Take Two! (3 page)

My new teacher sure was a change from my Southern-peach-of-a-teach from sixth grade, Miss Honeywell. His name was Mr. Lynch,
and just like LMNOP had reported, he was wearing a bow tie – with red checks. His wrinkled brown suit was loose and crooked
(as Aunt Birdie would say, “he was swimming in it”) and he had a real pinched-nose-sounding voice. But other than that he
seemed all right.

“Welcome to seventh grade,” he declared, writing his name across the chalkboard in impossibly perfect cursives. “I know my
reputation precedes me, but I’m really not the stick-in-the-mud that some people think. However, I do have a few ground rules.
I won’t tolerate gum chewing in my class, or foodstuffs of any kind.”

Darlene asked if cough drops would be considered “foodstuffs” if they were being used strictly for medicinal purposes. Mr.
Lynch seemed thrown, but he okayed it. “There will be no whispering,” he droned on, settling at his desk, “no tardiness. And
note passing is strictly taboo.”

“Did he just say no tattoos?” my best friend, Wally, whispered to me, pulling tiny earphone plugs out of his ears. He’d disappeared
for half the summer – it was great knowing I’d see him again on a daily basis.

“No, Wal, but he did say no whispering.”

“The young man in the second row with the unkempt hair,” Lynch said, snapping his fingers at me. “Button your lip.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled.
Unkempt? Why, I oughta
…

“Now I realize some teachers let their students sit wherever they wish, but I prefer to do it in alphabetical order.” He
flipped open his long, green ledger. “It’s easier that way, so bear with me. When I call out your name, collect your belongings
and park yourself at your newly assigned desk. Michael Alvarez…”

Wally and I had been sitting next to each other in class since second grade. But if this guy was going to do it in alphabetical
order, that meant Wally Dorkin would be nowhere near –

“Dustin Grubbs…” Mr. Lynch paused after he got to my name, tugging at his collar. “That name sounds – (gulp) –
familiar
.”

Uh-oh
, here it comes. The lightbulb going off; the look of horror. I’d been through this routine with every teacher at BMFE.

“You’re not
Gordon
Grubbs’s brother, are you?”

It’s not exactly something you can lie about, but I didn’t want him thinking I was a carbon copy of that troublemaker either.

“Only by birth. But don’t worry, sir – all we have in common is excessive earwax. It’s genetic.”

Mr. Lynch closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath.
How could he not know who I am? Does he live under a rock? Didn’t he even see the play last year?

The desk I ended up with was right in the middle of the
third row and had graffiti on it – a bad sketch of a World War II fighter jet bombing a mutant octopus. Plus, hardened glue
was filling the pencil groove.
My pencils will be rolling off the desk all year!
Sixteen and a half minutes into seventh grade and I wanted to call it quits.

“Oh, shoot, shoot, shoot!” came from the desk in front of mine. Candice Garboni was frantically digging through her purse
and stuff was dropping out everywhere. I waited for Lynch to turn his back before retrieving a tiny jar of goop that had landed
on my sneaker.

“My Midnight Madness lip-plumping gloss,” she gasped when I handed it to her. “That’s what I was looking for!”

Speaking of maturing – Candice, aka Candy, was a girl I’d moved up through the ranks with since first grade, but I hadn’t
even recognized her until Lynch had assigned her desk. She’d always been quiet and nondescript except for her trademark straight,
black hair that hung halfway to the floor. She was still sporting that mane but,
yowza
, the rest of her sure had blossomed over the summer! It was as if she’d been an empty coloring-book outline of herself all
those years, and suddenly she was all filled in.

“Thanks, Dust,” Candy’s shiny mouth muttered as she hung her purse strap over her chair.

“You’re welcome. I like your new look. Not everyone can pull off purple lips.”

“We can all wait until Mr. Grubbs finishes his conversation,”
Mr. Lynch barked. Candy whipped her head back around so fast, her hair spilled all over my desk. It smelled like fresh strawberries.
“That’s two strikes against you already. And I believe strike three means you’re out.”

“That depends if you’re talking baseball or bowling.”

The class giggled, but Mr. Lynch, obviously having been born without a sense of humor, did not. Still, I gave myself points
for coming up with a sports joke.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Lynch said, striding over to the chalkboard and grabbing a fat chunk of chalk, “onto our
next order of business. On September twenty-third, our class along with Mrs. Sedgwick’s eighth-graders will be going on an
all-day field trip to the Shedd Aquarium. Truly, truly a fascinating place.” There were murmurs of excitement as he wrote
the info on the board. Stewy Ziggler was creeping down the aisle, copying every word into his notebook. The kid was no bigger
than a popcorn shrimp. “Now we thought it best to send permission slips home with everyone today, because – well, getting
them signed and returned on time is usually like pulling teeth. So please get this cemented in your brains, people: no slip,
no trip.”

I swear, right on the word
trip
somebody tripped Stewy. He landed hard – flat on his face right next to me. The class was in hysterics, but Lynch looked
outraged.

“Don’t you dare laugh!” he scolded. “Are you okay, Stewart?”

“Fine, sir.” Stewy scrambled to his feet and rushed back to
his seat. “Except – uh, I’m having a real problem seeing the board from my desk. Maggie’s hair is too poofy.”

Rustling filled the air and the class turned around in a single motion to gawk at Maggie Wathom, who’d been assigned the desk
in front of Stewy. He was right. It looked as if she’d been struck by lightning in a wind tunnel – while flossing with electrical
cords.

“
Eeew
, check out the bad perm!” Candy whispered. “Hello, 1980! I heard her mom’s practicing to get her beautician’s license and
uses Maggie as a guinea pig.”

“I can appreciate your dilemma, Stewart,” Mr. Lynch said dryly, referring back to his ledger. “Miss Wathom, why don’t you
switch places with him for today – until we can find a permanent solution.”

“A
permanent solution
caused her problem in the first place!” I blurted out.

Why do I do it?

The whole class busted out laughing again, even Maggie. But Mr. Lynch’s bow tie was twitching from the surge of anger rushing
to his face. Just when I thought he was going to hang me by my thumbs for my outburst, the classroom loudspeaker crackled
and burped, and Principal Futterman’s voice broke through.

“Welcome back, students! I trust you’ve all had an exciting summer and are eager to dive headfirst into the three
R
s: reading, writing, and arithmetic.”

Mr. Lynch stood at attention staring up at the loudspeaker, as if Futterman was the President of the United States.

“Wait, that’s actually only two
R
s. Am I right, Judith?” Futterman mumbled.

“That’s right, Dan, because you read it wrong,” we heard his secretary say. “It’s rithmetic, not arithmetic. It’s a time-worn
saying.”

“Rithmetic?
That’s not even a real word. What kind of example are we setting?”

“With all due respect, next time write your own darn speech!”

You tell him, Judith
. I couldn’t help cracking up.

“Anyway, students,” Futterman said over the sound of crumpling paper, “we’ve got a super year ahead of us with plenty of exciting
things planned. But right now Miss Van Rye, head of the newly sanctioned Arts Committee, is chomping at the bit with some
news to share.”

“Good mor –!!”
Miss Van Rye’s booming voice rattled the speaker. “Oh, too close? Sorry. How about now? Testing, testing. She sells seashells
by the seashore, she sells –”

“While I’m still young,” Futterman interrupted.

“Too late,” his secretary called out in the background.

“Good morning, munchkins,” Miss Van Rye said. “After the smashing success of last year’s play,
The Castle of the Crooked Crowns
, it’s clear that Buttermilk Fallians are culture-starved and hungry for more, more, more. So this year we
have something truly exciting planned: a big, splashy Broadway musical! But that’s not all. The Fenton High drama club, woefully
overlooked for years, is hitching their wagon to our star. That’s right, kiddles – we’ll be teaming up for a theatrical extravaganza,
the likes of which this town has never seen! Oooh, it’s so thrilling I can hardly stand it!”

My thoughts exactly! Darlene’s too, I’m guessing – she screamed full out.

“Performances will be at the high school in December, but the jury is still out as to which musical will be chosen. One thing
we know for sure: We’re going to need plenty of triple threats. So all you supertalents out there, now’s your chance to strut
your stuff! The sign-up sheet will be posted outside the main office at the beginning of next week. Back to you, Dan –
err
, Principal Futterman.”

Microphone fumbling… grumbling… rumbling. Then back to the Head Honcho.

“On a completely different note, it’s our turn to host the Slam-Dunk Basketball Tournament in April. Go, Fireballs!” Futterman
cleared his throat. “As some of you may have heard, Claymore Middle School in Lotustown hosted last year and it really put
them on the map. But I think we’ll be rubbing their noses in it when they get a load of the brand-spanking new Mascot 2000
digital scoreboard that’s just been delivered to our gymnasium.”

All the jocks in the room cheered for that news flash.

“However, due to some minor cutbacks, the new uniforms that were promised have now been scrapped.”

The cheering went sour and Danny “Pig” Piglowitz lined a spitball at the loudspeaker.

“Apparently theatrical extravaganzas don’t come cheap,” Futterman added. “My hands are tied, guys, but believe me, if I had
my druthers…”

Buzz. Burp. Click
.

What are druthers and how come nobody ever has any? I’d planned on looking that word up in the dictionary right after “triple
threat.” I wanted to make sure I had the meaning exactly right, but according to
The American Heritage Dictionary
, fourth edition, it didn’t exist. They had Triple Crown, triple-header, triple play – but no triple threat. I’d just have
to take LMNOP’s word for it. My acting chops were solid, but singing and dancing was uncharted territory, so I knew I’d better
get cracking.

All week long I toyed with the idea of cashing in one of my
Penny Pincher
coupons and taking a free tap class; and all week long the thought of being the only guy there made me squirrelly. But by
Saturday morning, I’d talked myself into it. I carbo-loaded with leftover Meatball Mania Pizza, stuffed Dad’s tap shoes into
my backpack, mounted my bike and headed for Miss Pritchard’s Academy of Dance.

I’d reached the center of town way too early, where I saw the screwballiest sight: Wally squeaking down Main Street on a
girl’s bicycle, complete with a white wicker basket and handgrips sprouting silver streamers. A cry for help maybe? You be
the judge.

“Hey, Wal, wait up!” Pedaling faster to catch up with him, I had a sudden stroke of genius. “What’re you doing right now?”

“Juggling chickens. What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Race you to the corner?” I challenged, air-revving my hand-grips.
“Vroom-vroom, vroom-vroom!
C’mon, winner gets a truth or dare.”

He looked at me as if
I
were the weirdo.

“What are we, like, five?” Wally asked. “You serious?”

“Yeah. Why not?

“Well, for starters, I’m lugging my bassoon and it weighs a ton. And this isn’t even my own bike – it’s my cousin’s.”

“Now that you mention it, what the heck’s wrong with you? Goldilocks wouldn’t be caught dead riding that thing.”

“My bike has a flat,” he snapped, “and I needed transportation. Cut me a break.”

At least it didn’t have training wheels.

“Okay, I’ll give you a five second lead so I won’t have an unfair advantage,” I bargained. “Ready? One Mississippi, two Mississippi
–”

“No, no, that’s not right,” Wally said all cranky, dragging his foot. “I’ll take a
twelve
second lead – and we’re not playing
hide-and-seek. There are no Mississippis in bike-race counting.”

“There’s no whining either.”

“Okay, first one to slap the mailbox on the corner of Cubberly and Main wins. On your mark, get set, go!” As soon as he had
both feet on the pedals, I shouted, “One, two, three-four-fi-si-sev-eigh-nitenelev-twelve!” and tore after him.

I was on his tail in a flash, and by the time we’d reached Pig’s Ear Antiques, Wally and I were neck and neck. I could hear
him moaning and his bassoon case rattling, so I coasted a little. He was thicker around the middle than he should’ve been
and I didn’t want him straining anything. All of a sudden he turned to me and snarled, “You’re goin’ down, sucker!”

“Oh, yeah?” I shot back. “Eat my dust!”

I stood up on my pedals, throwing all seventy-six and a half pounds of myself into it. Picturing my legs as powerful steel
machines operated by jet propulsion engines, I whizzed past Wally and headed for the finish line. I was pedaling so hard I
thought my bike would break in half.

“Woo-hoo!” I shouted, slapping the mailbox. “Dustin Grubbs wins it by a landslide!” No wonder so many kids love sports. It’s
actually kind of exhilarating – as long as you win. “Sweet victory! I am the conqueror, the annihilator! Oh, how the mighty
have fallen!”

Wally squeezed on the brakes and his bike came to a jerky stop. “Ah, get over yourself,” he huffed. His red cheeks were
streaked with sweat. “Okay, you won, big whoop – you set me up. Let’s make a pact never to do this again, okay? The carbuncle
on my thigh is on fire.”