Don't Tap-Dance on Your Teacher (3 page)

The next day at circle time, Ms. Diz made an announcement.

“Class,” she said, “this morning I put a sign-up sheet on the bulletin board. The whole school is having a celebration for Mrs. Herman in a couple weeks. She's retiring at the end of the school year.”

Mrs. Herman is one of the kindergarten teachers.

She is about one hundred and sixty years old.

“Do you realize that Mrs. Herman has been a teacher here for thirty-seven years?” asked Ms. Diz.

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Wow. Imagine that! Thirty. Seven. Years.”

She looked a little woozy when she opened her eyes.

“Anyway,” she went on, “we're going to have a talent show as part of the celebration. That's what the sign-up sheet is for.”

Emma nudged me with her elbow.

“Roscoe, you know what I was thinking?” she whispered.

“Nope,” I said.

Half the time I don't even know what
I'm
thinking.

“You and I could enter the talent show. We could do ‘The Mice and the Elephants' dance.”

I thought about being the only boy in Miss Trixie's class.

“Please?” Emma begged. “Mrs. Herman
was my kindergarten teacher and she was the best. I really want to be in her show!”

I thought about the tap-dancing guy on the DVD Ms. Diz had shown our class.

And then I thought about being the loudest elephant in the history of elephants.

“PLEASE?” Emma looked at me with a hopeful, we're-best-buddies face.

How could I say no?

“Okay,” I agreed.

“Emma and Roscoe,” Ms. Diz said. “Is there something you want to share with the class?”

That is Teacher for “Your mouths are open when they are supposed to be closed.”

“Sorry, Ms. Diz,” said Emma. “We were just deciding to enter the talent show. As tap dancers.”

Wyatt made a pig-snort laugh. “
Roscoe's
going to dance? Will he be wearing a tutu?”

“That's just for ballet dancers,” I said. “And tap dancers get to make lots of noise.

It's way fun.”

“I think it's wonderful that you want to be in the show,” said Ms. Diz. “You two will make a great addition.”

I watched Emma go over to the bulletin board and sign our names.

Then I rolled my eyes at Wyatt.

Which is like sticking out your tongue with your eyeballs.

I decided that having Wyatt make fun of me wasn't so bad.

After all, I was used to it.

Besides, nobody else had laughed at the idea of me being a tap dancer.

Max was probably wrong about that
whole teasing thing.

Max is almost always wrong.

Emma came back to the circle doing a heel-toe on the carpet.

“We're all signed up,” she said. “I'm so excited! This is going to be a blast!”

She looked so happy and sure that I felt happy and sure too.

Unlike Max, Emma is almost always right.

At our next lesson, Miss Trixie said we could borrow her “Mice and Elephants” music CD for the talent show.

We decided that Emma would dance the mouse part for the talent show. And I would be the elephant.

Because I am a talented stomper.

Every chance I got, I practiced my stomping.

I practiced stomping so much that Dad said maybe he would have to send my tap shoes on a long vacation to somewhere very far away.

I practiced so much that when the morning of the talent show came, I wasn't even hardly nervous.

On the playground that morning, Emma and I worked on our dance.

Even though our tap shoes were in our cubbies, we hummed the music while we tapped on the blacktop near the basketball court.

Gus watched us while he swung from the monkey bars.

When we were done, he yelled, “Way to go! Do it again, guys!”

We tapped again.

“Mrs. Herman is going to love this,” Emma said. “I can't wait until she sees us!”

Some other kids gathered to watch.

It was kind of fun, having an audience.

We tapped and stomped and twinkled.

When one of us had a solo part, the other one stood and watched.

You could tell whose turn it was from the sound of the music.

My elephant part was loud and stompy.

Emma's mouse part was quiet and twinkly.

“Look at the two little dancing girls!” someone yelled.

Two older boys were staring at us.

And laughing.

In that special mean way only big boys know how to do.

“No, wait! One of the girls is a guy!” said the biggest big boy.

“Twinkle-toes over there? No way! That is a girl for sure!” said the other one.

Gus jumped off the monkey bars.

“Of course he's a guy!” he yelled back. “He has short hair and his name is Roscoe.

DUH.”

The boys just laughed and walked off.

It was nice to have Gus defend me.

But suddenly I felt exactly like I had those first few minutes at Miss Trixie's.

When I'd realized I was a guy surrounded by a gigantic roomful of tapping people who were definitely
not
guys.

Ms. Diz walked over. “Roscoe,” she said, “I hope you'll ignore those comments. You understand that tap dance is for girls
and
boys, right?”

“I guess,” I said quietly.

Emma was watching me with her worried face.

“I'm kind of pooped out from practicing,” I said. “I think I'll go swing for a while, Emma.”

I headed for the swings.

It was one thing to get teased by Wyatt.

He makes fun of everybody.

But those big guys would be in the audience that afternoon.

Along with lots of other big guys.

Maybe even bigger guys.

I started swinging.

And thought.

I swung higher and higher.

I liked being an elephant.

But I didn't like getting teased.

It was okay for Emma. Nobody was
going to make fun of her.

The bell rang.

I watched the classes start forming their lines.

I could see the big boys getting ready to go into their classroom. They were laughing their mean laughs again.

I had to get out of dancing. Somehow.

I made a decision.

My conscience was going to give me trouble on this one.

That's the naggy little person who lives in your brain and makes you feel guilty about stuff.

Man, I hate that guy sometimes.

I jumped off the swing.

I landed on the soft stuff they put on the ground around the swings and monkey bars.

But instead of walking away, I rolled
onto the ground.

“OW!” I cried. “OW OW OW!”

“Roscoe, what's wrong?” Ms. Diz asked.

She ran over and knelt down beside me.

“I fell off the swing and I think I broke something!” I said.

“Where does it hurt?” Ms. Diz asked.

“Everywhere,” I said.

I looked at Emma.

Especially my conscience,
I thought.

Ms. Diz helped me limp to the nurse's office.

When I sat down in a green plastic chair, I remembered to groan a little.

“I'll go find the nurse,” said Ms. Diz. “Roscoe, you stay put.”

While she was gone, I thought about what injuries I needed.

They would have to be bad enough to get me out of the talent show.

Not
ambulance
bad.

But bad enough to get me a nice pair of crutches.

It wouldn't be easy.

I knew Ms. Vasquez, the nurse.

She'd been a nurse a long time. She could spot a faker a mile away.

The door opened.

I closed my eyes. I groaned and grabbed my busted leg.

I groaned so well that even
I
believed me.

“Here's the patient,” said Ms. Diz. “Roscoe, I'll check on you in a while, sweetie.”

I opened my eyes.

Where was Ms. Vasquez?

A
man
was standing there!

He was tall and skinny, with one of the heart-hearing death-o-scopes around his neck.

A doctor? This was bad news.

Doctors had X-ray machines.

They could look inside and tell when you were faking.

Kind of like moms.

“You're not Ms. Vasquez,” I said.

“She's got a cold,” the man said.

“I don't need a whole doctor. A nurse will be plenty, I think.”

The man smiled.

“I
am
a nurse, Roscoe. My name's John Oshkosh.”

I accidentally laughed.

“Which part are you laughing at?” he asked. “My name or my job?”

“Both,” I admitted.

“No problem,” he said. “I get that a lot.”

“But you're a
guy.
”

“Lots of guys are named John,” he said.

“No. I meant…you know. The nurse part,” I said.

“Lots of guys are nurses.”

“But it's kind of a girl job, isn't it?” I asked.

Mr. Oshkosh looked surprised. “I've always just thought it was a great job.”

I felt kind of bad, pointing out that he was in the wrong line of work.

But I figured someone should have let him in on that information by now.

“Let's take a look,” said Mr. Oshkosh. “Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” I said.

I remembered to groan again.

“My left leg is broken, I think,” I added. “And my right elbow and my left appendix.”

I did not know what an appendix was exactly.

But I figured a broken one might need some crutches.

“Hmm.” Mr. Oshkosh looked at me. “You're going to be a complicated case.”

“Are you
sure
you're a nurse?” I asked.

He sat down next to me on a rolling stool.

“Yep. Went to nurse school and everything.”

He gently moved my leg up and down.

“OWWW,” I cried.

“You said it was your left leg,” said Mr. Oshkosh. “That's your right.”

“Actually, I think I may have busted my whole body,” I said.

He thought for a minute. “A busted body, eh? We may have to send you to the hospital for X-rays.”

“NO!” I cried. “I can tell it's not an X-ray kind of busted. Probably I'll be better in one day. Or even in a couple hours.”

Mr. Oshkosh looked at me carefully. “Ms. Diz tells me you were supposed to be in the talent show this afternoon.”

I hung my head to show how sad I was. “I really wanted to tap-dance.”

He nodded. “It would be hard to dance with crutches. I guess your dance partner will have to go on alone. You think she'll be okay?”

“Well, there are two different dancing parts,” I said. “But I think so.”

I hope so,
I thought.

“You think some crutches will take care of your busted body?” Mr. Oshkosh asked.

“Oh, yeah. Although some gigantic white bandages would be nice too.”

“Bandages,” he repeated.

I tilted my head at him. “Are you POSITIVE you're a nurse? Because you don't sound real sure about what's wrong with me.”

Mr. Oshkosh patted my shoulder. “I know exactly what's wrong,” he said. “I've been there, kid.”

Mr. Oshkosh didn't give me any bandages.

But he did give me a nice pair of crutches.

Those are way fun. Once you get the hang of them.

“You're a great nurse,” I told Mr. Oshkosh.

“Thanks,” he said. “You're a great patient. I'll walk you back to Ms. Diz's class.”

When we reached my classroom, Mr. Oshkosh said, “Roscoe, if you need anything, let me know. And tell your friend I'm sorry she lost her dance partner.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I will.”

“You can head into class. But before you go, there's one thing I want you to remember.”

“Yes?” I asked.

He pointed to my right leg. I was holding it off the ground so it would look smushed.

“It's your LEFT leg, buddy. Not your right.”