my way back in time.
“So, you left me that note. How’d you get into the boys’ locker room, anyway?”
“Easy. The janitor leaves the door wide open when he’s mopping up on Fridays.”
“And did you plant that tabloid article in my script too?”
“Guilty,” LMNOP said. “I kept seeing Travis and Jeremy hanging out together, and I knew they were up to no good. You were furious with me, so -”
“Sorry about that whole thing,” I mumbled. “I was mad about something else and took it out on you.”
It actually felt good to finally say the S-word. It’s kind of like trapped gas. You can live with it for so long, but then, when it finally belches its way free - relief!
“Oh, well,” LMNOP said, grinning. “Everything turned out okay.”
“All’s well that end’s well,” Aunt Olive said. “That’s Shakespeare, isn’t it?”
Mom came trotting into the room, carrying a covered dish, with Gordy right behind. At least, it was someone who looked like Gordy. He was wearing a navy blue blazer, a clean white shirt, and a tie. His hair was combed, his shoes were shined - and I think he was wearing cologne.
“Now, this is the Gordy that does me proud,” Mom said, setting her dish on the dining-room table. “I couldn’t let him leave without showing him off first.”
Mom was in a much better mood ever since she and Aunt Olive had cleared the air. I wasn’t supposed to be listening, but my aunt basically apologized for telling me stuff about Dad behind her back. I was still glad she had, though.
“Very debonair!” Aunt Olive remarked. “What’s the occasion?”
“No big deal. Just a date,” Gordy said, futzing with his tie. “With Rebecca.”
Rebecca was his latest girlfriend. Miss May. Totally different from the others, though. A freshman in college majoring in art history. Who knew what she saw in Scuzz-o? Opposites attract, I guess - just like Miss Honeywell and that lunkhead of a deputy sheriff. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.
“So, where are the two of you off to, Mr. Fancy Pants?” Aunt Olive asked.
“The Willowbridge Opera,” he said. “We’re seeing something called Carmen.”
Wait until he finds out it’s not a show about auto mechanics.
“That’s where I sang in my youth!” Aunt Olive cried out. “When it was just a fledgling company. Carmen, my favorite. Oh, the ‘Habanera!’” She la-la-la’ed around the room, clicking her fingers as if they were castanets.
“Hey, Freakshow,” Gordy said to me over Aunt Olive’s singing. “Rebecca can’t shut up about your stupid play. She’s dying to meet you.”
“Really?” I said. I knew that girl had good taste. “Perhaps I can pencil her in to my busy schedule. But somebody’s gonna have to start kissing some major butt around here.”
“Yeah, dream on.”
Aunt Olive hit a high note and twirled into her armchair. “I just adore Bizet!”
“Oh, that was you, Olive?” Granny said, shuffling into the room with a scrubbed-faced Aunt Birdie at her heels. “I thought the smoke alarm went off. And who is that handsome young man?”
“That’s Gordy, Ma,” Aunt Birdie said slowly. “Your graaandson.”
“I realize that, Birdie!” Granny snapped. “I wasn’t having a senior moment, you know.”
Gordy checked out his teeth in the hallway mirror, squeezed something on his chin, then headed out the door.
“Have a good evening, ladies,” he said. I thought he was including me in that, but he added, “Later, dweeb.”
“Bye, sludgeface,” I said.
That was probably the warmest, fuzziest conversation we’d ever had. I owed a lot to Rebecca. Heck, the world owed a lot to Rebecca.
“Very spiffy,” Aunt Birdie said, peeking through the blinds. “The new Gordy certainly is a breath of fresh air.”
“True,” I said. “He actually started showering again.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Mom said. “I whipped us up a little treat. Who’s hungry?”
“I am,” LMNOP said, raising her hand as if she were in school.
Aunt Olive muttered, “I could use a little something.”
We all followed Mom to the dining-room table and watched as she uncovered her dish of rolled-up tortillas oozing goopy white lumps. They smelled like the bottom of my hamper.
“I learned this recipe in the new cooking class I’m taking down at the high school,” she said. “’If at first you don’t succeed…’ Right, Dustin? Oh, we need plates.”
Mom disappeared into the kitchen and came back with plates and forks. LMNOP said that the food looked “spectacular” but she really had to run. Then everyone else suddenly felt full and remembered important pretend things they had to do. Lessons or not, nothing could clear a room quicker than Mom’s cooking.
“Try one, Dustin.” She looked disappointed. “I hate to see good food go to waste.”
“Uh, okay. I’m game.” I looked down at the plate, wondering if the emergency room was crowded on weekends. “Oh, yeah, Dr. Devon called before to check up on Granny. He said he’d call back - to talk to you.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just did.”
Mom made a mad dash to the hall mirror and started poofing up her hair, like the doc would be able to see through the phone or something. I picked up one of the drippy blobs, too grossed out to take a bite. Then I got to thinking that in a world where LMNOP was a genius, Jeremy was a pauper, and Gordy was on his way to the opera of his own free will, anything was possible. I closed my eyes and took a sloppy bite. It wasn’t half-bad.
“Mom, this is thpectacular!” I said, imitating LMNOP’s lisp.
“Are you serious?” She turned to me, beaming. “I can never tell if you’re serious.”
I nodded yes, smacking my lips to really get the point across.
“Well, that’s certainly a first.”
Nobody else could make her smile like I could. It was an early Mother’s Day present.
“Dee-lish,” I said. “What is this thing, anyway?”
“That’s a wrap.”
The phone rang and she jumped. Doctor Dreamboat, right on time. I kept my chewing noises down to a minimum so I could listen in on their conversation.
“Hello? Oh! Fine. Yes, everyone’s fine. Listen, I don’t think this is a very good idea.” Mom’s voice sounded weird. Shaky. She leaned against the bureau, rubbing her neck. “I have to say, I’m reall
y in shock that you’re calling.”
I just told her he was calling back. She never listens.
“Uh-huh. Yes, it was quite an event,” she said, looking my way. “We’re very proud of him. Of course he was crushed that…” She slowly made her way to the windows. “No, I didn’t hear about any train derailment. A mile outside of Chicago?” My ears perked up. There was a long pause while Mom just listened, picking at a loose thread on the drapes. “Oh, my God! Are you okay?” she said, lowering herself onto the window seat. “Thank goodness. You were really lucky. Yeah.” More pausing and neck rubbing. “Uh, no, he’s not. He’s spending the night at his -” Mom stopped midsentence. She closed her eyes and took a slow, noisy breath. “Hold on one second.”
With the phone muffled against her chest, she quickly wiped her cheek. I had a hard time swallowing what was in my mouth. My face was hot, my heartbeat galloping. I knew what was coming.
“Dustin. It’s your dad. Do you want to talk to him?”
Okay, it’s no big secret that we’re inches away from the end of the book, so I guess I should be winding up my story. Besides, I’ve got an important call to take. And it may be a while - Dad and I have lots of catching up to do.
So wish me luck - the good kind. And as Mom said a few paragraphs earlier - that’s a wrap!
Acknowledgments
At the risk of sounding like I’m making an Academy Awards acceptance speech, there are so many people I want to thank for making this book possible. First off, a wonderful critique group composed of Chris Woodworth, Lisa Williams Kline, Lee P. Sauer, and Manya Tessler, who helped shape my words and gave me much-needed support during the writing process. Even more thanks to Chris for introducing me to my fantastic agent, Steven Chudney. Thanks, Steven, for your professional expertise and consistent belief in me. And as for my editor extraordinaire, Andrea Spooner, what can I say but thank you for getting the best work out of me while remaining a total sweetheart at the same time. Music is swelling - so many others to thank! Andrea’s ever-helpful assistant editor, Sangeeta Mehta; my brilliant copyeditor, Katie Gehron. Oh, yes! Tracy Shaw for the incredible book jacket design. And Steve Channon and Dimitry Liaros for their artistic contributions.
Here’s a sneak peek at Dustin’s big break in
the hilarious sequel to
Dustin Grubbs: One-Man Show
Dad was knocking over glasses, struggling to jot stuff down on a roll of paper towels during their conversation. It was over quick, and he flipped the phone closed with a resounding “Yes!” and flew into the living room. “Well, kid, I’ve got good news - and I’ve got good news.” Sunbeams were pouring out of his eye sockets. “Which do you want to hear first?”
“Umm, the good news.”
“Your father has an audition for a national television commercial tomorrow morning! Can you believe it?”
“Sweet! And the good news?”
“You get to tag along!”
It turned out that McKenna Casting, Inc. was at the opposite end of the hall behind a giant glass door. Dad had to sign in at the reception desk, where a silver-haired lady snapped his picture and handed him a large index card. “You can take a seat over there with the others and…” she said, but her voice petered out. “You’ll be reading for the role of…”
“Excuse me?” Dad asked, leaning into her. She was one of those real soft talkers who should only be allowed to work in libraries.
“The role of Smelly Father,” she repeated. “I’ll give you your sides.”
“Sides?” I half-expected her to whip out a dish of coleslaw, fries, or creamed spinach - but she removed a few typed pages from a file folder and handed them to Dad.
He flipped through the pages as we walked past a lineup of chairs filled with a variety of anxious-looking people devouring their own sides. “It’s, like, the script,” Dad muttered, “I guess.”
“Smelly Father - you’re perfect for the part! I can’t believe we’re in a real casting agency, and you’re up for a real commercial. How exciting is this?”
“Exciting? Jeez, Louise, I think I’m having a coronary. I’m sure glad I got my lucky charm with me.”
“What is it, like, a rabbit’s foot or something?”
“No, it’s you, dum-dum. I thought my agent had crossed me off her list. You show up and - bam! I’m auditioning for my first national commercial.”
We took off our jackets and plopped down on two orange fuzzy chairs. Dad was filling out his information card and I noticed that his button-down was totally wrinkled. In fact, he was way underdressed compared to his competition - and he still had sheet marks across his cheek. Real classy. Maybe that would work in his favor, though, since he looked more like a smelly father than the other guys.
“Lemme see.” I grabbed the sides from him and read his lines out loud. “’Honey, I’m home! Rough day today. My dogs are really barkin’.’ I don’t get it. What’s this commercial for? Pet food?”
“Stink-Zapper Insoles, you know, for the insides of your shoes. Just three lines, that’s not bad. I suppose I should memorize them, huh?”
“Definitely! Get them cemented in your brain and then I’ll test you.”
I spotted one of the boys, roughly my age, staring a hole through my forehead. I smiled at him. He didn’t smile back. Some of the other Smelly Fathers were mouthing their lines and gesturing to the empty air. If we’d been anywhere else but a casting call you’d have thought we were in the waiting room at the loony bin.
“Honey, I’m home. Rough dog today - dang it!” Dad rehearsed, swatting the paper. “Gawd, I’m a wreck. I wish I could smoke in here.”
“Don’t,” I warned. “Take deep breaths, it’ll help you relax. And if you screw up, just launch into a joke or something. Remember, funny never fails.”
“That advice sounds real familiar. I guess the shoe’s on the other foot now.”
“But I wouldn’t suggest the water-drinking thing. That one kind of backfired on me,” I said. “Okay, keep working on your lines, Pop, I’ll be right back.”
I dashed over to the vending machine in the lobby and bought a box of lemon candies. Dad smelled like an ashtray and I didn’t want the casting people holding that against him. I popped one into my mouth on the way back. “Here ya go. My treat,” I said, dropping the box onto Dad’s lap. “Holy mackerel, these things’re sour.”
The double doors behind the reception desk sprung open and a boy rushed out. “I totally nailed it!” he spouted, zooming over to a woman sitting across from us.
“I’m talking painfully sour,” I stressed, sucking away. “Sow-er!”
“So spit it out,” Dad told me.
“But they’re also strangely addictive.”
“Sylvia, why are these agents sending us pretty boys?” a large man said, bursting through the same double doors. He had a goatee or a Van Dyke - whatever those minibeards are called. “Didn’t I say I needed quirky for this commercial? Quirky-quirky-quirky!”
“You approved every single name on the list. And I… no way of knowing…” Sylvia’s voice was fading in and out again, as Goatee Man leaned against the doorjamb massaging his temples. “… when they show up in person.”
“But they don’t look at all like the pictures their agents faxed over!” The man put on a pair of square glasses, pushed up the sleeves of his multicolor sweater, and peered into the waiting room. “Let’s see, how many boys do we have left? One, two - four?”
“Just three,” Sylvia replied, checking her clipboard.
“Okay, maybe it’s my new trifocals, but I’m counting four.”
I bit into the core of the lemon drop and got a burst of sourness that sent tears squirting out my eyes. My whole head turned into one giant pucker and I finally had to spit the darn thing out. But the damage was done: fuzzy tongue and itchy tonsils. They should put a warning label on these things. I wiggled a finger in my ear and was forcing air down my throat to scratch the unreachable itch. But I must’ve been grunting too loudly
because I noticed Sylvia pointing at me.
“That one’s not an actor,” I heard her say.
I object!
“But look at him - that’s Nerdy Boy!”
The Goatee Man’s eyes widened like he’d just spotted Big Foot. He scurried toward me. I almost ran.
“Hello, young man,” he chirped, looking down at me. I untwisted my face and sat up straight. “I’m Mr. Weiss. Nathan Weiss. I’m directing the Stink-Zappers commercial. And you are?”
Freaking out!
“Mr. Grubbs. Dustin Grubbs. Uh, I’m here with my Smelly Father - uh, my dad.”
“Honey, I’m home. Rough day today. My dogs are really barkin’,” Dad recited proudly.
“Not yet. We’ll call you when it’s time,” Mr. Weiss said, never taking his eyes off yours truly. “So, Dustin, you’re exactly the type we’re looking for. Would you by any chance be at all interesting in auditioning for our television commercial today? That is, if it’s okay with your father.”
“Huh?” Did he just say those words or am I dreaming?
“Okay by me,” Dad said, looking stunned. “Go for it!”
“Well?” Mr. Weiss was waiting for my answer. I couldn’t move. “Dustin? What’s it gonna be?”
“Yeah, sure! Definitely!”
“Fantastic. Come with me.”
“Right now?”
I sprang up to my feet so fast I got dizzy. Dad might’ve said “Break a leg, kid,” but all I could hear for sure was the blood rushing to my head. God, no one back home will ever believe it! I might have just been “discovered,” which Dad said never happened in reality - just in old movie musicals. This was, like, a zillion times better than some school play - this was the real deal.
“Excuse me, sir, but will I get a chance to look over my lines first?” I asked, following Mr. Weiss through the waiting room. It felt as if I were wading through water with hams strapped to my ankles.
“No lines,” he told me. “Just be you.”