by Alan Sitomer
Gramps raised his fists.
“Defend yourself, son.”
Grandpa Ralph positioned himself in a boxing stance, his left foot slightly ahead of his right, his shoulders at an angle. To him, this was about winning back the woman he loved and he was going to turn his son’s face into pumpkin pie if he dared to stand in the way.
Fear spread across my father’s face. Twenty seconds later, Gramps was holding the car keys.
“I hope you have insurance on this vehicle,” Gramps said as we left. “Hate to see you sued for giving an unlicensed driver the keys to your ride, Phillip.”
Gramps reached into his pocket, popped an orange jelly bean into his mouth and flashed his yellow teeth. Mom looked horrified.
“Ha!” he shouted as he closed the front door behind us. “That’ll learn ’em.”
We approached our white, four-door Toyota Camry. It wasn’t a luxury vehicle by any stretch of the imagination, but my dad kept it clean and crisp.
“Here,” Gramps said, suddenly tossing me the keys. “You drive.”
“Me?” I said. “I don’t know how to drive a car.”
“You gotta learn sometime, Bobby,” Gramps answered. “I mean, if we’re gonna go out, we should go out with a bang, right?”
He flashed another yellow-toothed smile. There was warmth and caring in his eyes.
I looked at the keys.
“Screw it!” I threw open the driver’s door, climbed inside and turned over the ignition. The engine roared.
And roared.
And ROARED!
“Um, Bobby, you don’t want to keep your foot all the way down on the gas pedal before you even put the car in gear,” Gramps suggested.
“Gotcha,” I said.
The roaring stopped.
My parents peeked through the front window, nervously looking through the blinds. I put the car in gear and turned to look over my shoulder so I could back out of the driveway.
The car zipped forward and slammed into our garage door.
BAM!
“Oops.”
Gramps pointed at the dashboard. “See that little R? It stands for reverse. The D is for drive.”
“Gotcha.”
The sound of the car crashing into the garage door was loud enough to frighten Mrs. Holston. She rushed out of her house wearing a red apron and holding a long cooking spoon. Her thoughts were written all over her face.
What in the world is Bobby Connor doing driving an automobile?
Gramps waved.
“Hey there, neighbor. Looking kinda hot! Maybe I’ll come over and show you my cooking utensil sometime.”
He winked. Mrs. Holston’s jaw dropped in shock.
“All right, kid,” Gramps said to me. “Let’s go.”
I looked at the garage door. It was dented badly.
“Oh my goodness,” Gramps said in a high-pitched tone. “What will the neighbors think?” He laughed.
As I put the car in reverse and slowly backed out of the driveway, I thought about how I was gonna be grounded till I was thirty-seven years old.
The drive to school and the Big Dance was really slow. And really fast. And really slow . . . and really fast. Sometimes I was doing three miles per hour, sometimes I was doing eighty-seven.
Getting used to the gas pedal took some time. The brakes, however, I got used to right away.
I just slammed on ’em.
Gramps and I were thrown forward and back like rag dolls. If it wasn’t for our seat belts, we both woulda been shot through the front windshield twenty times over.
Steering was easy, though. Video games had taught me that. After crossing a few yellow lines, nearly running over an old woman (who clearly had the right-of-way) and hitting eleven orange cones in a construction zone, I felt like I was getting the hang of things. My only real big mistake was turning left down a one-way street, but Gramps wasn’t too concerned.
“When you think about it,” he said to me as I drove against traffic, “we are only going one way.”
“Good point,” I answered as someone gave me the bird.
We arrived at the Big Dance in one piece. Dad’s car did as well. The first bump into the garage door was the only bump.
“Where should I park?” I asked.
“By the fire hydrant,” Gramps answered, pointing to my left.
“But Dad might get a ticket,” I said.
“If we’re lucky,” Gramps answered. “Only if we’re lucky.”
I laughed and pulled into the no-parking zone.
“You did good, Bobby,” Gramps said as we walked up to the front entrance of school. “You practiced the rule of ‘no contact’ driving. Hard to ask for much more than that your first time out, right?”
“Thanks, Gramps.”
He gave me a small pat on the head. It felt nice to be encouraged instead of discouraged for once.
Though my mom had scored me a nice navy-blue suit and dashing yellow tie to wear to the Big Dance, I wasn’t wearing it because I really hadn’t planned on going till just a few minutes before we left the house. I looked down. Jeans, sneakers and a zip-up sweatshirt. Great, I thought. Prince Charming. At least Gramps had ditched the blue pajama pants for tan trousers and a long-sleeve beige shirt, though he still hadn’t combed his hair in a month.
“So,” Gramps said as we headed toward the gymnasium, “what’s this little hot tamal . . . I mean, what’s your friend Allison look like anyway?”
“She kinda looks like . . .”
Suddenly, a dark shadow appeared in front of us, stopping me dead in my tracks.
“Going somewhere, Bobby?”
I looked up. Sheriff Mustache, dressed in a black suit with a striped red tie.
Gulp.
“Indeed we are,” Gramps answered. “We’re going in, so move aside, peckerhead.”
“Um, Gramps . . .”
“No, Bobby, I got this,” Gramps said. “I mean, the last thing I’m going to let happen right now is have some pencilhead school putz stand in our way.”
“But Gramps—”
“Bobby, please, let me handle this.” Gramps stepped in front of me in a fearless, no-one-is-gonna-mess-with-me-tonight manner. “I can’t stand twerps like this anyway,” Gramps said to Sheriff Mustache. “Let me guess, you’re some kind of power-hungry, scare-all-the-students teacher who gets his silly kicks from bossing around little schoolkids. Am I close, Bobby? Is this guy some sort of campus dictator who spends his entire life trying to make the lives of young people like you miserable because he has a small penis?”
Gramps laughed at the thought of it.
“Hey, pal,” Gramps said. “You one of those men with TPS—tiny pecker syndrome?”
“Um, Gramps,” I said.
“Yeah, Bobby?”
“That’s Allison’s father.”
He paused.
“Oh.” Gramps smiled. “Nice to meet you, sir. Bobby tells me many fine things about your daughter.”
Sheriff Mustache’s face was so red I thought steam was going to blow out of his ears.
“Jelly bean?” Gramps offered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few green, red and yellow candies. “Don’t mind the lint, it doesn’t digest. You’ll poop it right out.”
I looked inside the gym and saw Allison walking toward some tables that had been covered with purple plastic tablecloths.
“Allison!” I called out. “Wait!”
She scowled at me, then walked on.
I made a move to go after her, but Sheriff Mustache grabbed me.
“You’re not going anywhere, Bobby.”
“But—”
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned.
There was no way I was getting past him. Sheriff Mustache was too big, too strong and too angry. Getting into the Big Dance would be impossible.
Until a-choooooooo! Gramps sneezed into Mr. Summers’s face.
A hurricane of spit showered Sheriff Mustache’s mustache. Pieces of semi-chew
ed jelly beans stuck to my math teacher’s face.
“Eewww,” he groaned.
Gramps gave me a nudge as if to say go! I saw my chance and dashed inside.
“Allison!” I called out. “Wait!”
My sneakers squeaked as I ran across the hardwood floor. The lights were faded inside the gym. The place had been decorated with streamers, banners and a few disco balls to give it the feel of a real dance club.
I finally caught up to Allison. She wore a silver and blue dress with black shoes and a sparkly headband.
She looked amazing!
But her outfit didn’t match her mood at all. Clearly, Allison was annoyed at having to come to the Big Dance.
And she was steaming mad at me.
“I don’t want to speak to you, Bobby. Ever!” She crossed her arms. It wasn’t two seconds before Sheriff Mustache rushed up, grabbing me from behind.
“Let’s go, Bobby,” he said. “Out! And come Monday, it’s straight to Vice Principal Hildge.”
Mr. Summers grabbed my shirt collar. Kids all around us had been grooving to the music, laughing and chatting, but when they saw how mad Sheriff Mustache was, a few of them looked over.
“But,” I said, trying to squirm out of his grip, “with all due respect, sir, I did pay for a ticket.”
“I don’t care what you think you did,” he said to me. “You are out of here right now!”
“What do you mean, you paid for a ticket?” Allison asked.
“Like I said, I paid for a ticket,” I told her. “Okay, yes. I went into the green envelope and took two tickets, but I did pay for them.”
“You paid for them?” Allison asked. “How?”
People started gathering around because of all the commotion. Seeing my friends—well, my old friends—and other kids my age wearing ties always looked weird to me. But that would have been me if it weren’t for Sheriff Mustache in the first place. I tried again to squiggle out of his grip, but it was too tight.
“I put cash in the envelope,” I said.
“You put cash, you mean you put money, in the envelope?” Allison said.
“Uh-huh. The full amount.”
Allison looked up at her father.
“You told me he stole them.”
“He did. He came into my house and took them without permission,” Sheriff Mustache replied. “Let’s go, Connor. Out. Now.”
“No, you said he stole them.”
“Don’t get technical with me, Allison,” Sheriff Mustache answered. “What he did was wrong.”
“But he didn’t steal them. You made it sound like he took them without paying for them.”
“Not now, Allison.”
“Yes now, Dad,” she replied. Allison crossed her arms, a look of fierce determination on her face. The disco ball caused all sorts of sparkles to dance across her dress. “It’s like you hate him or something.”
“I don’t hate any of my students,” Sheriff Mustache said, as if it were the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard.
“Okay, fine,” Allison answered. The circle of people grew bigger. My sister and Finkelstein walked up. “Then tell me why you strongly, strongly, strongly dislike Bobby?”
Allison recrossed her arms and waited for an answer. About forty kids waited for his response, too. Even the music had stopped.
“Okay, you want to know why?” Sheriff Mustache said, finally letting me go. “Because I like order. I like neatness. I like A to lead to B and then B to lead to C, but you’re one of those kids,” he said, pointing at me. “With you, A leads to Z, which leads to X and then to D. I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all and I certainly don’t want that for my daughter.”
It got eerily quiet. The kids surrounding us dared not move. A part of me felt like I should defend myself, like I should speak up and maybe call him a total unfair jerk or something. But another part of me felt like, “What’s the point?” I mean, like it or not, this was still Allison’s dad—and my math teacher—and insulting him, I knew, wasn’t gonna get me anywhere.
“Dad, what are you talking about?” Allison said, her green eyes lasered in on her father.
“Oh, I know his type. I mean I’ve been around middle school boys a long time, Allison, and I don’t like the way that this one is sniffing around you at all.” Sheriff Mustache pointed at me. “Ask Mrs. Mank, his old math teacher. Bobby’s one of those kids who thinks with his pants instead of his brain.”
“With all due respect, sir,” I said softly. “When it comes to your daughter, I think the real problem is I think with my heart.”
The girls who were watching us said “Awww.” My stomach fluttered.
“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble tonight,” I said to Allison. “I just wanted to tell you that, well, I was sorry and that you mean a lot to me. And I feel bad that I caused your dad to get so mad at you and lose trust in you ’cause really, you didn’t do anything. You didn’t do anything at all.” I turned to Sheriff Mustache. “It’s the truth. She didn’t do anything.”
Sheriff Mustache looked around at all the people watching.
“Bye, Allison,” I said. “Come on, Gramps. Let’s go.”
I took a step forward and the crowd parted. All the kids, dressed in their fancy clothes, wearing either too much makeup or too much cologne, were quiet and subdued. Gramps followed. I knew he wanted to say something, to really rip into Sheriff Mustache, but instead he kept his mouth shut, letting me fight my own battles in my own way.
That was kinda cool of him.
“Nice going, Dad,” Allison said.
“I don’t know why any of this is my fault,” Sheriff Mustache replied. “I already sold him two tickets. Why don’t you explain to us what happened to those, Bobby?”
I stopped.
“Yeah, Mr. Smart Guy,” Sheriff Mustache said. “Where’s your answer for that?”
I looked at Allison. “I wasn’t gonna tell.”
“Tell what?” she asked.
“He wouldn’t let me buy four tickets,” I explained.
“So?” Allison said. “Where are these two tickets you bought?”
“I gave ’em to them,” I said, nudging at Finkelstein and Hill.
“To us?” Hill and Finkelstein said at practically the same time.
I nodded, but Hill didn’t get it.
“You bought my ticket?” she asked.
“I knew how much you wanted to go.” Hill looked nice in her fancy dress, I thought. Happy. “I felt bad for you. I mean, I guess I was just trying to, you know, make up for not being a good broth . . . I mean, buddy.”
She stood there completely frozen.
“And you, like, bought my ticket, too?” Finkelstein asked.
“Yeah, well,” I answered, “that’s what friends do, I guess.”
“Friends?” Finkelstein said, looking for more.
“Okay,” I replied. “Best friends.”
A giant smile spread across his face.
“He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh.” Finkelstein rushed forward and gave me a huge hug.
“I knew you loved me, Bobby.”
“Get off of me, Finkelstein.” I pushed him away. “And, by the way, dots and stripes are the stupidest combination I have ever seen on another human being’s teeth.”
“I just have one word for ya, Bobby,” Finkelstein answered, flashing every tooth in his mouth. “Sexxxxxyy.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a moron.”
“He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh.”
“Wait a minute!” Hill said, suddenly figuring it out. “You mean metal mouth is supposed to be my Secret Someone?”
“And I’m supposed to be here with stick girl?” Finkelstein replied.
“Magnet face.”
“Ping-Pong table chest.”
“Bicycle cable lips!”
“String-bean Sally!”
“Will you two shut up?” I said. “Jeez! Yes, you’re here together,” I told them. “I mean it’s like so obvious that
the two of you have a huge crush on each other, so gimme a break already, would ya?”
“We do?” Finkelstein asked, looking over at Hill.
“Finkelstein, go dance with your date,” I said, pushing him toward my sister. Finkelstein was the only kid in the entire gymnasium wearing a bow tie. And no, he didn’t look good in it. “Trust me,” I said to him, “her heart is playing hopscotch in her chest right now.”
Just then, Finkelstein and Hill got all googly-eyed with each other and the fireworks went off, like in some sort of bad, cheesy, make-you-want-to-vomit movie.
“Bobby,” Hill said, smoothing out her yellow dress.
“Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
She smiled. It wasn’t a big smile, but it was the kind that told me that we were good once again. All was forgiven.
I smiled back.
“May I pleeeze hav za pleasure of zis dance, Madame?” Finkelstein said in a fake French accent.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Hill did one of those curtsy things.
“He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh.”
“Is that how you always laugh?” Hill asked.
“Yeah, why, you don’t like it?”
“No,” she said to Finkelstein. “Actually, I think it’s kind of . . . well, sexxxy.”
Finkelstein’s face beamed with joy. The disco lights then hit his teeth, making every piece of metal in his mouth glitter like a striped and dotted asteroid belt.
“He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh.”
The whole thing made me wanna puke.
“Come on, Gramps,” I said, beginning to walk off. “Let’s go.” The circle broke apart and people began heading back to the dance floor, the refreshment bar and the tables covered in spill-resistant purple plastic. It took no time for the sound of chatter and laughter to refill the air. Our little show was over.
Suddenly, someone grabbed my shoulder and turned me around.
“Why didn’t you just tell me, Bobby?” asked Allison. “I mean, I could have bought the tickets.”
“’Cause, you know,” I said. “Good deeds should be done for the sake of doing them, not for the credit.” Once again, I realized how out of place my clothes were for a formal party. Jeans and a T-shirt, just like I would wear on any other Friday night at the mall, while Allison looked like a million dollars that had just come off the printing press.