Authors: John J. Bonk
Finally he turned to me. From the look on his face you’d think I was dripping in raw sewage.
“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna blow chunks. I come bearing gifts. Well, gift.” I set the cookie on the napkin in front of him.
“Think of it as a peace offering for what happened on Saturday at Miss Pritch –”
He cut me off with, “Yeah, whatever.”
It suddenly hit me what a brilliant move this was on my part. Creating a diversion to save Candy
and
apologizing for the dance studio incident at the same time. I’m telling you, nobody could resist those butter cookies. When
they’re baking everyday at around ten-thirty, their sugary scent wafts through the halls, invading unsuspecting nostrils,
until the whole school is salivating. No wonder they jacked up the price.
“Fresh out of the oven,” I said temptingly. “Still warm. The edges are a crisp golden brown for the perfect amount of crunch.
A little taste of heaven.” Zack was staring a hole through the cookie and I heard him swallow hard. “See how perfectly round
this one is? And a lot bigger than normal.”
“Yeah,” Zack snarled, “like your head.” He crushed the cookie with his fist, grinding it into dust. A crash of thunder
rattled the windows. My insides were rattling too, but on the outside I was cucumber cool.
“Well, alrighty then.” I backed away slowly. “Some people prefer dunking them in milk, but whatever floats your boat. You
folks have a nice day.”
Felix gave me a half-wave and I moseyed back to my table.
“Great. Now you’re on Zack’s hit list,” Wally scolded as I slid back into my chair.
“I think I already was.”
“You must have a death wish or something. Either that or –” Wally gasped, as if he’d found the answer spelled out in his creamed
corn. “You’re in love with Candy Garboni!”
“Uh, try again. Not even close, my friend.”
Okay, maybe there was a minor fascination there, but nothing worth admitting out loud. When I glanced back at the Geyser Girls,
Candy was brushing a fleet of airplanes out of her hair, smiling away like it didn’t even bother her.
“Look at her, poor kid – putting on a brave front.”
“Gawd, Dust, you are clueless,” Pepper said, glaring at Candy. “I’m tellin’ ya, she’s in hog heaven.” I shook my head in disagreement.
“Everybody’s talking about how she’s gone from ‘drab to fab’ over the summer, but I honestly don’t get what the big deal is.
I mean did you ever see her up close? She’s very hairy.”
“Pepper, you’re a girl, right?” Wally asked.
“Pretty much.”
“Why do girls always fall for jocks?”
“Well, not all girls do – just most.” Pepper took a cut-up orange out of a plastic bag and handed a quarter each to Wally
and me. “Especially if the guy’s hot. Personally, I prefer the sensitive, artistic type. I happen to think Zack is a total
dirtbag.”
“Ditto,” Darlene said, sweeping up to our table. No one even saw her coming – like the measles. “Here, Pepper, you’re gonna
wanna sign this. Wipe your hands first, though, so you don’t muck it up.” She slapped a piece of notebook paper in front of
Pepper.
“What is it?” Pepper was busy licking her fingers.
“A petition,” Darlene replied, “for us to do
Annie
instead of
Oliver!
It’s obvious the Arts Committee has a thing for orphans, right? Well,
Annie
is crawling with them, and it’s a ten-times better show for a school to do than boring
Oliver!
”
“Ah, your ponytail’s pulled too tight,” I said, sucking away on my orange wedge. “A musical based on an old, dead comic strip
is more educational than a Dickens classic? Fess up. You just wanna play Annie.”
“Oh, butt out, butt face,” Darlene snapped, “nobody asked you to sign.” I flashed her a citrusy smile, with orange peel covering
my teeth. “It just makes better sense. There’re hardly any female roles in
Oliver!
– and no boys have even signed up to audition for it yet. Except one weirdo.”
“Hey!” I shouted.
Darlene bit the cap off her pen and handed it to Pepper. “There’s no tap dancing in it, either, Dustin-bin. So it looks like
you totally humiliated yourself for nothing at Miss Pritchard’s. Ha! Too bad, so sad.”
“Which you totally lied to me about,” I snapped, staring her in the face. “What the heck’s wrong with you? Who would do a
thing like that?”
“Listen, the more kids we pack into the tap classes, the more I get paid. It’s called being resourceful.”
“Well, that was a slimy thing to –”
“Live with it. C’mon, Pepper,” Darlene whined, “you’re holding me up. Are you gonna sign or not?”
“Don’t rush me. Umm… uhhh…” Pepper was twirling the pen through her fingers; then positioned it on the paper as if she were
going to sign.
“Not!”
she said, tossing the pen into the air.
“Fine! Who needs you?”
Darlene retrieved the pen and the petition, and stomped over to the Geyser Girl table. I strained to hear what she was yammering
about, but couldn’t really hear much until: “I just wasted five minutes of my lunch hour on a certain redheaded girl with
a Y chromosome. Oops! My mistake.”
“That’s it. She’s toast!” Pepper lurched out of her chair with a screech, but I pulled her back down.
“No, don’t.”
A stream of heavy rain suddenly pelted against the windows, sounding like machine-gun fire as the chatter from across the
aisle got louder and louder. It was as if the fury of the downpour was stirring things up in the cafeteria. Zack was sticking
his nose in the situation now too, peering over Candy’s shoulder and making fun of the whole petition idea. “You guys can’t
sign this thing,” he proclaimed.
Candy asked, “Why not?”
“Who cares
which
lame puppet show the Arts Committee wants to put on? Coach Mockler says they’re dipping into the phys ed budget in order
to do it.”
“That’s bogus.” Darlene’s hand flew to her hip. “Why would they need jock money? Think about it, genius. Fact:
The Castle of the Crooked Crowns
was a big, fat hit. Fact: It earned more profits than all the PTA bake sales and candy drives for the last three years combined.”
“Yeah, and this time Fenton High’s pitching in,” Maggie added, sauntering up to their table, picking at a cupcake. “It’s about
time us thespians got a little attention.”
“Thespians!” Tyler spouted, elbowing Pig. “I can’t believe she came right out and admitted it.”
“You’re an idiot!” Maggie snapped.
I kept feeding my face like it was best lunch ever, but I really was eavesdropping. I could tell Pepper was doing the same.
Hard to tell with the Walrus, though.
“Well – er, but,” Zack was sputtering, “the school shouldn’t have reneged on their promises to the Fireballs. How’s it gonna
look? Us hosting the Slam-Dunk Basketball Tourney without a freakin’ scoreboard?”
“Well, boo hoo for you, Betty Sue.” Darlene made a pouty face and mimed drying pretend tears. Maggie laughed outright, but
Zack looked steamed. You could practically see flames shooting from his eyes, like the ones on his Fireballs sweatshirt.
“Where’s your team loyalty?” he yelled in Darlene’s face. “I thought you guys wanna be cheerleaders!”
“Not anymore! I ain’t cheering for you lunkheads.”
“Most cheerleaders are dancers, Zack – and dancers like doing shows,” Candy said calmly. She was still perusing the petition
as if she were tempted to sign; twisting her mane so tightly it looked like a long, thick licorice stick. “I don’t see why
we can’t do both.”
“Because you can’t!”
Zack ripped the petition from her hand and bolted across the room with Darlene in hot pursuit. All eyes followed their wild
chase around the cafeteria as a loud crack of thunder rattled the windows. When the lightning follow-up came, they were face-to-face
in the aisle next to us, breathing heavily. Nostrils flaring. An irresistible force meeting an immovable object – or however
that thing goes. And the lunchroom monitor was nowhere in sight.
“Give it!” Darlene ordered, jutting out her hand.
“Shove it!”
Zack slowly and joyfully proceeded to rip her
Annie
petition into a million pieces while his cohorts cheered him on from their table. Darlene watched as the last piece of paper
hit the floor; then she grabbed an unopened bag of potato chips from our table and punch-popped it in Zack’s face.
“You die, Deluca!”
Chips shot up into the air and rained down on us like confetti. Cafeteria ladies were scurrying around in the background,
like water buffalo fleeing a tsunami. Some kids ran too, but I sat tight and let the chips fall where they may.
“C’mon, you guys,” I pleaded. “This isn’t how civilized middle-schoolers settle their –”
Before I could finish my sentence, Zack clobbered Darlene with a lime Jell-O surprise and she let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Just then lighting flashed across her face. I wish I’d had my camera because I swear she was a dead ringer for the Wicked
Witch of the West. Maggie and some other girls came rushing to her defense; and the Fireballs were scrambling over tables
to back up Zack.
“Kill the drama geeks!” Tyler hollered, slicing the air with a banana-sword.
Pepper joined the action too, countering with, “Kill the no-neck basketball freaks!”
“Yo!” I cried out. “What’re you doin’, man?”
“If you can’t beat ’em –”
Then the whole cafeteria went ballistic – I’m talking
major
food fight! It was unreal. Sandwich buns spun across the room like helicopter blades. Oranges were catapulted through an
onslaught of Twinkie torpedoes and corn kernels. Meatball bombs dropped. Juice-box grenades exploded. The air was thick with
the four basic food groups!
Being a pacifist, I ducked under the table for cover. Plus, I didn’t want to ruin the only stain-free shirt I owned. A split
second later Wally buckled under too.
“Hey, you gonna finish your chocolate milk?” he said, dragging his bassoon down with him. “Grab it for me. It’s just gonna
go to waste.”
“Jeez, what a mooch. We’re in the middle of a war here.”
“C’mon! I’ll thumb wrestle you for it.”
“That’s your answer to everything.”
I peeked over the edge of the table, barely dodging a Grubbs-seeking pickle missile. Just as I reached for the milk carton,
a loud whistle blast came from the doorway. It was Coach Mockler.
“Time out! Time out!”
he shouted, and blew his whistle so hard that it shot out of his mouth. Everything came to a sudden standstill except for
half a PB&J sandwich that was sliding down the wall.
“Holy… holy… holy,” Mockler uttered. He couldn’t quite get the “cow” out of his mouth. “In my twelve years at this
school I have never seen anything like this! This place is really going to pot. Holy… holy… holy…”
After Mockler’s blessing, questions were asked; fingers were pointed; and Darlene and Zack were collared. They were slip-sliding
past me en route to Principal Futterman’s office when I heard Zack mutter, “You’re goin’ down, Grubbs.”
“Huh?” I was totally confused. “What’d
I
do?”
“Dunno. But wherever you show your ugly face, disaster always follows.”
Warped logic. But definitely food for thought.
After school I practically froze to death in my flimsy jacket, puddle-hopping over to the Buttermilk Falls Public Library.
The endless rain had washed away any traces of summer weather, and the temperature had dropped suddenly, like, don’t look
now but,
poof
, it’s fall. I wanted to beat the rush and get first dibs on all things
Oliver!
at the library – but they ended up only having one CD of the 1963 original Broadway cast recording and a DVD of the 1968
movie. So I checked them both out along with
An Actor Prepares
and a book on foreign dialects, shoved them into my backpack, and splashed my way home. This kid had some prep work to do!
“Dustin? Is that you?” Mom called as I was speed-clomping my way upstairs. “Come down here.”
“In a second!”
Even with an umbrella I’d gotten totally drenched. I dropped the good-for-nothing thing on the floor and was
peeling off my waterlogged jeans when I realized I was being watched. LMNOP’s cat was stretched across my pillow, staring
at me in my tighty-whities with her creepy yellow eyes.
“Umm, excuse me, fuzz face,” I snapped, grabbing a pair of sweatpants for cover, “but this isn’t a free show.” I quickly hopped
into them and seized the peeping-Tom-cat. She purred at first, then turned and hissed at me when I dropped her onto the floor.
“Love me or hate me, tuna breath. Pick one.”
A picture postcard was sitting on the hairy pillow where Cinnamon had been. Mom must’ve brought it up to my room.
ANNISQUAN LIGHTHOUSE
, the caption read,
GLOUCESTER, MASSACHUSETTS
.
Jeez, LMNOP wasted no time
. I flipped it over to see what she had to say on the back:
Hi, Dusti
N
G
R
u
BBS
,
W
E’RE HERE AND
it’
S S
o
SPE
ct
A
cul
AR
!
G
UESS WHAT
?
I’VE GOT BANGS!!
She still manages to annoy me from clear across the United States
. I flung the postcard into the trash can; then emptied out my backpack onto my bed. A piece of paper was stuck to the DVD
– the permission slip for our field trip. I sat on the edge of my bed half-reading it, half-yanking off my wet socks. They
stretched three times their normal size before finally
springing off. I gave them a quick sniff (gross, I know, but it’s an automatic thing) and pitched them across the room. Back
to the permission slip…
to be signed by a parent or guardian granting my son/daughter permission to participate in the one-day field trip to the Shedd
Aquarium of Chicago.
“Mrrr-oow!”
All of a sudden Cinnamon bolted, and my umbrella popped open, showering me with cold rain. An icy shiver shot from my head
to my shins.