One Man Show (22 page)

“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 really 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!

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

D
ad 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.”

But there are a bunch of me’s. Happy me; bummed-out me; goofball me; don’t-mess-with-me me. Which one do they want? Probably
not terrified, sick-to-my-stomach me - even though that’s
the real me at the moment.
Suddenly I couldn’t swallow. Or breathe. Just my luck I’d drop dead before I reached the audition room.

“But my Kyle is supposed to be up next!” a loud woman complained to Sylvia as we passed the reception desk. “This is outrageous.
I’ll have you know he was the spokesbaby for Li’l Darlin’ Disposable Diapers.”