Take Two! (19 page)

The instructions said to initial the cast list to indicate that we’d accepted our parts. I was eagerly plucking a pen from
my backpack, when a bloodcurdling scream came from behind.
It was Darlene. “I’m guessing that was a scream of joy?” I asked as she butted her way next to me.

“Omigawd, are you kidding? I got the best role in the whole show. Two great numbers in act one – what’s not to like? I didn’t
know they were allowed to cast girls as boys.”

“Me neither.”

“Gimme your pen.” She swiped it out of my hand and initialed the list so enthusiastically she tore through the paper. I swiped
it back and was about to put my DG after the role of Bill Sikes when Darlene yanked my arm down.

“What’re ya doin’, dork? Your name’s down there. See?”

Megamouth was right. There it was – near the bottom.

Noah Claypole: D. Grubbs

“Noah Claypole?”
I muttered. “I’m not even sure who that –
Ugh!
The pimply undertaker’s assistant? But he’s only in one short scene!”

“And it’s a nonsinging, nondancing role,” Darlene happily reminded me. “Guess you can’t be the star of every show, huh?” I
had a strong urge to tap-dance on her smugly face. But before I could even say anything, she turned her nose up and went skipping
down the hall, rubbing it in with “Not everyone can be a triple threat!”

Oh, the inhumanity!
That meant I was practically in the chorus. One step away from being a freakin’ tree. My eyes zoomed back up the list. It
really did say G. Grubbs after Bill Sikes – not D. Grubbs.
G as in Gordy? As in my brother? Nuh-uh
.
No way
. There had to be another G. Grubbs at Fenton High. Either that or demons are skating around in Hades catching snowflakes
on their forked tongues ’cause it has definitely frozen over!

“Hey, you,” I heard in my ear. Pepper had snuck up on me -smelling like a girly-girl.

Riiing!
Saved by the bell! Without a word, I took off sprinting down the hall.

“What’s the rush?” she called out after me. I switched into second gear, passing Stewy, who was still whirling with joy. “Don’t
you wanna find out what happened to Zack at the mall? Let’s just say my kickboxing lessons really came in handy!”

“What?” I skidded to a halt and did an about-face. “Is that how he got that shiner? I don’t need you or anybody else to do
my fighting for me.”

“I was just trying to –”

“I think I know what you were trying to do,” I shot back. “Listen, I’m gonna need you to – just back off a little. Okay?”

And friendship number two bites the dust. My life, like Stewy Ziggler, was spinning out of control. I galloped to the end
of the hall where Miss Van Rye was herding her bubbly brood of kindergartners into her classroom.

“Excuse me,” I called out, catching her by surprise. “But we need to talk.”

“Oh, Dustin, can it wait? Let me get my kiddlings settled in first, and then –”

“I just wanna know if the G. Grubbs on the cast list is my brother?”

“Oh, he’s perfect for the role of Bill Sikes, don’t you think? He has a natural gruffness about him and a strong presence.
And such a nice, loud singing voice. Talent certainly runs in your family.”

Brain overload! Cannot compute!

Then it hit me like a ton of bricks and suddenly it all made sense. My acting book showing up in Gordy’s room; overhearing
his phone conversation about singing that Foo Fighters song; fisticuffs!
He wants fisticuffs? I’ll give him fisticuffs!

“Well, I’m glad you’re so in love with him – but you can count me out.” I took in a lungful of the Play-Doh and paste smell
wafting out of the kindergarten room. “I’ve been told by real professionals that charm and charisma are just pulsing through
my veins – that I’m something special. I’m not playing no Noah stinkin’ Claypole!”

“Oh, hon, you
are
special. But Noah has that riveting scene where he picks a fight with Oliver – you’ll be fabulous! And you know what they
say, ‘There are no small parts, only small –’”

“Actors, I know. But that’s just a bogus saying, like, ‘It doesn’t matter if you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.’
The truth is, there
are
small parts and winning
does
matter! So you can count me out – I’m not doing the show!”

“B.J., don’t!” Miss Van Rye yelled, poking her head into her classroom. “Stop jostling Jocelyn!”

“This was all Mr. Lynch’s idea, wasn’t it? He hates my guts.” “Oh, on the contrary –”

The second bell rang. I started to leave, but she grabbed my arm. “Dustin, I really wish you’d reconsider.”

“Well – some wishes don’t come true.”

I was beaten down. Hollow. Kicked in the shins by the showbiz gods and considering a new career in – I don’t know, patio furniture
sales? I had refused to speak to Gordy all week – just totally steered clear. But Friday after school, I was forced to share
a Hyundai with him and Mom.

See, Granny had insisted that their “bug problem” was getting worse, and she didn’t want the wedding guests thinking we lived
like a bunch of hillbillies. So Mr. Smashum offered to fumigate the entire downstairs the night before the wedding. No charge.
Major suck-up. Mom told Granny and my aunts they could all spend the night in our apartment and we would just stay over at
the Dew Drop Inn, since we were picking up Aunt Olive’s dress near there anyway. But really we were picking up Dad too. The
plan was to sneak him home the next day so he could pop out of the wedding cake
and surprise Aunt Olive. Not really pop out of the cake but same basic concept. Dad’s idea was brilliant – the only glimmer
of light in my otherwise rock-bottom existence. As long as he didn’t bail.

“Gawd, Mom,” I whined from the backseat. “Aren’t we there yet?”

“You’re driving like an old lady,” Gordy said. “Why won’t you let me get behind the wheel?”

“Because I want to get there in one piece. Can’t you guys find something constructive to do? I can remember when you’d both
be entertained for hours with just a coloring book and a box of crayons.”

“That was, like, a hundred years ago,” I reminded her. “One of us has matured since then. I’m not mentioning any names.”

I’d only brought along my history textbook,
Conflict of a Nation
. The thing is, it was the sort of book that once you put it down, you just couldn’t pick it up. I cracked it open anyway.
The unread postcard I was using as a bookmark slipped out.

HI, DG,

M
A
j
oR
D
i
SAS
t
ER
! My
DAD’S
DE
ci
DED
to
S
t
A
y out
HERE
F
o
R
AN
ot
HER
3 mo
N
t
HS
. At lE
A
st! H
E
lo
VE
s it. Mom H
A
t
ES
it. I’m
FREA
ki
NG
out Som
E
w
HERE
i
N
t
HE
mi
DD
l
E
.

XO

ELLEN

P.S. - B
E
Hom
E
Soo
N
, I Gu
ESS
. Kiss t
HE
kitty.

Hmm, it looks like LMNOP and I finally have something in common – nomad dads
. Just then Gordy whipped out his
Oliver!
script and started highlighting his lines – obviously to torture me. Even though the marker fumes filled the car, I decided
to ignore him. Be the better man. So I stared out the window thinking positive thoughts; reveling in the amazing Crayola colors
of the beautiful autumn day. The Mango Tango leaves blanketing the hillsides; the Radical Red maple trees blazing in the sun;
the Laser Lemon marker
sweeping
across the pages of my hateful brother’s script!

“Mom,” I yelled, “tell him to stop!”

“Stop what? I didn’t even do anything.”

“Dustin, he didn’t even do anything,” Mom echoed.

“He stole my life!”

And the gloves were officially off.

“Up yours, dweeb!” Gordy jabbed, glaring over the seat-back. “I just got two words for you: Jea-lous.”

“Don’t start!” Mom clicked on the radio. “This is supposed to be a happy occasion, so can we please just have a little
happy? One more outburst and I’m switching to the country station.”

She wasn’t kidding either. Eventually the
swish
of the marker turned into the
swish
of branches brushing against the car as we pulled up in front of the motel. I could see the blue
LuvQUEST.com
sign of Dad’s cab sticking up in the parking lot. Things were looking up – he’d actually showed!

“Hello, gorgeous family!” Dad greeted us from the doorway of the motel room, balancing an ice bucket on his head. “Perfect
timing – I just got here myself. I’m in the adjoining single, but I stocked your minifridge with Cokes in case you’re thirsty.”

I attacked Dad with a fierce hug, and Gordy gave him a quick one on his way to the soda stash. Mom was following it up with
a peck on the cheek when it hit me: The four of us were altogether in the same room for the first time since – forever. My
career may have been taking a nosedive but there was major progress on the home front. No wonder Dad seemed wired for sound.

“Hey, Gord! Man, you’re looking buff. You been working out? Lemme see those guns.”
Oh, puke
. “So what’s all this about you getting a part in the musical? I was floored when your mother told me – thought she was pullin’
my leg.”

I took a deep breath of pine and mildew and belly flopped onto one of the beds, determined to keep my cool. It turns
out The Dew Drop Inn was the perfect name for the joint because everything was damp – even the covers.

“Everybody knew Dustin had greasepaint in his blood,” Dad went on, “but, when’d
you
get bitten by the acting bug?”

“When he stole my life!” So much for keeping my cool.

“Shaddup, Freakshow!”

“Not a good topic of conversation, Ted,” Mom said from the other end of the room. She was taking clothes out of her suitcase
and hanging them on hangers, even though we were only staying for one damp night.

“It started as a joke – Rebecca dared me to try out ‘cause I needed extracurricular activities on my college aps. Who knew
they’d cast me in the stupid thing?” I buried my head under two pillows, but I could still hear. “… my English-lit teacher
said he’d guarantee me at least a C-plus if I went through with it. I know it’s lame, but I guess it ain’t gonna kill me,
right?”

That still didn’t explain why he kept the whole thing a big secret from me.

“Listen, boys, I have to go pick up your aunt’s dress,” Mom said as I emerged from the pillows. “And before I go, your father
and I have to talk.”

“So talk,” Gordy grunted.

“We need some alone time. Why don’t you watch TV in the next room or check out the pool or something so we can have a little
privacy.”

“But it’s an outdoor pool,” Gordy complained. “And it’s October. It’s probably empty.”

“So’s your head,” I told him. “Do you need a brick to fall on you? C’mon.”

Gordy followed me out the door and I swear he checked out the ceiling for falling bricks. He immediately took off without
me, sloshing through wet fallen leaves along the stretch of the motel.

“Hey, turdface, wait up!” I called out, but he kept going.

“Eat dirt and die.”

Nothing like brotherly love to warm the cockles of your heart. I caught up with him at the back of the hotel next to a trickling
creek. Gordy sat up on the warped picnic table, gnawing on dead thumbnail skin.

“Okay, I think we should call a truce,” I said, straddling the bench. Water droplets were falling from a giant elm, dotting
the table and sending shivers down my back. “You know, a cease-fire, a peace agreement – make nice.” I wanted to get the meaning
across in case
truce
wasn’t part of his third-grade vocabulary. “Just till after the wedding, while Dad’s around. I don’t know if he ever mentioned
it to you, but when I was in Chicago he told me he was thinking of moving back to Buttermilk Falls. Maybe. And who knows?
Mom and Dad might even be able to finally work things out.”

“You’re dreamin’.”

“Seriously! That’s probably what they’re talking about right
now. Lots of people get remarried to the same people they’d divorced. Mr. Futterman did.”

“Yeah. After his ex-wife went and got her bumpers overhauled at her plastic surgeon’s.”

“Hey, a recon-silicone-iation! Bah-
dum
-pum!”

That gem deserved a standing ovation, but Gordy barely cracked a smile.

“Well, whatever,” I said in my back-to-business voice, “No more fighting or we might drive him away for good. Deal?”

Gordy let out the longest, loudest belch I’d ever heard in my life. I mean, they could hear it in New Jersey. Then he ripped
off a strip of dead fingernail skin with his teeth and spit it into a bush before finally nodding in agreement.

“Should we shake on it,” I asked, “to seal the deal?”

“I ain’t shakin’ nothin’.”

That was the best I was going to get out of him. I left Gordy to his shredded fingers and gas, and headed back to our “suite.”
The lamp was on in our room, and I could see Mom and Dad sitting at the table near the window gazing at each other.
Longingly?
My conversation with Gordy was still fresh in my mind, so I wasn’t sure if what I was seeing was for real or just wishful
thinking. I hid behind a pungent and pinchy, wet pine tree to watch – okay, spy.

Nothing but a lot of gabbing going on and I was sinking into the mud, so I’d almost reconsidered – until Dad reached across
the table and took Mom’s hand – no, wait –
both
hands
into his and wasn’t letting go.
Interesting. But too good to be true?
There was more talking; some nodding. Laughter – always a good sign. Then Mom rose from her chair and floated over to Dad’s
side of the table.
And the plot thickens
. Hard to see with the darn curtains in the way, but it looked like she was touching his shoulders.
Okay, that’s more like it
. Make that
massaging
his shoulders.
Whoa!
And she didn’t let up for quite a while. (I tried high-fiving the squirrel next to me, but he scrambled up the tree.) Suddenly
I heard a scuffing noise coming from the room and when I looked back in, Dad was on his feet –
shoot
– and the chair was between the two of them.
No, don’t walk away! Stay… stay…
. And as if he could hear my thoughts, he inched around the chair getting closer to Mom. Closer – even closer….
And, ladies and gentlemen, they said it’d never happen, but there you have it – a full frontal embrace!