One Man Show (17 page)

I was pretty miserable until the next day, when Miss Honeywell told me that something “scrumptious” was waiting for me in
the main office. I thought the secretary had baked her nonfat lemon bars again, but it was even better. It turned out to be
a telegram addressed to Mr. Dustin T. Grubbs, “Star!,”
c/o Buttermilk Falls Elementary. The only telegrams I’d ever seen were in old backstage movie musicals. I didn’t even think
they existed anymore.

“I’m there, son.
STOP”
was all it said.

That was enough. I was psyched.

The cast of the play was in a wide-eyed clump hanging out of the first-floor windows of Miss Van Rye’s kindergarten classroom
- and hanging on every word that was being said outside. Even though I was stuck playing the stupid Prince, it was still the
most exciting night of my life. Heck, Hollywood was in our own backyard!

“This is
Show-Biz Beat
special correspondent Callie Sinclair, reporting from the steps of Buttermilk Falls Elementary School in the quaint midwestern
town of the same name. Tonight we’re kicking off our weeklong series
Whatever Happened to My Favorite Celebrity Kids?
in which we’ll be conducting interviews with child stars who have disappeared from the spotlight. We’re here at a special
performance of a play called
The Castle of the Cracked Crowns,
a fund-raiser featuring Jeremy Jason Wilder -”

Screams gushed out of a crowd of girls surrounding Callie.

“Cut! Cut!” A short man in a
Show-Biz Beat
jacket made a throat-slashing gesture. “They keep drowning you out every time you say Jeremy Jason -”

“Jeremeee!”
the crowd squealed.

“Okay, you maniacs, work with me here!” the man shouted.

“Take it easy, Phil,” Callie said. “It’s only a dry run.”

“But we’ll be taping it next time around!” He turned to the swarm of girls. “Okay, ladies,” he said, switching to a sugary
voice. “I’m the director, so I’m going to give you a little direction. First, can everyone take a giant step backward? Good.
Super. Brilliant. Now I need all of you to be perfect little angels and
shut up!”

A lady wearing a
Show-Biz Beat
jacket rushed over to Callie and fogged her with hair spray.

“There’s a typo in the copy, Cal,” the director said. A guy holding an open notebook was whispering in his ear. “It’s
Crooked Crowns -
not
Cracked.
Okay, clear it, Flo! Cal, whenever you’re ready.”

“Three, two - This is
Show-Biz Beat
special corr-”

“Sorry,” another guy in headsets interrupted. “We’re picking up the wind.”

The techie slipped a spongy blue cover over Callie’s microphone while she glanced through the pages in her hand.

“Okay, you’re good to go!” he said.

“The
Double Take
star will be performing tonight in spite of a recent leg injury. The irrepressible” - Callie looked at the
crowd, then back at her pages - “the irrepressible you-know-who was quoted as saying, ‘A little thing like a fractured tibia
and some torn cartilage ain’t gonna stop me from helping my school.’ What a remarkable young man!”

The director made a spinning motion with his hand.

“This is certainly a turnaround for hmm-hmm-hmm, whose rumored tantrums on the set forced network execs to cancel his popular
‘hitcom,’” Callie said, picking up the pace. “We’ll be backstage later on for an exclusive interview with Jeremy Jason Wilder.
Oops!”

The crowd screeched even louder than before.

I closed one of the windows halfway, careful not to get soot on my Prince costume. It was the one Felix had worn, which was
way too long but a heck of a lot nicer than the pillowcase tunic that Mrs. Dorkin had made me. I decided to wear the belt
I’d made from Dad’s neckties with it too.

“Come on, you guys,” I said to the cast, “you’d better get ready for the show.”

“You’re not in charge anymore,” Wally snapped, still acting like a wiener.

“It’s not even six o’clock,” Darlene said. She went back to brushing her wig on its Styrofoam head. “We have hours before
the curtain goes up.”

“Callie Sinclair looks a lot older in person,” Cynthia said, still peering out the window. “Don’t you think?”

“She’s still babe-alicious,” Wally said. He shoved a stack of
potato chips into his mouth and followed them up with a fistful of gummy worms.

“Gross!” Darlene said.

“I can’t help it.” Wally sucked in a dangling worm. “When I’m nervous, I eat.”

“Hey, Dustin, are we gonna be on TV?” Pepper asked.

“I doubt it. They’re just here for the interview.”

“But it is a possibility,” Darlene said, setting down her brush. “Omigod, all of a sudden I can’t breathe!”

Jeremy appeared in the doorway leaning on an old man cane. Flung over his shoulder was a garment bag with Hollywood Costume
Cavalcade printed on it. I thought that after his injury he’d drop out of the play for sure and I’d get my part back. No such
luck.

“Hi, Jer. How’s your leg?” I forced myself to say. I was making an effort to be as friendly as possible to him for the sake
of the play. He just ignored me.

“Where did that mob out there come from?” he asked.

“Willowbridge, Lotustown, Hinkleyville,” Millicent said, taking a break from chewing her hair. “We don’t get many live celebrities
in Buttermilk Falls.”

“We don’t get many dead ones either,” Wally said, snorting.

“Good news, kiddles!” Miss Van Rye announced, prancing into the room. In her sparkly silver dress and matching turban, she
looked like the world’s largest disco ball. “Tonight’s performance has been sold out since two o’clock - and now
we’re selling standing room to the Johnny-come-latelies. The box office is in such a tizzy. They’re taking in money hand over
fist!”

“They want me in costume for my interview,” Jeremy muttered, looking unimpressed. “So, where do I get dressed?”

“The girls are changing behind the upright piano,” Miss Van Rye said. She plopped down on the piano bench. “And the boys are
behind the puppet theater.”

Jeremy glanced at Wally’s head, which was bobbing up and down behind a giant dragon puppet, and grabbed his garment bag.

“Uh, I don’t think so,” he said, hobbling toward the door. “I’ll be in the boys’ John.”

“Okay, but don’t dillydally,” Miss Van Rye said. “We told
Show-Biz Beat
they could conduct your interview here at six-fifteen.”

“Break a leg tonight, Jeremy!” Darlene called. The door slammed. “Oh, no - I meant that in a good way!”

“Heavens to Betsy,” Miss Van Rye said, pumping the top of her dress for a breeze. Red blotches were sprouting up around her
neck, forming a map of the United States. “I hope I don’t pass out from the excitement.”

“Poor Jeremy,” Millicent cooed. “He can hardly walk.”

“I wish he’d ditch the cane,” Pepper said. “The Jester is supposed to be limber.”

“And the Princess is supposed to be beautiful,” Darlene said, turning on her.

“Don’t start!” I yelled.

“Besides,” Darlene went on, “the audience wouldn’t care if he did the whole show lying down. He’s Jeremy Jason Wilder!”

All the girls screamed and jumped around, imitating the crowd outside.

“Look! He forgot this,” Millicent said, holding up a small plastic bag that matched the Hollywood Costume Cavalcade garment
bag.

“Dustin, you’re in costume already,” Miss Van Rye said. “Why don’t you be a prince and take it to him?” She cackled suddenly.
“I mean, you are dressed the part!”

Don’t rub it in, lady.
After taking my starring role away and giving it to what’s-his-face, she was definitely off my Christmas list.

Millicent handed me the bag. I pulled out a pair of striped tights and two perfect curly-toed jester’s shoes with pompoms
at the tips. When I was the Jester I wore my aunt Birdie’s old house slippers, stuffed with newspaper.

“Quick like a bunny!” Miss Van Rye said, clapping. “And the rest of you should start getting dressed so we have time for a
proper warm-up.”

“No corks!” Darlene said.

I checked the boys’ bathroom across from the kindergarten
classroom, but Jeremy wasn’t there.
Why would he hobble all the way to the bathroom at the other end of the hall?
Crowds were already jamming the main entranceway near the auditorium. I tunneled my way through them and ended up smashed
against the box-office door. While I was there I figured I’d pop in and do another quick check on my family’s tickets. Miss
Van Rye was right - it was chaos inside.

“Excuse me. Did my family arrive yet?” I asked politely. “Grubbs.”

“You again?” one of the ladies barked. “Yes, yes, they just picked up the tickets.”

“Great! Uh, did
all
the Grubbses’ tickets get picked up?” The seat I’d reserved for Dad was away from the rest of my family - to avoid possible
bloodshed if he actually showed up. “See, there were six in one envelope,” I explained, “and then there was a single ticket
in a separate -”

“Young man, can’t you see we’ve got our hands full?” the lady said. “With you and that Jeremy Jason boy popping in and out
every minute, you’re driving us batty!”

“Sorry,” I said, edging toward the door. My elbow knocked a metal box off a table. I quickly picked it up, put it back, and
slipped into the hallway.

I decided to check for the gimp in the john at the deserted end of the hall. When I rounded the corner, I swear I saw someone
who looked an awful lot like Jeremy running - not limping - into the boys’ bathroom.
Bum leg, my foot!

Just as I was about to barge in and accuse Jeremy of being a phony, I heard arguing coming from inside.
Stop!
I told myself.
Just listen.
I pressed my ear to the door.

“Did you get it?” a muffled voice said.

“Yeah, just now. It’s in the stall with me.” I could barely hear, but I thought it was Jeremy. “Listen, I don’t have time
to [something] it right now. I have to get sweaty.”

That could’ve been “ready.”

“I knew you could pull it off,” the first voice said. “So fork it over.”

“Listen, I’m not sure this was such a hot idea,” Jeremy said. “If you could wait [something-something-something] return it
and pay you back with my own money. I’m good for it. But if I get busted [something-something] in big trouble, Gladys.”

The only Gladys I know is a cafeteria lady.

“Why the guilt trip all of a sudden? You said it yourself -they tricked you into this thing. They used your name to sell tickets,
so the [something-something] is rightfully yours. Now, get your [something] out here, man.”

“No!” Jeremy said.

I heard knocking that turned into pounding.

“We had a deal, and you’re sticking to it!”

That wasn’t Gladys. It was Travis - Buttrick! Jeremy and that lowlife really were in cahoots!

I pushed the door open a little and listened through the crack.

“Listen, Hollywood, who came crawling to who in the first
place?” Travis yelled. “I lent you as much as you wanted, and you agreed to pay me back by today, with interest. Forty percent!
You put it in writing!”

“So sue me,” Jeremy said.

“Grubbs! Where is Grubbs?”

Futterman was on a rampage, screaming my name in the hall.
Bad timing!
I flattened myself against the door, but it was too late. He was galloping right toward me.

“Jeremy, are you in here?” I said, rushing into the bathroom. “You forgot your shoes and tights. Oh, hi, Travis.”

“None of your business,” he growled, without my even asking anything.

“Okay, then,” I said. “If anyone comes looking, I’m not here.”

I hid in a corner of a doorless stall, wondering what I’d done this time to drive Futterman over the edge.

“All right, where is he?”
Futterman shouted.

“This isn’t over, Wilder,” Travis said on his way out. “Dustin’s right in there, Mr. Futterman.”

Futterman stood glaring at me, the veins on his temples throbbing.

“This time you’ve really gone too far,” he said, pointing a finger in my face. “Now don’t give me a big song and dance. Just
hand it over!”

“Hand what over, sir?”

“You know very well what I’m talking about,” Futterman said in a low, intense voice. “Mrs. Platt said you’ve been hanging
around the box office all night - and that you were there just now, creating a diversion, when the money disappeared.”

Suddenly that conversation between Jeremy and Travis I’d overheard was making sense. My mind was trying to piece all the facts
together so I could save my own hide.

“I didn’t take it!” I said. “But I think I know where the money might be.”

“Well?”

“In that stall with Jeremy.”

“Oh, give me a break,” Jeremy said from inside the stall. “He’s lying like a rug.”

“Open the door and prove me wrong.”

Futterman knocked on the stall door. “Come on out, Mr. Wilder.”

“I’m changing,” Jeremy snapped. “I’ve got an interview to do any minute.”

“Open that door right now!” Futterman demanded.

There was a pause. Then the stall door jiggled - and jiggled some more.

“I can’t,” Jeremy said, rattling the door. “It’s stuck!”

“Not again!”
Futterman and I both shouted.

“I’ve been meaning to get that thing fixed,” Futterman said.

As if things weren’t crazy enough, the director from
Show-Biz Beat
exploded into the bathroom, looking frazzled.

“Is Jeremy Jason Wilder here?” he asked. “Some lady in a turban told us he might be.”

“I’m here!” Jeremy said.

“Great!” The director opened the bathroom door and yelled into the hall, “Let’s set up!”

“In the can?” the cameraman asked, peeking inside.

“We don’t have a choice,” the director said, waving the whole crew in. “We’re on a super-tight schedule. C’mon, people! Chop-chop!”

The techies rushed around, unrolling cables, plugging in cords, and setting up equipment. Callie Sinclair floated in, still
going over her notes, while the makeup lady trailed her, brushing white flecks off her collar.