“You know, there’s nothing they can do to stop us now anyway,” she said in her life-is-never-perky-enough type of way. And then she turned to Q and me. “We are on fire!”
And we were on fire, too. That afternoon the three of us met at Beanpole’s house to finalize the performance with Poochy, and it went great.
Just great.
“And three, two, one…” I called out. The four of us—me and Beanpole and Q and Poochy—marched in a straight line, then Poochy broke off and we formed a semicircle. I wasn’t a good dancer, but we kept all the moves simple so we were synched up with the dog in a way that was fun and fresh. Plus, we knew we’d all be dressed the same, so that would make us look even more professional.
As we marched in place to the beat, Beanpole pulled out a plastic fire hydrant that Department Store Mom had made, and she put it in the center of our semicircle. Then, as we stomped our feet and lifted our knees in 4/4 time, Poochy rolled into the center of the circle, lifted its doggie leg, and took a pee.
That’s right, our grand finale was for Poochy to take a giant pee, center stage, in front of the whole audience!
Department Store Mom had even put yellow food coloring in the dog’s water tank to make it look like real doggie whiz.
It was SO funny that we laughed every time we got to that last part of our performance. I couldn’t believe Marty was able to program such a cool move into the robot’s system. We tried it six times, and each time it worked perfectly.
“Hey, I have an idea,” said Beanpole after we’d finished another round. “How about if we put lemonade in the tank, and then after Poochy pees, we’ll all drink a glass.”
“And why would we do that?” I asked.
“’Cause it would be funny,” she answered.
“You think drinking pee is funny?” I said.
“I do,” she answered.
“Then why don’t we just put brownies in its butt and eat dog poop, too?”
“Eating dog poop’s not funny, Mo,” answered Beanpole. “Not funny at all.”
“But drinking dog pee is?” I said.
“There’s a difference.”
“Oh yeah, what?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But there is.”
“Whadda you think, Q?” I asked. “Is eating dog poop more or less funny than drinking dog pee?”
“I’m allergic to animal urine. Makes my thumbs throb.”
“You know, have you ever thought about calling the Guinness Book?” I asked. “Really, you might be missing out on a great opportunity here so get some good attention for your weirdness.”
“I’ll put it on my to-do list,” she answered. “Right next to eating brownies out of a doggie’s butt.”
“She’s right,” said Beanpole, taking Q’s side of the argument. “I can’t believe you want to put brownies in the dog’s butt and eat them,” she said. “That’s gross.”
“You’re right, Beanpole, it is gross,” I said. “And the next time my neighbor’s cat takes a pee, I’ll make sure to pour you a glass of kitty-squirt to cool you off on a hot summer’s day, ’cause that’s not gross at all.”
“Ew!” said Beanpole.
“Can we just get back to practicing?” said Q.
“You’re right,” I said. “Okay, let’s take it from the top.”
We took our positions.
The music started. Then I pushed the stop button.
“I need a break,” I said, stepping out of formation.
“Not again, Maureen,” whined Beanpole as I headed toward the door.
“Well, all this talk about pee makes me have to go again,” I said.
“But you just went.”
“You brought it up, not me,” I answered.
“You’re still hydrating?” asked Q.
“Uh-huh,” I answered. “But what I don’t get is why, when I am only putting in a quart a day, two quarts seem to come out.”
After my bathroom break, we practiced and practiced and practiced, and though the whole routine was only going to be about three minutes long, each time we did it, we got better and better and better. Plus, Department Store Mom had added sparkles to the outfits, Marty had synced the beat of the sound track to the steps of the dog, and even though Q couldn’t really move too fast or do any kind of crazy flips or anything, ’cause she’d quickly lose her breath—not that I could either—the small steps that we were able to choreograph had evolved into something that looked really sweet.
Poochy was the star of the show, we were the sidekicks, and yet as a group, we made for one heck of a team.
“I gotta go,” I said after the last run-through.
“Aw, just fifteen more minutes,” said Beanpole.
“That’s what you said fifteen minutes ago,” I answered. “Really, I gotta go finish this justice project. It’s due tomorrow, and Piddles will piddle in his pants if we don’t do a good job.”
“How come he didn’t give our class a justice project?” Q asked Beanpole. They had Piddles for fifth period while I had him for second.
“He said that Mo’s class talks too much so they needed the extra work,” Beanpole answered. “Said it was justice for them.”
“Good for us,” said Q. “And stinks for you.”
“Don’t I know it,” I said, gathering up my stuff.
“Sure, just go back to your smoochy-smoochy boyfriend and leave us here hangin’,” said Q.
“He’s not my smoochy-smoochy boyfriend,” I responded. “And I am not leaving you hangin’. We just practiced for like a hundred hours.”
“Is Logan coming to your house, or are you going to his?” asked Beanpole.
“Yeah, where’s all the smoochy-smooching going to take place?” asked Q after a wheeesh-whooosh.
“There’s not going to be any smoochy-smooching,” I said and then I made a Wheeesh-whooosh, Wheeesh-whooosh sound to tease Q back like she was teasing me. “Especially since I’m pretty much doing the whole project by myself.”
“He really hasn’t helped you, huh?” asked Beanpole.
“Only to tell me when he thinks something is stupid,” I said. “And Logan seems to think a lot of things are stupid. He thinks staplers are stupid, hamburger buns without seeds are stupid, and stupid justice projects for stupid teachers in stupid schools are stupid. Like they are even more stupid than stupid video games, and, as we all know, even stupid video games aren’t really all that stupid. Not like stupid justice projects, at least.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Beanpole.
“Forget it. It’s complicated,” I answered. “See you guys later; I gotta go.”
“Mo, wait, before you leave…”
I stopped.
“Yeah?”
Suddenly, Q got all shy and timid.
“I was…” She drifted off.
“Yeah, Q?”
“I was…” She paused again, for like, a really long time.
“What, Q?” I snapped. “Spit it out, ya freakwad. I told you, I gotta go.”
“I was…” She took another suck off the scuba tank. Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh. “I was thinking my mom could drive us to the talent show. You know, like you guys could maybe come over to my house and we could all ride over together or something?”
Beanpole looked up.
“Come to your house?” I said.
Q’s eyes immediately dropped to the floor, as if she was expecting instant rejection.
Beanpole, in her perky way, started smiling and shaking her head up and down, like someone had just plugged her brain into an electrical outlet with really high voltage. She mouthed the words Say yes—and be nice.
“I am nice, you stick figure ding-dong!” I yelled at her. Q gazed up with a nervous look on her face. “Sorry, wasn’t talking to you,” I said.
“I mean, the thing is, I haven’t told you guys,” said Q, lowering her eyes again, preparing to let us in on yet another one of her million personal secrets. “Is…well, I get real
ly nervous around crowds. Like, the idea of being onstage in front of a whole buncha people freaks me out. It’s why I never talk in class even when I know the answer.”
She paused. Neither Beanpole nor I said anything.
“Like, it really freaks me out, I’m serious. More than you know, and I, well…I’m scared I am not going to be able to make it and might start hyperventilating and have a panic attack and have to go for a walk or something.”
She shuffled her feet.
“A long walk. A long, long, long walk. Walking’s the only thing that calms me down.”
The three of us were quiet for a minute.
“Aw, don’t sweat it, Q,” I finally said. “We’re gonna be there too, ya weirdo.”
“Yeah,” added Beanpole. “We’ll be right there with you the whole time. And of course we’ll drive over together. It’ll be fun to come to your house and see where you live.”
“I just…I get nervous, that’s all. Almost like I can’t control it,” she added. “The panic attacks I get, well…I’m just scared I’m gonna flip out. Is that bad?”
“Bad?” I said. “Heck no. I mean, I get stage fright too. Matter of fact, I’m scared I might pee onstage before Poochy does.”
We all laughed.
“They can just add it to your YouTube clip,” said Beanpole with a smile.
“Oh great, just what I need,” I said. “Naw, don’t sweat it, Q.” I picked up my backpack. “We’ll meet at your house and ride together. It’ll be cool.”
“Yeah,” said Beanpole. “We’ll turn your mom’s car into the Nerd Mobile.”
We laughed again.
“And with a little luck,” added Beanpole, “we can make it all the way there without having to stop so Mo can take a wee.”
“Speaking of wee,” I said.
“Not again, Mo.”
“What?” I said in my own defense. “I can’t help it.”
After yet another trip to the Department Store Bathroom, where the toilet paper was always folded with a little triangle on the end of the roll, as if I were in a fancy hotel or something, I went back into the bedroom to get my backpack.
“See you tomorrow,” I said, heading for the door.
“See ya, Mo,” they answered. “And good luck with the project.”
“Yeah, good luck is right,” I answered. “I’m sure I’ll be up until midnight.”
“I wonder how many pees that is?” said Beanpole to Q. They laughed.
I stopped, turned, and put down my backpack.
“You had to say something, didn’t you, Beanpole? You just had to say something.”
During second period the next day, Mr. Piddles walked to the left, walked to the right, looked up, looked down, and inspected our justice project from almost every possible angle he could.
“A diorama, huh?” he said.
There was a pause. I guess it was up to me to explain.
“Yes, sir,” I began. “With each of the four quadrants representing justice in famous works of art, music, literature, and cinema.”
“Cinema?” he said.
“Yeah, you know, the movies,” I answered. “I mean, movies can be art too, right?”
“Hmmm,” he answered as he took it all in. “Well thought out. Very well thought out.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Logan sat there feeling good about things.
“And I am sure you contributed, um, to this project, did you not, Mr. Meyers?”
“Um, well…yeah,” Logan said. “Um, of the diarrhea-a-ma thing, yeah, it’s fifty percent mine.”
“And which fifty percent would that be?” Mr. Piddles asked Logan.
“Well, um…the fifty percent where, um…” He started to stumble. Truth is, Logan hadn’t even looked at the whole project entirely. I doubt he even knew half of the stuff I had put in there.
“Like, well, my fifty percent comes from the stupid stuff,” Logan explained, trying to sound intelligent. “Like the stupid stuff you don’t see. Like the woods and the hamburger buns without seeds and some video games, like the stuff that’s not there ’cause it’s stupid. I helped to do and to not do that,” he replied.
The forehead of Mr. Piddles crinkled. I could tell he was thinking Huh?
Mr. Piddles turned to me.
“Did your partner contribute fifty percent of this work, Miss Saunders?” he asked me in a direct tone. “Because when partners do not contribute, it’s not what I call just.”
He stared at Logan with a deep, menacing look in his eye.
“And you know how I feel about justice, do you not, Mr. Meyers?”
Mr. Piddles continued to stare. Logan slouched in his seat.
After all my effort, all my hard work, all the meetings that Logan had blown off, all the lack of contribution from him top to bottom, well…the truth is, I was finally glad that someone was about to make Logan pay for it. I mean, it just wasn’t fair what he had put me through. I had done everything. Everything!
And he had done nothing, yet now he was about to get half the credit for this big project, when he didn’t really deserve squat.
It wasn’t ... It wasn’t just.
And so what if he was cute, I thought. Pulling junk like that on people is not cool no matter who you are. I mean, why do all the good-looking people always feel they are entitled to take advantage of us regular folks anyway? It’s not right.
It’s not fair.
I was mad, madder than I even realized, and suddenly I felt like expressing it. Not just expressing it, but exploding!
“You know, Mr. Piddles, I should take full credit,” I forcefully began.
Logan’s eyes got as big as baseballs.
“And I want to take credit, too,” I continued.
Mr. Piddles glared at Logan. Logan slinked even further into his seat. He knew he was looking at after-school detention all the way till he graduated from college, or something crazy like that.
“But to take credit when credit is not yours would not be just, now, would it?” I added. “And if there is one thing this project taught me, it’s about how people need to be just to one another. Otherwise, society cannot function, right? So yes, Logan did fifty percent of the work. He deserves his points as much as I do.”
Logan, totally surprised by my answer, gazed around with a what-the-heck-is-going-on look on his face, then sat up straight in his chair. A bit of pride even flashed in his eyes, and suddenly his expression changed from a look of Oh my goodness I am toast, to Yeah, I do deserve some academic credit—how could you even doubt me?
“Whatever grade I get is the grade that Logan should get,” I added. “It’s only right. We’re partners, fifty-fifty all the way.”
“Fifty-fifty?” asked Mr. Piddles for clarification.
“Fifty-fifty,” I replied. Even if Mr. Piddles knew the truth, I wasn’t going to snitch on Logan. Karma would get him one day. Not me. That’s just not how I roll.
Mr. Piddles looked down at his grading sheet, made a few notes, and softly said, “Very well.” Then, he walked away to grade another student’s work.
Once he was gone, Logan stared at me. But he didn’t just look; he kinda gazed.
“That was cool,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” I said, putting some stuff away in my backpack. The bell was getting ready to ring. Logan continued to gawk at me.
He had some of the deepest blue eyes I had ever seen.
“Like, you’re pretty cool, you know that?” he continued. “Like pretty, totally cool.”
“Thanks,” I said, zipping up the outside pocket of my backpack.
“And not stupid either,” he added. “I mean, not stupid like some other people are stupid, know what I mean?”
I guess that was some kind of compliment.
“Yeah, um, thanks,” I answered.
I looked up and turned to face him. We were less than four inches apart. He stared at me in a way that made it feel as if a dream spell were being sent my way. I thought my heart
was going to melt.
But it didn’t. My heart didn’t melt at all. Matter of fact, it just continued to beat the way it always did, one tha-dump at a time.
There was no magic, no sparkle, no wild elks running in the distance. Now that Logan and I were face-to-face in the middle of class after having finished our justice project, I suddenly realized, This dude is kind of a dud.
“Hey, you wanna, you know, like maybe go hang out or something at the mall sometime?” he asked.
The bell rang.
“Uh, thanks, but I’m kinda busy these days. You know, the talent show and all,” I said, picking up my stuff. “Maybe another time.”
I stood, placed the diorama on the counter where Mr. Piddles had asked us all to leave our projects, and left.
Just left.
Was I bonkers? Was I really turning down a date at the mall with Logan Meyers, the Greek god of middle school boys?
Yep, sure was.
I walked out of class thinking, I need to get my head examined, when suddenly my two doof-o-la partners ran up to me in the hall, looking like they had the worst possible news ever in the world to give me. They were panicked.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. They didn’t even want to know how things had gone with Logan.
“They’re making us do a dress rehearsal,” said Beanpole.
“What?” I replied.
“A”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“dress rehearsal,” repeated Q. “Why?”
Q’s cheeks started turning red. “’Cause last year it was”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“too chaotic with all the acts not knowing”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“who went when and in what order, and”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“what was supposed to be an hour-anda-half show took three and a half hours, so they”—Wheeeshwhooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“are making all competitors do a dress rehearsal so that they can”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“be practiced and speed things up ’cause they”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“don’t want kids out till”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“eleven thirty p.m.”
I stared in amazement. “That might be the weirdest explanation I’ve ever seen.”
“She’s nervous,” said Beanpole.
“No kidding,” I answered. “So when are they having this little dress rehearsal?” I asked.
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