One Man Show (7 page)

As soon as he signed her arm, she screamed bloody murder and four of her friends stormed Jeremy, holding out assorted body
parts for him to autograph.

“Okay, that’s it!” Darlene barked. “This table is for sixth-graders only. So just move along quickly and nobody gets hurt.”

“That’s something I’ll never get used to,” Jeremy said, watching the squealing girls run back to their table. “Just imagine
walking into a room and total strangers are falling all over themselves just ‘cause you’re you.”

“I can relate,” Darlene said, propping her head on her hand.

“So, tell me, Jer,” Pepper said, “why would anyone in their right mind move from Hollywood to Buttermilk Falls?”

“Were you friends with any big-time movie stars out there?” Wally asked.

“One question at a time,” Darlene said.

Jeremy emptied the last of his trail mix into his mouth and crumpled the bag. Darlene’s hand snuck over and grabbed it. She
was probably planning to auction it off on the Internet.

“After my series ended,” Jeremy said, “the parental units decided we needed to get away from all the craziness of Tinseltown.
That’s why we moved here. They want me to have a little taste of normal.”

Pepper was in sunglasses, chewing on her calluses, Darlene was dressed like someone’s mother, and Wally was licking the sandwich
he’d made out of fish sticks and potato chips. If Jeremy was looking for normal, he’d come to the wrong place.

“So, what street do you live on?” Wally asked.

“Come on, man, I can’t tell you that,” Jeremy said, brushing his hair back. “It’s just outside of Butterfat Falls, okay?”

“Hey, Dustin!” Pepper said, throwing a cherry tomato at me. “Are you antisocial? Get over here already.”

I choked on my chocolate milk. Part of me wanted to meet Jeremy face to face more than anything, and part of me - the bigger
part - wanted to bury my head in my mashed potatoes.
With any luck maybe he won’t recognize me.
I picked up my tray and took the long haul over to the next table.

“Here comes your biggest fan!” Wally said, all excited. “Jeremy, Dustin. Dustin, Jeremy. Dustin wants to be an actor too.”

Wally was officially dead meat.

“Hey,” I said, sliding into a chair.

“Hey,” he said back.

A giggle erupted from another gaggle of little girls, who were hovering next to Jeremy, staring holes through him.

“Jeez,” Darlene said. “Take a picture - it’ll last longer.”

One of them actually did.

“Darn paparazzi!” Darlene said.

Travis (wanna-see-a) Buttrick appeared out of nowhere, snatched the girl’s disposable camera, and held it high over his head.

“Give it back, jerk-o!” the girl yelled, reaching for it.

“Just say the word, Jeremy,” Travis said, ignoring her, “and I expose all her film.”

“No, don’t,” Jeremy said. “I don’t mind the pictures.”

“You sure?”

Jeremy nodded. Travis tossed the camera back to the girl, who was close to tears, and she and her friends disappeared.

“I’m Travis,” he said, extending his hand to Jeremy. They shook. I shuddered. “Anybody else give you any trouble, just let
me know. I got your back, man.”

Travis swaggered away, surveying the lunchroom as if he were Jeremy’s official bodyguard.

“Don’t let him fool you. Travis is a dirtbag,” Darlene said, covering her leftover fish bits with napkins. “Now, what were
we talking about before we were so rudely interrupted?”

“About how Dustin wants to be an actor too,” Pepper said. “So, you’re a pro, Jer. What’d you think of him in the play? I mean,
before the set caved in and everything.”

I knew she meant well, but Pepper was dead meat too.

“You were good,” Jeremy said, looking me right in the face.

“Huh?”

“In that play. I thought you were good.”

“Oh.” My heart hiccuped. “Thanks.”

Sure, he was forced into an answer - but he didn’t say “you weren’t bad” or “you were pretty good.” He said
“good”!
A solid compliment.
The
Jeremy Jason Wilder, international celebrity, said I was good! And international celebrities must know what they’re talking
about.

“If you have any questions about acting or anything,” Jeremy said, “just ask.”

Was he kidding? I had tons. It was funny, though - I couldn’t think of a single one. Still, I didn’t want the lunch hour to
end. I wanted to kick back, chew on a pretzel rod, and talk shop with my good pal Jeremy.

All of a sudden, a steel vise clamped down on my left shoulder.

“Mr. Grubbs. Come see me in my office after school. We need to talk.”

Fee-Fi-Fo Futterman. His monster hand had probably left a permanent imprint.

The wooden bench outside the principal’s office was big and hard, built just to make people sweat. It was working. I zeroed
in on the doorknob, waiting for it to turn, dreading walking into that room “where seldom was heard an encouraging word.”
I had to snap out of it or I might spontaneously combust. Fortunately, I was an expert at getting my mind to switch topics
at will.

I opened my spiral notebook, printed the word
good,
and turned the
o’
s into doughnuts. Then I began sketching banner designs for Granny Grubbs’s upcoming seventy-fifth birthday bash. I remembered
what Mom had said about inviting only one guest each. “All of our relatives are coming, and we can’t afford to feed them plus
the entire neighborhood.” I knew Wally was going to be my one guest, because he was my best friend and - well, it was always
Wally. But I couldn’t help thinking how cool it’d be if I could invite Jeremy instead:

“So, who’d you invite to the party?”
someone would ask.

“Oh, just a friend. Jeremy.”

“Jeremy who?”

“Jeremy Jason Wilder.”

“Not the TV star! You know him?”

“We hang out,”
I’d say.
“It’s no big deal.”

Plus, a celeb at the party might distract my distant relatives from bombarding Mom with snide remarks and dirty looks because
of the divorce and everything. I mean, they’re all Dad’s blood relations, and Mom isn’t really a Grubbs anymore - only in
name. But there’s
no way
I could ever invite Jeremy. And there’s no way he’d ever come. Not in a million years. Not in a kazillion-trillion -

“Come in, Mr. Grubbs.”

Futterman held the door open and ushered me into - Jock World. The walls were covered with banners and plaques,
and the shelves were crammed with trophies for every sport known to man. A signed baseball in a Plexiglas box sat at the front
of his desk, and next to it was a framed photo of Futterman with his arm around a tiny blond lady and two boys with basketball-size
heads.

“Jeez,” I said. “You’ve won a ton of awards.”

“Well, I’ve lived a lot of years, and I love sports,” Futterman said. “Baseball especially. I was in the minors, you know.
Probably could’ve made it into the major leagues, but I got a groin injury that ended my career.”

“Sorry,” I said, trying not to crack up at “groin injury.”

“But that’s all ancient history.” He dropped his friendly tone. “We have some serious business to discuss. There’s the matter
of the damaged piano in the auditorium, for starters,” he said, folding his arms. “We had it assessed, and the cost to repair
it is astronomical. Certainly not in the school’s budget - especially with the damage control we’re doing after that grease
fire in the cafeteria. Now, I know you weren’t directly responsible for the state of the piano, but since it
was
a result of your little play, I’m holding you and Miss Honeywell accountable. So far she hasn’t been able to offer any viable
solutions - that means the ball is in your court.”

Okay, I was going to have to communicate on his level if I was going to get through to this guy at all. I needed a game plan.
Think locker room, Dustin. Think ESPN!

“It was a total accident, sir. A real foul ball. And coming up with a bunch of money isn’t exactly going to be - a slam dunk.”

For someone who used to think that a quarterback was change from a dollar, I was off to a pretty good start.

Futterman looked peeved. “Well, you or your teacher will just have to think of a way to resolve this situation. That’s all
there is to it.”

The
tap-tap-tap
of his hairy fingers on the desk sounded like a ticking time bomb. Did he think I would come up with something on the spot?

“In our defense, sir, we hardly had any time rehearsing on the set,” I finally said. “A rookie mistake. It won’t happen next
time.”

“Next time?” Futterman growled, lunging forward. “There’s not gonna be a next time!”

“Why not?”

“Why do you think? It was a disaster!” He pounded on his desk. “I’m just glad no one got seriously hurt. The last thing we
need is a lawsuit.”

Out of bounds! I’ll sell one of Gordy’s kidneys or get a job after school declaring cats to pay for the stupid piano. Anything
it takes. But there has to be a next time!

“We’re ready to step up to the plate now, sir. If you just give us another chance, I know we could really - uh, knock it out
of the park.”

“You had your chance.”

He swings, he misses.

“Oh, and another thing,” Futterman said, narrowing his demon eyes.

Now what?
I needed a time-out. A seventh-inning stretch.

“That graffiti in the bathroom stall. The cartoon of me in red ink, looking like Frankenstein - I know you did it.”

Whoa!
That one came out of left field.

“Don’t even try to deny it, Grubbs. You were caught red-handed. Literally.”

“You’re way off base, sir. The graffiti was already there. I was using my red pen to pry open the lock. I fumbled, and it
broke.”

“Uh-huh. Not to mention lying to me about smoking. You came out of that stall waving a cigar around.”

“That was bubblegum! It was purple!”

“Save it, Grubbs,” Futterman said, shooting up from his desk. “You’re lucky I don’t suspend you.”

“Kill the ump,” I mumbled to myself.

“I’ll let the other stuff slide, but as far as the piano is concerned, I’m not letting you out of the dugout. You get me?”
He held the door open, waiting for me to leave. “You’d better come up with something - and soon!”

Stee-rike three! And you are outta there!

I walked into the hall and did an actual double take. Jeremy Jason Wilder was sitting on the bench, fidgeting. He couldn’t
have been in trouble already; there were probably
some new-kid forms he had to fill out. Or maybe Futterman wanted his autograph.

“I’ll be right with you, Mr. Wilder,” Futterman said, and closed his door.

“I heard yelling,” Jeremy said.

“Yeah. Don’t ask.”

“So what’s he like?”

“Godzilla on steroids.”

Jeremy laughed at that. I was going to just say “see ya” and head home, but something told me to stick around. The blue striped
cap that was sitting on his jacket next to him looked familiar.

“Hey, I know that cap,” I said.

“You a Yankees fan, Justin?”

“Dustin,” I said. “A die-hard fan.”

“Really?”

“No! I’m kidding,” I said, snorting.
He should only know how much.
“Just a huge fan of
Double Take.
Didn’t you wear a cap just like that on the show, when you were Buddy?”

“Yeah, this is it,” Jeremy said. He spun the cap on his finger and let it fly off in my direction. “Catch!”

Naturally I missed and had to pick it up off the floor. I’d never laid my hands on real Hollywood memorabilia before.

“Keep it,” he said. “It’s yours.”

“No way! For real?”

“Why not? I have, like, five of them. I walked off with a bunch of cool stuff from the show. Wasn’t really supposed to, but,
hey - let ‘em sue me, right?”

“Right. Thanks!”

I put the cap on - backward, like Buddy used to wear it. I got such a rush, I think I was vibrating.

Futterman poked his head out the door. “Phone call. Just give me five more minutes, okay?” He gave me a strange look before
pulling the door shut.

Good. More time for me. After all, it’s not every day you hit it off with a TV star. It’s not every day a TV star showers
you with compliments and presents.
Ask him,
I told myself.
What have you got to lose?

“So, Jeremy, wanna come to a party?” I blurted out. I was Dustin the Brave. “Just a family thing, but there’ll be tons of
great food.”

“When?”

“The Saturday after spring break. That’s, like, in two weeks.”

He looked as if he was actually considering it.
I rule!
I did feel a tiny twinge of guilt, though, since I’d already invited Wally. But he never officially RSVP’d about coming,
and he kept whining about having to bring a gift.
Hey, when it’s someone’s birthday, you bring a gift. Get over it
It’d serve him right if Jeremy said yes.

“Maybe,” Jeremy said. “I know it’d make Evelyn happy.”

“Really? Who’s Evelyn?”

“My mom,” Jeremy said. “She wants me to try to fit in around here, make new friends and stuff. I’ll let you know on Monday,
okay?”

He shoots
-
he scores!

The smell of garlic and spaghetti sauce seeped through my bedroom floor and right into my nose. I woke up blinded by the bill
of my new Yankees cap, with one cheek covered in drool. I must’ve been dreaming about Aunt Olive’s meatballs. I squinted at
the clock. Seven fifty-eight a.m. The troops had probably been up since dawn, cooking for Granny Grubbs’s surprise seventy-fifth
birthday bash.

Actually, Mom had decided that the “surprise” part of it wouldn’t be such a hot idea. “All she needs at her age is a roomful
of relatives she hasn’t seen in ten years jumping out from behind the furniture and yelling, ‘Surprise!’” It was now officially
just Granny Grubbs’s seventy-fifth birthday bash. I was sprawled out in the hallway painting the new title on a banner when
the phone rang.