by H. N. Kowitt
As the door shut, Axl flashed me an evil smile. “Now we can take care of business.”
* AXL-TO-ENGLISH DICTIONARY
“Take a walk” = Maim beyond recognition
“Private” = Where I can beat you up
“Talk” = Fight
“Take care of business” = Punch your lights out
Boris glanced at the small window covered in mesh. “Want me to stand lookout?” he asked Axl.
“No.” Axl shook his head and kept walking. “We’re not staying. We’re taking him down to the boiler room.”
The boiler room?
That was like a medieval torture chamber! Steam poured from the pipes, and greenish slime oozed over cement floors. There were window bars, like a prison. Maybe even rats. My body wouldn’t be found for days….
Double crud.
I followed Axl down the stairs, with Spike and Boris close behind. Why had I ignored their graffiti? Why hadn’t I gotten Lacewell or another adult to explain the audition results to them? Why had I waited for the inevitable day they’d find me alone and …
CRAAAAAAAAACK.
A door opened on the floor below — a stroke of luck! Looking down, I saw the pale, bald head of Mr. Gordimer, the puffy-faced wood shop teacher.
He couldn’t control a class to save his life, but — any adult was better than none. In his usual fog, would he see me being led on a death march by the school’s worst bullies?
Of course not.
We looked like a bunch of friends, hanging out. For a crazy moment, I thought of bursting out, “HELP! I’m being kidnapped!”
“Danny.” Gordimer nodded, huffing as he climbed. “Norris, Boris, Spike.” He stopped and wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “May I see your hall pass?”
YES!
Now we’d all get in trouble, including me — but at least my life wouldn’t end in the school boiler room. I looked at Axl, expecting him to back off. But he just whistled and stuffed his hand in his pocket.
Against all odds, he pulled out a yellow hall pass.
Gordimer squinted at it. “I don’t have my glasses,” he said finally, handing it back. Looking down, I saw the fakest forged hall pass in the history of middle school:
Oh, man. Could this be more of a joke?
But Gordimer just shrugged and said, “Okay, fellows.” Probably all he wanted was to get back to his newspaper. Even teachers didn’t want to deal with these guys. He started to resume his climb up the stairs.
“Uh, Mr. Gordimer!” I blurted out, as he pulled away. Axl, Boris, and Spike looked at me sharply. When he turned to me, I chickened out. “Do you know what’s for lunch?” I asked meekly.
“Pizza pockets.” Gordimer sighed. “See you later, boys.”
Axl poked me to keep moving. Finally, we hit the basement. The big metal door probably made this place soundproof — no wonder they brought victims there.
Now there was no escape.
Boris pushed the door open, and steam poured out. Dodging the plume, they led me to a dank corner. Next to us, the giant boiler belched and hissed. It had to be at least a hundred degrees.
And I was sweating before I got there.
Axl took a wire out of his backpack and slowly wound it around his arm. Was that some torture instrument? He seemed to be testing its sharpness.
“Yeah,” he said. “This is perfect.”
Oh, no. No, no, no, no.
He took the wire and walked toward me, pulling it taut. Boris and Spike nodded. Was this really happening? I closed my eyes and felt myself blink back hot tears.
“About this talent show …” Axl said.
Kill me! Just get it over with!
“We ARE going to be part of it. That’s why we’re going to —”
He pulled the wire tight.
“— work security.”
HUH?
I opened my eyes. Axl moved past me and looped the wire around the window handle. He pried it open, and a blast of cool air poured in.
“Ahhh.” He stuck his face into the breeze.
“You —” I sputtered. “Y-You’re not going to kill me?”
“Kill you?” Axl looked at me, surprised. “No.”
I heaved a huge sigh.
“You thought we were gonna waste you?” asked Boris. He turned to Spike. “He thought we were gonna waste him!”
“Well —” It’s not like it was so far-fetched. “I knew you were mad about not getting into the talent show —”
“I was, but —” Axl shook his head. “Not now. That’s in the past.”
Like, this morning? The words on my locker looked freshly painted. “How about all that graffiti?” I asked.
“I told Boris and Spike to cut it out.” Axl shrugged. “They didn’t realize I was, like, over it.”
Sheesh. “What made you change your mind?”
“Well …” Axl crouched down near one of the hissing pipes, and motioned for Boris, Spike, and me to join him. I pulled up a cardboard box. Axl’s eyes got misty and philosophical. I’d seen this mode before, like the time he gave the “It’s Every Guy’s Dream to be a Skull” speech.
“I read this interview with Killa Whale.” Axl was a huge Killa Whale fan, of course. “He says he always respects the promoter’s vision.” His voice rose. “If a venue isn’t right, he won’t perform there.”
“So —”
“To do our show right, we need an arena. State of the art, with skyboxes and good sight lines. Not a dinky stage with four lights where you can’t even throw a chair —”
“Or set a shirt on fire,” added Spike.
“Uh-huh,” I nodded. “I totally get that.”
PHEW!
What a huge relief to have him off my back! But then I remembered what he did want. “So …?”
“When I saw your poster,” Axl said. “I realized we could help. You need a security team and we …” He pointed at Boris and Spike. “Do security.”
But — Axl was someone you needed protection from!
I took a deep breath.
“About security.” I jangled keys in my pocket, trying to avoid Axl’s steel blue eyes. “Thanks for the offer, but — we’re thinking of, uh, dealing with that ourselves.”
“Deal with that yourselves?!” Axl snorted. “Are you KIDDING me? You guys couldn’t beat up a third grader. The Skulls can help you out. Roam the halls. Punish people.”
Wasn’t that pretty much what they did every day?
“Um —”
“We could do pat downs.” Axl’s face lit up. “Like at the airport.”
Hard to see what could go wrong with that scenario.
“Ask about uniforms,” prodded Boris.
“Guys —”
“Would we wear badges?” Axl sounded excited. “Army gear?”
“How ’bout weapons?” asked Boris.
“Whoa, whoa!” I held my hand up. “This isn’t Delta Force. You’d just be making sure people stay within the roped-off area. That’s it! No physical contact! NO WEAPONS!”
“Not even Super Soakers for crowd control?” asked Spike.
“No!” I said.
But an idea was slowly swirling around in my head. Maybe having Axl’s gang doing security wasn’t such a bad idea. That way, they wouldn’t cause trouble at the talent show, and they’d stop marking up my posters. As the saying goes, “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”
“It’s okay.” Axl reassured Boris and Spike. “If Danny says ‘no weapons,’ that’s cool. Whatever he wants.” He turned to me. “Well?”
“Okay,” I said uncertainly. “Let’s try it.”
“Woo-HOO!” Axl, Spike, and Boris high-fived.
RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!!!!!!
The bell was actually louder in the boiler room and it made us all jump. “Can you guys meet me and our advisor after school for a planning meeting?” I asked.
“Can’t,” said Axl. “You know where we’ll be.”
I suddenly remem
bered. “Okay, we’ll keep you posted.” I held my hand up. “Bye.”
Walking away, I had to laugh. We had the only security team in history serving detention.
Dress rehearsal was in 20 minutes.
Performers were trickling in, lacing up ballet shoes, shaking tambourines, testing yo-yos. Jasper and I were running around frantically, greeting people and trying to act like we had things under control.
“Hey, Danny.” Ty waved.
“Hey, Ty.” I walked past him quickly, avoiding eye contact. Tonight, the whole school would see his terrible rap act. Did I still have the nerve to send him out there?
“Danny.” Jasper looked around and frowned. “Where’s the stage crew?”
I shrugged. “Backstage, maybe?”
“They’re not there.”
“Really?” That was weird. “They know dress rehearsal starts at two, and the show’s tonight.” The stage crew guys were hard-core tech nerds who played laser tag and argued about the right viewing order of Star Wars movies.
Pinky Shroeder walked by, juggling. “They’re at the mall seeing Ice Tomb.”
Jasper grabbed Pinky. “What?”
“The 3D avalanche movie.” Pinky squirmed out of Jasper’s grip, still juggling. “Director’s cut.”
I pulled Jasper up the aisle to the back of the auditorium. “Do you know how to work this thing?” I asked, pointing to the lighting board, which controlled all the onstage lights. “Please say yes.”
“Nope.”
We stared at all the levers and switches. Since it was Saturday, no one was at school but our performers and Mr. Robinson, the security guard. Our faculty advisor, Assistant Principal Amundson, was down the hall, but the tech guys always ran the board.
“It’s like the control panel on the space shuttle,” said Jasper. He moved a lever. A blue light came up on the corner of the stage.
“Can you figure it out?” I asked.
“Gimme three hours.”
“How about ten minutes?”
There was a commotion at the double doors, and Chantal burst into the auditorium. Wearing sunglasses and a black cape with pink fur, she rolled in like a movie star.
Flanking her were 20 kids wheeling in luggage, props, and clothing racks.
“Danny. Jasper.” Chantal came to a dramatic stop, halfway down the aisle.
She whipped off her cape. “Where’s my dressing room?”
Crud!
In the rush of putting the show together I had completely forgotten our “contract” with Chantal. I tried to remember what insane things we’d promised her….
We had to get her a dressing room. I tried to think of places at school we had access to. The Multi-Purpose Room? The Tech Center? Suddenly I had an idea. Fishing through Jasper’s backpack, I pulled out a key. “Follow me, Chantal. You’re going to like this.”
She turned to Jasper. “Stephen will stay and explain my lighting concepts.” Chantal pushed forward a slender boy in a warm-up suit. Then she and the rest of her army followed me up to the second floor, dragging garment bags and hair dryers.
When I stopped in front of Room 212, she froze.
“THE SCIENCE LAB?” Her voice was icy. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It’ll be good.” I forced a smile. “Really!” I opened the door, and the smell of formaldehyde almost knocked us over.
“Ewwwwwwwww!” Chantal wrinkled her nose, and everyone groaned. “It smells like dead frogs. I can’t get dressed in here. There’s not even a full length mirror!”
“You can see your reflection in the storage closet. See?” I patted the steel door. The smell was kind of strong.
“That fridge better be stocked,” she warned. “Diet root beer and Ragin’ Cajun Cheez Curls.”
“I’ll check.” The fridge was for chemicals, but sometimes Jasper hid snacks. I prayed this was one of those times. Blocking Chantal’s view, I opened the door a crack. I peeked in. No soda, but —
A giant fetal pig.
Gross!
I whipped the door shut. “We ran out! No prob. I’ll run over to Mighty Mart.”
Chantal threw down a giant handbag. “You think when Beyoncé plays the Verizon Center, they run across the street?” She sounded genuinely hurt. “NO! Her pomegranate sparkling water’s already chilling.”
The crowd murmured “yeah” and “got that right.”
“Two minutes,” I said, running out the door.
I bolted down the stairs and out of the school. Sprinting across the lawn, I heard a shout from the window.
“Don’t forget the M&M’s!” yelled Chantal. “And — no green ones!”
“You went out for chips?” Jasper saw my grocery bag.
“They’re not for me.” I was panting. “It’s Chantal! She —”
“Whatever.” Jasper pulled some levers on the lighting board. “I’ve got to refocus these lights.” Jasper headed off toward the wings. “You make an announcement. Say we’re still working things out.”
I ran up to the podium onstage, looking out on the endless rows of empty seats. In five hours, they’d be filled. What would it be like to stand here alone? All those people …
Looking at you. Waiting.
My knees felt shaky and a shiver ran up my neck. Thank God I wasn’t performing.
“Hi.” I cleared my throat. “I’m Danny. We’re going to start rehearsal soon. We’re just having a few little technical difficulties….”
“Like what?” A voice called out.
“Nothing important —”
CRAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!
I looked behind me. A bulb had fallen and crashed to the floor.
“Sorry!” Jasper yelled from a ladder backstage.
The auditorium door opened and Amundson poked his head in. “Everything cool?”
“Great!” I said loudly.
THUD! A rope fell from the ceiling.
“Hold it, Danny.” It was Ty. “Shouldn’t we clear the stage before rehearsal starts?”
A tire rolled across a stage cluttered with junk. Having Ty point out the mess was embarrassing.
“Sorry!” Jasper’s voice again.
“Also,” Ty continued, “the lights look weird. What’s up with that?”
I turned around. A light swirled crazily as Jasper, up on a ladder, tried to re-aim it. “Oh, that? Jasper’s, uh, trying out a new cross fade,” I said. “Really cutting edge stuff.”
“Hmmm.” Ty sounded doubtful, and now other people were starting to look doubtful too. “Also wondering — where’s the emcee?”
C’mon, Ty. Give it a rest.
“Ralph can’t make it till tonight,” I said. “Professional acting gig.” No need to mention he was Freckles the Clown at a kid’s birthday party.
Emboldened by Ty, other performers shouted: “Is it true the stage crew didn’t show?” “Who’s doing sound?” “Have you guys ever put on a show before?” I felt defeated. The performers had seemed happy enough until Ty started criticizing everything.
A rock tune began to play. Ty picked up his phone, and said loudly, “Hey, Skye! You got my message?” Then he put his hand over the phone, and announced importantly, “Sorry, it’s Skye Blue. I have to take this.”
He strutted out of the auditorium, cradling the phone on his shoulder.
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. A 12 o’clock wheelie? Awesome.”
Ooooooh. My dislike of him seemed to burn a hole in my chest. Wasn’t it just like the guy, to flaunt his cool cred and his big star pal?
Well, that cool cred was about to disappear.
Half an hour later, things were moving right along.
Morgan’s Gossip Girl reading wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d feared. Kirby Hammer’s “talent” — blowing a huge bubble out of bubble gum — held the crowd breathless. The Laff Riots, a couple of sixth graders, did a funny fake infomercial with squirt guns.
Confidence level: medium to good.
Rehearsal was moving at a fast clip. When they weren’t perform
ing, everyone rushed back to their seats to watch the other acts. There was a good vibe as people clapped for each other. One girl was so happy after her gymnastic routine, she did a little dance.
Before this, the only thing I’d ever organized was a comic book trading session in someone’s bedroom. I felt a flash of pride. Everyone is here today because of me and Jasper, I thought.
It was a pretty cool feeling.
Amundson slipped into the auditorium and sat down next to me. “This is dope,” he whispered.
“Glad you like it.” I looked down at the clipboard. Next up was Ty.
I gulped.
My feelings about Ty had gone back and forth. After his obnoxious phone call with Skye, I looked forward to him being humbled. But now that he was about to do it, I was strangely nervous for him.
Ty edged his way onto the stage uncertainly, looking small in the big, empty space. Pale beneath his soccer tan, he nodded for his music cue.
BOOM-DIDDA-BOOM. BOOM-DIDDA-BOOM …
The beats started, and Ty began nodding fiercely. “Uh-HUH,” he grunted. Suddenly, his body started twitching back and forth, his thumbs pointing out. Was he dancing, or having a seizure?
Yipes! He was even worse than I remembered. Shakily, he blurted out:
“’Cuz I’m mean
I’m green
I’m an eco-freak
I’m Super Teen …”
He spat the words out, missing the beat every time. I checked out people’s reactions to the rap.
I looked over at Amundson. If he liked it, Ty was doomed.
Uh-oh.
“Global warming u gotta prevent it
Let’s all write postcards to the —”
“That’s fine!” I cut him off before he could say the word Senate. Behind me, I heard giggles and snorts of disbelief.
Ty looked startled. “Shouldn’t I do the second verse —?”