The Downside of Being Up (12 page)

Finkelstein swung around, rolled onto his stomach and bent his knees so that his legs were shaped like an L.

“Rule number one: No splashing,” Gramps said. Finkelstein, his hands under his chin, stared up at my grandfather like it was Storytime Theater.

“Rule number two: No running.”

“He-hurggh, he-hurrgh,”
Finkelstein said to me. “He means diarrhea.”

“Finkelstein, I'm gonna break your femur bones,” I told him.

“Rule number three,” Gramps continued. “Always make sure you bring a towel.”

“A towel?” Finkelstein asked. “Oh, you mean toilet paper.”

“That's right, youngster,” Gramps said, raising his arms so that I got a full shot of the pit stains on his old white T-shirt. “I once copped a squat in the woods and ended up wiping my butt with poison oak. And lemme tell ya, my cornhole itched for a week.”

“Can you leave?” I said. “Can both of you just please leave?”

“You don't have to ask me twice,” Gramps said. “I think Mr. Turtle is starting to poke his head out of its shell anyway.” Gramps reached around and grabbed his rear end like a four-year-old that needed to go potty.

“You too,” I said to Finkelstein, grabbing him by the arm. “Leave.”

“I like your gramps.”

“You're a moron,” I said, pulling him toward the door.

“He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh,”
he laughed. “Wait! I gotta say good-bye to your sister.”

Finkelstein pulled away from my grip and headed downstairs. I followed him thinking about that new trail mix my mom had just started buying, the kind with cranberries in it.

“See ya soon, pipe cleaner,” Finkelstein said to Hill.

“Try not to eat any more idiot cookies, aluminum breath,” she answered. “Oh wait, you already finished the whole box.”

“Did not,” he said.

“Did too,” she replied.

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not!”

“Will you two shut up!” I yelled.
Jeez, what is it with them?
I thought.
I mean, what are they, in love or something?

I stopped.

A moment later, I grabbed the trail mix with the cranberries in it and raced back to my room. I had an idea.

The next Monday after dinner, my dad watched the ball game on TV, sitting in his favorite maroon-colored chair with his pants unbuttoned.

“Dad, may I please have eighty dollars?”

“You have a better chance of pulling a violin out of your butt,” he answered. “Move, I can't see the game.”

Of course a normal kid with a normal parent would just explain to their father why they needed the money. But there's nothing normal about my dad. I knew I had to speak his language.

“Dad, let me rephrase the question for you,” I said. “You can either give me eighty dollars, or you can listen to me tell Mom that you look through the binoculars into Mrs. Holston's window every Wednesday night when she's getting dressed for her ballroom dancing class.”

My dad almost choked on his beer.

“You wouldn't.”

“I would.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Dad, you can either give me the eighty dollars, or you can talk to Mom about Mrs. Holston's Wednesday night nude-o-rama,” I said. “Now what's it gonna be? Make your play.”

I stared.

He stared back.

Sure, I was nervous. I'd never really confronted my father like this before. But I needed the money to pull off my idea and I had nowhere else to turn.

He glared, clearly unhappy with the negotiations.

“Are twenties okay?” he finally said, reaching for his wallet.

“Twenties will be fine,” I answered.

I think, somewhere deep inside, as he passed me the money, he was actually proud of me. A regular chip off the old block.

“Good decision, Dad. I mean, what would the neighbors think?”

I put the cash in my pocket and went upstairs to work out the rest of my plan. After all, if I could make things better with Hill, that would show Allison I could be a buddy. And if I could show her I could be a buddy, maybe that would also show her I could be—
dare I say it?
—a boyfriend.

Yep, the big enchilada! I was swinging for the fences.

 

By Tuesday, the Secret Someone invites were flying everywhere.

Samantha Scofield got one. Fat neck Jack Tong got one. Even jerk face Nathan Ox got one.

How Nathan Ox got one, I have no idea. Sure, they say love is blind. But is it deaf, mute and stupid, too?

Nathan didn't even try to pound me in the gonads when he saw me. Instead, he held up his red envelope for all the world to see.

“Big Dance, bay-bee,” he said. “The big man is going to the Big Dance!”

Whatever,
I thought. I headed off to face down Sheriff Mustache. He was alone at his desk grading papers.

“I'd like to buy four tickets to the Big Dance, please,” I said, holding out the money.

He looked up. “You can only buy two.”

Why did they have to put him in charge of the tickets?
I thought.

“But I have money for four,” I said, showing him four twenty-dollar bills.

He reached down and grabbed a large, green envelope that contained all the Big Dance tickets.

“Two is the limit.”

“But . . .”

“No buts,” Sheriff Mustache said, cutting me off. “Mrs. Mank made the rule because two years ago they ran out of tickets and not all the kids could go.” He set down his pencil and opened the green envelope. “You want 'em or not?”

“But . . .”

“I said no buts,” he told me.

Hmm, what to do? I needed four.

“Look, Bobby, chaperoning the dance is one thing, but being in charge of this stuff is already taking up way too much of my time, so you have about three seconds to make a decision.”

“Okay, I'll take two,” I said, passing him forty dollars.

“Who are they for?” he then asked, preparing to write something down on a ledger.

“What?” I answered nervously.

“Who are they for?” he asked again.

“Um . . .”

“Anyone I know?” He grew more intimidating by the second. “Anyone I care about?” Sheriff Mustache then rose from his desk, towering over me. He was a guy who had a teacherly look about him, a boring tie with a boring long-sleeve shirt, but he was not an out-of-shape man at all. In fact, Sheriff Mustache looked strong and athletic, like maybe he played sports or something.

Clearly, he could kick my butt.

“Perhaps you're planning to take someone that might make me want to go load bullets into my shotgun?” he commented.

“Y-y-you have a shotgun?”

“All math teachers have shotguns, Bobby. Think about that the next time you don't do homework.”

“Can I just have two tickets, please?” I said with a gulp.

He slowly passed me two tickets and two red envelopes. I put everything in my backpack. Sheriff Mustache smiled at me as I hustled out of the room, but I don't know if he was smiling at me because he was just kidding around or if he was smiling at me because he was thinking about how to turn me into meat sauce for his chili.

An hour later I got a boner in science. An hour after that I got a boner in English. An hour after that I got a boner in social studies, but since we were studying different flags from around the world, having a flagpole in my pants didn't really feel so out of place.

No more boners in math, though. Go figure. Not that I had a clue how to deal with any of them, of course. Perhaps there was an anti-erection ointment of some sort they sold at drugstores, a NO-BONE cream or something?

After school that day, I headed off to Dr. Cox. I walked into her office and set my stuff down on the brown table.

“So,” she asked once I was seated, “have you had any erections in school lately?”

“Nope,” I told her. “Not a one.”

She lowered her thin eyeglasses and looked over the rims of them at me.

“Really?” she said.

“Really,” I confirmed.

Clearly, she and I were making lots of progress.

After therapy I went home. Hill was floating on cloud nine.

“What's with you?” I said in a snippy tone.

“Oh, nothing.” Then she accidentally on purpose pushed a red envelope into the center of the table. I could tell she was dying to tell me, wanting to really rub it in.

I played along. “What's that?” I said with a pretend edge in my voice. There was a bowl of green grapes on the table. I grabbed a few.

She twirled her hair. “Oh, nothing really. Just a Secret Someone invite for me to go to the Big Dance.”

“Who's it from?” I asked, lifting it up. But she snatched it away from me, too precious for dirt like me to even touch.

“I don't know,” she said. “It's secret.”

I hadn't seen Hill this happy since, well, since before the diving accident.

“You can't go to the Big Dance,” I said. “You're only in seventh grade.”

“For your information,” she snapped back, “I can too go to the Big Dance. Only eighth graders can buy tickets, but if an eighth grader invites a seventh grader, they're allowed to go, so there.”

Of course, I knew that. I just wanted to throw her off the scent so she wouldn't figure out it was me who bought her the ticket. Because if she did find out, she'd hate me even more than she already did for showing her pity.

“Who sent it to you?” I asked, popping a grape in my mouth. I like red grapes better than green ones. And I've told my mom that about a thousand times, too. She never listens, though.

“I told you, it's a Secret Someone,” Hill repeated, as if I were a total idiot. “That means the person won't come forward to reveal themselves until we're at the dance. Don't you know anything? Jeez.”

Ticket in hand, she marched off.

Perfect,
I thought.

 

That Thursday, I made sure Mr. Moron got his Secret Someone ticket, too. I wanted to make sure that each of them got their tickets on different days in order to avoid any kind of weird coincidence from spoiling my plan.

“Well, looky here at what this sexy-wexy hunk of manhood got stuck in his locker.”

“What are you talkin' about, Finkelstein?” I said like I had no clue.

“Well, it seems some lil' piece of butternut squash finds the sugar in my teapot a bit too tasty not to sip,” he said.

“English, Finkelstein,” I said. “Speak English.”

“Secret Someone invite.” He held up a red envelope. “Score!”

“You got a Secret Someone invite?” I said. “I thought you were against Secret Someone invites.”

“I am against
me
giving out a Secret Someone invite,” he said, putting extra emphasis on the word
me
. “But if a dainty little sheep finds the corn kernels in my bucket too delicious not to tickle, who am I to stand in the way of Mother Nature's law of attraction?”

“Did you fall and hit your head?”

“Aw, don't feel bad, Bobby,” Finkelstein said, throwing his arm around my shoulders. “You might still land a nugget for the Big Dance. I mean, not everyone can be a piece of irresistible cheese on the mousetrap of life, if you know what I mean.”

“I don't, Finkelstein.” I tossed his arm off of me. “I really don't know what you mean.” I think my plan to hook up Finkelstein and my sister was working too well. They were both experiencing delusions of grandeur.

“Gotta go, bro,” Finkelstein said. “Seeing the orthodontist for tomorrow's big festivities. He's cooking up something special for me.”

“What color?” I asked.

“Can't tell ya. It's a surprise,” he said. “But I'll give you a hint.”

“Forget it,” I said. “I don't want a hint. I don't even know why I asked.”

“I'll give you a hint,” he said.

“I don't want a hint.”

“Okay, you talked me into it. Neon!” he said. “Neon with dots and stripes.”

“Neon?”

“Uh-huh.” He smiled proudly.

“With dots and stripes?” I said. “Finkelstein, why would anybody intentionally put dots and stripes on their teeth?”

“For
sexxxxiness,
” he said.
“Rrrrrrrrrrr!”

Finkelstein then licked his finger and wiped the spit across his eyebrow. I swear that kid was ready for the loony bin.

“Finkelstein, I never thought I'd say this,” I told him, “but considering the circumstances, I think sunrise and carrots is a better option.”

“I'm pulling out all the stops, Bobby,” he replied. “Tomorrow night for the Big Dance, I am going pedal to the metal.” Finkelstein grinned and cruised off.

“Well, make sure you have your head checked, too!” I yelled after him. “A functioning brain might be of some assistance in your future!”

A moment later, however, I forgot all about him, because heading toward me was the best sight a guy like me could ever hope to see.

Allison Summers. Her hair was tied back in a green headband that matched her green T-shirt, which, of course, brought out her green eyes.

“Hi-hi,” she said, her face beaming like sunshine.

“Hi-hi.” I must have saved a blind, three-legged puppy from a getting hit by a truck in a past life or something. I mean, what explanation other than great karma could there be for me being so ridiculously lucky to have a girl like this in my life?