by Bill Myers
“TV crew?” I whispered hoarsely. Whatever voice I had had was gone from all the screaming earlier that morning.
“Yes . . . they’re in the gym with Opera’s and your science project. Come along.” He rested his clammy hand on my shoulder as we started down the hall. I could feel the dampness of his palm soak through my shirt. I remembered something about a science project, but what did he mean by TV crew?
“Hey, Wally, my man,” someone shouted. “How’s it going?”
Others followed suit. And before I knew it, there was an entire crowd following us down the hall.
“So, . . .” Reptile Man said as he led me through the hall, “did you talk the movie people into letting me see their mechanical monster?”
“Why, uh, . . . er . . .” I tried to give an answer that would keep Reptile Man smiling but that wasn’t a lie. “No problem . . . Mr. Reptenson. Just, uh, show up. I’m sure you’ll see it.” (Hey, it wasn’t a lie. It was so big, he couldn’t miss it. Maybe he’d have to see it from a mile away, but at least he’d see it).
It worked. He broke into an even bigger attempt of a grin.
“Wally?” It was Melissa Sue Avarice in all of her perfect perfection. Perfect smile, perfect teeth, perfect . . . well, you get the picture. “Did you get a lock of Chad Steel’s hair for me?”
“I’m sorry,” I rasped hoarsely. “With all of today’s work I didn’t get a chance.”
Her perfect smile vanished. I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t just break her heart (let alone have it hate me). I’d given Reptile Man a half truth, and he bought it. Maybe I could do the same with Missy.
“Listen,” I continued, “why don’t you swing by tomorrow. Maybe I could set up a meeting.” (Again, it wasn’t a lie. I COULD set up a meeting. Maybe not with Chad, but I could set up a meeting with somebody . . . somewhere . . . sometime.) Besides, what did I have to worry about? Neither Missy nor Reptile Man would show up tomorrow. It was Tuesday. They had school. I was covered. No problem.
Well, except for that still, small voice. It grew louder every time I opened my mouth.
We pushed open the gym doors. Lots of kids milled around setting up their science projects. Lots of kids including Opera . . . and the TV crew that followed him around.
“There he is now!” someone shouted. “There’s Wally McDoogle!”
Everyone turned to me, including the TV crew.
“Hey, Wally!” Opera shouted. “You’re just in time.”
The crowd kinda parted, and I made my way up to a giant display all about f leas. It was incredible—detailed drawings of fleas, electron microscope photographs of fleas, a clear plastic dome with a magnifying glass so you could see the fleas—I mean, Opera had really knocked himself out.
“And you boys built this yourself ?” a reporter asked, suddenly shoving a microphone into my face.
“We sure did,” Opera interrupted, giving me a look that said, play along with this. “Just the two of us, right, Wally?”
“Amazing,” the reporter replied. “Not only is he our local celebrity, but he is a scientific whiz kid, as well.”
Opera threw his arm around me. “You bet,” he said as he grinned toward the camera. “Wally’s one talented dude . . . and my best friend.”
Opera didn’t have a selfish bone in his body. But for some reason, at that exact moment I thought he was using me. Just like everybody else. Just like Melissa, just like Reptile Man, just like everyone. By getting on TV, by claiming to be my friend, I thought Opera was using me to rise from his lowly Dorkoid state.
But what if the opposite happened? What if people saw us together and thought I’d slipped back into Dorkoidhood? If that happened, I’d be right back where I started.
Before I knew it, I was squirming out from under Opera’s arm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
A look of concern shot through Opera’s eyes.
“This isn’t my project—I had nothing to do with it.”
“Wally,” Opera said through clenched teeth as he tried to keep smiling, “what are you talking about? This is the science project that we all have to do, that I agreed to help you with until—”
“I barely know him,” I said, turning to the reporter. “I mean, we’re in science class together and everything. And we used to be friends and stuff . . . but that was a long time ago.”
“Wally . . .” I could hear the shock in Opera’s voice, but I couldn’t look at him.
“A long, long time ago,” I repeated just to make sure no one missed my meaning. There, it was done. I’d said it. I felt like dog drool, but at least I had made my point.
“But he’ll still be going with the rest of your class to visit the set tomorrow, won’t he?”
The reporter’s question hit me like a ton of bricks. “WHAT?” I half croaked, half screamed.
“The field trip Vice Principal Watkins set up for tomorrow. He’ll still be going on that.”
“Mr. Watkins set up a field trip,” I sputtered, “. . . for our class? . . . to visit the set?”
“That’s right. Tomorrow morning! I bet it’ll be a thrill for you to perform in front of your classmates, won’t it?”
“More than you can imagine,” I muttered in a half daze. They asked me a bunch more questions about being a star and working with Chad Steel and Laura and all of that. But my head was too busy spinning with all the promises I had made to Melissa and Reptile Man and everyone. If they were actually going to be on the set, how was I going to pull it off ?
Then there was Opera. My one-time best friend. I glanced over at him a moment. That was all it took. My heart broke. He looked like somebody had punched him in the gut. Like his best friend had suddenly become a Judas.
. . . Maybe I had.
That night everybody made a big deal about watching me on TV and about the field trip Mr. Watkins had arranged. Brock’s girlfriend just happened to swing by to say “hi.” (What a coincidence.) Dad’s boss just happened to call offering to “chaperone” the class tomorrow. (What a guy.) And Mom and Dad thought it would be a thrill to swing by and watch me work. (What fun.)
By the time my face flickered on the tube, I had sort of wandered out of the room.
“Come on, Sweetheart,” Mom shouted. “You’re missing it.”
That was the whole idea. I was still bugged about Opera. Well, not about Opera, but about me. I had betrayed my best friend once that afternoon. I wasn’t in the mood to see an instant replay of it that night.
I trudged upstairs to my room. With any luck, tomorrow would be my last day of filming. With any luck, this whole awful business would be over. People would stop using me, and I would stop hurting them.
I reached for Ol’ Betsy and flipped her on. Maybe James Brawn would have some answers . . .
The chase music blares loudly as James and Poppin’ Fresh Dough race through the desert from (Da-da-daaaa!—— that’s bad-guy music) Lizard Lips. James is in perfect shape and races like the wind. (He has to. He’s our hero.) Poppin’ Fresh, on the other hand, is a bit overfed, and usually weighs in on the “what’s-that-hanging-over-your-belt” side of the scales.
Poppin’ tries to speak. “Go ahead (gasp, gasp) without me (wheeze, wheeze). I can’t (gasp, wheeze) make it (wheeze, gasp).”
“Nonsense,” James chuckles with superior, superspy superiority. He bends down and rips off his left shoe. He tears away the heel to reveal a hidden TV remote control.
“What are you doing?” Poppin’ pants.
James points the remote control at Lizzie, who is just a few hundred feet behind them. He presses the “Pause” button, and immediately Ms. Lips freezes in midair.
“How’d you——”
“She’s a TV character, isn’t she?” James asks.
“Well, yeah, but——”
“So she has to play by TV rules.” Again James grins his great, good-guy grin. Now he points the remote at Poppin’ Fresh.
“What are you doing?” Poppin�
� cries.
“You’re a TV character, too, and we’ve gotta pick up the pace so...” He presses “Fast Forward.” Suddenly, Poppin’ Fresh is running faster than the nose of a kid with a bad cold.
Then James stops. He strains to listen. “Do you hear that?” he asks.
“It’s the other prisoners,” Poppin’ shouts.
Immediately, James presses “Volume” on the remote control. The sound grows louder. Now he can tell where they are. “This way,” he cries as they race toward a conveniently placed nearby cave.
They dash inside the cold cavern and come to a stop. Sure enough, there they are——all the TV commercials——all locked up together as prisoners. And they are not happy...not happy at all.
To the left, the Keebler Elves are arguing fiercely with the Doublemint Twins. Not far away the Energizer Bunny is having an endurance contest with the Duracell Dancers. Nearby, Tony the Tiger is wrestling the Trix rabbit for best two out of three falls as Cap’n Crunch waits to take on the winner.
“What’s going on?” James shouts to the nearby Little Caesar’s Pizza man dressed in his Little Caesar’s Pizza toga.
“Pizza, pizza,” the little guy shouts.
“No, I’m asking you——”
“Pizza, pizza!”
“I don’t want any——”
“Pizza, pizza!”
“Will you stop it with the——”
“Pizza, pizza!”
Our superspy is getting super-steamed. He turns to Colonel Sanders. But the old-timer is trying to get a hammerlock on Ronald McDonald. Then there are those red spots from the 7-UP cans. They’re bouncing all over the place.
“This is crazy!” James yells.
“You know how competitive we are,” Poppin’ Fresh shouts. “Put us in the same room together, and we’ve just got to beat the other guy. It’s our nature.”
“But your real enemy’s outside. Any second the batteries in my remote control will wear down, Lizard Lips will unfreeze, and——”
“Too late, Jamesssssss.”
Our hero spins around to see ol’ Lizzie slithering toward the cave. He turns to the crowd and shouts, “Everybody, listen up! Listen up!”
But before he can say anything more, James is suddenly trampled to the ground by a dozen basketball stars racing each other in “new and improved” basketball shoes that they’re all trying to sell.
“James...” Poppin’ cries as he runs to him. “James, can you hear me?”
But James does not answer. He lies on the ground unconscious.
“What’ssss the matter?” Lizard Lips hisses as she closes in. “Did Jimmy boy fall down and go boom? Once again she begins laughing her sinister lizard laugh. Once again things look impossibly hopeless for our impossibly good-looking secret agent when suddenly——
I came to a stop. I had no suddenlys left . . . in either this story or my life. My situation was just as hopeless as James Brawn’s. Well, tomorrow it would all be over. I’d play the superstar for everybody one last time, and then things would finally get back to normal. Right?
Then again . . .
Chapter 9
Send in the Fleas!
The next day the limo dropped me off at the movie set bright and early. If I was a little lucky, we’d finish before my class ever showed up. If I was a lot lucky, there’d be a major earthquake, and the ground would open up and swallow me whole.
Unfortunately, it was not my lucky day . . .
First, it took a couple hours to get Gertrude working right. She was hiccuping again. Then a couple more hours to get Chad out of his dressing room. He was whining again—something about a pimple that he didn’t want his “public” to see.
Anyway, it was 11:00 by the time we were all in our places. Me, my actor buddies, Chad, Laura, Gertrude, the billboard, the convertible, . . . oh, and about a hundred of my so-called “fans.” They had all shown up and were standing behind a roped-off area gawking at me.
A lot of them—like Reptile Man, Melissa Sue, Brock’s girlfriend, and Dad’s boss—were waiting for me to make good all of my hotshot promises. Others, like Opera (who was carrying around a giant shoebox full of our newly hatched fleas), were there simply to watch and cheer me on.
“Attaboy, Wally!” someone yelled from behind the rope.
“Do us proud,” Dad called from behind his video camera.
“If you die, can I have your computer?” Wall Street shouted.
“Quiet!” the little man with the big megaphone cried. “Quiet, or you’ll have to clear the set.”
They all settled down and waited.
It was kinda cool having everyone watch me. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good. I’d also be lying if I said it was worth all the pain and hassles I’d been through. With any luck, it would be over in just two minutes. Then again, we’ve already talked about my luck . . .
They went through the usual shouting countdown of “Sound?” . . . “Speed.”. . . “Camera?” . . . “Rolling.” . . . until we finally came to, “And . . . ACTION!” Everybody remembered what to do. Everything went like clockwork. Well, for a second . . .
Once again there was the flash behind the billboard.
Once again my actor buddy cried, “What’s that?”
Once again Gertrude’s head crashed through the sign.
And, once again, I opened my mouth to scream. But before any sound came out, Gertrude started bucking. I threw a look over at her operator at the control panel. He had that same, “UH-OH, NOW WHAT?” look on his face. Before I could jump back Gertrude opened her jaws and grabbed my left leg.
Then things really went haywire!
We all knew Gertrude was supposed to pick me up—it was in the script. But not like this. She wasn’t supposed to pick me up by my left leg. We weren’t supposed to go shooting up into the air quite so high or quite so fast. And her body was not supposed to bounce and buck out of control.
But it did.
The crowd gasped. Well, everyone but Dad. “Relax,” he said, smiling from behind his video camera, “I talked to the director, it’s all in the script, it’s perfectly safe.”
Not quite . . .
I was dangling thirty feet in the air, hanging by one foot from Gertrude’s mouth. All this as she did the two-step or hokey-pokey or whatever dance routine she was learning. With every buck and hop, my foot slipped further and further out of her mouth. With every buck and hop I was coming closer and closer to a little one-on-one, face-to-face chat with God. Now, being the cool, calm professional I am, I did what any cool, calm professional would do. I screamed for my mommy!
“MOMMMM . . . (bounce, buck) DAD . . . (buck, bounce) SOMEBODY GET ME (bounce, buck, buck, bounce) DOWN FROM HERE!”
I caught a glimpse of Gertrude’s controller. He was spinning dials and pulling levers, but he could have been on a cruise to Tahiti for all the good he was doing.
By now the entire film crew was in a panic. Everyone but the director. “KEEP IT ROLLING!” he shouted to his cameraman, “KEEP IT ROLLING!”
“See,” Dad said a little less confidently, “they know what they’re doing.”
“GET ME DOWN!” I kept screaming, “GET ME DOWN FROM HERE!”
Reptile Man was the first to act. “It’s a short!” he shouted as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He darted under the rope and started for Gertrude’s operator. A security guy tried to stop him, but it did no good. “It’s an electrical short in your power convertor,” he cried as he finally broke free and raced toward Gertrude’s operator and control panel.
“GET ME DOWN FROM HERE! GET ME DOWN!”
“WALLY! WALLY!” Opera was also squirming and wiggling his way to the front of the crowd.
“KEEP IT ROLLING! KEEP IT ROLLING!” the director cried.
Reptile Man arrived beside Gertrude’s operator and did what any scientifically trained, electronic genius would do. He gave the control panel a good, solid kick.
Gertrude let out a hiss of gas
as her neck dropped toward the ground. The only problem was, we were dropping at about a billion miles per hour!
“WALLY! WALLY!” It was Opera’s turn to duck under the rope. He broke past the guard and raced toward us.
Even as I was about to die, I was impressed by Opera’s love for me. Funny, after all I had done to him, he still cared. He was still trying to help. Not that there was a lot he and his giant “flea motel” could do . . . Still, when he finally joined me in heaven, I’d have to look him up and say “thanks.”
In short, there was nothing anybody could do. Well, except for the director. But he knew a good scene when he saw one. “KEEP IT ROLLING! KEEP IT ROLLING!”
Then just before ol’ Gertrude made me a permanent part of the pavement, Reptile Man gave her controls one last kick. She screeched to a halt just a couple feet from the ground. Talk about close! Then her mouth hissed open, and she spit me out.
“OH, WALLY, WALLY!” Opera shouted as he raced toward me, all 187 pounds worth. He spread open his arms as he ran at me. “YOU’RE SAFE! YOU’RE SAFE!”
At the speed he was going, I knew I wouldn’t be safe for long. He hit me so hard that he knocked me to the ground, and I rolled out of Gertrude’s reach.
Unfortunately, Opera didn’t.
Suddenly, ol’ Gertrude let out another hiss. Her mouth fell to the pavement and clanged shut again. Only this time it was around Opera.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Opera screamed about a hundred times better than I ever had.
“KEEP ROLLING,” the director cried. “GO IN FOR A CLOSEUP! GO IN FOR A CLOSEUP!”
The cameraman obeyed as Gertrude’s head again flew back up into the sky. Once again she started bucking and bouncing her fancy dance.
Reptile Man dropped to his knees and, with the operator’s help, madly unscrewed the front of the control panel.
The crowd screamed louder and louder.
“THIS IS GREAT!” the director cried. “CUE THE CONVERTIBLE! CHAD, Laura, GET IN THERE FOR THE RESCUE!”
Chad nodded and threw his speedster in gear. It roared forward and squealed to a stop directly under Opera, directly under the bucking Gertrude.
