My Life as a Blundering Ballerina

by Bill Myers

  But that was the good news.

  Before I could scrape off the goo from my glasses—so I could find the “off” button—one of the little darlings thought it would be fun to play Bazooka. He hopped up on the counter and started dropping other things into the spinning blender. Things like frozen peas

  PING, PING, PING, PING.

  We were suddenly pelted with hundreds of frozen, green BBs.

  Next came the squeeze bottle of chocolate

  FLING, FLING, FLING, FLING.

  Suddenly we all looked like my chocolate-covered radishes . . . so did the ceiling, doors, and that poor hairless dog, or whatever it was.

  And finally there was the box of uncooked spaghetti

  K-THWACK, K-THWACK, K-THWACK

  “YEOW!!!!!!!!!!!”

  Suddenly we had hundreds of pieces of hard, uncooked spaghetti sticking out of our skin. That was enough. Everyone had had it with Bazooka Boy. Now looking very much like human porcupines, they decided to fight back.

  First it was with a flying cup or two (the fact that they were still full of milk made it a little messier). Then they graduated to flying dishes, (fortunately they were plastic; unfortunately they hurt just as bad), and finally they moved up to dining room furnishings (chairs were the weapons of choice, though they also settled for vases, hanging pictures, or anything else that wasn’t tied down).

  I wasn’t sure what had gone wrong. A moment ago I’d been in such control. Now things were getting out of hand in a major World War III kind of way. Of course, being the designated grownup I knew it was my job to try and stop them.

  “Guys! Guys!” I shouted as I stepped between them.

  But of course that only meant I was getting it from both sides—pieces of dill pickles and cookies (the extra chewy caramel kind) from the blender side, and small flying appliances from the other.

  Bazooka Boy would not be stopped. He quickly hooked up an extension cord and started driving the other darlings into the living room with a new onslaught of ice-cream bars, dog food, and the ever-popular raw liver.

  The other kids staged a counterattack with TV remotes, CDs, and CD players! I couldn’t be certain, but for a moment I even thought I saw the poodle flying by (poor thing, he really gets around). Then came the table lamps and potted plants. They were just starting to work on the big-screen TV when, suddenly, to my relief, the door opened.

  At least I thought it was to my relief. Right then I wasn’t so sure because Mr. and Mrs. Frankensterns, the ones responsible for spawning these creatures, stood aghast in the doorway with their mouths open.

  Everything grew very silent. Well, except for the steady drip, drip, drip of an ice-cream bar melting from atop the chandelier and the slurping of the hairless poodle (or was it a rat) as it licked ketchup off the baby’s face. Other than that, everything was very quiet.

  I’ll save you the gory details (not so much from what the Frankensterns did as from what my dad did). The short version is that in less than one hour I was back home, safe and sound in my room, where, if Dad got his way, I’d be grounded until the year 2077.

  I tell you, if I’d ever thought girls had it easy, I’d sure changed my mind—at least whatever mind I had left. It’s true, they really had to go through some pretty tough stuff. And by the looks of things, so would I . . . at least for one more day. To make matters worse, that one more day would also include the big football game which Bruce Breakaface so strongly recommended I attend. And worse than that worse was my upcoming debut as a prima ballerina in The Nutcracker.

  Yes sir, on the scale of happiness, things were definitely pushing a minus 17. So I did what I always do when I’m depressed. I reached for Ol’ Betsy, snapped her on, and tried to lose myself in my superhero story. When I last left Bumble Boy he was about to be hit by a giant tanker truck. It was nice to know some people were having a better day than mine.

  The tanker truck smashes into Bumble Boy. He bounces off the grill and tumbles antenna over heels until he suddenly strikes the giant truck’s windshield. Or shall we say the giant truck’s windshield suddenly strikes him. But instead of becoming so much bug splat on the highway of life (Woo, sounds like a new country western song.), our little bug guy only has the pollen knocked off him.

  But the wind presses him against the windshield, pinning him harder than one of those wrestling guys on TV—— although you’ll never catch him wearing those weird leotards and screaming at the camera, “I’m going to rip off your head and eat it!”

  At last the incredibly intelligent insect turns his head and looks through the windshield. He gasps an incredibly intelligent insect gasp. Thanks to some creative writing from an author whose name shall go unmentioned (except that the first name begins with W, ends in Y, and there’s an ALL thrown in the middle somewhere). Anyway, thanks to some very creative writing, the driver of the truck is none other than (insert coincidence music here)... Shakespeare Guy!

  “Shakespeare Guy,” our hero shouts over the roaring wind, “what are you doing?”

  “I’m driving this tanker,

  To meet thee in yon city.

  Where we shall duketh it out,

  In a manner most unpretty.”

  Shakespeare Guy’s poetry is as bad as ever. “But why are you driving this tanker?” our hero shouts. “What’s inside it?”

  “’Tis the last bit of my potion,

  To make the world speak thusly.

  But ’tis no matter for you,

  Since you’ll soon become a

  bug Slushie.”

  With that, the pouting poet transporting the potentially powerful poison potion (say that with a mouthful of crackers) reaches down and turns on the truck’s windshield wipers.

  Bumble Boy looks up just in time to see a giant windshield wiper blade heading directly toward him. Like a falling guillotine it seems to have only one purpose in life——to end his.

  Bumble Boy struggles to get free.

  The blade falls faster.

  Again, he struggles to get free.

  The blade falls faster.

  And then, just when our hero is about to be wiped off the windshield (not to mention the face of the earth), he uses his last ounce of superbug strength, leaps high enough to clear the falling blade, and lands on top of it.

  (Pretty impressive, huh? That’s why they pay him the big superhero bucks.)

  Now he sits on top of the swishing wiper blade shouting, “Ee-Ha!” like some cowboy riding a bucking bronco. But Shakespeare Guy hates rodeos. He reaches down to the windshield washer and gives it a squirt. The liquid stream hits our beloved hero, and he starts to choke and gag. Then, just when he’s coughing and sputtering more than Grandpa’s old pickup (or for that matter, more than Grandpa), the slippery detergent causes him to lose his grip.

  Bumble Boy flies from the wiper blade. But, thanks to another incredible coincidence——courtesy of this writer——the wind actually whips him into the truck’s open window.

  Shakespeare Guy cries in panic, “Alack ... Forsooth!” And, of course, the ever popular:

  “AUUUUUUUUUGH-th.”

  Now the two are battling it out in the truck’s cab. Shakespeare Guy is trying to play “squash” with our hero, and our hero is realizing that if he fails to stop him, the entire world will probably all start saying “AUUUUGH-th.”

  It is a fight to the finish until Shakespeare Guy suddenly reaches into the glove compartment and produces a can of bug spray.

  “Better droppeth to your kneesth,

  And sayeth a prayerth.

  ’Cause we’ve just movedth up,

  To chemical warfareth.”

  Then with a sinister laugh (the type learned in bad-guy schools everywhere), the poor excuse for a poet points the can toward our hero, places his finger on the button, and...

  “Okay, Wally!” It was Mom calling from downstairs. “Time to get to sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow; you don’t want to be tired.”

  With a heavy sigh I shut Ol’ Be
tsy down and turned off the light. Mom was right. The worst thing in the world is to be half asleep when you’re about to be executed.

  Chapter 8

  Political Crackedness

  The following morning it was the same drill. The same visit by Sylvia and Francine, the same combing of every one of my hairs, the same pressure at school, and at lunchtime the same death threats from my good buddy, Bruce Breakaface.

  “Yos better be sittin’ on dat bench tonight or yos in big trouble.”

  “But—but—but,” I continued my motorboat imitation as my mind raced for some solution. “If the other team sees Wall Street sitting there, won’t that have the same effect? I mean she is just a girl, right?”

  “Are you messing wit me?”

  Once again he pulled me into our usual talking position—my fearful face one inch from his snarling mouth.

  “Dat girl plays a hundred times better den yos.”

  I nodded. Of course. What was I thinking?

  “Wally. Hey, Wally!”

  I looked up to see my other best friend, Opera, whose love for classical music is only surpassed by his love for deep fried, salt saturated fat (with a little potato chip hidden in the middle).

  “Hey, Opera, what’s up?”

  “I just crunch talked to Wall Street crunch, crunch.” He was working on his third bag of the day.

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Awful munch-crunch. In fact crunch-munch, she looks almost as bad as you burp. She doesn’t know if she can take another day.”

  I nodded, knowing exactly what she meant.

  “And with the football game coming up and the ballet and the President visiting—”

  “Woaaa . . . ,” I interrupted. “The President?”

  He nodded, letting out a loud belch for good measure.

  “President of what?” I asked.

  “Of the country, Wally. He heard Governor Makeasplash on TV yesterday, and since they’re both running for president—”

  Before he could finish, we were interrupted by a bunch of shouting, “Stand aside, stand aside!”

  I looked up and saw a dozen guys, dressed in suits and wearing little earpieces, pushing through the crowd toward us.

  “Step back, please. Give us some room.”

  Behind them was the usual circus of TV cameras and reporters. Everyone was facing backwards talking to and photographing none other than the President of the United States.

  “Are you Willie McDonald?” one of the suits asked me.

  I looked to him, then to his earpiece. I’d seen enough movies to know this guy was either an avid baseball fan who couldn’t miss a single game, or he was from the Secret Service.

  “Yes sir,” I said. “Actually it’s Wally McDoogle.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said searching the crowd, “whatever.”

  Suddenly the reporters stepped aside, and there was the President heading directly for me.

  “Willard McDurmel?” he asked, arriving and sticking out his hand. “Let me shake your hand.” Nervously I took his hand, and about a thousand cameras started clicking and whirring away. Without missing a beat, the President turned toward the cameras. “I just want to say, Willard, that you embody the essence of what makes this great republic of ours so great. Think of it, a young man at your tender age and stature willing to endure political lobbyists and special interest groups who assault the time-honored traditions of our forefathers, let alone the proven status quo of . . .”

  Suddenly he sounded very much like Governor Makeasplash.

  “. . . to be cognizant of such an auspicious occasion and as a reminder of my positive impact upon the national deficit . . .”

  Same big words, same talking to the cameras and ignoring me.

  “. . . aware that I will personally be attending your ballet premier this evening thereby offering my moral and political support, a support, I might add, that is indicative of . . .”

  Hold it! Did I hear right? Was he going to attend my ballet performance? Was the President of the United States actually going to see me running around in a tutu?

  I started to protest but was interrupted by Mrs. Permagrin, from the Home Economics Department (or at least what was left of the Home Economics Department). She was pushing her way through the reporters and calling, “Mr. President, Mr. President. . . .”

  She’d no sooner broken through the crowd than every Secret Service man there had his gun out and trained on her.

  “It’s okay,” Ms. Finglestooper cried from the crowd. “She’s one of us. She’s one of the teachers.”

  The President nodded, once again becoming all smiles as the Secret Service put away their guns.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Permagrin continued to approach him with a silver tray of cookies. Cookies that looked just like the ones I had made. Cookies with those same odd black specs running through them.

  “Mr. President.” She grinned as she stepped up to him. “I thought you would enjoy these cookies that Wally baked all by himself.”

  My mouth dropped open. Where on earth? And then I remembered the second batch I’d put in the oven. When the Home Economics Department was burning down, that second batch of cookies was safe and secure inside the oven.

  Seeing the opportunity for a few thousand more photographs, the President laughed. “Why I’d love to try a cookie,” he said.

  It was like a slow motion movie as the President’s hand reached toward the tray of cookies that the grinning Mrs. Permagrin was holding out.

  I had to stop them, to warn him. “No,” I shouted as I lunged for the tray. “Look out, those cookies are—”

  My movement startled Mrs. Permagrin, causing the tray to tilt in her hand, allowing all two dozen of the little cookie bombs to slide off and start hitting the ground

  K-BAMB!

  K-BAMB! K-BAMB!

  Yes sir, it was just like old times . . . except for the Secret Service agents racing at me and tackling me to the ground

  “OAFFF!”

  K-BAMB! K-BAMB! K-BAMB!

  while the other agents were busy throwing their bodies over the President

  K-BAMB! K-BAMB!

  as the crowd of reporters, teachers, and students began running this way and that, screaming hysterically, “Wally’s shot the President! McDoogle’s gone mad and has attacked the President!”

  See what I mean? Just like old times.

  The next few hours were a blur.

  First there was my arrest by the Secret Service. Nice guys except for the part of wanting to shoot me first and ask questions later. They were also a little moody. Something about thinking I was trying to kill their boss made them a touch on the cranky side.

  In a matter of minutes I found myself hauled into a darkened room, with a spotlight glaring in my face, and the Macarena playing 150 times nonstop in the background. (Boy, do these guys know how to torture somebody, or what?)

  I told them the truth about my catastrophe-prone life, but they wouldn’t buy it.

  “What do you take us for?” Agent One demanded. “Nobody’s that much of a dork-oid.”

  It wasn’t until his partner, better known as Agent Two, brought in my file, that they had second thoughts.

  “Hmmm . . . ,” Agent One said, taking the report and reading it. “Accidentally winding up on the Space Shuttle, turning into a torpedo test target, becoming dinosaur dental floss, reindeer road kill, a bigfoot breath mint.” He glanced over to his partner. “Looks like the boy might be telling the truth, after all.”

  Agent Two shook his head in amazement. “I don’t know, kid,” he said to me. “That’s pretty incredible stuff. You should write it down. Maybe put it into a book someday.”

  Agent One agreed. “Or a whole series of books.”

  Then in unison they both shook their heads. “Naw, nobody would believe it.”

  I glanced at my watch—it was 7:15. The good news was the football game at the school had already started. That meant Brucey Boy would not be dropping by to p
resent me my free, all-expense-paid, face alignment.

  The bad news was the agents knew all about my ballet debut and promised to get me there on time. (Suddenly the glaring lights and listening to the Macarena didn’t seem so bad.)

  Anyway, fifty minutes later I was standing backstage wearing my ballet costume with the pink tutu. I peeked through the curtain at the audience. Everybody was there. Way in the back sat my family, complete with doting sister and snickering brothers. In front of them sat every reporter in the world poised with cameras so they wouldn’t miss a thing. Then came Ms. Stanaslobsky, whose medication was cranked up so high, she wouldn’t notice a thing, which was probably just as well. In front of her sat Governor Makeasplash and all of her people. And finally, in the very front row sat the President of the United States.

  The stagehands had done a great job repairing the stage. Unfortunately, they hadn’t quite learned their lesson, because there, high atop the rock, was another burning kerosene lantern.

  Uh-oh . . .

  The overture was about to start. All of the dancers were getting into place when suddenly a big burly arm grabbed me and pulled me into the wings.

  It was the head stagehand. Big, hairy, muscular— kind of like my brothers, but with some sign of intelligence.

  “You nervous?” he asked.

  I looked up to him and nodded.

  He broke into a broad, semi-toothless grin. “Don’t be. You’re representing all the men from around the world. We ain’t about to let you down.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “We rigged up this here harness.” He held out a giant rope with some straps. “Just let me hook this up to you, and I’ll be guiding your every move.”

  “You’ll what?”

  “If you’re gonna run into something, I’ll just yank this rope here and pull you out of the way.”

  I looked at the rope in his hands. It ran all the way up to a pulley attached to a giant beam in the ceiling, and then back down again to form the harness at my end.

  He continued. “If you need to do a fancy step, I’m here to help you out. And if you need to jump, I’ll give this a tug, and you’ll go sailing higher than any girl ever hoped to sail.”