by Greg Howard
“Well done, Cooper,” Mr. Arnold says with his mouth close to the microphone so we can hear him over all the applause. He wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand. “And your little dog, too.”
Miss Troxel blows her nose—super-crazy loud—as Sadie guides Fifi down the steps and back over to the wall. She looks at me and I give her two thumbs-up because it’s also the professional thing to do. That makes Sadie smile, and I’m sure if Fifi could see me, it would make her smile, too.
Mr. Arnold touches the frames of his glasses, lifting the sign-up sheet closer to his eyes. He kind of slow reads/mumbles to himself, but he’s close enough to the microphone that we all can hear.
“Soon to appear on Later Tonight with Billy Shannon, America’s Junior Comedic Sensation, Brady Hill?” Mr. Arnold plants the hand holding the sign-up sheet on his hip. “What kind of foolishness is this? Do not try my patience, people. Do. Not. Try. Me. Not. Today. Hill? Are you ready, Hill?”
Brady pops up out of his seat and scoots down our row to the end of the aisle a lot faster than Julian did. Stuart high-fives him before Brady heads up to the stage.
“Okay, people, settle down,” Mr. Arnold says, pointing to a group of kids who are getting a little loud. “Thompson, don’t make me come out there. Settle down, I said.”
More Mr. Arnold stink eye. Only when Greg Thompson and his friends settle down does Mr. Arnold take the microphone off the stand and hand it to Brady.
“Hey, everybody,” Brady says into the mic as he walks to the edge of the stage. He casually slides one hand into the pocket of his jeans like he’s super comfortable onstage and does this all the time. “My name is Brady Hill and I do comedy.” He pauses. “Or as Mademoiselle Archer likes to call it, teaching French.”
Mademoiselle Archer is our French teacher. And she has a lisp. It’s very noticeable when she speaks French, so you know, not funny, Brady. The response from the audience is mixed. Some people laugh out loud. Others cover their mouths and giggle. And some just look kind of shocked, like Miss Troxel and Mr. Arnold. Oops.
“And how about Mr. Arnold, everyone?” Brady says, pointing to the drama teacher standing on the side of the stage.
A few people clap like they were forced to. Mr. Arnold smiles nervously. I grab the armrests and hold on tight. I’m starting to think that maybe it would be a good idea if Brady keeps his comedic insults focused on anyone other than our teachers.
Brady nods to the crowd as if everyone in the auditorium is clapping and not just, like, four people. “That’s right. Mr. Arnold is our favorite drama queen.”
And—OMG!
Several people gasp at the same time, including me. “Teacher . . . I mean drama teacher,” Brady says. He slaps himself on the forehead like he’s such an idiot and he obviously meant to say drama teacher and not drama queen. At least he has the idiot part right.
Mr. Arnold’s nervous smile melts into a frown. No, he’s way past frowning. He’s on to scowling at Brady. And his stink eye has morphed into a death glare.
Trey leans over to me. “This is bad, dude.”
“I know,” I whisper back sharply.
Colton leans in, too. “Do something, Mikey.”
Do something? What the heck am I supposed to do? What does an agent do in a time like this? Go up there and drag the client off the stage? Or trust him to get this train back on the tracks. So I choose the second one, hoping I’m right.
“And Miss Troxel,” Brady says. He points down to the front row, where a nervous-looking Miss Troxel sits. “Our awesome guidance counselor. Let’s hear it for Miss Troxel, everybody.”
Again, a few people clap, but like they were ordered to and not like they actually want to. I hold my breath and grip the armrests even tighter.
“You know, I heard a rumor that Miss Troxel has a new boyfriend,” Brady says.
I don’t think he has any clue whatsoever that his routine is tanking and making some people downright angry. Mr. Arnold’s mouth tightens into a thin line—like this is Brady’s last chance to turn this thing around. But it looks like he’s going to jump off a cliff instead.
“Yeah,” Brady says, smiling down at Miss Troxel, whose whole face is twisted in confusion. “Turns out, though, she’s been dating this guy for years! And you can tell who he is just by looking at her.” Brady holds the mic close to his mouth. “His name is Colonel Sanders.”
Brady pauses with a stupid grin on his face, waiting for people to lose their minds laughing. But they don’t. Just a few muffled snickers here and there. Others groan—including me.
He points down at poor Miss Troxel, whose usually pasty-white skin has turned splotchy-red. “Looks like he’s been giving her a great discount at KFC, am I right?”
Stuart looks over at me, shaking his head real slow-like.
“Whoa,” Trey says in an ominous whisper.
“Oh no, he didn’t,” Dinesh says.
“Oh yes, he did,” Colton and I say at the same time.
Brady taps the microphone. “Is this thing on?” He gives a little nervous laugh. I think it’s finally sinking in that he’s bombing.
That’s as far as he gets before Mr. Arnold snatches the microphone from his hand, guiding him pretty forcefully off the stage.
“What did I say about foolishness, people,” Mr. Arnold says into the mic. He walks back to the center of the stage. “Do. Not. Try. Me.”
Brady walks down the steps and up the aisle toward our row, looking confused and deflated. And I feel as bad as he looks. I think I just failed my second client.
Michael Pruitt Business Tip #369 (learned the hard way, like, just now): Always review and approve your comedy talent’s new material before letting them try it out in front of real-live people like your plus-size guidance counselor and your maybe-gay drama teacher.
24
THE SHABLAM
“Hit Refresh again,” I say.
“I just did,” Lyla whines. “It’s not there yet.”
It’s the day after the talent-show tryouts—also known as the day of Manny the drag queen’s shablam class in Julian’s garage. Lyla sits in one of the metal folding chairs in front of the stage with my laptop balancing scarily on her swinging legs. I have her watching the school website, where Mr. Arnold will be posting the final list of kids who made it into this Friday’s talent show. It should be up any time now. In fact, he said it would be there by four o’clock and according to my flip phone, he’s already five minutes late. Very unprofessional.
“Hit it again,” I say, irritated but trying not to lose my temper because that only makes Lyla more of a pain in the butt. “Please, Lyla.”
Manny the drag queen has been teaching Julian how to do the death drop for, like, the last gazillion minutes. It was pretty scary to watch at first. I thought Julian was going to break a leg or his back or his butt. But thankfully he has a lot of natural padding and now at least he knows how to do it, even if it still looks kind of messy and clumsy. Manny says Julian just has to commit, papi and go for it. And even though he’s sort of dressed in boy clothes right now, Manny’s a real-live professional drag queen. So he probably knows what he’s talking about more than I do. Probably.
“Where are my backup dancers?” Manny barks from the stage. He and Julian stand there, sweating and panting.
Lyla sets my laptop on the chair beside her and stands. “Sorry. I have to go use my talent for someone who appreciates it,” she tells me.
Was that supposed to be a burn? Lame. She joins Gabby onstage. The two of them stand in a starting position a few feet behind Julian, who’s still bummed out about not doing his best at the talent contest tryouts. He doesn’t think he’s even going to make it to the live show, but I told him not to give up hope because, as his official agent, that’s my job. Giving him pep talks, I mean. Not giving up hope.
Colton gives Gabby and Lyla a couple
of last-minute instructions. I didn’t have any idea that Colton could dance or that he could come up with a whole dance routine on his own and teach it to other people. On RuPaul’s Drag Race, they call that choreography, which is just a fancy word for teaching someone how to do a dance that you come up with all on your own. Colton said he spent summers helping his mom in her dance studio in Columbia before she started having problems, lost all her clients, and had to close the business. He got kind of sad when he was telling me about that part, so I didn’t ask a lot of questions. But he must have learned a lot watching his mom work all those summers because he’s super-crazy good at choreography.
I knew Gabby was like a professional kid dancer, but I was surprised at how fast Lyla picked up the steps. That’s what Colton calls them. Steps. And they went over the steps so many times when we first got here that I feel like I could probably do the steps pretty good myself. Maybe I should start a new business with Colton. We could be partners. Colton could teach other kids how to dance and I could handle the business side of things because creative people like Colton aren’t usually good with all that stuff. Maybe we start with one studio here in North Charleston and then branch out all over the world. We could call it:
Anything Dance Studio of North Charleston and Beyond
A division of Anything, Inc.
Michael Pruitt—President, Founder, CEO, and Business-Stuff Manager
Colton Sanford—Creative Director, Head Choreographer, and Wicked-Cool-Smiling Expert
All of a sudden I realize I haven’t been bossing anyone around for, like, thirty minutes. So I stand up and walk over to the edge of the stage.
“Okay, people,” I say in my strong professional-boss voice. “Let’s get a move on. We don’t have all day and time is money.” That’s what Dad says sometimes to his workers when they’re out on a landscaping job.
Everyone stares at me from the stage. Manny looks at me like I was speaking a foreign language and not one of the two he understands—English and Spanish. He walks over to the edge of the stage right in front of me and leans down, giving me a hard look full of smoky black eyeliner, a silver hoop nose ring, and ruby-red lips.
“Listen to me carefully, little boy,” he says, pointing a finger in my face. “Right now, this is my house and I’m in charge. So why don’t you go sit down and let me do my job, capisce?”
Colton, Julian, and Gabby stand behind him looking like they’re holding their breath and afraid for my life. I want to remind Manny that this is a favor he is doing and not an actual job. Because I don’t have any money to pay him with and I hope Trey told him that when he set this up.
I clear my throat and stand up straight. “Okay, then. Good work, everyone. Great job on the choreography, Colton. And, Julian, just commit, papi!”
No reaction. From anyone. I think they’re all scared of Manny, except Lyla, that is. She gazes up at him like he’s Hello Kitty in the flesh. And he kind of looks like Hello Kitty with his cutoff blue overalls and that pink bow glued to his shiny bald head.
“I’ll just go back over there to my seat and check to see if Mr. Arnold has posted the talent-show list yet. He’s late, you know. Very unprofessional of him.” I nod at Manny. “Mr. Manny, please continue.”
Manny doesn’t say anything, but he does give me a crooked smile. Well, a sort of smile. Then he turns back to Julian, Gabby, and Lyla, counting them off with sharp claps.
I think I handled that pretty well.
Michael Pruitt Business Tip #370: Always keep a firm hand with your subordinates, but it’s helpful to give them praise and a little room to do their own thing once in a while. The results just might surprise you.
While everyone onstage is dancing to the beat of Manny’s clapping and counting, I hit the Refresh button again for the umpteenth time.
Refresh.
Nothing.
Julian is going to be so bummed out if he doesn’t make it into the show.
Refresh.
Nada.
Colton’s wicked-cool dance routine will go to waste.
Refresh. Refresh.
Zip.
Mom and Dad are planning to pick up Pap Pruitt from Prince George and bring him to the big show on Friday, as long as Pap doesn’t get sick again. He’s really had a hard time lately with his diabetes and his heart condition. But I want him to be there when Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency wins the big prize so bad because I know he’ll be super-crazy proud of me. Heck, it might even make him feel better and get well faster.
Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.
Ding, ding, ding!
There it is. Right there on the home page of the school website like Mr. Arnold said it would be. My heart races as I scan down the list of fifteen acts.
Taylor Hope. Duh.
Chad Charles. Double duh.
Heather Hobbs. What?!
The Amazing Sadie and Fifi. Whatever.
Dustin Parks. Really, Mr. Arnold? He dropped three balls!
Now I feel like my stomach is doing a shablam because I don’t see Brady’s or Julian’s name and I’m getting closer to the bottom of the list. So I speed up. Like ripping off a Band-Aid, I read the rest of the names real fast, but I still don’t see them. Then my eyes land on the last name on the list and I finally let out the breath I didn’t realize I had been holding in.
Julian Vasquez. Whew! That was close.
I’m seriously bummed that Brady didn’t make the cut, but it was pretty clear that he didn’t make any friends on the judging panel with all his new material making fun of teachers and staff. Rookie mistake, though. He can still bounce back, with my guidance and direction.
I shoot up out of my seat, carrying my laptop to the edge of the stage. I clear my throat, but no one pays attention. So I do it a whole lot louder. Finally Manny spins on his platform-heel boots.
He claps on every word. “What. Is. It. Little. Boy? What. Do. You. Want?”
I can’t help grinning from ear to ear because I know that it doesn’t matter what Manny the drag queen thinks. Right now I’m the most important person in this garage and he doesn’t scare me anymore. I hold the laptop up and turn it so they can see the screen. Colton’s eyes widen, but Julian’s grow dark and fearful—until he sees the last name on the list.
I look him straight in the eyes and say the words that all professional talent agents like me are born to say.
“You got the gig.”
25
THE WICKED-COOL MASK
The last week of school continues to slog by, one dumb final exam after another. I think I do pretty good on my social studies exam. Math, not so much. In homeroom on Friday morning, everyone’s talking about their plans for the summer, starting with Memorial Day cookouts and pool parties on Monday. It’s a half day of classes and then the talent show takes place in the auditorium after the last exam period. Everybody seems pretty excited about it. Except Brady because he didn’t get in, and the athletes because they think it’s dumb and hate that the whole school is required to go. I guess they think we should end the school year with some kind of sports event, but to that idea I say no, thank you very much and have a nice day.
But ever since Dad told me last night that Pap Pruitt’s blood pressure shot way up yesterday and he won’t be able to come today, I’m finding it hard to get excited about anything—the big show, the last day of school, Julian’s death drop, any of it. I wanted Pap to be there so badly. I wanted him to see the Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency succeed. I wanted to make him proud.
I glance over my shoulder at Colton. He sits at his desk digging a fingernail into the wood and not talking to anyone. He actually looks kind of down, too. I wonder if he’s worried about a final exam today. Or maybe he’s worried about Julian’s performance at the gig later. I glance back to the front of the class. Poor Mrs. Campbell gave up trying to settle everyone down a wh
ile ago. An older white lady who’s been at North Charleston Middle School since they built the place, she’s barely managed to keep us in our seats today. Right now she’s at her desk, reading a book and hardly even paying attention to us. So I slip out of my seat to talk to Colton.
I kneel beside his desk so Mrs. Campbell doesn’t see me. “Hey. What’s up?”
Colton gives me a half smile—not the full-on freckles, sparkly white teeth, stomach-blender treatment.
“Hey,” he says with a sigh, his shoulders slumping.
We just kind of stare at each other for an awkward second or two, waiting for the other to say something. He doesn’t, so I do.
“I’m getting really nervous about the talent show,” I say. “Julian has some stiff competition and he said he’s been having trouble perfecting the death drop.”
He nods. “I know. He really has to bring it.”
More fingernail digging into the desk. Something’s up, but I’m not sure if Colton wants to talk about it.
“My mom got out of rehab yesterday,” he says, holding my gaze like he wants to see how I will react.
It sounds like good news, but Colton doesn’t look super-crazy excited about it.
“That’s great, right?”
He shifts in the seat. “My grandma and I went to pick her up, but when we got there, they said she’d already left with a friend.”
Colton shakes his head on those last three words, like his mom has done this kind of thing before.
“I shouldn’t be surprised, though,” he says, his shiny reddish-brown hair hanging down over his eyes. “When she was using drugs, she always made promises she didn’t keep. Most of the time I felt more like the parent.” He stops digging into the desk with his fingernail. “I was just kind of hoping, since she’s been in rehab getting better, that she’d be here for the talent show today.” He glances over at me and pushes his hair out of his eyes. “I really wanted her to see the dance I choreographed. Grandma left her three messages about it last night. But she also laid into Mom for taking off like that without telling us, so I doubt she will want to face Grandma anytime soon.”
