Dorko the Magnificent

by Andrea Beaty

  “They’re HERE!” he yelled. “It’s time for the party!”

  THE WHOLE FAMILY WAS COMING TO THE PARTY. YOU PROBABLY THINK THAT’S a lot of people, but it’s not. We have a small family. Just me, Ape Boy, Mom, and Dad, plus Dad’s sister, Aunt Trudy, and her husband, Uncle Pete. Oh yeah, and Grandma Melvyn. It’s probably a good idea to warn you about Grandma Melvyn in case you’re expecting her to be a sweet little grandma who brings me cookies and milk and knits me cozy blankies. She’s not. But if you have an extra grandma like that, I’m interested.

  Grandma Melvyn is not even my real grandma. She’s not anyone’s grandma. She’s my great-great-aunt, but trust me, it doesn’t matter how many “greats” you put in front of her title—there is nothing great about her. Dad started calling her Grandma Melvyn after our real grandma died. I guess he felt sorry for her because she didn’t have anyone to call her Grandma.

  This might be a good time to point out that feeling sorry for Grandma Melvyn is like kissing a scorpion. You get over the idea real fast. I know that sounds mean, but it’s not. All it takes is one look at Grandma Melvyn to understand. She’s about as tall as a mailbox and she wears glasses that are two inches thick and make her eyes look as big as baseballs. You can see every vein and every floater and sometimes, when she gets mad, her eyeballs wobble. That is not something you want to see. Trust me.

  I once saw her make a nine-year-old cry at his own birthday party. Okay, it was me. But you’d cry, too, if she gave you the Wicked Wobble Eye. Grandma Melvyn never smiles and she never ever, ever laughs. Did I mention never?

  One last thing about Grandma Melvyn. She calls everybody “Trixie.” And I mean everybody! Keep reading. You’ll see what I mean.

  When Ape Boy yelled, I ran out of the kitchen and looked out the dining room window. Uncle Pete was trying to help Grandma Melvyn up the sidewalk. Every couple of steps, she pushed him away and waved her cane at him like a fencer with a foil. Then she tottered forward a bit and tilted to the right, then the left and backward, until she looked like she would fall over.

  Even through the window glass, I could hear her yell, “Get over here, Trixie! Are you going to let an old lady fall down and die out here in this zoysia wasteland you call a yard? Zoysia? Who plants zoysia?”

  Uncle Pete grabbed Grandma Melvyn’s arm and helped her for a couple of steps, until she pushed him away and the whole thing started all over again, like some weird modern dance.

  Aunt Trudy walked behind them, carrying an enormous lopsided cake on a fancy tray. This was bad. Aunt Trudy was supposed to buy the cake instead of making it. She is the worst cook in the world. She burns everything. (She even burned yogurt one time. Don’t ask.) Aunt Trudy walked up the sidewalk holding the unnaturally black cake like it was the greatest thing in the world.

  I just hoped it was chocolate.

  By the time Grandma Melvyn, Uncle Pete, and Aunt Trudy sat down in the dining room, the pizza arrived. Mom got off the phone and came into the dining room, too. The table was beautiful. The pizza looked cool on the fancy dishes like it was all dressed up for the party. Mom was impressed by the improved tablecloth. She ran her fingers along the edge and shook her head. She was speechless. And she hadn’t seen anything yet!

  Grandma Melvyn liked the pizza.

  “Your cooking has improved, Trixie,” she said.

  “It’s delivery,” Mom said.

  “Exactly,” Grandma Melvyn said. “That meal was only half as poisonous as Trixie’s meat loaf.”

  She threw a suspicious look at Aunt Trudy while she stuffed a pepperoni into her mouth. Mom sighed.

  Everything was going great. Even Ape Boy was under control. Every time he put his feet on the seat of his chair and looked like he was ready to climb something, Grandma Melvyn gave him the Wicked Wobble Eye and he slid down in his seat and stared at his shoes.

  At last, it was time for Mom’s cake and presents. Aunt Trudy put the cake on the table. I stood up and made an announcement.

  “Before we sing ‘Happy Birthday,’” I said, “I have a special birthday trick for Mom.”

  Aunt Trudy elbowed Uncle Pete, who glanced at the door and scooted his chair a little closer to it. I think he was trying to get a better view of the trick.

  “Oh, Robbie, honey,” Mom said. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Of course I do!” I said. “It’s your birthday.”

  “I know,” she said. “Just … just …”

  Mom was so excited about my act, she was actually nervous! I could feel the excitement in the air. Perfect!

  “Good luck,” Mom said.

  “Thanks,” said Uncle Pete.

  I cleared away the dinner dishes and brought out the gold-rimmed dessert plates. Then I filled all the crystal water goblets except Grandma Melvyn’s.

  “I have my own,” she said as she took out a water bottle and filled her glass.

  Then she tapped her cane impatiently on the floor.

  “Speed it up, Trixie,” she said. “I don’t have that many years left, and I don’t want to spend half of them waiting for that burnt offering Trixie calls a cake.”

  Aunt Trudy muttered something under her breath, but I couldn’t tell what it was because Uncle Pete cleared his throat right then.

  I lit the tall beeswax candles.

  “Just one more thing,” I said.

  I went to the hall closet and pulled out the black satin cape I had stashed inside it earlier. It was part of the Dracula costume Mom had sewn three Halloweens ago, but it made the perfect magician’s cape. I put it on and went back to the dining room. Showtime.

  I tapped a crystal water goblet with a table knife.

  Ting … ting … ting …

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” I said in my most dramatic voice. “In honor of Mom’s birthday and to celebrate this most auspicious occasion, I will now perform a trick that will both amaze and delight you!”

  I paused for effect. Then I grabbed the edge of the red tablecloth and, with a snap of my wrists, jerked it toward the floor. Like magic, it slid under the gold-rimmed plates and the cake. In a heartbeat, I was standing before the amazed crowd with the cloth in my hands and the bare wood of the table gleaming in the candlelight.

  I did it!

  I dropped the tablecloth on the floor and raised my hands over my head. Then I leaned over and took the biggest bow of my life.

  “Ta-daaaa!”

  And that was my first mistake.

  ACTUALLY, MY FIRST MISTAKE WASN’T TAKING A BOW, IT WAS STANDING UP again.

  On the way up, I hit Mom’s water glass … which fell over and hit a candlestick … which fell over and caught a napkin on fire … which made Uncle Pete yell, “Pour on water!” … which made me throw a glass of water … which was my second mistake.

  I don’t know what Grandma Melvyn had in her water glass, but it sure wasn’t water. When I threw it on the flame, it went WHOOOSH and the fire spread across the table … which made Aunt Trudy knock Uncle Pete right into the cake … which made him knock the cake onto the floor … which probably saved us all from food poisoning, but which really took the magic out of the moment.

  While Ape Boy climbed the china cabinet to get a better view, Mom got the fire extinguisher and put out the flames. When the smoke cleared, Grandma Melvyn and I were alone in the dining room. I looked out the window to avoid the Wicked Wobble Eye, and that’s when I heard the weirdest sound ever. It was a wheezing, honking, snorting sound like a cross between an asthmatic goose and an insane pig. I looked at Grandma Melvyn. Sure enough, she was laughing. Or maybe she was having some kind of fit. It was hard to tell. Her whole body shook and tears streamed down her cheeks. She wheezed and sputtered trying to get her breath between snorts. Her face was bright red and she looked like she was going to fall out of her chair.

  Perfect. Grandma Melvyn, the woman who never ever, ever laughed, was going to laugh herself to death because of me. I was about to call an ambulance when she stopped and said something
that nearly knocked me over.

  “Well, Robbie,” she said, “your bow needs work, but I’ve seen worse acts.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Got cake in your ears?”

  “No,” I said, “it’s just that you never called me by my name before.”

  “Well, you never did anything interesting before,” she said. “Maybe staying here won’t be as bad as it looks.”

  “What?” I asked.

  Grandma Melvyn narrowed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. Her mouth curled up on one side in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

  “Well, well,” she said. “Trixie didn’t tell you yet, did she? I’m stuck with you bunch of losers.”

  “What?”

  “What? What? What?” Grandma Melvyn snapped. “There something wrong with you? Thomas Edison didn’t say ‘watt’ that much, and he invented the lightbulb. Oh, that’s a good one.”

  She went back to wheezing and snorting while I sat there with my mouth open like the first guy in a sci-fi movie to witness the alien invasion: amazed, confused, and too stupid to run.

  Grandma Melvyn poked me with her cane.

  “Don’t work yourself into a wedgie,” she said. “I’m out of here the minute those Trixies at Almetta Insurance chuck up the dough for my knee operation. Sooner, if Trixie stops ordering pizza and goes back to cooking.”

  Grandma Melvyn stood up and leaned hard on her cane. She shuffled out of the room and down the hall. I heard her yell at Mom in the kitchen: “Make with the ice cream, Trixie! You call this a birthday party?”

  I sat there a long, long time before I got up and went to my room.

  That night, Mom came to my room. She stood in the doorway with her hand behind her back.

  “Hey, kiddo,” she said. “I brought you some cake.”

  Great. There’s nothing like a slice of charcoal cake after a gigantic flaming disaster.

  Mom pulled a cellophane-wrapped cupcake from behind her back and handed it to me. It was one of those store-bought kind with that waxy chocolate icing and a white squiggle down the middle. I love those cupcakes.

  “Dad’s getting in late tonight, by the way,” she said. “But he’s gone again early tomorrow, so he’ll call to chat tomorrow night.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Look, Robbie,” Mom said. “I was trying to tell you earlier that Grandma Melvyn has to stay with us for a little while so she can get her knee fixed. She’s been with Aunt Trudy and Uncle Pete, but they’re going on a long trip on Tuesday and Grandma Melvyn can’t stay by herself, so she’s coming here tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  I frowned. I bet they booked a one-way ticket to Grandma-Melvyn-Isn’t-Hereville. Aunt Trudy is a bad cook, but she’s not stupid.

  “Hey,” Mom said, “it’s what families do. We all make sacrifices, but we’ll get through this like everything else. It will be fine. You’ll see. First, we have to—”

  “Mom!” Ape Boy screamed from the kitchen. “Get it out of my hair! MOM!”

  “Bubble gum,” she said. “Robbie, here’s the thing. We have to—”

  “MOOOOMMM!” Ape Boy screamed again.

  Mom gave me a tiny hug.

  “We’ll talk later,” she said.

  “MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!”

  “I’m coming!” she yelled.

  Mom closed the door and was gone. I sat on my bed and looked at the cellophane cupcake. Mom used to pack one in my lunch box every day, before we had a budget for everything. Like Mom says, we all make sacrifices.

  With a flick of my wrist, I sent the cupcake flying toward the metal trash can beside my desk. It ricocheted off the desk leg into the basket, landing on a pile of empty juice boxes and crumpled Kleenex.

  I flipped off my light and went to sleep.

  SCHOOL ON MONDAY WAS BORING WITH A CAPITAL BORING, SO I WON’T DESCRIBE it to you. (I want this book to be a coma-free zone, remember?) I wish I could say that getting home after school was also boring, but that would be a lie. Here’s what happened.

  I came through the kitchen door. Like always.

  I grabbed a juice box from the fridge. Like always.

  I walked to my room and opened the door. Like always.

  I came face-to-face with Grandma Melvyn sitting on my bed. Like never ever, ever before!

  Grandma Melvyn was sitting on my bed in a fuzzy green bathrobe with a fat blue toothbrush in one hand and a fat blue hairbrush in the other. She looked like a furry frog with glasses. Sparkly sweatshirts from Las Vegas, Atlantic City, and Niagara Falls were scattered over the floor, and a pile of jogging shoes sat on my bed beside her. There were red shoes and blue shoes and purple shoes and green shoes, and they all had some kind of glitter or sequins or flashing lights on them.

  What followed next was a big mess of high-pitched screams (from me), a lot of yelling about privacy (from her), and a whole lot of sparkly jogging shoes flying toward me (from guess who).

  I dropped the juice box and retreated to the kitchen just as Mom walked in the door with Ape Boy, who was wearing a new crew cut. The gum removal had not gone well.

  Ape Boy climbed onto a chair and jumped up and down.

  “You’re in MY room again!” he yelled. “Yay!”

  “WHAT?”

  “Get off the chair, Harry,” Mom said. “And go to your room.”

  “OUR room!” he yelled, running past me toward the stairs. “Yay!”

  Mom put a bag of groceries on the table. “I was going to pick you up at school and tell you before we got home,” she said. “But I had to take a call.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Well,” she said. “You should know—”

  “He knows!” yelled Grandma Melvyn.

  I turned around. She was right behind me, waving a red running shoe in the air like one of those pitchfork-wielding villagers in a Frankenstein movie.

  “Trixie busted in like he owned the place!” she said. “Might as well put a freeway through my room if every Trixie on the planet can come barging in whenever he wants.”

  She wheeled around to leave, then stopped and waved the shoe again. I ducked but she didn’t throw it.

  “Thanks for the juice box,” she said, and limped back toward my room.

  “I’m sorry, Robbie,” Mom said.

  I’m sure Mom said other things, too. Like how it was a temporary situation and that my bedroom was the only one without stairs so Grandma Melvyn needed it and how Mom needed my help since she was working now and Dad was traveling and blah, blah, blah …

  I didn’t stick around to hear it. I went to the garage, grabbed my bike, and hit the road. I biked around the neighborhood, then I did crazy eights in the parking lot at Sunshine Preschool until I got dizzy. After that, I biked over to Cat’s. I didn’t know if Cat would be home because I didn’t tell her I was coming over. And honestly, even if I had called her, she might get busy doing something else and forget. Sometimes Cat does that. So do I. That’s one reason we get along. We don’t get mad at each other when we flake out and forget things.

  When I turned onto her street, I saw Cat standing on the sidewalk in front of her house. She had a piece of chalk in one hand and a baseball cap in the other. The sidewalk was covered with tally marks.

  “Want to help?” she asked. “I’m waving at people to see if they like hats. So far, twelve people waved back when I was wearing my hat and seventeen waved when I wasn’t.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It’s a social experiment,” she said. “Research. It might be important someday.”

  Might not.

  Cat likes social experiments. Sometimes she wears two different socks just to see how many people will say something. Or maybe she wears them because she likes wearing different socks. It’s hard to tell with Cat. She isn’t the kind of person who likes ordinary things like matching socks or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. (She prefers peanut butter and jelly tacos.) Cat likes things the way s
he likes them. And if they’re a little weird, who cares? I guess that includes her friends. And, yes, that probably includes me.

  I sat on the sidewalk while Cat waved at cars. Each time someone waved back, I made a tally mark. In between research, I told her about Grandma Melvyn taking over my room.

  “You’ve been banished,” she said. “That’s exciting!”

  “No, it’s not,” I said.

  “Lots of famous people have been banished,” she said. “Like Napoleon. He was banished to an island after he tried to take over Europe.”

  “At least he didn’t have to share a room with Ape Boy.”

  “Think of it as a social experiment,” she said.

  “Yeah, right,” I said.

  Cat had to leave for oboe lessons, so I biked home. On the way, I thought about that tough guy, the emperor Napoleon Bonaparte. He got banished to an island off Italy, which probably had a great view and servants who brought him food anytime he wanted it. And I bet he thought it was the end of the world.

  Poor baby.

  EVERYONE WAS GONE WHEN I GOT HOME. I WENT UPSTAIRS TO APE BOY’S ROOM, where Mom had already moved my stuff. The room still had bunk beds from last year when Dad lost his job and turned my room into an office. That’s when I shared a cell with Ape Boy. I hated it.

  It was only supposed to be for a month or two, but it took a long time for Dad to find his new job. We had to cut back on lots of things, like cable TV, which stunk because we had to get movies from the library for Movie Night. They have lots of Barney videos, but when it comes to great old movies, our library stinks.

  I guess we didn’t have enough money for other stuff, either, like the mortgage bill. Mom started taking twenty dollars to the loan company every week. I heard her tell Dad that the guy there said she shouldn’t do that because it wasn’t enough for the bank to care about and there wasn’t anything he could do to help. Mom went back every week anyway. She never let me go inside and she doesn’t know that I saw her through the window. But every week, she stood in the guy’s office, holding out a twenty-dollar bill until he took it, and the whole time, she only said one word: please.