One Man Show (16 page)

“Please insert sixty cents for the next three minutes,” a voice interrupted.

Ugh!
I dug three more quarters out of my pocket and popped them into the slot, fumbling the last one. I was trying to think of
all the info I needed to include in my message. I’m pretty sure I got it all out in one breath.

“Tell him that Dustin is doing the lead in a play called
The Castle of the Crooked Clowns
- no,
Crooked Crowns -
uh, you really don’t have to give him the name - of the play, I mean, but it’s on May first at eight p.m. in the school auditorium.
And tell him that I’ll go ahead and reserve a seat for him, just in case he’s in the area.”

Gasp.

“That’s Saturday, May first, at eight!”

I doubted he’d show up. He might not even get the message. It was worth a shot.

The last thing you need when your life is a frazzled mess is to be forced into something you’re not cut out for. Gym class
was complete torture for me - let me count the ways. First off, the locker room smelled like feet. Second, there was all that
public undressing going on. I always beat the other boys to the locker room so I could change in private. (Scrawny kids shouldn’t
have to advertise it.) Third, they hadn’t invented a sport that I was even kinda-sorta good at.

I pulled my T-shirt off the top shelf of my gym locker and something fell out. A note:

J
EREMY AND
T
RA
vis ButtRick ARE iN cAhoots! B
WARE!

-A
FORMER FR
i
END

First the tabloid pages, now this? Beware of what? Jeremy and I were getting along great lately, and I’d never even seen him
give Butthead the time of day.

I looked up
cahoots
in my pocket dictionary just to be sure.

Ca•hoots
(ke-hoots)
pl.n. Informal.
Questionable collaboration; secret partnership:
an accountant in
cahoots
with organized crime.
[Perhaps from French
cahute,
cabin, from Old French, possibly blend of
cabane;
see
CABIN,
and
hutte.
See
HUT
.]

Now, who was this “former friend”?
Hmm, let’s see. A Jeremy Jason Wilder hater who’s allowed in the boys’ locker room. Duh. The Walrus strikes again! Case closed.

“Dusty, my man! Drop and give me twenty.”

It was Jeremy. See? Friendly, nice. The total opposite of Travis Buttrick.

“Hey, Jer,” I said. I flung the note into my locker and banged the door shut.

“Are we shooting hoops today?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.”

I never paid attention to what Coach Mockler said we’d be doing in our next class. I didn’t want to spend sleepless nights
worrying about it.

Jeremy changed into his gym clothes, and we sat facing each other on the long wooden bench, tying our sneakers. It was a good
thing I noticed the bottom of my shoe before Jeremy did. Wally had gone too far. Drawn on the sole of my right sneaker in
black marker was a giant

I slapped my feet on the ground so Jeremy wouldn’t see. He was busy stashing a roll of cash in his sock anyway.
Celebrities!

“Gum?” Jeremy asked, holding out a pack.

“Nuh-uh. We have class in, like, two minutes.”

“So? It’s just gym.” He threw me a piece, which, of course, I missed. “In case you change your mind.”

I had to admit, being friends with a TV star had its advantages. Even a stupid conversation with him made you feel important
somehow. I picked up the gum. Grape-flavored Chubby Bubble? I thought he’d chew some sort of imported designer gum.

“Can I ask you something?” Jeremy said. “It’s about the play.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it and - well, the Prince is kind of a small part. Great, but small.”

“And?”

I didn’t like where this was heading.

“Okay, I’ll cut to the chase.” Jeremy shot up and put one foot on the bench. “I think we should trade parts - you can be the
Prince, and I’ll be the Jester.”

Wow! I didn’t see that one coming.

“Face it,” he said, cracking his knuckles, “people are only coming to see this turkey because of me. They’re gonna ask for
their money back if I’m barely in it, right?”

I stared up at him. Words rushed to my mouth, but none came out.

“C’mon, we have a whole week of rehearsal left,” Jeremy said. He popped his gum. “That’s plenty of time to learn new roles.”
Pop! Snap!
“You said you had all the parts memorized anyway, so it’s no big deal, right?”
Smack!

Anger rose up my spine like mercury in a boiling thermometer.

Jeremy spat the wad of gum out and stuck it under the bench. “Flavor’s gone already,” he said. I should’ve reported him to
Coach Mockler for vandalism.

“I’ll think about it,” I muttered, but I didn’t really mean it.

“There’s nothing to think about, buddy,” he said, slapping my back. “Futterman and Van Rye already gave it the green light.”

“What?”

“Thanks a lot, Dusty,” he said. “You’re a real pro.”

“Dustin.”

“Huh?”

“My name is Dustin.”

“Okay, no problem,” Jeremy said, and drifted into the gym.

If I were a cartoon character, steam would’ve blown out of both my ears.
He can’t be the Jester! He’s about as funny as a swift knee to the groin!
I got up and kicked the heck out of the water fountain, then collapsed onto the bench.

Oh, who am I kidding? The school wouldn’t even be doing the play at all right now without his star power.

The locker room was filling up with the other boys from my class, who were laughing and locker slamming. I lined the piece
of Chubby Bubble across the room.

“Grubbs!” Coach Mockler said, coming out of his office. “Use the trash receptacle.”

He blew his whistle. Class was starting, so I followed the rest of the boys into the gymnasium. Mockler had us stand in one
long line while he took attendance and divided us into teams. Jeremy was a head taller than the rest of us - not to mention
almost old enough to vote. I squeezed in next to Wally.

“Thanks for the note,” I whispered. “You might be right.”

“What note?” Wally snarled.

“C’mon, ‘former friend,’ I know it was you. In my locker -the note, the sneakers -”

“I’m still not speaking to you, so quit making me speak.”

“Okay, listen up!” Coach Mockler said. “I’m scouting new recruits for next year’s Fireballs, so I’m going to be watching you
guys like a hawk today.”

The Buttermilk Falls Fireballs was our seventh- and eighth-grade boys’ basketball team. Everybody called them the Butterballs.

“Okay, guys, count off by twos, starting with Plunket.” Mockler blew four short whistle blasts to set the tempo.

“Jeremy just dropped a bomb on me,” I told Wally. The line was shouting “one, two, one, two,” so I didn’t need to whisper
anymore. “He wants to trade parts.”

“So?” Wally said. “Shut up or we’ll get in trouble.
One!”

“He’s such a -
two!
- face. And what’s the deal with him and Travis?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, listen up!” Mockler said again. “It’s the Shirts against the Skins. The ones are the Shirts; the twos are the Skins.
Got it?”

“I forgot what I am,” I said.

“I’m Shirts,” Wally said, “so you’re Skins. Too bad, so sad.”

“Oh, man!”

Me and the other Skins stripped down and threw our T-shirts on the bleachers. Being forced to play sports was bad enough,
but having to be half-naked at the same time was just “adding insult to injury,” as Aunt Olive says.

Mockler tossed the basketball into the air and everyone went for it like lions to fresh kill.
Let the fun begin!
The sounds of the ball bouncing and sneakers squeaking echoed off the gym walls while I ran into the outfield, or the end
zone, or whatever it’s called. I’d learned from experience that it was best to steer clear of the kids who actually knew what
they were doing.

Jeremy was the first to try for a basket. He leaped three feet into the air, heaving the ball clear across the gym. It missed.

“Ha-ha!” I said. I think Jeremy heard, ‘cause he shot me a dirty look.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that he’d been setting me up the whole time.
“The Prince is a juicy role
-
the most well written in the whole play.”
The tabloids were right - he really was a spoiled brat.

Some idiot threw me the ball. Somehow I caught it. I was going to toss it right back, but Mockler was looking my way, so I
danced around a little and grunted. Suddenly I was drowning in a blur of armpits and grabby hands.

“Dribble!” someone yelled as I charged across the floor, gripping the basketball. “Dribble!”

I wiped a hand across my mouth, but I wasn’t drooling.
What is he yelling about?

“Bounce the freakin’ ball!” Reggie MacPherson, one of the Skins, shouted.

Okay, I can do that.
I bounced it once. Twice. Couldn’t keep it going. A clump of Shirts was attacking, so I closed my eyes and hurled the ball
up toward the orange hoop.

I heard cheering.

“Did I make it?” I asked, opening my eyes. “Did I score points?”

“Yeah, two,” Reggie said, “for the other team! Wrong basket, meathead!”

Okay, that was it - back to the sidelines. Can’t say I didn’t try. After a lot more jumping around, some kids started
yelling, “Foul! Out of bounds!” Mockler gave his whistle a sharp blast.

“Free throw!” he shouted. “Plunket, you’re up!”

The game came to a standstill. All eyes were on Felix, who stared up at the basket, holding the ball as if it were made of
precious glass.

“Don’t freeze up, Felix!” someone shouted.

“Yeah, d-d-d-don’t freak out like you did in that stupid p-p-p-p-play!”

Who knew that another kid besides me was still suffering from the aftereffects of the play? Poor Felix was standing there,
sweating buckets, just like when he was the Prince. But he shut everyone up when he made the basket.

“Way to go, Felix!” I shouted.

Reggie shoved me.

“I know, I know, he’s on the other team.”

Mockler called a break, and everyone crowded around the water fountain.

“Nice shot,” I said, catching up to Felix. His sweat smelled like chicken soup.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I can’t believe people are still teasing you about the play.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, wiping his face on his T-shirt. “I was practically guaranteed a spot in the F-F-Fireballs next
year, but I think I blew it when the coach saw me freeze up on that stage. Now he knows I crack under pressure.”

“That’s not fair. You’re a great basketball player.”

“Even though that play was the worst thing that ever happened to me, I wish I had another shot at it,” Felix said. “A do-over.”

Wally was sucking the water fountain dry, and Brian Flabner gave him a poke.

“C’mon, Tubbo,” he said. “Save some for the fish.”

Wally turned around and squirted a mouthful of water at him - only it hit Jeremy instead.

“Hey, watch it!” Jeremy yelled. His sneakers were soaked. “These cost a fortune. Jerk!”

“Jeez, lighten up, it’s only water,” I said.

“They’re brand new, okay?”

“Sorry,” Wally said. “I’ll get some paper towels.”

“Too bad Mr. Hollywood can’t buy himself a little coordination,” Reggie said to Brian. “Maybe we’d be winning.”

Mockler blew his whistle. We all took quick slurps of water and rushed back onto the gym floor.

As soon as the game started, Mockler disappeared into his office and Jeremy took off with the ball. I don’t know what got
into him, but he was spinning the ball on his finger, bouncing it through his legs backward, sideways, really going nuts.

“What’s he trying to prove?” I said loud enough for Jeremy to hear.

I couldn’t stand to watch anymore, so I crouched down to retie my laces. Something slammed into me. Hard. The next
thing I knew, Jeremy was on the floor, tangled up in himself like a broken umbrella.

“Hey, man,” I said. “Are you all right?”

“Do I look all right?” he yelled. “My leg! Ohh, my
leeeg!”

“Let’s help him up,” Wally said, reaching for his arm.

“No!” Felix said, pulling Wally back. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to move somebody after they’ve f-f-f-fallen? You
could do serious damage.”

“I turn my back for two minutes!” Mockler said, jogging over to us with a first-aid kit. “What the heck happened here?”

“It was an accident,” I said.

“Or
not!”
Jeremy snapped.

“MacPherson, run and get Nurse Opal,” Mockler said. “Pronto!”

“I don’t want that cow touching me!” Jeremy hollered. “Get my cell phone from the locker room - I’m paging Evelyn.” Then he
pointed at me and said, “And get him outta my sight!”

It looked as if he was showing his true colors - and they weren’t just black and blue.