The Downside of Being Up (6 page)

Uh-oh. Wrong thing to say. Finkelstein's face slowly began to turn white. I had just mentioned the word no one was ever supposed to ever say around him again:
bee
.

“Finkelstein? Finkelstein? Snap out of it! Oh, come on, Alfred, don't do this to me.”

“Bzz, bzz,”
he muttered. Finkelstein started having a flashback.

I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along. I didn't have time for this.

Sure enough, when we arrived, the front gate had already been unlocked. We went inside. Me, dressed like a ninja warrior, black on black. Finkelstein dressed like a flashing neon warning sign that you could see in a rainstorm from a hundred miles away.

“Bzz, bzz,”
he muttered again.

School halls are kind of spooky when there's no one around. The corridors are sorta cheerful during the middle of the day with all the banners and posters and trophy cases and tons of students, but when you walk through empty school halls outside of regular hours, it feels like a mass murderer is going to pop out at any moment, slice open the middle of your belly and then make a chunky, bloody milk shake out of your spleen.

“Finkelstein, you with me? Finkelstein?” I said.

He had a faraway look in his eyes.

“Bees go
bzz
. Toast with honey.”

This kid was damaged goods. I would clearly be on my own when the mass-murdering milk shake maker appeared.

“Come on,” I said, pulling him along.

I turned the corner and headed for the door that said FACULTY LOUNGE. I tried the handle.

Locked.

Crud! Finkelstein was right. There was no way I was getting in without a key. Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching from down the hall.

“Finkelstein, come on. We gotta hide.”

“Hello, little yellow and black friend.
Zzzpp, zzzpp
. Pretty colors. Nectar.”

“Finkelstein, come on. We gotta go!”

“Can I sprinkle you on my morning Cheerios?”

I tried to pull Finkelstein away, but it was too late, there was nowhere to hide, we were busted. A moment later, Allison Summers appeared from around the corner.

“Hi,” she said.

“Um, hi,” I answered, very surprised.

“You're here kinda early, no?” she asked. “It's Bobby, right?”

“Um, no,” I answered. “I mean yes. I mean well, you know, yes, my name is Bobby and no, it's not so early.”
Come on, Bobby, get it together.
“See, some days I get up early to make sure all my schoolwork is done and see if I can help any of the teachers out around campus. Teachers are so dedicated, you know? They really are America's heroes.”

“Uh, yeah,” she said with a sideways look. It was quiet for a moment. My eye drifted to a purple poster on the wall that said PARTICIPATE IN SCIENCE FAIR.

Um, no, thanks,
I thought.

“How 'bout you?” I said, trying to get some sort of conversation going. “It's Allison, right?” Like I really didn't know that the most beautiful girl in the history of middle school was named Allison.

“Right,” she said.

“You always here so early?” I asked.

“So far,” she replied. “I mean my dad just got the new job and he wants to, you know, make a good impression. That's why he's taking on all kinds of extra duties and stuff. To prove himself.”

“Extra duties?” I said. “Like beyond torturing the students?”

“Well, there's that of course,” she said with a smile.

She smiled! She smiled! She smiled at one of my jokes!
My heart started pounding like there was an elephant in my chest.

“He just got roped into chaperoning the dance,” Allison continued. “You going?”

Allison looked at Finkelstein. I had to keep her attention off of him.

“Um . . . going?” I said. “Going to what?”

I stepped in front of Finkelstein to cut off Allison's line of sight.

“Bzzz
. . .
bzzz.”

“The Big Dance,” she said, still looking puzzled by Finkelstein. “You know, for eighth graders?”

“Oh, I . . . well . . . I don't know. Are you?” I asked.

“
Bzzz, bzzz.
Tasty breakfast.
Bzzz, bzzz.
”

“Maybe. I mean, I'm so new around here that . . . Is he okay?” Allison suddenly asked, wrinkling her nose.

“
Bzzz. Bzzz.
Cereal topping.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
Not a big hive.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
”

“Oh yeah, sure,” I said. “He's fine.”

But Finkelstein was not fine. Matter of fact, Finkelstein was cracking up. His voice grew louder and louder as his flashback intensified.

“
Bzzz, bzzz.
Soft fur.
Bzzz, bzzz.
Hold on, Mr. Bumbler.
Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz.
Wait, don't call your friends!
Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz
.” Finkelstein suddenly started screaming and swatting at imaginary bees in the air. “No need for reinforcements!!
Bzzz, bzzz. Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz
.”

Both Allison and I stared, not knowing what was going to happen next.

“Aaarrgghh!!”
he screamed.

Finkelstein then began freaking out like he was being attacked by a swarm of honeybees.

“No need to hurt me. I'm just a little boy.
Ouch. Bzzz, bzzz.
Not my tushie!!
Ouch. Bzzz, bzzz!!
”

Suddenly, the door to the faculty lounge flew open and out came Nathan Ox.

Nathan Ox?
What was he doing in the faculty lounge? His parents must have forced him to take advantage of that stupid extra tutoring the school had just started offering in the early mornings.

“What's all the noise?” Nathan demanded. “What is this goober freaking out about?”

“He thinks he's being attacked by imaginary honeybees,” I answered.

“Imaginary honeybees? What kind of dork faces are the two of you? Make him stop, boner breath.”

Nathan then knocked me in the balls.

“Ouch,”
I said. “I can't make him stop.”

“All right, then I'll do it,” Nathan answered.

Ya know, I never realized you could actually lift a person off of the ground by their nipples. Really, I would have thought they'd pluck off or something. But nope, turns out nipples are stuck on there pretty good.

Finkelstein's eyes began watering from the pain of being lifted into the air by his chest. It was the gnarliest titty-twister I'd ever seen.

However, it worked.

“OW! You're pulling off my breasts!” Finkelstein shouted as he woke from his daze.
“Let go!!”

Finkelstein's scream echoed down the white halls. Nathan, always looking for a new way to torment somebody, gave one more turn of the dial for good measure and then dropped Finkelstein to the ground. Finkelstein collapsed with a thud that echoed, too.

“That was unnecessary,” Allison said.

“It worked, didn't it?” Nathan laughed. “Back to idiot normal.”

Then Nathan punched me in the garbanzo beans once more. This time, he knocked me so good my marbles clanked.

“Oy!” I yelped.

I bent over at the waist, turning blue as my coconuts rose up into my throat. A moment later, the door to the faculty lounge flew open again.

“What in the world is going on out here? Allison, what are you doing?” Mr. Summers, aka Sheriff Mustache, barked at his daughter.

She froze. I decided to be Prince Charming and come to her rescue.

“It wasn't her, sir,” I answered, still bent over at the waist. “It was me. I, uh . . . I zipped my pants awkwardly.”

Sheriff Mustache stared at me. His collar was stiff and his necktie was brown. I'd never seen such a crisp tie knot before.

“You know,” I continued. “Like when you're tucking in your shirt and you accidentally zip yourself up too fast and the skin gets caught in the metal because you . . .”

I stopped speaking. Really, what was the point? Sheriff Mustache looked at me like I was some kind of middle school moron. Then, just to make matters worse, he opened up a folder he was carrying and held out a sheet of paper.

I narrowed my eyes to read it.

It was the flyer. He must have found it in the copy machine. Sheriff Mustache crumpled it up into an angry ball.

“You think I've never seen boys like you before, Bobby? Trust me, I've been around a long time.”

“Come on, Alfred,” I said, picking Finkelstein up off of the hallway floor. “Time to go.”

The two of us slunk away, him rubbing his nips, me holding my walnuts, both of us in deep and serious pain.

Allison looked at me with pity. I left, not even bothering to say good-bye to my dream girl.

Later that afternoon, since it was Thursday, after the usual seventy-three boners I get per day without a clue in the world as to how to handle them, I walked into correctional erectional therapy to meet with Dr. Cox, feeling lower than low. I mean, here I was on the verge of actually talking with the bestest, nicest, most attractive girl I had ever known and all I managed to do was get punched in my corn kernels and make her father think I was dumber than a lamppost.

“Today we will try a different perspective,” she said as I entered the room. Again she wore a sleeveless top. Her forearms looked like rulers. “No need to sit, Bobby, we're going for a ride.”

“A ride?” I said. “Where?”

“Since the informational approach did not seem to make the inroads I had hoped, we are going to try the physiological approach to transformation through chakra alignment.”

“Huh?”

“Yoga,” she answered, tossing me some clothes. “We're going to yoga. You can change into those once we get to the studio.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing in a wooden-floored exercise room with twenty babes-of-the-century.

And they were all wearing skintight leotards.

“I'm not too sure this is a good idea,” I said as I looked around. A supermodel bent over at the waist two feet in front of me.

“Channel the energy, Bobby. Channel the energy,” Dr. Cox instructed.

I paused.

“Um . . .”

A moment later, a second supermodel crossed the room and bent over, right next to her friend.

Uh-oh,
I suddenly realized. They weren't friends. They were twins!

“No, really, Dr. Cox,” I nervously said. “This is a bad idea.”

Dr. Cox tied her sandy brown hair back into a ponytail and prepared for the start of class.

“Like, a bad, bad, bad idea,” I continued pleading with her. “Plus, these tight-fitting pants you're making me wear—”

“Channel the energy, Bobby,” she instructed again. Then Dr. Cox closed her eyes and took a long, slow, deep, spiritual breath. “Just channel the energy.”

“What kind of sick person gets kicked out of a yoga class!?” my father snapped. He was really mad that he had to leave work to come pick me up from the exercise studio. Seems he had planned to stay late to impress his boss. Kissin' up, that type of stuff.

“But it wasn't my fault,” I answered as we walked through the front door.

Mom, of course, was already in a tizzy.

“Oh my goodness,” she said as we entered. “I've mothered a pervert.” Mom closed the front door behind us, hoping the Holstons wouldn't catch the drift of the latest news. “Talk to him, Phillip,” she said to my dad as she spun the red oval charm of her necklace around and around and around on its gold chain. “Talk to him.”

“I'm not talking to him,” Dad said, taking off his coat. He loosened his tie but let it hang from his neck.

“You've got to talk to him, Phillip,” Mom insisted. “Maybe he needs some kind of man-to-man chat?”

“He doesn't need a man-to-man chat,” Gramps answered. “What he needs is a jar of Vaseline and a stack of dirty magazines.”

Gramps, sitting at the dining room table, popped a yellow jelly bean in his mouth and smiled. Mom glared at him, then turned back to Dad.

“Phillip, you're his father, for goodness' sake,” Mom said.

“So? He's
my
father,” Dad said, pointing at Gramps.

“At least that's what his mother says,” Gramps answered. “Me, I've never been too sure.”

“Again with the epileptic milkman theory, huh, Pop?”

“All I have to say is two words:
sloped forehead
. Hillary, look closely,” Gramps said to my sister. “Do I have a sloped forehead?”

“Oh my gawd, Grampa Ralph.” Hill turned away violently. “Your breath smells like a goat.”

“That's 'cause of the new milk I'm drinking,” he answered. “Helps with flatulence.”

“What's flatulence?” Hill asked as she buried her nose inside her shirt. She looked like she was about to vomit.

“You know, gas. Farts. The blow of the big brown butt trumpet,” Gramps replied. “They say goat's milk makes your wind smell sweet like berries. Hold on . . .”

Gramps closed one eye, strained, then let one fly. It was a loud, rumbling, sounds-like-he-wet-his-underwear type of blast.

“Now tell me that doesn't smell like a boysenberry bush,” Gramps said.

“Phillip, please talk to him,” Mom said.

“Pop, don't fart in front of the kids.” My dad shook his head.