by Bill Myers
I couldn’t believe my ears; this was too good to be true. “You’d do that for me?” I croaked.
“Not for you, McDoogle. For men. For all men around the world. It’s our duty. We can’t let them women win. Now turn around and let me get you strapped into this thing.”
For a split second I hesitated. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was wondering if this was really playing fair. But then I thought of Wall Street, our bet, and the idea of finally beating her. That was all it took (that plus the idea of not burning down any more theaters).
I let him tie the harness around me, and he’d barely gotten it hooked up before the music swelled.
“That’s your cue, McDoogle. Go, go, go!” He gave me a shove, and I raced onto the stage.
There was a polite round of applause which almost drowned out my father’s gasp. (I guess I’d forgotten to tell him about the tutu.)
And then I began to dance.
I tell you, I was incredible. Talk about being light on my feet! All I had to do was nod to the stagehand and he’d pulled the rope and help me do all sorts of impressive moves. The applause grew louder and louder. I could hear the President shouting, “Bravo, bravo.” And every time I was about to plow into someone or do serious structural damage to the scenery, the stagehand would simply give me another pull.
I was amazing. As the first song ended and I soared off the stage, the audience was practically on its feet cheering.
“You’re doing great, kid!” the stagehand shouted, wiping the sweat from his face. “Let’s work in more jumps during this next section and show them what real men can do.”
I nodded, catching my breath. And then I heard her. “Wally, Wally.”
I spun around to see Wall Street running toward me. She was still in my football uniform, wearing good ol’ number 00.
“How’d the game go?” I asked. “Did they cream us?” “We won.” She grinned.
“We won?!” I practically shouted.
She nodded.
“But—how?” I stammered. “How did you do it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it was because the other side’s quarterback couldn’t take his eyes off me. Or maybe it was because I just kept batting my baby blues at him. Then of course there was my promise to give him my phone number, but only if we won.”
I scowled. Part of me was grateful we’d won (this would definitely cut down on Bruce Breakaface’s free dental plan), but part of me was jealous that Wall Street, a girl, had been more helpful to the team than I, a guy.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Flirting with the other team, isn’t that kinda like cheating?”
“And what about you?” she asked, motioning to the rope and harness. “This isn’t exactly playing fair.”
Before I could answer, the stagehand hissed, “You’re on, McDoogle. You’re on!”
I started for the stage. “I don’t know about playing fair,” I called over my shoulder to Wall Street, “but if you think you were good, check this out.”
I headed back onto the stage amidst more applause. Once again I began doing fancy spins, moves, and turns. And once again I could hear the people being wowed. I was even more incredible than the last time.
I knew Wall Street was bugged. I was out-performing her by a mile. It served her right. She may have helped the team win a point or two with a little eyelash fluttering, but I was redefining the entire art of dancing—proving once and for all that guys really were superior to girls.
And, just to make sure she got my point, I bore down even harder. I nodded to the stagehand to pull the rope farther. He obeyed and sent me flying higher. I was breathtaking, doing midair flips, somersaults, everything.
And still I had to show her. “Higher,” I motioned to the stagehand. “Higher.”
I could tell he was giving it all he had as he pulled down harder and farther.
But it wasn’t enough. After all, this was the final battle in the war between the sexes. And it was time to show Wall Street, it was time to show the entire world, who was superior.
“Higher!” I signaled. “HIGHER!”
The stagehand nodded, and with all of his might he gave the rope one last tug. Unfortunately that was the tug that loosened the beam above us. The very same beam that held up that part of the theater . . . the very same beam that now broke from its support and started falling (with a very large portion of the roof following it).
I looked up and managed to squeak out a pathetic “Uh-oh” before it all tumbled down on top of us.
Chapter 9
Team Work
When I regained consciousness, I felt just like one of those famous Egyptian mummies buried underneath one of those giant pyramids—except I wasn’t Egyptian or a mummy, and the rocks on top of me weren’t exactly a pyramid. (Other than that, it was exactly the same.) The point is, I was buried under more junk and rubble than Mom finds during her weekly forages through Burt and Brock’s room.
I was surrounded by darkness. For a minute I didn’t know which way was up. Pretty soon I discovered the rope still tied around me and decided to follow it up. I pushed aside all sorts of rock and debris as I started to climb my way out.
Off in the distance I could hear some coughing and choking. And very faintly I heard other voices. I couldn’t tell for certain, but they seemed to be shouting something about the President.
I don’t know how long I kept shoving stuff off me and pushing up through the junk (time flies when you’re having fun), but I finally reached the surface. Then, through the dust and darkness, I spotted my old uniform with the ‘00’ on it.
“Wall Street!” I shouted.
She spun around. “Wally!”
We raced to each other and gave one another a giant hug (though I’d appreciate you not spreading that information around to everybody).
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She nodded. “Looks like everyone got out. Except for the first row where the beam fell.”
“The first row?” I cried. “That’s where the President was sitting!”
Wall Street’s mouth dropped opened. “Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“He must still be under there!”
“Somebody’s got to help him!” I shouted.
She shook her head. “Everybody’s blocked out. They’re all on the other side of that fallen wall.”
I spun around and saw that she was right. We were on top of a giant mound of rubble and trapped inside a little chamber. We were closed off from everybody else.
That’s when I heard it. “. . . help . . . somebody . . . please help me. . . .”
I turned back to Wall Street. She’d heard it, too. It came several feet below us, buried deep down under the concrete and debris.
“Is anybody there? Please, somebody, help me.”
“It’s the President,” I gasped.
Wall Street nodded.
“What do we do?”
“We’ve got to save him.”
“Us?” I croaked.
“Do you see anybody else around?”
I wanted to explain that, in the interest of national security (and the President’s safety), it was better to keep me as far away from the man as possible.
“. . . help me . . . please, somebody. . . .”
But Wall Street was right. There was nobody else there to help. Only us.
We quickly dropped to our knees and started digging— pushing chunks of concrete and wood aside, stopping every now and then to listen for the voice.
“. . . help me . . . please, somebody. . . .”
Slowly, but surely, we made progress. When we came across big pieces of debris we worked together as a team to lift them. And as we worked together, any memory of the competition between us faded.
The voice below us continued to grow louder and more desperate, “Help me. . . . Please!”
Suddenly Wall Street stopped and pointed. “Right here. He’s right under
here. I’m sure of it!”
We reached down and grabbed a huge piece of cement. It was more than a little heavy.
“On my count,” Wall Street shouted. “One . . . two . . . three!”
We lifted the cement up a few inches and then pushed it off to the side, where it tumbled and rolled down our mini-mountain of dirt and debris.
It was then I spotted him. “There he is!” I pointed to the famous face and silver-gray hair. Unfortunately that was about all we could see of him. The rest was still buried.
“Help me!” he cried as he squirmed and struggled. “Help me! Help me!”
“We are, Mr. President,” I shouted. “Just try to relax.”
Wall Street and I began digging around him. But we’d only gone a few feet before we discovered the problem. The wooden beam, the very one my rope had been tied to, lay across his chest. It had him pinned.
“Help me!” he cried as he continued to fight against it. “Help me!” Unfortunately all the movement was making the beam shift and press down even harder on him.
He coughed and gasped, “Help me. . . .”
“Mr. President,” Wall Street said, “you’ve got to relax and stop panicking. You’re only making things worse.”
But he wouldn’t listen. “Help me. . . .” Again he squirmed and again the beam slipped some more, falling even heavier on him. Now he was struggling to breathe.
“Let’s try and lift it,” I cried.
Wall Street nodded and we moved to opposite sides. We grabbed the giant beam and I counted, “One, two, three. . . .”
We pulled.
Nothing.
We tried again. “One, two, three. . . .”
Ditto in the nothing department. The beam was way too heavy. By now the President was panicking in a major kind of way, fighting and struggling for all he was worth. But he only made things worse as the rock and debris continued falling around him and the beam continued to press down harder and harder. Things were getting serious. At this rate, he would be crushed to death before our eyes.
“What do we do?” I asked Wall Street. “We haven’t much time!”
Wall Street scrunched up her eyebrows into a frown. I could tell she was doing some serious figuring.
That was one thing you could say about Wall Street: she was good at figuring. For years she’d been playing the stock market, hoping to make her first million by the time she turned 13. (Now you know how she got her name.) Anyway, all of that experience made her quite the figurer—especially when it came to math and numbers—though I didn’t see how either could do us any good right now.
Suddenly her face brightened. “I’ve got it! Wally, help me shove that big chunk of concrete there under the beam.”
“What’s your plan?” I asked as I moved to help.
“This stone will act as the fulcrum point transforming the beam into a lever. By placing it at one third the distance and calculating the estimated weight of the beam in proportion to our combined weight, we should exert a force equivalent to—”
“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll take your word for it.”
But even as we moved the rock into position, the President continued to fight and struggle, bringing more of the weight down onto himself. By now he could no longer talk. In a matter of seconds, he would no longer be able to breathe! Wall Street could do all the figuring she wanted, but if the President didn’t relax and stop fighting it wouldn’t matter. Someone had to talk to him.
Someone had to take his mind off . . .
Suddenly, I had it. “Mr. President!” I shouted, “Mr. President!”
He barely heard. I dropped down on my hands and knees. Our faces were just inches apart. “Mr. President, have you ever heard any of my superhero stories?”
He looked at me with such pain that at first I thought he might have. But then he finally gasped, “What?”
“My superhero stories.”
He shook his head.
“They’re pretty weird. Right now I’m working on this story of Bumble Boy and Shakespeare Guy where Bumble Boy is this half-human half-bumblebee and Shakespeare Guy, well, he’s this villain who’s trying to make all the world talk like Shakespeare.”
He looked at me like I was out of my mind, which was okay by me. At least I had his attention, and at least he’d stopped panicking long enough to listen.
I kept going. I started telling him all about Shakespeare Guy’s sinister potion, Bumble Boy’s battle with the bats, and how he almost became windshield bug goo—all of this as Wall Street finished doing her calculations and arranging things for the big push. It was kinda cool knowing Wall Street was busy doing what she did best while I was kneeling beside the President doing what I did best. We were making quite the team.
“Okay, Wally,” Wall Street finally called. “We’re ready.”
I nodded and jumped to my feet just as the President suddenly grabbed my ankle. He was trying to speak. I bent back down to listen.
“What . . .” he coughed and wheezed. “After Shakespeare Guy reaches for the can of bug spray, what . . . happens . . . next?”
I smiled. “I don’t know, sir. That’s as far as I’ve gotten. Guess you’ll have to stick around a little longer to find out.”
He nodded.
“Let’s go, Wally!”
I joined Wall Street at the other end of the beam.
“Ready?” she asked.
I nodded.
We hopped on the beam and bore down for all we were worth . . . pushing and jumping. It was hard work, but the beam pivoted on the giant rock, and slowly, ever so slowly, the other end rose off the President’s body—only an inch or two, but that was all we needed.
“Hurry and crawl out,” I shouted. “Hurry!”
The man groaned and started to pull himself out. But the beam was too heavy for us to hold any longer.
“Hurry, Mr. President. HURRY!”
“I can’t push anymore!” Wall Street cried. “It’s too heavy.”
“Hang in there!” I shouted. “Just another second. Hurry, Mr. President!”
And then, just before we let go, just before the beam fell back onto the President and crushed him to death, he rolled clear. It smashed down onto the rocks, missing him by less than an inch.
But he was safe. The President of the United States was safe. Wall Street and I looked at each other and grinned. By combining our talents, the two of us had managed to save his life. Not bad for a couple of kids—especially with one wearing a football uniform and the other a pink tutu.
Chapter 10
Wrapping Up
The next morning Wall Street and I stood backstage in our school’s auditorium. With all the press people, Governor Makeasplash, and the President sitting in the audience, there was barely any room for the students.
Our 72-hour bet was just coming to an end. Now everyone waited for us to give our speeches to say whether it was harder being a boy or a girl. I threw a glance over to Wall Street. She looked pretty calm. Me too, well, except for my nervous shaking, the hundred gallons of sweat rolling off my forehead, and having to throw up every fifteen seconds. (Other than that, I was just fine.) Fortunately I had Ol’ Betsy by my side, so I tried to take my mind off the speech by snapping her on and finishing up my Bumble Boy story.
(When we last left Bumble Boy, Shakespeare Guy was about to rain bug spray on his parade.) He presses the button and the deadly spray shoots out.
PSSSSSSSSSSSS-th.
But Bumble Boy is too fast. He darts this way and that, that way and this, dancing faster than some second grader having to search for a restroom.
Angrily, Shakespeare Guy screams:
“Quit buzzing around thus,
Try to hold stilleth.
Thou art making it too hard,
For me to try and killeth.”
Go figure, but for some reason that’s exactly what our hero has in mind. He continues flying, and the poet continues spraying until the entire cab is filled with the thick, misty f
og...which makes it a little difficult to see out the windshield...which is kinda important if you’re driving a tanker truck... which is even more important if that tanker truck is heading down the roadat a gazillion miles an hour...and there’s a hairpin curve just ahead...with a hundred-foot drop-off...and some very hard rocks at the bottom. (Other than that, it’s no big deal.)
And, coincidentally enough, that all just happens to be the case here.
“No kiddingth,” Shakespeare Guy mumbles. “What a supriseth.”
I paused, trying to ignore the sarcasm of my villain, and then continued typing.
The truck breaks through the safety rail and sails toward the deadly rocks below. Bumble Boy opens his mouth and with a ferocious cry, yells, “Oops.”
Shakespeare Guy agrees. “I hateth it when this happensth.”
“Wait a minute,” Bumble Boy asks as they plummet toward the earth, “this has happened before?”
Shakespeare Guy nods:
“In all of his stories,
Wally ends them the sameth.
His bad guys will loseth,
And the good guys become famousth.”
“So what’s going to happen next?” Bumble Boy asks.
“The tanker will crashth,
Spilling out my evil potionth.
You’ll wind up a hero,
And I’ll become the joketh.”
“Excuse me, guys,” I type on my laptop. “I hate to interrupt your little conversation, but can I get back to writing this story? Bumble Boy has to fly out of the window before the tanker crashes.”
“Wait a minute, Wally,” Bumble Boy says. “Is it true? Do you always have the good guys winning?”
I hate being quizzed, especially by my own characters. But it was just about time for Wall Street and me to give our speeches, so I played along.
“Well, yeah,” I type. “Good guys win, bad guys lose. It’s like a rule.”
Bumble Boy crosses his antennas to form a frown. “So you’re saying bad guys are always inferior to good guys?”
