Dancing Dudes (9 page)

I knew just the thing to do in those couple of minutes: brush my teeth again. I ran back to the bathroom, loaded up Peter with toothpaste, and started scrubbing. A few minutes later, I heard my mom.

“Raymond, I’m off the phone. What did you need?” she asked.

“Nothing, Mom,” I said happily. “I was just wondering where you found my favorite Peter Penguin toothbrush. My teeth feel better than ever!”

“I’m sorry, Raymond, what toothbrush are you talking about?” she asked, walking into the bathroom.

“This one,” I said, holding it up.

“Oh, dear!” Mom yelled, grabbing it from my hand. “Don’t put that in your mouth! It’s been in my cleaning bucket for ages. I use it to scrub corners and around the toilet.”

All of a sudden it seemed like she was speaking in slow motion. I tried to talk but couldn’t. “This was in the toilet?” I was finally able to say, feeling sick. The fresh, clean taste in my mouth suddenly disappeared, and terrible thoughts of what I had been scrubbing onto my teeth filled my brain.

“Yes, Raymond. I use that to clean the hard-to-reach areas of the toilet,” she said.

“Aaaaah, yuck!” I yelled, spitting into the sink. Then I stuck my mouth under the faucet for about five minutes.
I’m going to die!
I thought as water from the faucet filled my mouth.

“Mom, how could you?” I yelled, turning off the water. “Why didn’t you say anything about using my toothbrush to clean toilets? And why did you leave it here on the counter for me to use?” I went back to spitting into the sink.

“I’m sorry, Raymond,” she said, rubbing my back. “I was cleaning in here today and must have forgotten to put it away. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure I’ll be fine?” I cried. “How can I be fine? I’ve been scrubbing my teeth with a toilet brush!”

I went to my room to lie down.

“Why don’t you rest, and I’ll bring you a snack,” Mom said.

As I lay there wondering what was going to happen to me, Mom came back with a little plate of cookies.

“Mom, if I die from this, please don’t tell anyone that it was from some toilet disease. That would be way too embarrassing. Just tell everyone I died trying to rescue you or something.”

“Raymond, don’t be silly. You’re going to be fine,” she said. “Have a cookie and a little rest.”

I was still in my room when Dad came home. Mom must have told him what happened. He opened my door and poked his head in. “Hey, bud, I hear you were chewing on the toilet plunger.”

“Something like that,” I said. “Do you think I’m going to die?”

“Nah, look at old Maggie. She drinks out of the toilet every day and she’s fine,” Dad said.

I thought about that for a while, and he was right. Maybe I would survive after all.

That night, my dumb plain blue toothbrush had never looked better.

THE WEEKEND WENT
by way too fast, and it was Monday all over again and we were walking to school. I ended up telling Graham all about my toothbrush experience. I thought he would bring up the fact that real men don’t have cartoon character toothbrushes. But he didn’t.

“Well, speaking of teeth,” he said, looking down at the ground. “I’m getting out of school early today.”

“No way,” I said. “Where are you going?”

“I have to go to Dr. Fat Fingers for a checkup,” he said sadly.

“Are you serious?” I replied. “All I can say is I’m sorry,
hermano
. I wouldn’t wish a trip to Dr. Fat Fingers on my worst enemy. Not even on Lizzy.”

Dr. Fat Fingers is the nickname we gave to Diane’s dad, Dr. Dunstin. Almost all of my friends go to him for their dentist. He’s a nice man, but he should definitely not be a dentist. Mom says he’s a fine dentist and that we need to support our friends. But she never goes to him, just us kids.

Dr. Dunstin is a huge man. Diane told us he played basketball in college. He’s at least a foot taller than my dad. Being tall isn’t the problem . . . it’s his fingers. They’re
humongous
! They are at least twice as fat as a normal adult’s fingers. They’re probably great for playing basketball, but they are the absolute worst for working on kids’ teeth. I mean, even though he can barely fit one of those fingers in your mouth, he insists on sticking at least two or three in at a time, whether they fit or not. It should be a rule that people with fingers that big should only be allowed to work on people with huge mouths. I felt sorry for Graham, but I was glad it was him and not me going to the dentist that day.

Dance practice went well, even without Graham. I have to admit that I was a little jealous that Zach was dancing with Heidi. During a break, I tried to follow manly rule number four and talk to Heidi as much as possible.

“Hi, Heidi. Are you having fun?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure. Are you?” she asked. “And where’s Graham? Is he faking sick to get out of dancing today?”

“No, believe me, he’d much rather be here. He has a dentist appointment with Dr. Fat F—”

“Don’t even say it!” interrupted Diane, who was listening.

“No, what I meant to say was . . . um . . .” I stood there, trying to think of something, when Mrs. Gibson started the music and we all ran back to our places.

After school, I called Graham to see how his visit to Dr. Fat Fingers went. His whole mouth was numb, so I couldn’t understand him very well over the phone. He sounded funny, so I thought I would go down to his house to see if he looked funny, too.

Whenever I ride my bike to Graham’s house, I always do the same thing. As soon as I get to his driveway, I jump off the back and let my bike ride by itself until it crashes on his lawn. Today was no different. But this time I was going a little too fast, and when I jumped off and let my bike go, it kept going longer than usual and crashed into the bushes. As I was dragging it out, Graham opened the door. He said something to me, but I couldn’t understand. It sounded like he had a huge wad of gum in his mouth.

“What?” I said. “What are you saying?” Then I looked closer at him. “Whoa! Look at that bruise! I thought my last bruise was bad. But it was nothing compared to what Fat Fingers did to you!”

Graham looked at me like he was about to cry.

“Sorry, Graham.” Then I thought about Graham’s manly rule number one. “Hey, I thought rule number one was that real men never cry.” Then I looked closer at his face. “Hey, you’re not crying,” I said. “You’re laughing!” His face was still so numb his lips couldn’t make a smiling shape. It was crazy. His lips and cheeks were all saggy. He looked like an old man, but without wrinkles.

“Wash thish,” he said in a slurred voice, pinching himself on the cheek. “Doeshn’t hurt.”

“Whoa, that’s great!” I said. “Can I try?” I picked up a stick from the ground and poked him in the cheek.

“Noshing,” he said. Then he grabbed a bigger stick and smacked himself in the face.

“Nothing?” I asked.

“Noshing at all,” Graham replied, with that same crazy smile and slurred voice.

“Hey, try this,” I said, picking up a rock. “Press this on your face. Let’s see if it will make a design.” I pressed it hard against his cheek for about twenty seconds. “It worked!” I yelled. “Go look in the mirror.”

After looking in the mirror, we searched for other things to press into his face. We tried a quarter, a bottle cap, a plastic army man, and the bottom of a boot. While he was pressing the boot on his cheek, his eyes got all watery. He dropped the boot, walked into the bathroom, and closed the door.

“YEEEEOOWWW!!!”
he yelled. I could hear him jumping around in the bathroom.

“Graham, are you all right?” I called to him.

Slowly, he opened the door. He had all sorts of imprints and cuts on his face. The numbness must have been wearing off, because he was holding his face in pain. I could definitely tell that he was
not
smiling anymore.

This really did end up being the day that Graham broke manly rule number one. But I wasn’t going to call him a baby. I gave him a pat on the shoulder and told him he had better get some rest. Then I walked out the door, picked up my bike, and rode home.

FOR THE NEXT
two weeks, we practiced every single day for our big hoedown. On Thursday, the day before our performance, Mrs. Gibson reminded us to wear Western clothes. She told us to look for bandanas to tie around our necks, and if any of us had cowboy boots, we could wear them also. Brad Shaw was the only person I knew who wore cowboy boots.

After school, Graham and I played basketball all afternoon. As we played, we talked about the dance. Graham still had hopes that somehow he would end up dancing with Kelly. I didn’t say anything, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

We kept playing until Graham had to go in and eat dinner. I picked up my backpack and ran home to do the same. When I got there, on my bed was a great red bandana, a new Western shirt, and, best of all, a real cowboy hat. I put on the hat and ran into the kitchen, where my mom was making one of my favorite dinners . . . spaghetti and meatballs.

“All right!” I said. “I love spaghetti! Hey, and thanks for all the cowboy stuff. It’s great!”

“I just wanted you to be the most handsome cowboy out there tomorrow,” Mom said, smiling.

“Well, I am kind of excited about it. Except for one thing . . . dancing with Mrs. Gibson,” I said. “I just can’t believe I have to dance with the teacher.”

“Oh, it won’t be so bad,” Mom said.

After dinner I finished my homework and went to bed early. I closed my eyes for what seemed like a few seconds and it was morning. I had some cereal, brushed my teeth with my blue toothbrush, and headed down the street.

“Howdy, pardner. Nice shirt,” I said to Graham, who was also in a Western shirt.

“You, too, cowboy,” Graham answered. We both spoke with a Western accent.

“You reckon there’s any chance of me dancin’ with little ol’ Kelly?” Graham said, walking bow-legged.

“Well, I reckon not, cowboy,” I said. “It would take a heap of good luck for that to happen. How about me dancing with Heidi? Do you reckon that could still happen?”

“No, there ain’t no way that’s happenin’ either . . . I reckon,” Graham said.

We got to school and decided we would talk like cowboys the whole day. Everyone in our class had dressed up, except David. He punched me in the arm when I walked in and told me I looked like a dork. I don’t know what got into me, but I punched him right back and said, “I reckon you shouldn’t mess with old Tex.” David gave me a strange look and backed up to his seat, without even another punch.

“Whoa, what was that all about?” Graham asked. “I’ve never seen David back off without getting in the last punch.”

“I don’t know. I think it’s these cowboy clothes. They make me feel kind of tough or something,”

“Or kind of
manly
,” Graham said. His eyes got big. “Hey, I think it’s my manly coaching paying off.”

“Good morning, students,” Mrs. Gibson said. “You all look so festive today. Thank you for dressing up. David, I have an extra bandana you can wear.” David looked mad but didn’t say anything. “And everyone is here except Zach. I’m going to call his home to find out if he’s going to be able to make it. But if he won’t be here, Raymond, would you mind dancing with Heidi?”

“Would I ever!” I blurted out. Everyone turned and looked at me. Diane started laughing. “I mean . . . I . . . um, reckon that would be all right.” I looked over at Graham, and he gave me a thumbs-up sign.

We spent the rest of the morning doing regular school stuff. We had a spelling test and did some math. For some reason everything was more fun, even schoolwork, when I was dressed as a cowboy. In no time at all, it was time to line up for lunch.

“What kind of grub do you reckon they’re cookin’ today?” I asked Graham on the way to the lunchroom.