One Man Show (5 page)

I tried to catch a glimpse of what was happening in the hall, but I couldn’t see much from my seat. Futterman and Miss Honeywell
were probably discussing where to roll out the red carpet for the new kid. I looked up at the clock. Three hours and forty-five
minutes until showtime. I could feel
those water balloons expanding with every
tick, tick, tick.
Then my stomach gurgled so loudly that heads popped up from their books. It was like the Battle of Hastings was being reenacted
in my intestines.

Miss Honeywell swept back into the room with a thick manila folder and sat at her desk.

“Excuse me, Miss Honeywell, but what about the play?” Darlene asked. “I mean, it’s still scheduled for today after lunch,
right?”

“Right,” Miss Honeywell said.

“Well, can we do a quick line-through right now? Just so we don’t forget anything?”

“Oh, we’re in good shape,” Miss Honeywell said, leafing through the folder. “There is such a thing as being over-rehearsed.
Let’s just continue with our quiet time - but you may review your lines individually if you wish.”

She filed the folder in her bottom drawer, removed a tiny mirror, and dug out some makeup crud from the corners of her eyes.
Then she got up and straightened the stacks of paper next to the computers - three times. When she sat down again, she couldn’t
stop staring at the door.

I was beginning to think that Miss Honeywell didn’t give a squat about the play anymore. She was all wigged out because this
new kid was coming.

“Dustin?” she said in a half whisper. “Dustin Grubbs?”

Okay, maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was time for her to
consult with her top-notch assistant director to go over some last-minute production notes.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Would you be a peach and lower the shade on the window next to you? The sun is blinding the fourth row.”

That was
his
row - the famous kid’s row.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I whipped down the shade in one quick jerk and shot her a look of deep concern with a hint of disappointment. She just smiled
and fluffed her peonies.

I didn’t get it. Weren’t there lighting and sound cues to go over? Sets and costumes to be checked? Fire alarms to be dismantled?
I mean, I love you, Miss Honeywell, but get with the program.

When I sat back down, the water balloons in my stomach had reached their breaking point.

“Excuse me, Miss Honeywell?” I said, raising my hand.

“Yes, Dustin? What is it?”

“I - I don’t think I’m feeling very well.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I feel kinda queasy. Can I -
may
I please use the restroom?” (Good English in the middle of a crisis. Major points.)

“Why, of course,” Miss Honeywell said. “You do look flushed.” A sudden look of horror flashed across her face. “You’re not
going to throw up, are you?”

I think she was more worried about my messing up her
spick-and-span classroom and spoiling the Boy Wonder’s arrival than she was about my health.

“Uh - I’m not sure,” I said, wiping the sweat off my forehead.

Now the whole class looked worried. See, Brian Flabner threw up the week before, and it still smelled a little. Ever since
then Miss Honeywell had had to keep the back window open a few inches. She told us that if we felt the urge, we didn’t have
to wait for permission to go to the bathroom, that we should just run. That’s powerful stuff.

“It’s probably a case of the jitters,” Miss Honeywell said. “Take the hall pass from the cabinet. Do you want someone to go
with you?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

Twenty-three pairs of anxious eyes followed me around the room. When I opened the cabinet door, I noticed that the entire
row next to me was leaning, in the opposite direction.

I flashed my wooden pass to the hall monitor sitting at the desk near the water fountain. It turned out to be Public Enemy
Number One - Travis Buttrick. He grabbed my pass and examined it like he was White House security. I think he wanted me to
get a load of his flashy new scuba-diving watch - like I cared. Like he
really
needed it to go skinny-dipping in Buttermilk Creek. Travis handed the pass back and I flew toward the bathroom.

“Hey, no running in the halls, Grubbs!”

“Sorry.”

“And by the way, can I pleeeeze have your autograph, O great
actor?”

I should’ve turned around and punched him, but I just kept walking. I didn’t want to wind up in the nurse’s office again with
a lumpy head. Not today, of all days.

The boys’ bathroom was dimly lit and had bars on the windows, like something out of a prison movie. The smell of radioactive
pine cleanser was so strong it stung your eyes. And there was the added stink of cigarette smoke. Wally said there was a gang
of eighth-grade criminals who cut class and hung out there, but I’d never seen them.

I splashed some cold water on my face from the only faucet that worked, wiped my hands on my pants, and went into the only
stall that had a door. I guess the school didn’t trust boys with hot water, paper towels, and closed stalls.

“Your
wish
is my command, Princess.” I sat there, trying out different line readings. “Your wish
is
my command, Princess. Your wish is my
command,
Princess.”

“Dustin?”

“Is that the Walrus? I’m behind door number one.”

“You’re not barking turkeys in there, are you?”

“What?”

“Barfing up road pizza?”

“No. I’m feeling a little better.”

“Good,” Wally said. “Miss Honeywell sent me to check on the teacher’s pet. And stop calling me Walrus - I’m a serious musician,
remember?”

“Yeah, whatever. Hey, somebody drew a picture of Futterman in here, with bolts through his neck.”

“Really? Let me see. I’m sick of talking to the door.”

“Your wish is my command.”

I tried to slide the metal lock on the stall door, but it didn’t budge.

“Hey, I think this thing’s stuck.”

“Oh, come on,” Wally said. “This is a joke, right?”

I tried the lock again, but it wasn’t going anywhere.

“No, I’m serious.”

I rattled it; I pounded it; I banged on it with my wooden pass. Nothing. I searched my pockets for something that could help
me, but all I came up with was a small piece of paper that said “Inspected by #2784,” a bubblegum cigar, and a red pen. I
jammed the pen point next to the metal bar in the lock and pushed it as hard as I could. That turned out to be a stupid idea,
‘cause the pen broke and my hands got stained with ink.

This was turning into a 911 moment. The stall door was ancient - way too tall to climb, and there were only about five inches
of space at the bottom. Not enough room for even a skinny sixth-grader to squash through. I was stuck -and stuck bad.

“Stand back!” Wally said.

“What are you going to do? Don’t be an idiot!”

I pressed my face up to the slit at the edge of the door, closed one eye, and peeked through. Wally was backing up and building
up steam, like a bull ready to charge.

“Just staaaand back!” he yelled.

“Where? The toilet’s in the way!”

I hopped up on the toilet and braced myself against the wall.

Fwump!

“Ow!”

Fwump!

“Oww!”

He kept ramming the door with all his might, but the door was mightier.

“Wally, stop! That only works in the movies.”

Fwump!

Owww!
It’s Wallace!”

I’m trapped like a rat, and he’s worried about being called Wallace!
We kicked the door from both sides like maniacs, but I figured we’d better stop before one of us broke a toe.

“This isn’t working.”
There’s no way the play is going to be canceled again because of something this stupid!
I didn’t want to have to say it, but: “You’d better go tell Miss Honeywell. Try to be -”

“What’s going on in here?”

That voice sounded familiar. It was either God or the principal.

“Dustin is stuck in the stall, Mr. Futterman. Uh, he can’t get out.”

“I smell cigarette smoke. You boys weren’t smoking in here,
were you?” Futterman’s deep voice ricocheted off the tile walls. He was a gigantic man with a Frankenstein-shaped head - just
like in the graffiti - and was bald as a bowling ball.

“No, sir,” Wally replied, “we never smoke in here. Or anywhere. We don’t smoke. Someone must’ve been smoking, ‘cause I can
smell it too, but it wasn’t us, I swear!”

Wally can’t stop blabbering when he’s nervous, and it makes him look guilty even if he’s not. But who could blame him? Futterman
could make a snowman sweat.

“I can’t get out, Mr. Futterman,” I said. “The lock is stuck.”

“Did you try jiggling it?”

If anybody had walked in right then and heard that question, I would’ve croaked.

“I tried everything, sir.”

The stall door rattled a few times, and then there was a final
thump.

“I’ll get a janitor,” Mr. Futterman said. “Don’t move!”

“Don’t move”? How did
he
get to be principal, anyway?

“Walrus? Wally? Wallace, are you still there?” No answer. I sat down, peeled back the cellophane from my bubblegum cigar,
and tried to suck out any nutrients. I needed energy to think.

The lunch bell rang. Time flies when you’re having fun. I could hear chattering and locker-slamming echoing through the halls.
It wasn’t long before voices filled the bathroom. I hugged my legs to my chest to hide my telltale feet.

Knock, knock, knock!

“Dustball, we know you’re in there!”

“Hey, Dustin, did ya fall in?”

“What’s the matter? Can’t you
act
your way out?”

Wally must’ve blurted out to the whole class that I was stuck in the bathroom stall! My brain was frozen, and I couldn’t think
of a single snappy comeback That wasn’t like me.

“Dustin, hon, are you all right?” It was Miss Honeywell. “The gentleman from Maintenance is here to rescue you.”

Kill me now.

The janitor slipped a little can of something under the stall and told me to spray it onto the lock. It smelled like gasoline,
and it took only a few squirts for the bolt to slide right out. I hesitated. The only way to escape total humiliation would
be to go straight for the laugh. I crossed my eyes, wiggled my cigar, and kicked the door open, shouting, “April Fools’!”

I couldn’t believe it. My whole class was crammed into the boys’ john, with Futterman and Miss Honeywell standing front and
center. And right next to them, laughing and clapping with the rest of my class, was a kid I saw every day on posters, T-shirts,
and the TV screen: the star of
Double Take,
my favorite sitcom of all time -
the
Jeremy Jason Wilder!

Many sunrises ago, in the Land of Galico,

On a warm and dewy, bright September morn,

There arose unbounded bliss, unimagined happiness,

For the daintiest of princesses was born.

In that very castle too, in a room without a view,

Came a heartfelt but uncelebrated joy,

With a caterwauling wail, looking freckle-faced and frail,

Sprang the Jester’s brand-new bouncing baby boy.

Cynthia Zimmerman - the Minstrel - finished her opening song in front of the curtain. I was behind the proscenium, smashed
up against Leonard Shempski, the techie, who smelled like old cheese and pencils. One thought kept running through my head:
I’m freakin’ out! I’m freakin’ out!
Not only had I just met Jeremy Jason Wilder face to face, and not only was he going to be in my class - but he was actually
sitting out there in the audience, watching
me
try to do what
he
did best.

If this is all some weird dream, now would be the perfect time to wake up.

I gave myself a pinch. Okay, not a dream. Leonard hit play on the tape recorder for the first two sound effects: Loud Slap
and Baby’s Cry. That was Cynthia’s cue to start narrating.

“From the moment they took their first steps together, Princess Precious and Jingle Jangles, the Jester’s son, were inseparable.”

“Louder!” I said. Cynthia’s voice had a habit of trailing off.

“Were inseparable,” she repeated.

I pulled Pepper onto the dark stage for our opening pose. My heart was thumping up a storm.

“They spent hours frolicking in the Royal Sniffing Gardens,” Cynthia went on, “and playing games like ring-around-the-dragon
and pin-the-tail-on-the-unicorn.”

“Do good,” Pepper whispered to me. I squeezed her sweaty hand.

“Pull the curtains!” I called to Leonard. “Now!”

The opening curtains screeched like a howler monkey, but the audience applauded when they saw the set. So far, so good. My
mind was still on Jeremy, though, sitting out there,
watching - just like a regular person. I couldn’t breathe for a second, until I crammed the thought down to the bottom of
my brain. (Did I mention that I was freaking out?)

“Do tell me another joke, Jingle Jangles!” Pepper said.

“Your wish is my command, Princess,” I said, with a sweeping bow. “Umm, let’s see. How do you make a gooseberry float?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Pepper said. “How
do
you make a gooseberry float?”

“Take one gooseberry” - I did a forward somersault - “and toss it in the moat!”

The audience groaned. With the spotlight blinding me, they looked like a giant black blob.

“Oh, Jing,” Pepper said, giggling. “I believe each joke you tell is funnier than the last.”

“It’s all in the timing,” I said, hopping to my feet. “I frequently work on timing with my frather
-father.”

Ugh! A flub already? Maybe wearing Dad’s neckties as a belt is bringing me bad luck.

“Another,” Pepper said, jumping up and down. “Tell another!”