The Makeover of James Orville Wickenbee

by Anya Bateman

  We’d heard that before too. “Yes, of course,” I said, “but like I’ve told you, it’s also essential that this talk be clever.” As a matter of fact, we were working on our fourth draft of clever because clever can be elusive. What sounded extremely clever and funny one day came across with a dull thud the next.

  James was scowling again. “I want to talk about making our school a place where every student feels comfortable and welcome. A place where learning is easier because people care about each other. I have several things listed that I want to cover.”

  “You bet!” I said, taking his list from him and handing it to Sadie. “Sadie, why don’t you type that in.”

  “Okay,” said Sadie with a snort.

  I planned to edit it out later.

  “What about that costume, James?” I asked, trying to distract him. He’d emphatically turned me down twenty minutes before, but I was hoping he’d changed his mind about wearing Superman tights and a cape. Even though skits had been eliminated this year— thanks to a couple of committees who’d chosen obscene subject matter the year before— props were allowed and several of the candidates were dressing up. I turned to Alex and Adriana. “Help me talk James into this,” I pleaded with them.

  “We’ve already talked about this,” said our normally easy- to- work- with candidate with great firmness in his voice. “No tights!”

  “I don’t think he’s budging on this,” said Alex. Under his breath he added, “And I don’t blame you, Dude.”

  “Fine.” I sighed. Alex was right. James had made up his mind on the costume and there really wasn’t time to argue anymore. Besides, I wasn’t a hundred percent sold on the idea myself. Granted, James’s arms looked great now and his chest was more than adequate, but for all I knew his legs could be pogo sticks. “Okay, then let’s move on.”

  But James was not moving on. “Sergei?” James addressed the newest committee member, a friend of Derrick’s. “What are some things you’re hoping will happen in our school next year?” When Sergei studied the floor with embarrassment, James lowered himself next to him and began to ask him questions. James listened to the Russian boy’s ragged answers attentively until he became rather animated. “Those are good ideas,” James said.

  Next James turned to Lotus Leaf, then Cassie, then Garlia. He asked each committee member to express his or her feelings and thoughts. I watched, intrigued at his thoughtfulness, and found myself amused and even impressed by the fairly insightful responses. But then I shook my head like a wet dog. We had work to do!

  Alex, Adriana, and I worked on James’s presentation until midnight that Tuesday night. To our surprise Sadie came up with some decent input as well. She suggested we do something with the famous phrase: “Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound . . .”

  “And then there’s the part about ‘fighting for truth, justice, and the American way,’” she added quietly. “We could put some of that in but change it to fit with the election and our school.”

  I stared at her. “That’s pretty good. That’s honestly not a bad idea, Sadie.”

  Sadie moved back a little in the computer chair and sniffed with satisfaction.

  By the time we’d finally finished with the speech, committee members were strewn across James’s living room. Terrance Dokey was snoring in the corner, his mouth wide open, his arms close to his sides. He jerked when I tapped him on his shoulder. Alex pulled down Bud’s arm, and I nudged Cassie, who was taking up the entire corner next to the couch. Garlia had left at about nine to meet some of her scary friends at some equally scary hangout down by the lake. Derrick and Sergei and some of the newer committee members had followed Garlia out to the sidewalk to say good- bye, but thankfully returned to help us finish James’s presentation.

  Tomorrow’s the big day, I thought, looking around. We’re almost there!

  -B-

  “This is a clever talk, and I appreciate all the effort, but I don’t see the information here that I wanted to include,” James objected very early Wednesday around six a.m. after he’d read the speech we’d finally finished putting together for him. “I’m going to need to add a few things.”

  I immediately panicked and opened my mouth to object, but Alex beat me to it. “Trust us on this,” he said, patting James on the back. “This speech is a winner! Later you can present your ideas and say whatever you’d like, but first we need to get you in.”

  “That’s right,” I agreed, greatly relieved that my brother and I were eyeball- to- eyeball on this. “If you get up there and present some kind of completely serious presentation, you won’t get in and then it won’t matter what lofty goals you have for the school. It’s really important that you give the speech as we’ve written it word for word. Alex and I will be right up front plugging for you.” It was absolutely essential that James stick with the exact words we’d come up with. “Now let’s practice!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  •••

  Promptly at 10:00 on Wednesday morning, Alex and I were sitting in the middle section of the high school auditorium on the front row just as we’d promised James we would. I could hear Sadie behind us, wheezing heavily. The candidates, seated on the stage on folding chairs, fidgeted, cleared their throats, and studied their notes, their props under, behind, or next to their chairs.

  After Max Pierce, our current president, had gotten everyone’s attention with a few corny jokes, he said, “This is the day you’ve been waiting for!” Max introduced the candidates, informing us of the order in which they would be speaking. I was gratified at the nice reaction James received when he stood. Cassie, of course, cheered with full lung capacity, and the others on our committee weren’t exactly keeping quiet either, but it was obvious by the degree of volume that it wasn’t just our committee members cheering for James. I elbowed Alex and lifted my eyebrows. We weren’t surprised, of course, when a few seconds later, Lyla received a much stronger response.

  The finalists for historian spoke first. Yolanda Marsh, who sang her speech, was the obvious winner. Yolanda had been a runner- up in a recent local version of American Idol and sounded very simi lar to Alison Krauss. “You go, girl!” somebody shouted.

  It was obvious that poor Mark Armor didn’t have a chance, even though somebody— I guessed his mother— had gone to a lot of trouble to make him an impressive shield, sword, and helmet.

  Ruby Backus, complete with ruby slippers, stuck with her Wizard of Oz theme. “We’ll follow the yellow brick road to a magical year!” she proclaimed.

  Caroline Yang, who was running against Ruby for treasurer, read a fake resume in which she claimed she’d been asked by Alan Greenspan to head a committee on national school finances. She listed several other great achievements and then pulled out a large bill and stated that in honor of all she’d done, the president of the United States had recently authorized the use of her picture on the new forty dollar bill. She received some applause and a decent response.

  It looked as though it would be a close race as well between John Carlisle, who continued the play on his first name with his “outhouse” theme, and Salina Daniels, who got everybody clapping with her Fairport rap.

  Brad Jenkins—”Be rad! Vote Brad!”—gave us the top ten reasons we should elect him vice president. “And the number one reason you should vote for me,” he concluded, “is because if I win, I will shave my head, paint it blue and gold, and wear it that way my entire senior year.” Most of the students stood and cheered. It appeared to me that Brad had already won and that Lola Fisher’s fishing pole wouldn’t be reeling her in enough votes to offset those Brad had just gained.

  During all the talks I was bouncing my books on my knee and squeezing my fingernails into my French textbook. At last it was time for the presidential candidates to give their speeches. I gripped the armrest tightly, readying for the ride. “Okay, James, you can do this,” I whispered. But first I narrowed my eyes at Lyla, w
ho would be speaking first.

  Lifting a milk carton and smiling her whitened smile, Lyla Fannen rose gracefully and walked to the microphone with great confidence. She had every reason to be confident. The previous week virtually hundreds of students had passed out fliers asking, “Got Lyla?” Although it was ironic in the sense that the majority of her committee members preferred Jack Daniels to milk, I begrudgingly had to admit that having the cool people of the school all sporting milk mustaches was a highly effective and clever attention- getter.

  But apparently Lyla felt that James had generated a little too much attention with his makeover. Or maybe she was unhappy with the amount of applause he’d received. After she’d said a few words that corresponded with her “Got milk?” theme, Lyla suddenly turned the milk truck around, so to speak, and started after us.

  “You’ve probably noticed that my opponent has made some changes over the last weeks,” Lyla said. “Together we’ve watched James transform into . . .” she paused, “Super- Jim?”

  I noted the question mark and pulled back in my seat with concern as a few audience members clapped uncertainly. Lyla adjusted the microphone. “But how much has he really changed?” The clapping died down as Lyla put her mouth even closer to the mike. “You can change somebody’s outward appearance,” she warbled sweetly, “but you can’t change who he really is. Are we sure our new Super- Jim isn’t just the same old . . .” Lyla’s mouth pressed against the microphone as she whispered, “dork?”

  Lyla pulled back in mock surprise. “What did I say? Did I really just call my opponent a dork?” She opened her eyes in fake innocence. “Well, shame on me.” Lyla tapped herself charmingly on the cheek, then flashed her beautiful smile and leaned in close again. “Or is he more of a geek?” Audience members began to titter. “I guess the question is this: Do you want to vote for somebody’s . . . project . . . or the well- established Lyla Fannen?” She held up the milk carton again.

  “Get Lyla! Get Lyla!” a group near the middle of the auditorium began chanting. Five or six football players in the right section stood up, cheering. Carolee Jeffries and Isabelle Schmidt from the drill team jumped up and started line dancing. Soon it seemed as if everyone in the entire auditorium was chanting “Get Lyla!”

  James squirmed in his seat on the stage and wiped his fingers across his brow. Settle down, I tried to telepathically e-mail him. Don’t lose your courage. Another part of me was thinking, Just give up now because it’s over.

  When James stopped squirming, I assumed he’d gotten my first message. Then I noticed that his eyes were shut and his mouth was moving ever so slightly. He was praying! I honestly couldn’t blame him. If I believed in prayer, I’d be praying myself right now, I remember thinking.

  When James opened his eyes, it was as though a transformation had taken place. He looked down at Alex and me and smiled confidently. I raised my eyebrows at Alex with relief. James seemed to be all right and I knew why. I was certain my friend had just put his fate in his Lord’s hands. For once I didn’t mind. This time it was absolutely fine with me if he carried that Dumbo feather to the microphone with him. Whatever gave him the required confidence and courage was fine with me!

  I placed my hands together and pressed them tightly against each other. But my knee was jerking up and down as if it were a drill now, and I was pecking into the air worse than Derrick.

  Please, James, I thought, just stick to the speech. If James repeated the exact words we’d written for him and kept his voice low and his enunciation clear, he would at least not crash and burn before our eyes. Yes, if he stuck to the words like super glue, we would still be all right. The speech was, after all, a work of art. If James handled himself the way we’d practiced, everything might still work out for us. Even if he lost the election, he’d at least come away with some degree of respect from the students.

  As our friend rose from the chair, I rose ever so slightly along with him. Stand up straight, I mouthed. James immediately lifted himself to his full stature. It was exactly like the scene in the old Superman movie. Yes! But he was still wearing his glasses! Your glasses! Your glasses! James either read my mind or my lips once again. He took off his glasses and slipped them suavely into his pocket as he moved along the row of candidates toward the microphone. So far so good! James was doing well!

  How was Lyla handling this? I glanced her way and saw one of her eyebrows lift and her mouth pull down to one side. I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. Something didn’t seem right. Was she up to something? My heart jumped to my throat when I saw Lyla push her Louis Vuitton bag into James’s path.

  With a gasp, I leaned forward, partially rising out of my seat again, but it was too late. I watched in horror as James tripped over the bag and stumbled forward. He made a valiant effort to regain his footing, but at last he just couldn’t catch himself, possibly because somewhere in there, Lyla had managed to stick her foot out as well.

  I could only watch helplessly as, seemingly of its own volition, James’s body continued moving forward. It became obvious from the angle and the speed he was moving that gravity was going to prove the winner in this scenario. Our friend was going down. With a huge thump, James Orville Wickenbee hit the stage floor.

  Noooo! I gasped, fell back in my seat, covered my eyes, grabbed my brother’s arm, then uncovered my eyes. Was he okay? James lifted his chin and looked up at the stage lights above, seemingly dazed and disoriented.

  The auditorium was deathly quiet. Then some smart aleck sliced into the silence by shouting, “Have a good trip?” Lyla took full advantage of the moment by lifting her hand as though to say, “See? What did I tell you? He’s no Super- Jim!” But then she came up with an even better idea. Lyla stood up, placed one foot on James’s waist, and raised her arms in victory.

  Her action seemed to delight the students of Fairport High, who laughed and cheered like fans at a pro wrestling match. Mrs. Hamilton, the vice principal, moved quickly to the microphone. “Please, students,” she pleaded as teachers and assistants motioned for everybody to settle down. “There’s no humor in someone’s misfortune.”

  President Max and Mrs. Hamilton hurried toward James to help him up. Some of the candidates rose and moved forward, but only Ruby actually reached down to aid James. With the help of Yolanda, Lyla quickly gathered up the milk carton and other items that had flown from her bag.

  “What a loser!” I heard from a couple of rows behind us.

  Make that plural, I thought, slumping down into my seat, my hand over my mouth. I felt as if I’d just fallen down with James. This was a nightmare! Next to me Alex was standing, trying to determine whether he should jump up on the stage to aid his friend. Had I looked down the row, I’m sure that Dokey’s mouth would have been hanging open wide enough for a diesel to roll in and that Derrick would have been pecking into the air with the speed of a drill. Behind me Sadie was wheezing and snorting with such intensity that it sounded as if she was planning a liftoff. Cassie was groaning. When a friend of Garlia’s— a tall, skinny guy with multi- colored hair— laughed raucously, I saw Garlia elbowing him hard in the stomach.

  Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, they did. In trying to aid James, Mrs. Hamilton slipped on stage, landing in a highly unflattering position across James’s legs. Max did his best to assist her but was almost pulled down himself. Finally, with the additional help of Ruby and John, Mrs. Hamilton was able to flip her legs into a workable position, but not until we’d seen London and France, as they say. James was making an effort to lift himself as well.

  Stay down, James! Roll over and play dead.

  But James did not stay down. In spite of Max, Mrs. Hamilton, and the others, he managed to pull himself to his knees, then to his feet. Limping only slightly and stretching his arm, he moved toward the microphone, where he waited patiently for everyone to calm down. That took almost a full minute.

  I stared at the stage as Max helped Mrs. Hamilton to her seat and the patrolling teache
rs attempted to quiet down the students. Finally James lowered his mouth to the microphone. “I tripped,” he announced.

  I tripped? Had he really just said, “I tripped?” I hoped beyond hope that nobody past the first row had heard him say, “I tripped.”

  James moved closer to the microphone, intent on making sure everyone heard what I considered a truly strange and even asinine statement. “I tripped,” he repeated, louder.

  I turned to Alex. “Hello! I think we all know he tripped. What’s he doing?”

  Without moving his eyes from the stage, my brother lifted his shoulders and shook his head slightly, his eyebrows knit together.

  It had quieted down a little, but unfortunately, it appeared several students had heard James’s announcement. “He says he tripped!” someone a few rows behind us shouted.

  “News flash!” somebody else jeered.

  I sunk down even lower in my seat, breathing heavily, almost gasping, my eyes burning. Why on earth didn’t James just give his speech? James, please. Move on and move on fast. Your speech. Read your speech! Oh, please start it now. “Truth . . . justice” . . . your speech . . . come on! Pleeeeezeeeee!

  “I know what you’re thinking,” James continued as though he hadn’t heard the jeers. “You’re thinking that a superhero wouldn’t trip. You’re thinking that what Lyla said must be true: You can change someone’s appearance, but you can’t change who he really is. You’re thinking: This guy is no superhero.”

  “You got that right!” somebody yelled.

  “Yes,” James said, pointing to that somebody, a sophomore with a tuft of hair that shot straight out of the top of his head like an erupting volcano. “Yes, I did get that right, Eric.”

  The surprised sophomore stood for a second or two longer, looked around, then sat down. Others stopped jeering as well, and it was soon evident that most of the students were listening.

  “And so did Lyla,” James continued. “Lyla Fannen, my opponent in the race for president of Fairport High, got that right.”