by H. N. Kowitt
I opened the door for the next audition. In came a petrified-looking girl in a white leotard.
“My name is Shawna Boyle? I’ll be doing ‘Waltz of the Snowflakes’? From The Nutcracker?”
Jasper and I nodded for her to start. “One, two, three …” Shawna counted out loud.
Grunting, she hoisted herself up on pink toe shoes and lifted shaking arms above her head. After a couple of sluggish spins, she leaped and landed with a heavy thud. For a finale, she did a labored jump-kick, knocking over a metal garbage can.
So much for untapped talent at Gerald Ford Middle School.
We helped her clean up the garbage, and she started to whimper. “I blew it, right? I won’t be in the show, will I?” I looked at Jasper helplessly. While watching her, my reaction had been, “not in a million years.” But seeing her tear-streaked face, I realized it was going to be hard to say no.
In fact, how were we going to say no to anybody? We weren’t anonymous talent scouts — we’d have to face the classmates we’d rejected all day, every day.
This was going to get sticky.
“We’ll post the list Friday,” I said. “Nice job!”
“This is pathetic,” Jasper said to me after she had left. “Is there anyone talented at this school at all?”
I checked the list. Next up was Axl, my worst enemy.
Axl was the school bully I’d met in detention hall. I had drawn a tattoo of a flaming skull on Axl’s arm with a Sharpie, which he treasured like an original Picasso. He showed his gratitude by putting me into a headlock every time he saw me.
Our big clash came when I’d brought him to my favorite store, Comix Nation. When I wasn’t looking, he stole a collectible comic book and framed me for the crime. After I got him in trouble, he had to work at the store for free. Ever since, he always looked like he was deciding whether or not to ice me.
Now he was walking into the audition room.
“Hey.” Axl twisted my arm behind my back, his way of saying hello. “Spike and Boris are on their way. We’ve got a band.”
Axl, Boris, and Spike made up the Skulls, Gerald Ford’s only gang. For fun, they pulled fire alarms, set off cherry bombs in trash cans, and decorated lockers with shaving cream.
Their band was news to me.
A second later, Boris showed up in a black sweatshirt dotted with drops of electric orange nacho sauce. As the #2 Skull, he had a Cro-Magnon brow and rarely smiled. He walked in with Spike, the school’s scariest Korean bully. He liked to play with fire. The three of them got busy setting up their guitar, drum set, and keyboard.
“Your band is …?” I said.
“MutilatoR,” said Axl. “The song is called ‘Venom’s Bloody Valentine’.”
Right.
“Let’s do this!” Axl yelled. He dropped to his knees, glided across the floor like he was facing a stadium of pumping fists, and leaped to his feet. “GERALD FORD MIDDLE SCHOOLLLLL!” he yelled. “ARE YOU READY TO ROCK?”
Jasper and I looked at each other. Were we supposed to answer?
“I SAID,” he roared, “ARE YOU READY TO ROCK?”
“Er, yes,” I said uncertainly.
“SAY IT LOUDER!”
“Yes!”
“ALLLLRIGHT!” Axl screeched. “Let’s do this!” Boris started drumming furiously. He wasn’t too rhythmic, but he was noisy.
Axl nodded at the other guys, and they exploded into a blistering sonic rant that tore through the room like a heavy-metal tsunami. He didn’t so much play his guitar as attack it, hammering the same three chords over and over again.
And then he started to sing.
“Burning flesh torn from the bone
Toxic ashes flood the zone
Skinned alive in deadly rain
Gouged-out eyes cry out in pain
Die, spirit, die!
Now we … must … die.”
His voice rang out in a sickly wail, cracking when he hit the high notes. Truthfully, he wasn’t much of a singer, or guitar player. But he strutted around as if a laser show blazed behind him, and flames were licking at his feet. He owned the stage — or at least, the Multi-Purpose Room.
I was impressed. Who knew Axl had rock star aspirations? It made him more interesting. Just when I thought the intensity couldn’t get any higher …
They took it up a notch.
“HYAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Axl threw his guitar into the air. He caught it and pretended to play it upside down, then whipped it behind his back. He aimed it like a machine gun, and brought it low between his knees. Frantically imitating every guitar move imaginable, Axl wasn’t deterred by lack of skill.
And it wasn’t over.
Eyes blazing, Axl grabbed an orange chair, whipped it over his head, and brought it down like a sledgehammer. He hit the floor over and over, as if trying to smash it to smithereens.
“Unh.” He grunted. “Unhhhh!”
Holy crud!
Axl started a crazy path of destruction through the room, throwing down chairs and overturning tables. Boris picked up a metal garbage can and rolled it into the wall. Spike jumped up and down on the keyboard, grinding the keys together in a deafening crash.
Jasper and I ducked.
“Freakin’ A!” yelled Boris.
POUND! POUND! POUND!
Through the glass panel in the door, I saw a very angry Mrs. Lacewell.
“What the blazes?” she burst out when I let her in. She was the school administrator and ran GFMS like a military base. Looking around, I could see why she was upset. The place looked like Ozzy Osbourne’s hotel room after a rough night.
“Talent show auditions,” I explained. Axl and the guys started picking up chairs.
“By who — Godzilla?” she demanded. “I want this room cleaned up ASAP. With the water cooler rightside up.” She turned to Jasper and me. “You two are responsible for any damage.”
When the door shut behind her, Axl came over and slapped Jasper and me on the shoulders. “Sorry Lacewell went crazy. But never mind her.” Axl drew our heads together for a cozy chat. “What’d you guys think?”
“Um —”
“Obviously, it’ll be better with more amps.”
I tried to imagine the sound being louder.
“Look.” I had to word this right. “I was really with it, until the end. But you can’t, like, throw chairs and stuff.”
“That’s part of the act!” Axl protested.
“He didn’t set his guitar on fire,” Boris pointed out.
“Or eat a live bat,” Spike added.
“You heard Lacewell,” Jasper said. “If school property gets damaged, we’re responsible.”
“But that was nothing!” Axl’s voice rose. “You ever seen Cult of Napalm? Or Internal Bleeding?”
“They’re not in seventh grade,” I sighed.
The truth was, I’d rather have them than some lame baton twirler. But what kind of damage would they do to the auditorium?
I tried flattery. “You guys need a bigger venue. Someplace with stadium seating and a JumboTron.”
“I know.” Axl’s voice got husky. “I KNOW!”
“That’d be a better place for your —”
“Thing is, though.” Axl leaned in. “We need this gig. We’ve got to promote Goblet of Doom.”
“Goblet …”
“Our new CD.” He grabbed a hunk of my T-shirt and twisted it until my chest started to burn. “You have to take us. Saying no isn’t really, like …” He tightened his grip. “An option.”
Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
“Turn us down, and —”
POUND! POUND! POUND! People outside were knocking on the door.
“You’re dead,” Axl said sweetly.
He released me, and I fell back, coughing. “Other auditions —” I choked out, as I stumbled toward the door.
“You’ll make the right decision.” Axl slapped my back again as his crew headed out.
I looked at my c
lipboard, and mopped my forehead.
Only 23 people left to see.
“What a disaster,” I moaned.
We’d been watching America’s Least Talented for three straight hours, and we were bleary, limp, and exhausted.
“The hula-hoopist,” I whined. “The fortune-teller. The girl who collects seashells. The —”
“First-aid demonstration.” Jasper’s voice was dead.
“Oh, God.” Where were all the really exciting acts?
“Well, it’s too late to bail now. Next up …” Jasper checked the clipboard. “Chantal.”
Chantal?
That was interesting. She was supposed to be a good singer, but I’d never seen her perform. What if we had to reject her? The most Axl could do was kill us. Chantal was capable of much, much worse.
In five minutes, she could destroy our reputations, and make everyone at school stop talking to us. People she didn’t like became radioactive and stayed that way. The damage was irreversible.
POUND! POUND! POUND! I saw Chantal’s coiled hairdo through the door window.
“Danny Shine!” she yelled. “Move those chicken legs and let me in!”
I opened the door reluctantly. She strolled in like a queen, wearing a shiny black trench coat. An entourage of girls in matching outfits swarmed in behind her. And behind them, two slim guys in warm-up suits.
“This is where we’re auditioning?” Chantal frowned. She’d been here for five seconds, and she was already complaining.
“Take it or leave it.” I tried to sound tough.
We watched in amazement as someone wheeled in a large spotlight. One girl set up an iPod dock in the corner, while someone else plugged in a light that projected a giant “C” onto the wall behind her.
Everyone spread out and took their place on the floor. Chantal dropped her head dramatically, and one of the guys introduced her.
“I’d like to present Chantal and Her Sophisticated Ladies,” he said smoothly. “No videotaping — please!”
I rolled my eyes.
“One, two … one-two-three!”
Chantal’s head snapped up, and she whipped off her shiny trench coat. Underneath was a gold-sequined top and black leggings. Irresistible dance beats filled the room, and Chantal started gliding, strutting, and sashaying to the music. Behind her, the girls shimmied and writhed.
“Get live, Lady Bling. Lady Bling, get live!” The dancers chanted.
Jasper and I bolted upright.
“How y’all doing tonight?” Chantal purred. “I’m Lady Bling, Divine Miss Thing, Goddess of the Hottest, and Stoked to Sing. I’m rated ten, have tons of friends, got it goin’ on like a hot pink Benz.”
The dancers fanned out, and the boys started doing aerials and cartwheels. Then she started belting.
“I’m a diva I’m told
With jewels ice-cold
My underwear is
Solid gold.”
I was used to Chantal having a stadium-sized personality. The thing was … Chantal could also sing!
Her power anthem rocked the room. As she piled on the beats, boy dancers flanked her with kicks and occasional flips. They lifted Chantal up so high, I thought she’d bust through the ceiling.
Then the girl dancers hit the floor with glowing neon jump ropes, and Chantal dove in. For five minutes, she blew us away with the speediest, sassiest double-Dutch moves ever.
Jasper’s mouth was open too. After watching every two-bit kazoo player at school, this was halftime at the Super Bowl.
“I’m a triple threat, and doing it greatly
So freakin’ hot
I wish I could date me.”
Her brags were so outrageous, you had to laugh. But her singing and dancing were the real deal. My eyes met Jasper’s and we nodded excitedly. This was it — the act that could save the show!
We stood up and clapped like crazy.
“You’ve been a great audience,” Chantal cooed. She blew us a kiss. “Good night!”
The group took an elaborate bow, and then high-fived each other. I ran up to Chantal. “That was awesome!”
“Thanks,” she said coolly, checking her makeup in a pocket mirror. She snapped her mirror shut and called out to one of the guys in warm-up suits. “Hello!” she yelled. “Hair gel!”
A Warm-Up Suit Guy ran over.
“You’re a really good dancer,” I said. “And singer and … jump ropist.” Was that the right term? She calmly rubbed styling goop into her hair. “You’re in!”
This was her chance to jump up and down, and squeal, “Thanks, Danny! That’s so great!”
Instead, she shrugged. “If you want to make an offer, talk to my agent.”
Jasper and I looked at each other.
Agent?
She opened the door, and in walked Phil Petrokis. Now I was confused. What was my computer lab partner doing here?
“Hey, Danny.” He handed me a card.
“I handle all her bookings,” he said.
“It’s not a booking!” Jasper protested.
Phil took out a buttery leather briefcase.
“Here’s her contract,” he said. “Standard boilerplate.”
I grabbed it and started reading. Stuff about event cancellation, TV coverage, rehearsal time. Okay, I could cope with that. Then, at the bottom, a line jumped out.
“Private dressing room?” I read out loud. “Fridge stocked with diet root beer and Jolly Ranchers?”
Jasper plucked it out of my hand. “Let me see that.”
“Got to take this call.” Petrokis walked away with his phone. In the corner we heard him yelling. “No way,” he said. “Ten percent of the gross, or she’s out!”
I kept reading. “Bowls of M&M’s with no green ones?”
“Routine stuff.” Phil whispered, covering his phone.
“Extra security!?” Jasper read. “Hair and makeup person?”
“Very basic,” said Phil.
“Phil.” I gritted my teeth. “Do you realize this is a middle school talent show? We can’t cater to every student. As it is, we can barely —”
Phil folded up his phone. “Chantal is very hot right now,” he said. “I’ve got big plans for her: TV show, record deal, skin care line …”
“Yeah, but —”
“She’s got interest from other gigs,” Phil continued. “The Spring Concert, Teen Stunt Night, Green-a-palooza —”
Green-a-palooza?
Jasper and I gasped. No way could we lose our best act to Ty’s show!
“Let’s go, Phil.” Chantal sounded disgusted. “I talked to the other kids auditioning. I don’t belong with seashell collectors and first-aid demonstrators. That’s beneath me.”
“NO!” I pleaded.
“Too bad,” Chantal said. “’Cuz I was hoping to get my friend T-Bone to do the show. He does old-school break-dancing….”
What? That sounded great.
“And my girl Raina. She does kickin’ skateboard stunts….”
Huh? Where were these people?
“But they won’t do it unless I give a thumbs-up.” Chantal gathered up a duffel bag covered with buckles and gold chains. “And apparently you guys just aren’t serious about getting real entertainment.”
“Yes, we are!” My voice was desperate. “We can work something out.” I looked at Jasper, who was nodding furiously. “Hershey’s Bars, M&M’s, limo rides. Whatever you want!”
“Yeah?” Chantal stuck her chin out. “’Cuz I might want a few more things….”
“Like what?”
“Fridge stocked with VitaminWater, Cheez Curls, and organic snow cones?”
“You got it.”
“Cheez Curls have to be Ragin’ Cajun.”
“Right.”
“Limo to pick me up?”
“Check.”
“Extra security for hard-to-handle fans?”
“Er … check.”
“How about pyrotechnics?” she asked.
“We’ll se
e what’s possible,” I said, as Jasper poked me.
At that point, I would have agreed to a helicopter with built-in hot tub. We just needed her in the show. As for her demands? We’d just have to make some substitutions.
* OUTRAGEOUS DEMAND CONVERSION CHART
“Private dressing room” = janitor’s closet
“Extra security” = a hall monitor
“Stretch limo” = Jasper’s Razor scooter
“Stocked fridge” = candy bar
“Hot tub” = kids’ pool
“Pyrotechnics” = guy with flashlight
Phil came up and slapped us on the back. “Glad we could work something out.” I nodded at Jasper, dazed. I turned to Chantal. “Tell your friends to stop by for auditions tomorrow.”
“I will,” said Chantal. “See you at dress rehearsal. And make sure you have decent snacks there. Sushi, mini–egg rolls, whatever.”
Snacks for rehearsal? I walked away, wondering what I had gotten myself into.
With Chantal & Company on board, the talent show went from optional to Must-See. Suddenly everyone was buzzing about it, and stopping Jasper and me in the hall. “Is Pinky Shroeder really doing karaoke-juggling?” they’d ask. For the first time in school, I felt …
Un-invisible.
So when a bunch of girls called out to me during gym, I knew it was about The Big Event. Both guys and girls were having phys ed outdoors, and people were milling around the track, waiting for their teacher to blow the whistle.
“Hey, Danny!” Kendra waved me over. “We have to ask you something.”
I walked over casually, like a bunch of girls calling my name out was no big deal. The girls looked so excited, I wondered what this was about. Rehearsals? Costumes? Auditions?