by Bill Myers
“Children, children,” she clapped her hands, once again becoming all poise and grace. “I see we still have ourselves a dilemma, don’t we?”
We said nothing.
She cranked up her smile a couple of notches above phony. “Well, there really is only one solution, isn’t there?”
Wall Street and I turned to the Governor, waiting for the answer. She rested one hand on my shoulder and one on Wall Street’s. “You must continue the competition. And you have my promise that these folks from the press and I will not leave your sides until we see a victor.”
Wall Street glared into my eyes. “That’s fine with me,” she growled.
I glared right back. “Make mine a double fine.”
“Excellent,” the Governor chuckled, “excellent.”
I knew things weren’t going exactly as we’d planned, but before I could sort through the details, I felt a hand grab my arm.
“All right, McDorkel. . . .” It was my part-time referee and full-time pain in the neck, Sylvia Wisenmouth. She started pulling me through the crowd.
“Where are we going?” I demanded.
“You’re late for ballet rehearsal.”
“But I was talking to the Governor.”
“Oh, she’ll be seeing you again, McDumbo. Didn’t you just hear? The Governor, the press, everyone will be watching you. Yes sir, the entire world is going to be watching every move you make.”
“Wonderful,” I sighed, “what else can go wrong?” Unfortunately I was about to get my answer.
Chapter 6
A Smokin’ Rehearsal
“Come out, McDimwit,” Sylvia Wisenmouth called from the other side of the door. “They’re waiting to begin rehearsal.”
“No way,” I shouted. “Not in these clothes.” I looked down. Over my T-shirt and gym shorts I had on a ridiculous looking pink tutu and ballet slippers. Not exactly the type of clothes I’d want to be seen alive in. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t want to be seen dead in them either.
“But it’s dress rehearsal.” Francine sniffed from the other side of the door. “That was Wall Street’s costume as the Sugar Plum Fairy, and now it has to be yours.”
“Forget it.”
“So are you forfeiting?” Sylvia called. “Should I tell Bruce Breakaface and the guys that you’ve finally given up, that you agree girls are tougher than boys?”
Ah, good ol’ Bruce. I’d almost forgotten. To die or not to die, that is the question. Is it better to give up one’s pride and thus keep one’s life, or to give up one’s life and thus— I shook my head; it was definitely time to cut back on writing that Shakespeare Guy story.
“Come on, Wally.”
Like it or not, I knew I had to come out. Besides, it wasn’t like it would be a full-blown performance. It was only a dress rehearsal. Only the cast and crew would see me.
So with that comforting thought I reached for the door, pushed it open, and was met by the glaring light of every news reporter and cameraman in the English-speaking world.
I was grateful they didn’t ask questions. I guess it’s hard to ask questions when you’re falling on the ground in fits of uncontrollable laughter. Before they stopped laughing some old woman grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down the hall to a large room filled with mirrors.
“Don’t you vorry about zem, Master McDoogle.”
Her voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. She closed the door behind us and led me to a long ballet barre about waist high. “Before ve begin ze rehearsal ve vill vork on your vlexibility.”
Where had I heard that voice? Where had . . .
“Virst ve do zee stretching exerzizes.”
Suddenly I had it!
“Ve put your right leg up on ze bar like zo.”
It was Ms. Stanaslobsky, the Russian ballet teacher way back from My Life As a Human Hockey Puck! The very one who tried to stretch me into a Gumby doll!
“No,” I cried, “I don’t stretch. Remember, I’m the one who—”
Before I could finish she’d lifted my leg to the bar and pushed down on my shoulders.
“And den ve push you down like zo—”
It was just like old times; same pain, same screaming, and of course the same
RIPPPPPing
of every muscle in my leg. It was everything I remembered and more.
“Zo,” she said when we were finally through. “Now don’t you veel better all limbered up?”
I nodded my head like a lunatic. (If I didn’t, I knew she’d keep stretching me until I either died or became too tall to play for the Chicago Bulls.)
“Un now ve begin ze rehearsal.”
The good news was she kept the press out of the auditorium while the cast and I rehearsed the dance. The bad news was I didn’t know the first thing about dancing.
“Don’t vorry about dat, Master McDoogle,” Ms. Stanaslobsky kept saying. “Jus veel ze muzic. Become von vis ze muzic.”
She nodded to the orchestra, and they began to play. All the other dancers dashed out onto the stage. They began leaping and dancing around a giant rock with an old-fashioned kerosene lantern burning on top of it. It was really kind of pretty with the lantern and the costumed dancers. And directly behind them were giant walls of scenery painted to look exactly like a snowy forest. There was only thing missing.
“Vere is our Sugar Plum Fairy?” Ms. Stanaslobsky called. “Vere is our Sugar Plum Fairy?”
I could tell by the way all eyes shot to me that I was the missing dancer. I poked my head onto the stage and looked out to Ms. Stanaslobsky.
“Don’t vorry, Master McDoogle,” she called from the audience. “All you need to do is veel ze muzic. Jus become von vis ze muzic and veel it.”
Now it’s true, I’d never danced in my life, but I’d seen them do it on TV lots of times. It didn’t look too tough. Besides, if all I had to do was “veel ze muzic,” I could probably handle that. So, with a deep breath, I stepped out on the stage and started running around the rock with all the other dancers.
“Very good, Master McDoogle. Veel it. Become von vis ze muzic and jus veel it.”
I did everything she said, and, sure enough, pretty soon I started getting into it. Who cared if I didn’t know how to dance or if I didn’t know any of the steps? The point is I was really “veeling it.” It wasn’t my fault that the other dancers kept turning and stopping without bothering to signal. And you really couldn’t blame me for knocking most of them to the ground before the end of the first song.
Still, I must have been pretty good because the ones still standing couldn’t wait to dash off the stage and watch my moves from the safety of the wings. I could tell they were impressed by the way they kept shaking their heads and dropping their mouths open in astonishment.
Since everyone was looking at me, and since I was still “veeling ze muzic”, I decided to give them a little treat and show them some real talent.
The music had started again, so I picked up my pace and began to twirl with it. Around and around I went, faster and faster . . . and still faster. Then I changed direction. Unfortunately my head and stomach were still kind of partial to the first direction. Suddenly I felt sick in a major “lose-my-cookies” sort of way. I tried covering my mouth and running straight toward the restroom, but it’s hard running straight toward anything when you’ve been spinning like a top.
The good news was I didn’t throw up on anybody or fall off the stage and break any major body parts.
But there was some bad news. Like my gently bumping into one of the towering walls of scenery. Well, “gently bumping” may not be the right phrase. It was more like plowing into the thing with all of my might. I knocked it from its supports, and we all watched as it teetered back and forth. Until finally, like a giant tree
TIMBER!
it tilted too far and fell over.
Fortunately it didn’t fall onto the stage and smash the rock with the kerosene lantern. Unfortunately it fell into the giant wall of sce
nery beside it—which fell into the wall beside it . . . which fell into the . . . (Well, I’m sure you get the picture.) Like a huge set of dominoes each wall knocked over the next until what had once been a beautiful winter wonderland now looked like a ravaged war zone.
However, we weren’t quite done. (After all, we are talking a McDoogle catastrophe, right?) Remember that kerosene lantern that the first wall of scenery had missed? Well, the last wall of scenery didn’t. It fell forward, smashing into the rock and shattering the lantern . . . the lantern with all that burning kerosene . . . the burning kerosene that was now spreading all over the floor . . . the floor that was now completely engulfed in flames.
It was all very impressive and rated at least a 12 on the McDoogle Mishap scale of 1–10.
Of course I felt terrible, but it wasn’t my fault. If they’d read even one of these books they would have known better. I mean, put me near the chance of any catastrophe happening . . . and it will. It’s a law of the universe, like gravity, or centrifugal force, or knowing you’ll have to stop the car every 14.3 minutes if your little sister drinks a lot of water before a trip.
Still, rehearsal wasn’t a total loss. I mean it was great to see my old friends from the fire department as they hosed down the stage. It had been hours since we’d met back at the Home Economics Department, and it was good to get back together and talk over old times.
Unfortunately there was Ms. Stanaslobsky. I don’t want to say she took it badly, but as they carried her out on the stretcher she kept rolling her head back and forth mumbling, “Veel ze muzic, jus veel ze muzic.” The poor lady was obviously delirious. Until she saw me. Then her eyes widened in recognition, and she started screaming, “Keep him away from me! Keep him away!”
I smiled sadly. It was nice to see she was getting back in touch with reality.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
“What are we doing here?” I asked Sylvia. We were standing outside on the porch of a stranger’s house. “It’s seven o’clock at night. I should be home by now.”
“Not yet, McBrainless.”
Sylvia reached over and rapped on the door again.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
“Whose place is this, anyway?” I demanded. “Why are we here?”
“This is the Frankensterns. Wall Street baby-sits here every Thursday.”
“Baby-sits!” I cried. “I don’t know the first thing about—”
Just then the front door opened and there stood Francine, the human allergy machine. At least I thought it was Francine. It was kinda hard to tell with all the pillows being bashed over her head and all the kids climbing on top of her.
“You are sniff several minutes tardy!” she shouted over the screaming babies and blaring TV.
“Sorry,” Sylvia yelled, “Wally gave a special performance at the theater!”
“I hope it was satisfactory,” Francine sniffed then ducked just in time to dodge a flying Barbie minivan.
“Let’s just say the place was cooking!” Sylvia shouted.
“Well, come in!” Francine yelled, as she opened the door.
Reluctantly, I stepped inside. Now, I don’t want to say the kids were tearing up the place, but the living room was definitely untidy in a major nuclear holocaust kind of way. Two kids were practicing their mountain climbing on Francine, another was using a felt pen to connect all the flowers on the living room wallpaper, another was playing ‘barber’ with the family poodle. (Or was it a pet rat? At this stage it was pretty hard to tell.) Then, of course, there were the usual pillow fights (complete with split pillow cases and flying feathers) and a baby screaming her head off.
“How many kids do they have?” I shouted.
“Six or sniff seven. It’s hard to—DUCK!”
We all ducked just in time to avoid a flying six-year-old who had launched himself through the air by using a nearby ceiling fan.
“They haven’t eaten yet,” Francine shouted as we climbed back to our feet, “but all the directions are on the kitchen counter!” She quickly headed toward the door.
Sylvia followed. “We’ll be by to pick you up at ten!” she yelled over her shoulder.
“Ten o’clock?” I cried. “That’s three hours! You’re not going to leave me here all alone for three hours!”
Sylvia turned back to me. “Alone?”
I nodded, lost in helplessness.
“No way, we’re not leaving you alone.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“You’ll have all six of these cuties to keep you company,” she snickered.
“Or seven,” Francine corrected.
They were halfway out the door and shutting it when I shouted, “Wait a minute! You can’t just leave me here. I don’t know how to baby-sit. I mean, what if I do something wrong? What if I accidentally injure them or something?”
Sylvia turned back to me one last time. “You injure them?”
I nodded yes desperately.
“I’m afraid you’ve got it all wrong, McDorkel. If there’s anybody going to be injured in this house, it ain’t going to be the kids.” With that she shut the door (not, of course, without a chilling, sinister laugh).
Slowly I turned back to face the room. All six pairs of eyes (or was it seven?) locked onto me— each and every one of the little creatures waiting to see what I would do.
“Uh . . . Hi there,” I said giving them a nervous little wave.
They said nothing, but started creeping toward me—the drooling babies crawling, the teething toddlers toddling, and the older ones circling around behind with everything from GI Joe bazookas to toy stun guns (at least I hoped they were toys).
I took a deep breath (though the condition of somebody’s diaper made me wish I hadn’t). I couldn’t back down. It was time to take charge, time to show them what I was really made of, time to race for the bathroom as fast as I could and lock myself inside before they got me.
That was the plan. Unfortunately not every one of my plans comes off exactly the way I’d like.
Chapter 7
Under Attack
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
It was just like old times. Somebody was pounding on my door waiting for me to come out.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
Unfortunately those somebodies weren’t my good buddies Sylvia and Francine. They were the monster buddies I was expected to baby-sit.
“Pwease come out, Mister McDoogle,” they called from the other side of the bathroom door. “Pwease, we pwomise not to hurt you.” Call me a skeptic, but somehow I had my doubts.
“Pwease, Mister McDoogle, we’re awfully hungwy. We pwomise not to hurt you if you make us some dinna. Pwease, pwetty pwease. . . .”
It was about this time that I noticed the three inches of water I was standing in—the three inches of water that was quickly rising to four, then five, then . . . I glanced over to the toilet. Someone had tried to flush an Imperial Star Fighter down it. Now everything was stopped up . . . well, except for the water that kept spilling onto the floor and rising around my ankles.
“Pwease, Mister McDoogle. Pwetty pwease.”
I was trapped. I could either stay in there and practice my backstroke or go out and face the monsters. And since I didn’t have a backstroke (much less a front stroke), I knew I had only one choice.
“Okay, guys,” I shouted. “Listen up. If I come out, do you promise not to do anything mean to me?”
“We pwomise,” they all shouted.
“No stun guns, no exploding anythings?”
“Absowutly.”
I looked down to the water that was now somewhere around my knees. It was now or never. Preparing for the worst, I reached for the door, unlocked it, and threw it open. There they stood, in all their wide-eyed innocence.
“Pwease, we’re so hungwy,” they said in their helpless little voices.
Some were even getting their bottom lips to tremble. Yes sir, these guys were good, very good. And if it hadn’t been for their torn cloth
ing, as well as the bloodstains on the walls and carpet (not to mention that poor shaved poodle, or was it a rat, that kept running around whimpering), I would have bought their act.
I carefully eased down the hall and into the kitchen as I heard their mischievous little feet pattering behind me. I was encouraged to see the youngest baby playing safely in her playpen. (The fact that the playpen was upside down, putting her in a type of prison, was even more encouraging.)
Knowing I had to get them on my side as soon as possible, I asked if they wanted to help me fix dinner. “Anybody want to be Wally’s little helper?”
A thousand grimy little hands shot up, and a thousand little mouths all screamed “I do, I do, I do!”
Great, I already had them wrapped around my little finger. I tell you, this baby-sitting business was a breeze. All you had to do was use a little simple psychology.
We started fixing dinner. Since I was bushed, I did my best to convince them to go for something easy—like a glass of water, or maybe some nice dry toast, or, if worse came to worst, a wonderful bowl of cold cereal (without milk, of course).
Unfortunately the kids were a little more demanding. I’ll save you all of the foot stomping, tantrums, and tears (and if you think I acted badly, you should have seen them). To make a long story short, we went for the standard fare of . . . honey-coated sugar cubes, syrup covered Twinkies, and chocolate-covered radishes. (The radishes were my idea because everybody needs vegetables. Right?)
Everything was going pretty well until we got to the baby’s meal.
“Momma always bwends stuff for her in the bwender.”
No problem. I grabbed the blender and tossed a bunch of healthy junk into it like carrots, celery, tomatoes, and some peanut butter cups. Although it was my first time using a blender, I handled it like a pro—except for the part about forgetting to put on the lid.
I hit the “high” button, and suddenly the air was filled with flying vegetables. They splattered against the cupboards, the walls, and me.
