The Downside of Being Up (16 page)

Getting used to the gas pedal took some time. The brakes, however, I got used to right away.

I just slammed on 'em.

Gramps and I were thrown forward and back like rag dolls. If it wasn't for our seat belts, we both woulda been shot through the front windshield twenty times over.

Steering was easy, though. Video games had taught me that. After crossing a few yellow lines, nearly running over an old woman (who clearly had the right-of-way) and hitting eleven orange cones in a construction zone, I felt like I was getting the hang of things. My only real big mistake was turning left down a one-way street, but Gramps wasn't too concerned.

“When you think about it,” he said to me as I drove against traffic, “we
are
only going one way.”

“Good point,” I answered as someone gave me the bird.

We arrived at the Big Dance in one piece. Dad's car did as well. The first bump into the garage door was the only bump.

“Where should I park?” I asked.

“By the fire hydrant,” Gramps answered, pointing to my left.

“But Dad might get a ticket,” I said.

“If we're lucky,” Gramps answered. “Only if we're lucky.”

I laughed and pulled into the no-parking zone.

“You did good, Bobby,” Gramps said as we walked up to the front entrance of school. “You practiced the rule of ‘no contact' driving. Hard to ask for much more than that your first time out, right?”

“Thanks, Gramps.”

He gave me a small pat on the head. It felt nice to be encouraged instead of discouraged for once.

Though my mom had scored me a nice navy-blue suit and dashing yellow tie to wear to the Big Dance, I wasn't wearing it because I really hadn't planned on going till just a few minutes before we left the house. I looked down. Jeans, sneakers and a zip-up sweatshirt.
Great,
I thought.
Prince Charming.
At least Gramps had ditched the blue pajama pants for tan trousers and a long-sleeve beige shirt, though he still hadn't combed his hair in a month.

“So,” Gramps said as we headed toward the gymnasium, “what's this little hot tamal . . . I mean, what's your friend Allison look like anyway?”

“She kinda looks like . . .”

Suddenly, a dark shadow appeared in front of us, stopping me dead in my tracks.

“Going somewhere, Bobby?”

I looked up. Sheriff Mustache, dressed in a black suit with a striped red tie.

“Indeed we are,” Gramps answered. “We're going in, so move aside, peckerhead.”

“Um, Gramps . . .”

“No, Bobby, I got this,” Gramps said. “I mean, the last thing I'm going to let happen right now is have some pencilhead school putz stand in our way.”

“But Gramps—”

“Bobby, please, let me handle this.” Gramps stepped in front of me in a fearless, no-one-is-gonna-mess-with-me-tonight manner. “I can't stand twerps like this anyway,” Gramps said to Sheriff Mustache. “Let me guess, you're some kind of power-hungry, scare-all-the-students teacher who gets his silly kicks from bossing around little schoolkids. Am I close, Bobby? Is this guy some sort of campus dictator who spends his entire life trying to make the lives of young people like you miserable because he has a small penis?”

Gramps laughed at the thought of it.

“Hey, pal,” Gramps said. “You one of those men with TPS—tiny pecker syndrome?”

“Um, Gramps,” I said.

“Yeah, Bobby?”

“That's Allison's father.”

He paused.

“Oh.” Gramps smiled. “Nice to meet you, sir. Bobby tells me many fine things about your daughter.”

Sheriff Mustache's face was so red I thought steam was going to blow out of his ears.

“Jelly bean?” Gramps offered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few green, red and yellow candies. “Don't mind the lint, it doesn't digest. You'll poop it right out.”

I looked inside the gym and saw Allison walking toward some tables that had been covered with purple plastic tablecloths.

“Allison!” I called out. “Wait!”

She scowled at me, then walked on.

I made a move to go after her, but Sheriff Mustache grabbed me.

“You're not going anywhere, Bobby.”

“But—”

“Don't even think about it,” he warned.

There was no way I was getting past him. Sheriff Mustache was too big, too strong and too angry. Getting into the Big Dance would be impossible.

Until
a-choooooooo!
Gramps sneezed into Mr. Summers's face.

A hurricane of spit showered Sheriff Mustache's mustache. Pieces of semi-chewed jelly beans stuck to my math teacher's face.

“Eewww,” he groaned.

Gramps gave me a nudge as if to say
go!
I saw my chance and dashed inside.

“Allison!” I called out. “Wait!”

My sneakers squeaked as I ran across the hardwood floor. The lights were faded inside the gym. The place had been decorated with streamers, banners and a few disco balls to give it the feel of a real dance club.

I finally caught up to Allison. She wore a silver and blue dress with black shoes and a sparkly headband.

She looked amazing!

But her outfit didn't match her mood at all. Clearly, Allison was annoyed at having to come to the Big Dance.

And she was steaming mad at me.

“I don't want to speak to you, Bobby. Ever!” She crossed her arms. It wasn't two seconds before Sheriff Mustache rushed up, grabbing me from behind.

“Let's go, Bobby,” he said. “Out! And come Monday, it's straight to Vice Principal Hildge.”

Mr. Summers grabbed my shirt collar. Kids all around us had been grooving to the music, laughing and chatting, but when they saw how mad Sheriff Mustache was, a few of them looked over.

“But,” I said, trying to squirm out of his grip, “with all due respect, sir, I did pay for a ticket.”

“I don't care what you think you did,” he said to me. “You are out of here right now!”

“What do you mean, you paid for a ticket?” Allison asked.

“Like I said, I paid for a ticket,” I told her. “Okay, yes. I went into the green envelope and took two tickets, but I did pay for them.”

“You paid for them?” Allison asked. “How?”

People started gathering around because of all the commotion. Seeing my friends—well, my old friends—and other kids my age wearing ties always looked weird to me. But that would have been me if it weren't for Sheriff Mustache in the first place. I tried again to squiggle out of his grip, but it was too tight.

“I put cash in the envelope,” I said.

“You put cash, you mean you put money, in the envelope?” Allison said.

“Uh-huh. The full amount.”

Allison looked up at her father.

“You told me he stole them.”

“He did. He came into my house and took them without permission,” Sheriff Mustache replied. “Let's go, Connor. Out. Now.”

“No, you said he
stole
them.”

“Don't get technical with me, Allison,” Sheriff Mustache answered. “What he did was wrong.”

“But he didn't steal them. You made it sound like he took them without paying for them.”

“Not now, Allison.”

“Yes now, Dad,” she replied. Allison crossed her arms, a look of fierce determination on her face. The disco ball caused all sorts of sparkles to dance across her dress. “It's like you hate him or something.”

“I don't
hate
any of my students,” Sheriff Mustache said, as if it were the most preposterous thing he'd ever heard.

“Okay, fine,” Allison answered. The circle of people grew bigger. My sister and Finkelstein walked up. “Then tell me why you strongly, strongly, strongly dislike Bobby?”

Allison recrossed her arms and waited for an answer. About forty kids waited for his response, too. Even the music had stopped.

“Okay, you want to know why?” Sheriff Mustache said, finally letting me go. “Because I like order. I like neatness. I like
A
to lead to
B
and then
B
to lead to
C,
but you're one of those kids,” he said, pointing at me. “With you,
A
leads to
Z,
which leads to
X
and then to
D
. I don't like that. I don't like that at all and I certainly don't want that for my daughter.”

It got eerily quiet. The kids surrounding us dared not move. A part of me felt like I should defend myself, like I should speak up and maybe call him a total unfair jerk or something. But another part of me felt like, “What's the point?” I mean, like it or not, this was still Allison's dad—and my math teacher—and insulting him, I knew, wasn't gonna get me anywhere.

“Dad, what are you talking about?” Allison said, her green eyes lasered in on her father.

“Oh, I know his type. I mean I've been around middle school boys a long time, Allison, and I don't like the way that this one is sniffing around you at all.” Sheriff Mustache pointed at me. “Ask Mrs. Mank, his old math teacher. Bobby's one of those kids who thinks with his pants instead of his brain.”

“With all due respect, sir,” I said softly. “When it comes to your daughter, I think the real problem is I think with my heart.”

The girls who were watching us said “Awww.” My stomach fluttered.

“I didn't mean to cause any trouble tonight,” I said to Allison. “I just wanted to tell you that, well, I was sorry and that you mean a lot to me. And I feel bad that I caused your dad to get so mad at you and lose trust in you 'cause really, you didn't do anything. You didn't do anything at all.” I turned to Sheriff Mustache. “It's the truth. She didn't do anything.”

Sheriff Mustache looked around at all the people watching.

“Bye, Allison,” I said. “Come on, Gramps. Let's go.”

I took a step forward and the crowd parted. All the kids, dressed in their fancy clothes, wearing either too much makeup or too much cologne, were quiet and subdued. Gramps followed. I knew he wanted to say something, to really rip into Sheriff Mustache, but instead he kept his mouth shut, letting me fight my own battles in my own way.

That was kinda cool of him.

“Nice going, Dad,” Allison said.

“I don't know why any of this is my fault,” Sheriff Mustache replied. “I already sold him two tickets. Why don't you explain to us what happened to those, Bobby?”

I stopped.

“Yeah, Mr. Smart Guy,” Sheriff Mustache said. “Where's your answer for that?”

I looked at Allison. “I wasn't gonna tell.”

“Tell what?” she asked.

“He wouldn't let me buy four tickets,” I explained.

“So?” Allison said. “Where are these two tickets you bought?”

“I gave 'em to them,” I said, nudging at Finkelstein and Hill.

“To us?” Hill and Finkelstein said at practically the same time.

I nodded, but Hill didn't get it.

“You bought my ticket?” she asked.

“I knew how much you wanted to go.” Hill looked nice in her fancy dress, I thought. Happy. “I felt bad for you. I mean, I guess I was just trying to, you know, make up for not being a good broth . . . I mean, buddy.”

She stood there completely frozen.

“And you, like, bought my ticket, too?” Finkelstein asked.

“Yeah, well,” I answered, “that's what friends do, I guess.”

“Friends?” Finkelstein said, looking for more.

“Okay,” I replied. “Best friends.”

A giant smile spread across his face.

“He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh.”
Finkelstein rushed forward and gave me a huge hug.

“I knew you loved me, Bobby.”

“Get off of me, Finkelstein.” I pushed him away. “And, by the way, dots and stripes are the stupidest combination I have ever seen on another human being's teeth.”

“I just have one word for ya, Bobby,” Finkelstein answered, flashing every tooth in his mouth.
“Sexxxxxyy.”

I couldn't help but smile. “You're a moron.”

“Wait a minute!” Hill said, suddenly figuring it out. “You mean metal mouth is supposed to be my Secret Someone?”

“And I'm supposed to be here with stick girl?” Finkelstein replied.

“Magnet face.”

“Ping-Pong table chest.”

“Bicycle cable lips!”

“String-bean Sally!”

“Will you two shut up?” I said. “
Jeez!
Yes, you're here together,” I told them. “I mean it's like so obvious that the two of you have a huge crush on each other, so gimme a break already, would ya?”

“We do?” Finkelstein asked, looking over at Hill.

“Finkelstein, go dance with your date,” I said, pushing him toward my sister. Finkelstein was the only kid in the entire gymnasium wearing a bow tie. And no, he didn't look good in it. “Trust me,” I said to him, “her heart is playing hopscotch in her chest right now.”

Just then, Finkelstein and Hill got all googly-eyed with each other and the fireworks went off, like in some sort of bad, cheesy, make-you-want-to-vomit movie.

“Bobby,” Hill said, smoothing out her yellow dress.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

She smiled. It wasn't a big smile, but it was the kind that told me that we were good once again. All was forgiven.