The Downside of Being Up (17 page)

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Authors: Alan Sitomer

BOOK: The Downside of Being Up
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I smiled back.
“May I pleeeze hav za pleasure of zis dance, Madame?” Finkelstein said in a fake French accent.
“Don't mind if I do.” Hill did one of those curtsy things.
“He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh.”
“Is that how you always laugh?” Hill asked.
“Yeah, why, you don't like it?”
“No,” she said to Finkelstein. “Actually, I think it's kind of . . . well,
sexxxy
.”
Finkelstein's face beamed with joy. The disco lights then hit his teeth, making every piece of metal in his mouth glitter like a striped and dotted asteroid belt.
“He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh.”
The whole thing made me wanna puke.
“Come on, Gramps,” I said, beginning to walk off. “Let's go.” The circle broke apart and people began heading back to the dance floor, the refreshment bar and the tables covered in spill-resistant purple plastic. It took no time for the sound of chatter and laughter to refill the air. Our little show was over.
Suddenly, someone grabbed my shoulder and turned me around.
“Why didn't you just tell me, Bobby?” asked Allison. “I mean, I could have bought the tickets.”
“'Cause, you know,” I said. “Good deeds should be done for the sake of doing them, not for the credit.” Once again, I realized how out of place my clothes were for a formal party. Jeans and a T-shirt, just like I would wear on any other Friday night at the mall, while Allison looked like a million dollars that had just come off the printing press.
Maybe my father was right. Second-class guys chasing first-class girls, it was a recipe for nothing but heartache.
“I'm sorry I ruined your evening,” I said, apologizing again.
“You didn't ruin it, Bobby. You made it perfect.”
My heart jumped.
I did?
Allison smiled at me with a zillion watts of super-teeth, and a grin spread across my face. She then led me out onto the dance floor.
“Move aside, Daddy!” she ordered Sheriff Mustache. “I want to dance with my date.”
He looked at our hands, our fingers interlocked. Sheriff Mustache didn't budge.
“I said
move,
” Allison said, pushing past him. “I'm not a little girl, you know.”
“But—”
“Don't say another word,” she snapped at her father. “We will talk about this later when we get home.”
Sheriff Mustache thought about it for a moment, then stepped aside.
“Wait!” I said. “Hill,” I called out. “Where's that thing I gave you?”
“What thing?” she answered.
“Where's the envelope I gave you?”
“This?” she said, pulling it out of her silver purse. “It's right here.”
“What's that?” Allison asked.
“It's . . .” I stopped. “It's for my grandfather.”
I let go of Allison's hand and dashed up to Gramps.
“Here.” I handed him the envelope. “I don't think I'm going to need this. But you might.” I handed him the keys to the car. “Go get her, Gramps. Go get the girl you love.”
A big, yellow-toothed grin spread across Gramps's face.
“Shall we?” I asked, walking back up to Allison.
“Lead the way,” she replied.
Before we got to the dance floor, I heard Gramps say to Sheriff Mustache, “You know they're gonna make out hot and heavy later tonight, right?”
“You do realize that this is my daughter you're talking about, don't you?” Sheriff Mustache answered.
“Well, I hate to tell you this,” Gramps responded, “but she's a tamale.”
Sheriff Mustache straightened his tie and brushed out an imaginary wrinkle from his jacket, trying to regain the look of a man in a position of authority.
“Do you have a ticket?” he asked in a formal way.
“Sure you don't want a jelly bean?” Gramps replied. “How 'bout a tangy tangerine?”
We stepped onto the dance floor with perfect timing, because just then the DJ made an announcement. “This next song is for couples only.”
My heart flapped like a bluebird soaring through the sky. This was the reason every kid went to these crazy things anyway.
But then tragedy struck. And not from the center of my pants.
Thank goodness, too. I mean how in the world was I going to do a slow dance with Allison while sporting vicious wood?
Nope, it was a different disaster: Nathan Ox.
“Well, if it isn't boner boy Bobby Connor. Hey Bobby, in baseball, a pitcher can throw strikes or they can throw . . .”
Nathan wound up to bash me in my egg basket. And I could tell this was gonna be a big one, the kind that sent your pistachios into your throat. But Allison jumped in front of Nathan.
“You touch him,” Allison said, “and I will tell every person at this school that you are so lame you had to buy your own ticket to the Big Dance and pretend that it was given to you by a Secret Someone because you're such a loser that you knew no one would ever want to be here with you.”
Terror crossed Nathan's face.
“That's right,” Allison informed him. “The ticket seller's daughter knows a few little secrets, doesn't she?”
“You wouldn't,” Nathan said.
“Oh yes I would,” Allison replied. “I'll even go grab the microphone and make an announcement over the PA right now.”
Allison's green eyes blazed. Wow, clearly she was a woman not to be messed with.
It took Nathan all of three seconds to see that Allison was a hundred percent serious. And if she did make that kind of announcement over the microphone, it could be the most embarrassing middle school moment ever in the history of our school.
Well, the second most embarrassing moment. I'd probably always hold the number one spot for all time.
“What's the matter, Bobby?” Nathan said to me in a sarcastic tone. “You need your girlfriend to save you?”
My girlfriend?
Wow, I sure liked the sound of that.
“Yep, I do,” I said, smiling. “I sure do. Now if you'll excuse us, Nathan,” I said as we walked around him, “it's time for those of us with dates to go hit the dance floor. It's kind of a couples-only thing.”
Both Allison and I laughed, then we headed hand in hand for the middle of the gymnasium. She'd fixed it so that Nathan would never mess with me again.
Well, never is a long time. But at least he'd leave me alone for a little bit.
Though it was my first time ever slow dancing with a girl, I swayed back and forth with ease. Something about Allison just made things in my life work.
“For a while,” I said, “I really thought this night was never going to happen.”
“Because of my dad?” she asked.
“Your dad? Nuh-uh,” I answered. “Because of the CIA. Appears there's been a break-in down at the Pentagon and the Navy SEALs are stumped.”
“The Navy SEALs?” she said.
“It's a black ops thing. My lips are supposed to be sealed.”
“Sealed, huh?”
“Yeah,” I answered. “And really, with all the secrets I hold with these lips, I think there's only one true way for me to ensure that democracy continues to exist in the United States of America.”
“Oh, there is, is there?” Allison said with a gleam in her eye.
“Most definitely,” I said. “For the security of our country, of course.”
“Of course,” she answered.
I leaned in and closed my eyes. This was going to be a magical first kiss, the kind most people only dreamed about. After all, the lighting was soft, the music was smooth, and best of all, the girl was, well . . . first-class. Nothing could stop me now.
Except for the sudden explosion in my ear.
“He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh!”
My eyes flew open.
“Dude, I just totally made out with your sister!”
“Shut up, Finkelstein!”
“Like, does it weird you out that your best friend is completely swapping spit-ola with your baby sis?” he asked. “I mean, that's just gotta be kinda freaky-deaky, right?”
“Can we not talk about this right now, Finkelstein?” I said. “I'm kinda busy here.”
“Gotcha, bro,” he answered. “But just so you know, when she gets back from the bathroom, I'm totally going back for more than just tongue. This time, I'm going for esophagus!”
Finkelstein, his braces glittering underneath the lights of the disco ball, darted away.
“Now,” I said, face-to-face with Allison again. “Where were we?”
“National security,” she answered.
“Oh, right. The safety of our country.”
She closed her eyes, I closed mine, and like in a Hollywood blockbuster when the hero finally gets the girl at the end, we kissed.
Magic!
21
Two Minus One Does Not Make One: A Math Poem from My Heart
Two Minus One Does Not Make One
The Sum
No matter how you do the math,
When you take the two of us
And subtract you
Leaves a less complete me.
 
 
Two Minus One Does Not Make One
The Fun
No matter how much glee
When you are not with me
Is less.
 
 
Two Minus One Does Not Make One
The Joy
In this boy
Is dead without you
And I'd do anything to win you back.
 
 
Two Minus One Does Not Make One
The Rhymes don't matter
The pain just splatters
And splatters and splatters my soul
Because you are not in my life.
 
 
Two Minus One Does Not Make One
But one plus one
Like me and you
Equals more than two
It adds up to . . .
Forever.
I got an A when I read that poem out loud for English class. But better than that was the kiss I got in the hallway once class let out. Allison practically smooched my lips off.
“I told ya, Bobby,” Finkelstein said later that night as he put another scoop of homemade candied yams on his dinner plate, “chicks dig poetry.”
“They sure do, Alfred,” Gramps said. “They sure do.” Gramps turned to his left. “Can I get you more green beans, dear?”
“No, thanks,” Grandma said.
“How about a bit more meat loaf?” Gramps offered. “Would you like just a wee bit more? There's sweet potatoes, too, honey.”
“I'm good, dear. I'm perfectly good,” my grandmother answered.
“You know, he hasn't cooked me a meal since nineteen eighty-one,” she said, turning to me. Gram had blue eyes with wrinkles around the edges, but whenever she looked at me, I always saw a fiery lady who still had some pop. She wasn't some kind of old woman ready for a museum. My gram had spunk.
Then again, I guess she had to in order to live with Gramps for all those years.
“To tell you the truth, I thought he only ate jelly beans,” I said. We all laughed.
I looked around at the dinner table. Me, Finkelstein, Hill and Allison all greatly enjoyed watching Gramps play the role of a generous and gracious dinner host.
Too bad Dad and Mom weren't invited. But I don't think they would have accepted Gramps's invitation anyway. They were still mad, especially because Gramps refused to apologize or pay to get the garage door fixed. He thought the episode the other night was some of the best decision-making he'd made in years and he wasn't gonna budge an inch.
“Aw, poopy-pants!” Gramps suddenly shouted, remembering something. “The pie is still in the oven.”
Then, wearing his cooking apron, Gramps disappeared into the kitchen to go make sure he didn't burn our dessert.
As soon as he left the room, Gram leaned over and put her hand on mine in that grandmotherly type of way. “I know you wrote the poem, Bobby,” she whispered so that no one else could hear.
“You do?” I said.
“Uh-huh,” she replied. “I do.” Gram checked to see that the others weren't listening.
They weren't. They were all too busy staring at Finkelstein as he explained the psychological theory behind his new set of braces. Today's color: pitch-black.
“See, it's like a mouth of infinite mystery,” he told them.
I shook my head.
What a moron.
“So how'd he win you back, Gram?” I asked. “He told me he read you the poem and that it worked like a charm.”
“Farts,” she replied.
I almost choked on my food.
“What?”
“I knew he wasn't the author of that poem,” she said. “It was too good.”
She took a sip of water and wiped her chin with a napkin.
“But then he promised not to blow me out from under the covers anymore with gas,” she added. “Do you know how many years I've had to deal with him tooting his butt trumpet at full volume?”
I laughed.
“I know it sounds weird, but really, it's about respect, Bobby,” Gram said. “I needed to know that he still respected and cared about me. Relationships don't survive without respect, care and trust.”
“Trust?” I said, looking at Allison. Finkelstein had his mouth open big enough to swallow a chair. Hill and Allison peeked inside, inspecting the metallic architectural wonder that was Finkelstein's latest brace-face adventure.
“Trust, Bobby,” Gram continued, “might actually be the most important ingredient of them all.”

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