“I guess we’ll find out Friday night,” Khal said.
“Find out what?” I asked.
“You’re going to the dance, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I hadn’t been sure if I would, but Mom, who was on the PTA board this year, had signed herself up as a chaperone, so it was kind of just assumed I’d be there, and since I didn’t really care one way or the other, I went along with it. Fortunately, Dad had to work on a paper for school and couldn’t be recruited. One parent as a chaperone was all right. Two was not. Knowing Dad, he would have come in his uniform.
“So, I guess we’ll find out how you really feel about the Belcher on Friday night—when she asks you to dance.” Khal grinned.
My stomach dropped. Somehow I needed to contract a terribly contagious disease in the next forty-eight hours.
I was a scientist. Surely I could come up with something.
Log Entry—Thursday, October 4
Only twenty-four hours until the dance and I’m showing no symptoms of anything other than puberty. No hives, no rashes, no oozing, pus-filled sores. Unless you count the four pimples that suddenly appeared on my forehead this morning.
Aghhh! What am I going to do if she asks me to dance?
Friday night rolled around, and boy, was I in trouble. As much as I wanted to be sick in bed—too hoarse to speak, too weak to dance, and most importantly, too contagious to go anywhere—I was fine. Except for my stomach, which felt like an empty cement mixer on overdrive.
I had spent the afternoon cleaning out Einstein’s tank. I’d lured him into his holding pen with a mealworm. Even though I’d been nervous he’d try to make a break for it, he ran right in. Easy. Cleaning the tank, on the other hand, was hard. It took me a good couple of hours to get everything out, wash the walls, replace the bark, and put everything back in. I was glad when it was over.
I took a quick shower and threw on some clothes—a red, green, and black plaid shirt with snaps down the front, my faded black jeans, and my red-checkered slipon Vans. Not that I cared what I looked like so much, but if I was going to go to the dance, I might as well show up looking halfway decent.
I crouched and peered into Einstein’s tank. Einstein stared at me from his rock. “What do you think, Einstein? Should I dance with her?” His snout moved from side to side, as if he were shaking his head no. “Totally! But what if she comes right out and asks me?” It seemed like something she would do. “I can’t just say no.”
Einstein clambered onto the vine and disappeared into the ivy. “Yeah, my thought exactly. Make up an excuse, then run for cover.” I pulled out the sprayer and misted the leaves. “Well, wish me luck, buddy. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
On my way down the hall, I stepped into the bathroom and put on one more dose of deodorant. If I actually ended up dancing, I didn’t want to be stinking the place up.
“Have a great time, buddy,” Dad said as I walked into the kitchen. “Dance one for me.”
Mom put her hands on Dad’s chest and gazed into his eyes. “Remember the first time we danced?”
Dad pecked her on the lips. “How could I forget?” He spun her around the kitchen, then wrapped his arms around her waist. They swayed in the middle of the “dance floor.” I was thinking about heading back to my room. The mush factor was getting a little too high for me.
“That was the night I knew we were meant to be together,” Mom said.
One dance with someone could tell you something like that? I was skeptical, but a little curious. What would I do if Morgan asked me to dance? All the guys would be right there, watching. Just the thought of it made me feel like I might hyperventilate.
“We ought to get going,” Mom said, giving Dad another peck. She rubbed her hand on my back. “You look very handsome, honey.”
“Thanks,” I said. Did the girls at my school think I was handsome? Did I want them to?
“Looking fly is tactical step number one,” Dad said, “but if you really want to attract the honeybees …”
My ears warmed with embarrassment, but they were also tuned in to hear what Dad had to say.
He leaned in. “It’s all about the scent. You want to borrow some of my cologne?” Mom stood with her arms folded, a half smile on her face. I kept expecting her to say something about me being too young, but she didn’t.
“What do you say? I’ll go get it for you.” Dad started toward the door.
I swallowed. I’d been stung by a bee once. It hurt—bad. “Uh, that’s okay. Thanks anyway.”
If only I had come down with the measles.
Inside Eastmont’s main entrance, a large poster board stood on an easel, directing kids to different rooms for different activities. The gym was open for shooting hoops, and hair and nails were being done in Room 3A. The cafeteria was where the actual dancing was going on. I could hear music. Lots of kids were already there, heading in groups from the gym to the cafeteria or the other way around. Some hung around in the entryway.
“Hey, Brendan!” Oscar came toward us. His dark hair was spiked up with gel and it was—blue!
“I’ll see you in there, Bren,” Mom whispered. “I’ve got to check in with the PTA people.”
I nodded and she walked away. Oscar rushed up. “What do you think? Pretty cool, huh?” His eyeballs rolled side to side as if he were trying to see his own hair. He wore a dress shirt and tie, which were actually clean and not too wrinkled.
“Uh, yeah. Did you do it yourself?”
“No, a mom did it for me—in the hairstyling room. She spray-painted it!”
“You went in the hair and nails room? I thought it would be all girls in there.”
“Exactly!” Oscar smiled big.
A couple of guys walked by with spray-painted hair—one red, the other blue-and-green-striped, same as the Seahawks’ team colors. I hitched my thumb toward the cafeteria. “You want to go in?” My stomach had started to rumble. And the flyer for the dance had promised pizza.
The cafeteria was a lot brighter than I expected. The lights were on full force, I guessed so the adults could make sure no one was fooling around or doing something they shouldn’t be doing.
Someone’s older brother must have been recruited to be the DJ. He stood behind a table on the stage with his laptop open. Large speakers sat on either side of the table. Music played and kids were dancing. The only kids in the room who weren’t dancing were scarfing down pizza at the food table. Khal and Marcus were among them.
Oscar and I headed over. Were those Lit’l Smokies on that platter?
“Hey, guys,” I said, grabbing a toothpick and going straight for the little wieners. I chomped down on one. Mmmm. Lit’l Smoky juice.
“Os-car, my man, looking good!” Khal said. He bumped Oscar’s fist. “I would have joined you, but I don’t have much hair left to paint.” He ran his hand over his newly shaved head. Whenever Khal got a haircut I kidded him about looking like a lightbulb.
I sniffed at the air around his scalp. “Are you wearing aftershave on your head?”
“Smells good, don’t it?” He grinned.
Dwight David, looking like a regular kid in his polo shirt and jeans instead of a military paratrooper, had come over to the table. He started downing one Lit’l Smoky after another.
Was the kid swallowing them whole? I had to get in there before they were all gone. We stabbed at the same time and came up with the same wiener. “You’re hogging all the Lit’l Smokies,” I said.
He smiled and shrugged. “They’re good.”
I couldn’t disagree with that. I yanked my toothpick free and went for another one. As I bit down on the tiny sausage, Khal bumped me in the arm. “Look who’s coming …”
I turned to see Morgan, in a skirt, headed straight for the food table, or to be more exact, headed straight for me!
I gulped down the rest of the Lit’l Smoky and hurried over to the big drink barrel at the end of the table. If she was coming after me, which from the look in her e
yes she no doubt was, I didn’t need the guys overhearing our whole conversation.
I grabbed a cup and started pouring orange drink from the big dispenser at the end of the table.
“Hi, Morgan!” I heard Dwight David say.
I looked. Dwight David had intercepted her. She glanced at me over the top of his head. I looked back down in time to see orange drink overflowing the edge of my cup.
“Dang,” I said under my breath. I set the cup on the table and hunted for some napkins to mop up the mess. When I stood again, Dwight David was leading Morgan by the hand to the middle of the dance floor. They disappeared into the mass of dancing kids.
Whew! I owed a big one to Dwight Dingleberry.
I looked around for my friends. Khal and Marcus had joined a circle of girls dancing on the fringes. Oscar had his hand in the bowl of Doritos. I headed toward him, but just as I got there, Shyla-Ann Thompson came up and asked if he wanted to dance. Oscar looked as if he’d just won the state lottery. “Sure!” He wiped his hands on his black pants, leaving a fluorescent streak of orange.
I gave Oscar a high five behind Shyla-Ann’s back, and they headed off together.
I grabbed myself a piece of pepperoni pizza, then saw Mr. Hammond. I strode over to the wall where he leaned, bobbing his head to the music. “Hey, Mr. H!”
“Brendan! How’s it going? You planning to”—Mr. Hammond’s neck sort of snaked to one side and his shoulder jumped up to meet his ear—“bust a move?”
Was Mr. H trying to pop? “Careful, Mr. H, you might hurt yourself.”
He laughed. I did, too. For the first time that night, I felt relaxed. I took another bite of pizza.
“Is there a special someone you’ve got your eye on?” He gestured with his head toward the dance floor.
“Me?” I pointed at my chest. “Nah. I’m too busy for girls. I’m trying to win a science contest!”
He nodded. “Of course. You can’t afford any distractions right now.”
“Exactly!” I stood with my back against the wall and finished off the slice. Mr. H understood what was important. I glanced toward the dance floor. Morgan bopped around in the middle of the crowd, smiling and laughing. Was she still dancing with Dwight David? He was so short it was hard to see him.
Whatever. What did I care who Morgan danced with? Or whether she was having a good time with Dwight David? They looked kind of ridiculous, really, the way she towered over him.
I turned to Mr. Hammond. “The banana-manure mixture seems to have peaked on its methane production,” I said.
“That so?” Mr. H kept his eyes on the dance floor. His face broke into a big smile. “My wife just came in. I’ll see you later, buddy.” He took off across the cafeteria.
I was about to head back to the Lit’l Smokies when Lauren Dweck came up. Her lemon-yellow dress practically blinded me. Her hair was pinned up all over her head like a pile of curly fries.
“Hi, Brendan, do you want to dance?” She said it fast.
I answered just as quickly, like a computer programmed for one response. “Okay.” And like that, I was headed for the dance floor.
Another song had everyone bouncing, stepping, and jumping around. Oscar jiggled. Marcus jangled. Khal was popping—but for real, not like Mr. Hammond. Khal knew how to pop.
I started stepping side to side, mostly keeping my eyes on Khal, every once in a while smiling at Lauren so she wouldn’t think I was ignoring her. I could see the back of Morgan’s head. Her shiny brown hair reflected the lights above. She and Dwight David were still dancing, at the other end of the crowd that had flooded the floor with this latest song—the biggest hit of the night.
The next time I looked, Morgan was facing my direction. She looked at me just as Khal’s hand snaked its way over to mine. Khal and I bumped fists.
Suddenly, I was in the flow, busting my robot moves. The current started in the fingers of the hand Khal had bumped then traveled along my arm, across my shoulders, and down my torso to my knees. When it reached my feet, I sent the current back up the other side and down my opposite arm. A few kids around me cheered and started to watch.
Khal and I had practiced these moves a lot at his house. We’d find guys popping on YouTube, then turn on music and try to imitate them. At home, I’d dance in front of my closet mirror to see what I looked like.
I kept the flow going, every once in a while throwing in a Tae Kwon Do move—a punch or a front kick. I was as smooth as creamy peanut butter.
The space around me had gotten bigger as kids stopped dancing to watch my moves. People clapped to the beat, including Mom, who I saw in the crowd. Cordé Wilkins pumped his fist in the air. Then the chant started: “Go Brendan! Go Brendan!”
A couple of girls stood in front, holding up their cell phones. Were they recording me with their video cameras? I flashed them a big smile.
I circled one last time around the empty space, pushing myself from toe to heel, heel to toe, sliding here and there as my knees bent and straightened, my hips wriggled, my torso went this way and that, and my arms undulated like the water in a wave machine. My head stayed steady and controlled at the top, like the knob on a joystick, telling the rest of my body what to do, which was to stay loose and fluid, until finally the song was over. I landed on one knee, and my chin dropped to my chest. Kids clapped and screamed. I looked up and grinned as the next tune came on.
I found Khal in the crowd and started to give him a high five, but he just scowled. “Jeez, man. You didn’t have to steal the whole show.”
Was Khal mad? He’d started the whole thing! And it wasn’t like I told everyone to stop and watch.
I started to say sorry, but Lauren grabbed my hand and pulled me back into the crowd. “You were …” She gazed into my eyes, “Awesome!” She wrapped her arms around my neck, swaying to the music. I rocked stiffly, every once in a while glancing at Khal, who apparently had been grabbed by Melanie Sherman, because I didn’t think Khal would ask someone the guys called Smellanie to dance, especially when his nose was only a little above her armpits. I sat next to Melanie in English. Her BO smelled like clam chowder.
The rest of the night was a blur. Every time I tried to leave the dance floor, another girl would ask me to dance, and every time, like that computer, I said okay. I guessed I was having fun after all. It seemed like the only girl I never danced with was Morgan. The problem I’d been so worried about ended up not being a problem at all.
Then why, I wondered as Mom and I left the dance, did I feel let down?
Monday at my locker, I waited around for Morgan for our daily experiment update. The veggie-manure mix had edged out a couple of the manure-only bottles, and I wanted to get her take on it. When the five-minute bell rang and she still hadn’t showed, I started toward homeroom.
A girl I sort of recognized, but not really, called out from a huddle in the hallway. “Hi, Brendan!”
I looked around. “Uh, hi,” I said, and kept walking.
When I got to homeroom, it seemed like all the girls were staring at me. Lauren and Julia looked at each other and giggled.
The one girl who wasn’t there was Morgan. Where was she? I had important developments to report. We were on day nine of our fourteen-day experiment. On the home stretch.
Khalfani only barely said hi. He was busy razzing Dwight David. “You better watch out, Dwight David. You spent a whole lot of time dancing with the Belcher the other night. She’s Brendan’s girlfriend, you know.” All the guys in the room laughed.
My ears got hot. I started to say, No, she’s not! but Morgan walked in.
She slipped into her seat without a glance or a word. Something told me this was not going to be a good week at Eastmont Middle.
When I got home that afternoon, Dad said he would be taking me to Tae Kwon Do as usual. The bad news was, he was staying.
Since Dad’s evening classes had started, he’d just been dropping me off on his way to school, and Khal and his dad would drive me home.
&
nbsp; “You’re staying?” I said.
“Yeah. Class was cancelled. Is there a problem?” Dad’s eyebrows rose.
“Uh. No. No. It’s just … great, you’re staying.” I escaped to my room to do some homework and spend a little time with Einstein before we had to leave. What I really should be doing is practicing my forms, I thought as I searched for Einstein through the glass.
Over the last month, my practice had been slipping. Between having a heavier load of homework, taking care of Einstein, and doing extra chores around the house to earn more allowance for my new bike, I didn’t have nearly as much free time as I’d had in elementary school. On top of that, for the last week and a half, Morgan’s and my experiment had been in my usual practice space. I couldn’t practice in that heat. And the odor, although not totally gagging, didn’t exactly make me want to hang out there any longer than I had to. I went in there twice a day for the measurements and got out as fast as I could (without jeopardizing the accuracy of the data, of course).
Then there was the fact that Dad had been so busy with his own homework and his job that he hadn’t seemed to notice I wasn’t practicing. Without Dad reminding me to practice, well, it was just easy not to. And without practice, I wouldn’t be advancing to the next level any time soon.
Each level, or belt color, in Tae Kwon Do has its own hyung, or form—a series of blocks, punches, and kicks that students have to memorize and perform convincingly to qualify for the next belt or stripe (the levels between belts). I had six hyungs down, although with my lack of practice, some of them had been getting kind of fuzzy, and the most recent one—Toi-Gye, which I had to learn before earning my brown stripe—wasn’t coming along so well. Only three more hyungs and I’d have my first-degree black belt, but lately I just hadn’t been motivated.
Master Rickman had even said something to me about putting in more time at home if I wanted to be ready for the brown stripe promotion test. I guessed he could see I wasn’t as sharp as usual. As soon as we got to the dojang that evening, Dad would see it, too.
Inside the dojang, I threw my shoes into a cubby and walked over to where Khal stood, his arms folded across his chest. “Hey,” I said.
Brendan Buckley's Sixth-Grade Experiment Page 8
