Oddest of All (3 page)

I look at him in surprise. “I didn't. I said I would do it.”

Mikey looks even more surprised. “Murphy, you can't go on stage with her. You can't even move when you get on stage. Don't you remember what happened in fifth grade?”

As if I could forget. Not only was it one of the three most humiliating moments of my life, but according to my little brother it has become legendary at Westcott Elementary. Here's the short version: Mrs. Carmichael had cast me as George Washington in our class play, and I was, I want to tell you, pretty good during rehearsals. But when they opened the curtain and I saw the audience . . . well, let's just say that when my mother saw the look on my face she actually let out a scream. She told me later she thought I was having a heart attack. As for me, my mouth went drier than day-old toast, some mysterious object wedged itself in my throat, and the only reason I didn't bolt from the stage was that I couldn't move my arms or legs. Heck, I couldn't even move my fingers.

I couldn't even squeak!

Finally they had to cancel the performance. Even after the curtains were closed it took two teachers and a janitor to carry me back to the classroom.

“This time will be different,” I say.

Mikey snorts.

I know he is right. “Oh man, what am I gonna do?” I wail.

“Come on, let's look at the script. Maybe all you have to do is sit there and she'll do all the acting.”

No such luck. The script, which is called
Debbie and the Doofus
, is very funny.

It also calls for me to say a lot of lines.

It also calls for me to act like a complete dork.

Immediately I begin to wonder why Tiffany thinks I would be just right for this role.

“Maybe she imagines you're a brilliant actor,” says Mikey.

He is trying to be helpful, but to tell the truth, I am not sure which idea is worse: that Tiffany thinks I am a dork, or that she thinks I am a brilliant actor.

“What am I gonna do?” I wail again.

“Maybe your parents will move before next week,” says Mikey, shaking his head. “Otherwise, you're a dead man walking.”

 

I ask, but my parents are not planning on moving.

I study the script as if it is the final exam for life, which as far as I am concerned, it is. After two days I know not only my lines but all of Tiffany's lines, too, as well as the lines for Laurel Gibbon, who is going to be playing the waitress at the little restaurant where we go for our bad date.

My new plan is that I will enjoy rehearsals, and the excuse they give me to be with Tiffany, then pray for a meteor to strike me before the day of the performance.

The first half of this actually seems to work. We have two rehearsals, one at school, and one in Tiffany's rec room. At the first one she is very impressed by the fact that I know my lines already. “This is great, Murphy!” she says, which makes me feel as if I have won the lottery.

At the second rehearsal I actually make Laurel, who is perhaps the most solemn girl in the school, laugh. This is an amazing sound to me, and I find that I really enjoy it. Like Tiffany, Laurel has been in our class since kindergarten. Only I never noticed her much because, well, no one ever notices Laurel much, on account of she basically doesn't talk. I wondered at first why Tiffany had cast her, but it turns out they are in the same church group and have been good friends for a long time.

Sometimes I think the girls in our class have a whole secret life that I don't know about.

 

Time becomes very weird. Sometimes it seems as if the hours are rushing by in a blur, the moment of performance hurtling toward me. Other times the clock seems to poke along like a sloth with chronic fatigue syndrome. Social studies class consists of almost nothing but staring at the sunshine in Tiffany's hair and flubbing the occasional question that Mr. Fessenden lobs at me. Some days I think he asks me questions out of pure meanness. Other days he leaves me alone, and I almost get the impression he feels sorry for me.

Mikey and I talk about the situation every night. “No meteor yet,” he'll say, shaking his head.

“What am I gonna do?” I reply, repeating the question that haunts my days. I can't possibly tell Tiffany I can't do this.

“Maybe you could be sick that day?” says Mikey.

I shake my head. “If I let her down I will hate myself forever.”

Mikey rolls his eyes. “Maybe you should run away from home,” he suggests, not very helpfully.

Finally we do come up with a plan, which is that Mikey will stay in the wings to prompt me in case the entire script falls out of my head. I don't know if this will really do much good, since if I freeze with terror, mere prompting will not be of much use. On the other hand, knowing Mikey will be there calms me down a little. It's like having a life jacket.

Hah! Little do I know what kind of life jacket he will turn out to be.

To my dismay, I have not been able to parlay my time working on the skit with Tiffany into anything bigger. This is partly because she is the busiest person in the eighth grade, with more clubs and committees and activities than any normal person could ever be involved with. It is also because I am stupid about this kind of thing and don't have the slightest clue how to do it. So I treasure my memory of the two rehearsals and, more than anything else, the sound of her laughing at some of what I have done.

 

Despite my prayers, Friday arrives. I don't suppose I really expected God to cancel it, though I would have been deeply appreciative if he had. I go through the day in a state of cold terror. The drama club meeting is after school. Members of the club have invited their friends, their families, and some teachers to come see the skits. There are going to be four skits in all. Tiffany, Laurel, and I are scheduled to go last, which gives me more time to sweat and worry.

Mikey is backstage with us, but Tiffany does not know why. I tell her he came because he is my pal. Getting him aside, I check to make sure he has the script.

At 2:45, Mrs. Whitcomb, the drama club coach, comes back to wish us luck. She makes a little speech, which she ends with, “Okay, kids, break a leg!”

This, of course, is how people wish each other luck in the theater. According to my mother, the idea is that you're not going to get your wish anyway, so you wish for the thing you don't want, and you may get the thing you do want instead.

I suddenly wonder if this is what I have been doing wrong all my life.

On the other hand, Tiffany is standing next to me, so that is one wish that is continuing to come true.

“Are you excited?” she asks.

“You have no idea,” I answer, with complete honesty.

Laurel, who is standing on the other side of me, whispers, “I'm scared.”

“Don't worry, you'll be fine,” I reply.

I am fairly confident this is true, since I expect to make such an ass of myself that no one will notice anything else, anyway. Inside me, a small voice is screaming,
What were you thinking of, you moron? You are going to humiliate yourself in front of all these people, including the girl you would cut out your heart for, who will be even more humiliated than you are, because it's her skit that you are messing up! Run away! Run away!

If I could get my hands on this small voice I would gladly beat it to a bloody pulp. Instead I keep taking deep breaths and reminding myself how funny I was during the second rehearsal.

The first skit goes up. I think it's funny, but at first people don't laugh. This terrifies me all over again. Then someone snickers. A moment later someone else lets out a snort. Pretty soon people are enjoying themselves. Clearly it takes people a while to get warmed up when they are trying to have fun.

At first the sound of that laughter is soothing. People are ready to have a good time. But it takes only a few minutes for me to get terrified by it. What if they don't laugh at our skit? Even worse, what if they laugh for the wrong reasons? What if Tiffany is totally humiliated and it's all my fault?

I go back to wanting to die.

The second skit goes up, and dies in my place. It just lies onstage, stinking the place up like a week-old fish. It's as boring as last month's news. In fact, it's almost as boring as Mr. Fessenden, which I would not have thought possible. I feel a surge of hope. We can't possibly look worse than this. In fact, next to it we'll seem like geniuses. Too bad we can't go on right away!

Unfortunately, we have to wait for the third skit, which turns out to be brilliant, which makes me want to kill the people who are in it. Now we'll be compared to them instead of the dead fish of that second skit.

The curtain closes.

“Our turn,” whispers Tiffany. “Break a leg, Murphy.”

“Break a leg,” I murmur back. Then, so Laurel won't feel left out, I say the same thing to her as we pick up the table, which is our main prop, and move it onto the stage. Tiffany is right behind us with a pair of chairs. Once they're in place, we scurry to our positions, Tiffany and me stage right, Laurel stage left.

My stomach clenches. Cold sweat starts out on my brow.

“Murphy!” hisses Tiffany. “Your shoelace!”

I glance down. I have forgotten to untie it, which is the key to one of my first funny bits. Out of habit, I lift my foot to take care of the lace. At that instant the curtain opens, which startles me so much that I lose my balance and fall over, landing onstage in full view of the audience.

There they are. The enemy. The people who are going to stare at me, judge me, whisper about me tomorrow. I am so frozen with terror I cannot move. I just lie there looking at them.

And then the laugh begins. My temperature goes in two directions, my blood turning to ice at the same time that the heat rises in my face. I have a long moment of terror—well, it feels like a long moment; according to Mikey, it was less than two seconds—while I think that this is it, I will never stand up again, never come to school again, never leave my house again. I will ask whoever finally picks me up to carry me home and put me in the attic. My parents will have to shove my meals through a slot in the door, because I will never be able to face another living human being.

Love saves the day. “Murphy, are you all right?” hisses Tiffany.

For the sound of that voice I would do anything—even get back on my feet.

And then, the second miracle. Some brilliant portion of my brain realizes that this is a comedy, and I have just started us off with a big laugh. I stand at the edge of the stage to do a fake knock. In rehearsal, I only mimed it. Now, for some reason, I say loudly,
“Knock knock. Knockity-knock-knock. ”

For some reason the audience finds this funny. Another laugh.

Tiffany comes to the door, and we go through our opening business, which establishes that she is prim and proper and I am a total idiot, which doesn't take much acting because it is pretty much real life anyway. But something is happening. I'm not making up lines, but I am making bigger gestures, broader moves, weirder voices than I did in rehearsal. People are howling. Tiffany's eyes are dancing, and I can see that she is trying not to laugh. I am feeling like a genius.

We get to the imaginary restaurant. Laurel comes out to take our order, and I have the same effect on her.

I am starting to feel as if I'm having an out-of-body experience. Who is this funny person making everyone laugh? How long can it go on? Can I keep it going, keep cranking up the jokes, hold on to this glorious lightning bolt I'm riding?

Laurel disappears to get our order. I fake blowing my nose on the cloth napkin, then inspecting it to see the results. I act as if I am fascinated by my imaginary boogers. Tiffany acts as if she is repulsed, but I can see she is hardly able to keep from bursting into laughter—especially when I hand the napkin across the table so she can examine it, too.

The audience is just about screaming. I am beginning to think that this kind of laughter is even better than the sound of Tiffany's voice.

Laurel comes back with our “order,” which, because this is a skit and we are on a low budget, is a plate of Hostess cupcakes. Chocolate.

I am supposed to eat in a disgusting way. The script does not specify how. Still riding my wave of improvisation inspiration, I pick up a cupcake and stuff the entire thing into my mouth. Tiffany's eyes widen and she turns her head to hide the laugh she can't hold in. Her shoulders are shaking. This is too good to be true.

I deliver my next line—which is about how beautiful she is—with bits of chocolate spewing out. It's disgusting, but hilarious. Tiffany has tears streaming down her cheeks from trying to hold in her laughter.

Desperate to keep the riff going, I cram another entire cupcake into my mouth.

This is when disaster strikes. Suddenly I discover that I can't breathe, because there is a chocolate logjam in my throat. I only need a minute, I think, and I'll get this. I try to give my next line, but nothing comes out. Tiffany starts to look alarmed. The audience is still laughing, but it's starting to die down, as if some of them realize I am in trouble.

Which is when Mikey comes barreling onstage from behind me, screaming, “He's choking! He's choking!”

He grabs me around the waist and jabs his fists into my belly.

I've been Heimliched!

Those of you who know about the Heimlich maneuver will remember that basically it forces the air out of your lungs, blowing whatever is blocking your breathing out of your mouth.

Those of you who have been staging this in your mind as you read will remember who is directly across from me.

Those of you with even minimal powers of prediction will know what happens next. An unholy mix of partially chewed Hostess chocolate cupcakes spews out of my mouth and spatters all over Tiffany.

I am filled with deeper horror than any I have ever known. Wrenching my way out of Mikey's grasp, I bolt around the table to clean her off.