Take Two! (21 page)

“All right then, if anyone has any questions or comments they’d like to make, please raise your hand and we’ll take you one
at a time. Yes, Mr. Kincaid? Come up to the microphone so everyone can hear you.”

As Zack’s dad was steamrolling his way toward the stage, Pepper leaned in close to whisper something and I flinched. Knee-jerk
reaction. Okay, maybe just a jerk reaction. Whatever she was going to say turned into, “Remember when I pretended to put the
moves on you at the mall? You knew that was a joke, right?”

“Good one.”

“I was just horsin’ around.”

“Yeah, I know” –
that you’re lying through your teeth
.

Truth is, she probably still had a crush.
I can’t believe I was
so clueless
. Maybe it would fade away eventually like a summer tan. As long as our friendship stayed put – that’s all that mattered.

“Can everybody hear meee
EEEEIIIKK
!” Feedback. Mr. Kincaid backed off the mic. “I’m just gonna cut to the chase,” he said, holding up a bunch of rumpled papers.
“What I got here is a petition signed by half the people in this town in favor of canning the Arts Committee
and
their show. For good. Like Emmett said, it wasn’t until they came along with their crazy ideas that our athletes started
getting the shaft.”

“That’s absurd!” Mr. Lynch snarled. Hot, angry murmurs came from the other teachers onstage. I could feel the heat that had
been brewing inside me all morning bubbling up to a boil as well. Even though I had turned down the show, Mr. Kincaid’s words
really ticked me off.

“I mean where are the new uniforms these kids were promised?” he fumed on. “Where’s the digital scoreboard? Where’s the coach?”
He was tapping his finger on the podium as he spoke, like a hostile orchestra conductor with his baton. “Some of these boys
got real talent. And everyone knows darn well if they’re gonna have half a shot at going pro, they’ve gotta start young. Our
schools need
more
funding to support these gifted kids – not less!”

“But what about the
other
gifted kids?” I hollered, shooting out of my seat. “Like the drama geeks or the music nerds?” My feet were starting down
the aisle – I don’t know what had
possessed me. “Or that strange boy who’s always hiding out in stairwells making up haiku? I’m sure you remember them, sir.
You used to steal their lunch money when you were little.”

The audience cracked up, fueling me even faster toward the stage.

“Listen, smart-mouth, Buttermilk Falls has always been a sports town!” Mr. Kincaid’s whole head turned bright red. Really
lit up, like Rudolph-the-Red-Necked-Reindeer’s nose. “If folks want that sissified stuff they should move to the city with
the rest of the freaks. That’s all I got to say.” He pushed away from the podium and slapped his petition into Futter-man’s
chest.

“Good afternoon,” I said taking over the microphone. “Dustin Grubbs, arts advocate. Sissified stuff, Mr. Kincaid? Meaning,
like – oh, I don’t know,
ballet
, for instance? It’s funny, ‘cause I happened to stop by Miss Pritchard’s School of Dance the other day and you’ll never guess
who I ran into –”

I caught a glimpse of Zack’s purple face scowling up at me, surrounded by an arsenal of Fireballs.
Brace yourself, sucker. It’s payback time
. I was a breath away from getting even with him for all the shoves, the T-shirts – the Raid. But as I watched his gorilla
of a dad barreling toward him, something clicked in my brain. Suddenly I saw Zack as just a gung ho kid with an impossible
dream and a messed-up father. Suddenly he was me.

“Uh, never mind,” I muttered, and left it at that. I could actually hear Zack’s sigh of relief. “Anyway, here’s how I see
the situation. Some kids are great at shooting baskets, right? Like Zack Kincaid. And other kids are great at – maybe
weaving
baskets.” The crowd groaned. “Some kids can wow a crowd with a triple play; other kids can wow a crowd with triple pirouettes
and
acting
in a play.”
Ugh
. “Well, you get my drift.”

“Yeah, but what’re you getting so high and mighty about, Benedict Arnold?” Darlene yelled from the second row. “You quit our
play!”

“Excellent point.” I wanted to wring her chicken neck. “Well, maybe I made a big mistake. It happens. Maybe I’m back in again
– if it’s not too late.”

I turned to the Arts Committee to see Miss Honeywell and Miss Van Rye smiling big and nodding. Mr. Lynch actually gave me
the thumbs-up!
Our Mr. Lynch?
There was a smattering of applause and a flashbulb went off.
Paparazzi?
This was getting cooler by the second. I was back at the mic, about to wrap things up when I felt a tugging at my rear end
– and a draft. The next thing I know, London Bridge wasn’t the only thing falling down! I bent over to hike up my sweatpants,
then –
boom
– cut to me flailing on the ground drowning in slobber!

“No, baby, no!” I heard over running footsteps.

“I begged you not to, Vicky, but you did it anyway,” Futterman
groused as I struggled to my knees, wiping drool from my eyes. “You took him to the Pampered Pooch, didn’t you?”

It was Shatzi! I should’ve recognized him by his pungent breath, if nothing else. He was sporting a new French poodle, pom-pom,
show-dog cut – topped off with his fierce Doberman head. You didn’t know whether he was going to dance the cancan or rip your
face off.

“Shatzi, how ya doin’, boy?” I gushed, scratching behind his pointed ears. “Did that nice vet in Normal make your leg all
better?” It was wrapped in an embarrassingly pink bandage that matched his embarrassingly pink rhinestone collar.
Have mercy
.

“Wait a second – that was you?” the woman asked excitedly. She turned out to be the new and improved Mrs. Futterman, all platinum
blond and inflated. “You’re Dustin Grubbs, right?
You
rescued my baby?”

“Yeah, with my – my dad.” Weird how I almost couldn’t get the D-word out. “Didn’t the vet tell you?” I said, rolling to my
feet. “We left all our info with him – at least I think we did. We were in such a hurry that night – gawd, who knows?”

Mrs. Futterman took to rummaging through her purse while Shatzi took to humping my leg. With gusto. The audience was grumbling
impatiently and I was struggling to save my dignity when Mrs. Futterman handed me a piece of a paper. A check – made out in
my name. For “A thousand dollars?”

“Didn’t you see our fliers? It’s the reward money we’d offered. I have to say you’ve more than earned it.” I’d barely gotten
my “thank you” out when she turned to the audience and announced, “This young man saved my baby with the breath of life.”
She was gesturing to me like I was a washer-dryer combo on
The Price is Right
. “From what I’ve been told, he’s a bona fide hero!”

Applause. More flashbulbs. I held up the check for the audience to see while my leg was still under heavy attack. I swear
it was like we were putting on the strangest show on Earth. “Mon Dieu! Shatzi, nein. Nein!” Mrs. Futterman scolded, pulling
the dog off me. He whimpered and whined as she led him offstage.

“Well, this is all real sentimental-like,” that Otis guy complained, scooting through his row, “but it ain’t solved diddly.
I’m going home to watch the Bears game, but as far as I’m concerned this war ain’t over – it’s only begun.”

“Wait!” I lunged for the podium. Divine inspiration was showering down on me and I had to act fast before I had time to reconsider.
“Okay, here’s the deal. Whoever took the spotlight, returns it with no questions asked. Got it?” I looked over at Zack to
make sure he was listening. He was. “Promise you’ll let us put on our production of
Oliver!
with no picketing, no – pot banging… and I – I sign this check over to the Fireballs right now. To buy a scoreboard, or uniforms,
or whatever the heck you guys want!”

I couldn’t believe what had just come out of my mouth – but it turned out to be a real crowd-pleaser. Even Shatzi was barking
from the wings.

“A measly grand ain’t gonna solve nothing,” Mr. Kincaid snarled, jumping to his feet. Zack yanked him right back down with
“Give him a freakin’ break, Dad!”

“It’s a start, Mr. Kincaid,” I said with a steady gaze. “Look, if a Doberman pinscher and a poodle can coexist peacefully
in the same dog, why can’t sports and culture coexist peacefully in the same town?”

“Oh, brother!” Darlene spouted. “You really stink with those metaphors.”

Okay, not exactly Shakespeare. But before the week was out, that idiotic quote would appear in the
Penny Pincher
, the
Buttermilk Falls Bugle
, and the
Hinkleyville Herald
. (Stick it, Darlene!) Right under a photo of me holding the check in my “Give Peas a Chance” sweatshirt, with Shatzi doing
the dance-of-love on my leg.

“Happy wedding day!”

“Oh, Dustin, you scared the bejesus out of me,” Aunt Olive said, clutching the top of her robe. “But don’t you look dapper
in your blue tweed suit.”

“Blue!” Aunt Birdie exclaimed. Her hair was piled a mile high and she was frantically picking threads off the wedding dress,
which was spread out across the bed. “You’ve got Nana Grubbs’s lace hanky for your something old, and your dress is new –
but you need something blue, Olive.”

“How about my varicose veins?” They both erupted in a glass-shattering cackle.

“We’ll
all
be turning blue if it gets any colder outside,” Aunt Birdie added.

I was already blue – both inside and out. Being back in the play and everything (whatever the role) gave my spirits a boost,
but the Dad incident was still gnawing away at my
guts. As my aunts were in a tailspin muttering “blue-blue-blue,” it dawned on me that it was perfect timing to present my
gift.

“I didn’t have time to wrap it,” I said, snatching the tiny, white box from my pocket and plucking off the lid, “but will
this do?” My aunts turned to look.

“Oh!” Aunt Olive gushed. Her cheeks went wet with tears faster than her hand could cover her mouth. “It’s breathtaking.”

The blue crystals on the dragonfly pin did look awesome, glimmering against the purple, velvet lining. Aunt Olive pinned it
onto the jacket of her dress, then pinned me in one of her bear hugs. They usually made me squirmy – but with her moving to
Hinkleyville in a matter of hours, I didn’t want this one to stop.

“Okay, Olive, pull yourself together.” Aunt Birdie took her by the arm and sat her in front of the vanity mirror. “Let’s get
your wiglet attached right now so we have time to squeeze you into that girdle.”

That was my cue to leave. “What about Granny?” I whispered on my way into the hall. “Is she still acting all – crotchety?”

“Does a woodpecker squat in the woods?” Aunt Birdie mumbled through the clump of hairpins poking out of her mouth. “Haven’t
seen hide nor seek of her all morning.”

I was just going to walk right by Granny’s bedroom door.
Having to fake a happy face all day was going to be hard enough without her giving me grief. But something made me grit my
teeth and knock.

“Gran?” I said. “It’s me, Dustin. You decent?”

I pushed the door open a crack and peeked inside. The usual rubbing alcohol smell of her room was camouflaged by heavy perfume.
“Are you sleeping?” No answer. It was dark, but I could still see a crown of silver braids sticking out from the covers.
Something’s definitely up
. I knew I was asking for it, but I took a deep breath and whipped off her blanket in a single throw.

“Hey!” Granny screeched, springing to life.

She was wearing her navy blue church dress and the good stockings that go all the way up. Plus, her false teeth were in her
mouth ready for action.

“You’ve changed your mind,” I said, grinning. “You’re coming to the wedding!”

“Nobody said no such thing.”

“Well, today’s not Sunday, so why are you so dressed up?”

“In case I die in my sleep, I’ll be all ready to ship to the funeral parlor.”

“Don’t kid a kidder, kid. You’re busted.”

“Humph!”
she replied, and pulled the covers back over herself.

I stared down at her for the longest time, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did. Finally I’d had it.
“When’s it gonna sink in?” I yelled, ripping open the drapes. A tornado of dust specks swirled through the air. “This is it!
Aunt Olive’s getting married today and moving away and there’s not a doggone thing you can do to change that. Zilch, nada,
nothin’. So you can either be Granny Grudge and lock yourself in your room all day, tearing yourself up inside – or join the
party.”

Her usual response would have been to go for the jugular. But she just lay there blinking up at the ceiling. “It’s your choice,”
I jabbed, storming out of her room. “But either way, she’s still leaving.”

I slammed the door and stepped into what had transformed into Grand Central Station. On my way into the kitchen, a mishmash
of flowers, food, and people whizzed past me: the butcher, the baker, the finger-food maker. Aunt Birdie was already at the
open refrigerator, strapping on a wrist corsage and barking orders at the caterers. Foil-covered trays lined the counters,
and there were smelly, mystery-meat UFOs smoking on the stove – Unidentified Frying Objects.

“Uh-oh! Aunt Birdie, have you seen the cat?”

“Oh, Ellen picked Cinnamon up early this morning. I tell ya, I’m sure gonna miss that li’l pussy-puss-puss.”

“LMNOP is back?”

I snatched a deviled egg from a tray and popped it into my mouth just as Father Downing was squeezing by, carrying a Bible,
earmuffs, and a steaming coffee-to-go cup.

“Am I headed in the right direction?” he asked.

“Yeah, out back,” I told him, swallowing fast. “Hang a left at the compost heap and aim for the frozen guests. Break a leg,
Father.”

“Olive, the priest is here!” Aunt Birdie called out. “Chop-chop!”

“Say, I understand you really shook things up at the high school today,” he said as he weaved through the wedding workers.
“Quite a noble gesture, sacrificing that check the way you did.”