Middle School's a Drag, You Better Werk!

by Greg Howard

  Dinesh leans back, crossing his arms. “No way. Tommy Jenrette?”

  “Yep,” I say.

  Trey pushes his tray forward. “So, a jerk like that is a killer ballplayer and a super-good artist?” He shakes his head. “That’s all kinds of not fair.”

  Colton and Julian walk up to the table and sit on either side of me.

  “What’s up?” Dinesh says, nodding at them like he approves of them joining us.

  “Hey,” Julian says, his voice small and tight.

  He rests his chin in his hand, staring at nothing on the table. Then he sighs. A very dramatic sigh. Like a diva sigh.

  I look at Colton. “What’s wrong?”

  Colton kind of grimaces, nodding to Julian. “Julian has some bad news.”

  Dinesh and Trey lean forward at the same time. Those guys love bad news for some reason. Or at least they love to hear about other people’s bad news. I think we all get a little bit of that from our grandmas, but Trey and Dinesh got an extra dose.

  “Don’t tell me you’re not ready for the tryouts today,” I say.

  Julian shakes his head, slumping in the chair. “My dad lost his crap when I got suspended last week,” he says. “I’m grounded for a month. I can only come to school and stay at home. And he said, No exceptions.”

  I can’t feel my face. My fingers start tingling and I think I might pass out. Is he saying that my star client can’t perform at our first major gig? Julian was my best shot at the one-hundred-dollar grand prize. Brady’s still working out his new material and I haven’t even heard it yet. Charvi doesn’t go to school here, so she can’t even be in the talent show. And Stuart has his first gig at Chandler Martin’s birthday party on Saturday and says he needs to focus all his attention on that. He’s going in a new Iron Man direction and still has to fine-tune his new act. And I’m not even sure the Amazing Sadie and Fifi are still my clients. Plus they’re traitors. If they win, Sadie might pay Lyla the commission on the prize money and not me. And Mom and Dad are planning to bring Pap Pruitt if he’s well enough. What if Pap comes all the way out here to see the big show and none of my clients win? This is an epic disaster.

  “Mikey,” Colton says, finally snapping me out of my panic. “What are you going to do?”

  When I look up again, they’re all staring at me. Trey, Dinesh, Julian, and Colton. “What am I going to do?” I don’t think I meant to repeat out loud what Colton said, but I need a second to think. I glance around the cafeteria, like I’ll find the answer that way. Tommy Jenrette is staring at me from across the room. Creepy.

  But I guess Tommy’s creepy stare helps, because I get a brilliant idea and focus on Julian again. “So your dad said you could only be at school and your house, right?”

  Julian nods, sitting up a little straighter.

  “Well . . . the tryouts are technically here at school. And I could talk to Mr. Arnold about giving you a spot as close to dismissal time as possible so you won’t get home much later than usual.”

  All four of them nod at me like, So far so good, but keep going, dude.

  “And we have to rehearse the death drop with Manny tomorrow in your garage, but technically that’s part of your house, right?”

  More hopeful nodding. Now I just have to bring it home.

  “And the talent show is Friday. So that’s also technically here at school during the school day.”

  Julian’s eyes widen. “So technically, I won’t be breaking the rules and I can still compete in the talent show.”

  I lean back, relaxing my shoulders and feeling a little proud that I just solved my client’s problem. That’s why I get paid the big bucks. Or at least I will one day.

  “That’s right,” Colton says, eyes sparkling at me. “Wow. You’re very good at getting around the rules, Mikey.”

  I give Colton a casual shrug. “Yeah, Mom says I’m, like, a pro at it.”

  And there it is. My next brilliant business idea:

  Anything Bend-but-Don’t-Break-the-Rules Consulting Services

  A division of Anything, Inc.

  Michael Pruitt—President, Founder, CEO, and Pro–Rule Bender

  23

  THE TRYOUTS

  I sit at the end of the fifth row in the auditorium after school that day—Julian, Brady, and the Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency Advisory Committee filling the seats to my left. Stuart’s wheelchair is parked in the aisle on my right. Even though he’s not trying out for the talent show because of the super-crazy-important birthday party gig he’s preparing for, he came to support his agency, which I think is a very nice thing to do.

  Sadie stands over by the wall as Fifi naps at her feet. You’d think Fifi would be going crazy with all the noise of the kids in the auditorium, but she looks like she can’t be bothered with all that. Sadie hasn’t said anything to me yet about the whole Lyla brainwashing/client-stealing/selling-your-soul-to-the-devil thing, but the fact that she didn’t come over and sit with us tells me that she probably feels like a big old traitor—which she should. Because she is.

  Michael Pruitt Business Tip #368: People and blind, three-legged pit bulls can be very disloyal.

  The drama teacher, Mr. Arnold, a tall, skinny man with a curved flattop and dark eyes under thick, round glasses, passes around a clipboard getting everyone’s name, email address, and talent description. Dressed today in his usual crisp khaki pants and a perfectly pressed button-down shirt, Mr. Arnold is usually a stickler for the rules. But he was wicked cool about letting Julian audition first when I told him that Julian’s dad is super-crazy strict and expects him home right after school. Which is all totally true by the way, so you know, rules officially bent but not broken.

  Mr. Arnold slowly walks up the aisle, inspecting students and making marks on his sign-up sheet. He stops by Stuart’s wheelchair.

  “Baxter, I don’t see your name on the sign-up list,” Mr. Arnold says, staring Stuart down through his big thick glasses.

  Mr. Arnold has a hard look in his eye when he says it, like he’d rather be in his tights dancing onstage at the Spoleto Festival right now than dealing with a bunch of show-business amateurs. I know the feeling. Not about dancing in tights at the Spoleto Festival, but the other thing.

  “Are you not trying out?” he asks Stuart, clutching the clipboard to his chest like one of us might try to steal it.

  “Um, no, sir, I’m not.” Stuart smiles politely. “Just here to support my friends.”

  Mr. Arnold gives him a slightly suspicious nod as he peers down our row over the top of his glasses. “Is that so?”

  Dinesh and Trey wave at Mr. Arnold like the nervous dorks they are, but he ignores them, zeroing in on Julian instead.

  “Vasquez, you’re up first,” he says, glancing down at the sign-up sheet. “But you didn’t write down what your talent will be.”

  I want to correct Mr. Arnold and tell him that if you have real talent like my clients, you always have it. And it’s not something that will be for just ninety seconds on the auditorium stage of North Charleston Middle School. And being a big-time official talent agent, I should know. But I decide to keep my mouth shut because it probably wouldn’t be very smart to tell a real show-business professional how to do their job.

  Julian looks down the row at me with eyes that scream, What the heck should I say?

  “Julian dances,” I respond to Mr. Arnold in my strong professional voice, because it’s true. And that seems like the right thing to say. And the right voice to say it in.

  Better to wait and surprise Mr. Arnold with the full-on Coco Caliente, Mistress of Madness and Mayhem experience at the talent show. Pap Pruitt always says it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission, so I guess we know where I got my rule-bending-but-not-breaking talent from.

  Mr. Arnold nods. “Do we have your music?”

  “Yes, sir,�
�� Julian says, pointing down to the first row. “I gave it to Miss Troxel.”

  Mr. Arnold seems pleased enough with that and walks away. He climbs the stairs to the stage—and with his long dancer legs doesn’t take much time at all—and walks over to a microphone stand in the center.

  Mr. Arnold leans into the mic. “Okay, middle schoolers, quiet in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”

  His voice gets softer and softer as he counts down. And it works, because the crowd noise dies down as he does. Cool trick.

  “Welcome to the auditions for the North Charleston Middle School end-of-year talent show,” Mr. Arnold says, all proud, like he created all talent shows. “Or I should say the talent contest this year, because we have a cash prize of one hundred dollars, graciously donated by the Arts Boosters.”

  Mr. Arnold steps back and claps like the Arts Boosters people are here and he’s thanking them. But they’re not here and no one else claps, except Miss Troxel in the front row.

  “Not everyone here will make it to the live show this Friday,” Mr. Arnold continues. “We only have fifteen spots to fill and there are . . .” He counts down the sign-up list with his finger. “It looks like around thirty or so people trying out today.”

  Wow. Julian, Brady, and Sadie and Fifi need to get into the top fifteen to represent the Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency and for me to have any chance at earning my commission. I did fill in their information on the sign-up sheet myself after all. And Julian would never have tried out for the talent show if it hadn’t been for me. And he wouldn’t get to go first today either. I think I’ve earned every penny of my commission already.

  Mr. Arnold gives everyone a real big dose of teacher-grade stink eye. “Please remember to keep it to a tight ninety. I will cut you off if you go over.”

  Man, he is really serious about his job, which is super-crazy professional of him.

  “And no foolishness, people,” he adds. “I am not having it today.”

  He points from one section of the auditorium to the next, giving us a silent stare for, like, a whole minute. Like he’s putting a no-foolishness spell on everyone.

  “First, we have Julian Vasquez,” Mr. Arnold finally says, waving Julian up to the stage. “Vasquez?”

  Everyone in our row claps like crazy, but no one else in the auditorium does. We all have to stand to let Julian out and it takes a while for him to make it to the end of the row.

  “Today, Vasquez,” Mr. Arnold says, sounding annoyed—which I think is kind of rude because Julian is a big dude and it takes a little longer for him to get by us.

  Julian finally wedges his way free from our row and kind of slow jogs heavily down the aisle to the steps of the stage.

  “Earthquake!” someone yells from the back of the auditorium.

  If I had any hair on the back of my neck, it would be standing at attention right now. What the heck? Who the heck?

  Julian hangs his head and slows his jog to a near stop. He looks hurt and embarrassed, and that’s a look you don’t see very often on his face. He usually doesn’t let cracks like that bother him. But I guess with everything going on with his dad, his Miss Coco defenses are down today. Some people laugh and snicker at him and I hate them for it. Most everyone turns in their seat to see who the jerk was that yelled out and I’ll give you one guess. Ding, ding, ding! You guessed it—Tommy Jenrette. He stands back there behind the last row with Trace and Colby and they’re all laughing hysterically. My blood boils and I shoot Tommy a death glare. And when his gaze meets mine, he actually stops laughing. Wow. That must have been a Hermione-grade glare I shot him, because it worked some kind of magic on him.

  Mr. Arnold grabs the microphone stand, pulls it close, and barks their names. “Jenrette. Brown. Williams.” His voice booms through the auditorium like the voice of God. “Do you have some business in here? Are you auditioning for the talent contest?” He doesn’t give them a chance to answer. “I didn’t think so. Out. Now.”

  Mr. Arnold points to the rear exit as Trace and Colby snicker all the way out the door. Tommy follows them, still not laughing anymore. Trey and Dinesh both look over at me, shaking their heads, as if to say, Jerks. Julian lumbers up onto the stage looking a little like he just got punched in the mouth. Our row gives him a last round of applause to let him know we have his back. And it makes me feel super-crazy good inside that Trey and Dinesh are clapping the loudest.

  I glance over at Colton, holding up my crossed fingers. He shows me his also-crossed fingers and smiles. Blender time! I should do a commercial showing how good blenders can whip up a stomach smoothie in no time flat.

  Julian leans over to say something to Mr. Arnold, but we can’t hear him.

  “No,” Mr. Arnold says into the microphone like he’s answering the audience and not Julian. “Your backup dancers do not have to audition, too. You are the featured performer. If you get in, they get in.”

  Mr. Arnold walks off to the side of the stage where a chair waits patiently for his arrival. Julian stands up there, looking seriously nervous, and suddenly I’m worried he’s going to chicken out altogether. He shakes it off, though—like, he literally shakes his arms, legs, and head. Finally he nods down to Miss Troxel in the front row, and she starts his music. One of Beyoncé’s fast, thumpy songs blares through the auditorium.

  Julian goes through his routine as Julian Vasquez, Thirteen-Year-Old Middle Schooler, and not as Coco Caliente, Mistress of Madness and Mayhem. And without the extra pizzazz of a wig, a dress, high heels, makeup, and a shablam ending, it doesn’t have the same wow factor. I start to panic. Julian has to get to the live show—he just has to. Pap’s coming if he’s well enough and I think Coco’s my best shot at winning.

  Stuart turns to me. “Is that all he does? Why is he pointing so much?”

  I don’t answer him. Stuart has never experienced the real Coco Caliente, so I’m sure he doesn’t understand why Julian is my number one client just going by what he’s seeing right now. I glance down our row. Trey is thumbing through a new book, Dinesh is playing a game on his phone, and Brady is studying his new jokes on index cards. They’re not even paying attention to Julian. Not a good sign. Colton looks as worried as I feel, nibbling on the tip of his index finger. The song doesn’t end fast enough for me, and when it finally does, I let out a lungful of air that I feel like I’ve been holding since Thursday.

  “Thank you, Vasquez,” Mr. Arnold calls out over a smattering of semi-polite applause.

  I give an extra few claps and whoops to try to make Julian feel better, but I can tell by his sagging face and slumped shoulders that he knows it wasn’t his best performance. Let’s just hope it was enough to get him into the live show. He doesn’t come back to our row, though; he heads straight for the exit. Julian’s mom is supposed to pick him up outside and get him home before his dad finds out about this. So I don’t worry that he’s out in the lobby having a diva meltdown or anything. At least I hope not.

  We have to sit through some pretty boring acts while we wait for Brady and Sadie and Fifi to be called. Heather Hobbs thinks she can sing. She can’t. It’s a good thing God made her smart. Taylor Hope sings, too, but she’s actually good. Dustin Parks juggles. He drops three tennis balls, but who’s counting? Melissa Chambers recites one of Shakespeare’s sonnets like she’s getting ready to tongue-kiss the audience. Ew. And when did memorizing and reciting become a talent? Heck, even I can do that. Chad Charles does a hip-hop dance that’s so good I wish he was my client. It doesn’t hurt that Chad Charles is super-crazy cute. But not as super-crazy cute as Colton.

  Finally Mr. Arnold says into the microphone, “The Amazing Sadie and Fifi? Please come on up and make it fast, people.”

  Mr. Arnold must think Fifi is a people, too. But he soon sees he’s wrong when Sadie guides blind, three-legged Fifi up the stairs. For a second I wonder if Mr. Arnold is going to tell Sadie she can’
t use a dog in her act because Fifi doesn’t go to school here, but he doesn’t.

  Sadie pulls a few chairs out onto the stage as Fifi sits patiently, staring out at the audience waiting for Sadie’s commands. There’s a restless rumble from kids in the audience, but everyone quiets down when Sadie goes to the front of the stage and nods to Miss Troxel. Music plays through the speakers—a slow song, which surprises me. I would have told Sadie to go with a fast, happy song. But she chose Lyla over me, so your loss, Sadie. Thank you very much and have a nice day!

  Sadie starts with the whole Fifi-jumping-back-and-forth-over-her-as-she’s-down-on-all-fours thing, but then she starts getting real fancy on the chorus of “Wind Beneath My Wings.” Why the heck did Lyla tell her to use that old song? But then I glance over at Miss Troxel and Mr. Arnold and—OMG!—they both look like they’re about to cry. So that’s why Lyla chose that song. Sadie does a lot of tricks that I’ve never seen her do before and I wonder if Lyla had anything to do with that, too. Sadie has Fifi run through a maze of chairs following the sound of her voice, and Fifi doesn’t bump into any of the chairs.

  Dinesh looks over at me. “That was seriously good, dude.”

  And I have to admit, it was good.

  After a couple more new tricks, as the strings of the song sail out through the speakers, I’m starting to wonder if Lyla is a better agent for Sadie and Fifi than me, after all. That’s if she had anything to do with this new routine. Maybe I wasn’t giving the Amazing Sadie and Fifi the attention they deserved. I feel kind of bad about that now. And I wonder if Brady, Stuart, and Charvi have felt the same way—like I’ve been too focused on Julian.

  When Sadie and Fifi bow after the last trick, just about everyone waiting to audition is on their feet clapping—including all of us. If Sadie and Fifi were still my clients, I’d probably be standing on my seat, yelling as loud as I can. But I don’t. I just stand and clap politely because that feels like the professional thing to do.