Jessi's Horrible Prank

by Ann M. Martin

  We gabbed so long, I almost forgot about my audition. Mal was the one who brought it up. By that time it was too late to be nervous.

  Everyone wished me luck. Mal ran with me to the school. We hugged good-bye in front of the auditorium, and I dashed inside. I was determined to be fantastic!

  “Left, right, skip, skip! Arms up, jump … again!”

  Again?

  The gym was packed with sweating sixth-graders. Dolly One, in a skintight, neon-striped dance outfit, was leading all the auditioners in a dance combination.

  The truth? It was more like an exercise class for the aerobically challenged.

  March a little one way. March a little the other way. Hands up, hands down. Clap. Jump.

  Ho-hum.

  I knew a lot of the kids around me. In real life, they were perfectly well-coordinated. They could walk and talk at the same time. But here on the gym floor, they were transformed. It was as if their legs and arms had declared war on them.

  I had never seen so many eleven-year-olds fret about deciding left from right.

  Okay, okay, I know it sounds snobby. But I was used to ballet class with Mme Noelle, who pitches a fit if your demi-plié is too grande for her taste.

  (I don’t even think she knows what the word “skip” means. She would be going crazy if she were here. “Skeep?” she would say. “What eez zees skeep? Zees ees not donce!”)

  But I skipped. And I reached. And I stepped. And when I got too bored I helped a couple of my friends.

  When it was over, Dolly Two taught us a song.

  I remembered it from the video of last year’s Follies. It was called “At SMS,” and it was set to the tune of “Under the Sea” from The Little Mermaid:

  At SMS the teachers cheer,

  Because they won’t have us next year.

  We’ll have it made

  In seventh grade

  At SMS.…

  We all knew the tune, and the lyrics were funny. So it was pretty easy to learn.

  But I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the squawks that came from my mouth. I think Claudia’s candies had made me even worse, if that were possible.

  “All right, that sounds terrific!” Dolly Two called out. “Now let’s try putting together the song and the dance.”

  Half the group cheered. The other half looked petrified. Me? I fell in between.

  The two Dollies started the music again. I leaped into the dance combination. And I sang at the top of my lungs.

  Alone.

  Well, that was what if felt like. All the loudest singers suddenly got laryngitis when they had to dance at the same time.

  My voice echoed through the gym like a police siren. I was mortified. I thought the windows would crack.

  I put my hand over my mouth and said, “Oops.”

  Dolly Two was smiling. “That was great, Jessi! Don’t stop.”

  I tried. Honestly I did. But now I felt as if someone had put a twist-tie around my vocal cords. The police siren became a mouse squeak.

  Very attractive.

  It took a few run-throughs, but finally some other kids did start singing along.

  “Okay, time for groups!” Dolly One called out. “We’ll divide you into fours, so we can really see how you’re doing. We’ll be helping you out, so don’t worry if it’s not perfect.”

  She went through the gym, dividing us up. Since about sixty people had shown up, that meant fifteen groups.

  Mine was third. Nice and early.

  I didn’t make any mistakes. My voice didn’t straighten out Dolly One’s curls. I kept a smile on my face.

  All in all, I was happy.

  While the other groups danced, the rest of us waited in the stands. Us performance committee members sat near the Dollies’ table. We had all helped set up the auditions — signing people in, alphabetizing names, stuff like that. But now nothing was left to do, except sit and get nervous about what came next.

  I wanted so badly for Mal to be there — or any of my BSC friends — but the Dollies had decided on a “No Friends” rule. They thought too many people would make the auditioners nervous.

  They were probably right, but I sure could have used some moral support.

  After all the groups were finally finished, Dolly Two announced, “Now comes the hard part, kids — the individual audition. You will have a chance to sing a song or recite your memorized material.”

  Everyone just stared at her. We looked like the Zombies from Planet X.

  “Look, this is not an audition for a Broadway show,” Dolly Two said warmly. “Remember, you are all in. Every single one of you will be in the Follies. These tryouts are just to see where your strengths are, and where you need work. Sure, we’ll select people to speak certain lines, sing a couple of solos — but more importantly, we need a good, big chorus. A chorus that looks like it’s having fun. So just go out there and enjoy yourselves.”

  “Okay, we’ll go alphabetically,” Dolly One called out. “Ben Abbott!”

  Ben raced onto the gym floor. He was so excited he nearly fell. He had nearly fallen during the dance combo, too. Fortunately he stayed upright during his speech. He delivered the Gettysburg Address, or something like it, at the top of his lungs:

  “FORCE, GORE, AND SEVEN YEARS AGO OUR POOR FATHER BROUGHT FORTH ON THIS CONDIMENT A NEW NATION …”

  The Dollies cut him off before we all cracked up (or lost our hearing).

  Next Lauren Aronsen sang “Maybe” from the musical Annie. That was great.

  Jeff Atkinson sang the theme song from Shining Time Station. He could have used a little more coal in his engine.

  I heard everything from Shakespeare to sitcoms. A girl named Liz Cohen did the “Vitameatavegamin” routine from I Love Lucy (if you haven’t seen that episode, you must). It was incredibly funny.

  But R is pretty far into the alphabet. Which meant sitting through a lot of shy performers.

  I thought I would turn into a fossil before my turn came. Fortunately I had my backpack, so I reached in and took out a book. I got so involved in it I didn’t even hear Ms. Vandela call my name.

  “Psssst! Go!”

  A girl behind me tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Me?” I said, bolting out of my seat.

  The Dollies (and all the rest of the auditioners) were staring at me. “Come on down!” Ms. Vandela said.

  Be a pro, Jessi, I said to myself.

  I stood up straight. I smiled. I calmly walked onto the gym floor.

  As I approached front and center, Ms. Bernhardt exclaimed, “Oh, good! You’re doing something from Maniac Magee! I love that.”

  Huh?

  I looked down. My right hand was still clutching the book I’d been reading.

  “Oops. I was just … uh, wait a second …”

  I ran back to the stands and gently tossed the book toward my backpack. It fell through the bleachers and slapped onto the floor.

  So much for being a pro.

  “Actually, I was going to recite ‘The Owl and the Pussycat,’ ” I announced.

  I’d recited that poem a million times to Squirt. I’d memorized it without even trying, then added some pantomime. Even Becca liked to watch me.

  The minute I started, I knew I’d picked the wrong thing. In front of eleven-year-olds, I felt a little stupid.

  But hey, I was a pro. I put all my energy into it.

  The Dollies seemed to like it okay. But they started whispering to each other in the middle of it.

  When I was done, Dolly One said, “Very nice reciting. Jessi, can you sing for us?”

  “S-sing?”

  Thook.

  The tennis ball was back. It just popped up from my stomach and lodged in my throat.

  “Sure,” Dolly One said. “Anything. ‘Happy Birthday,’ even. If you don’t mind. We just want to hear you.”

  Hadn’t they heard enough of me during the group number? Did they want all the auditioners to go screaming for the exits?

  I cleared my
throat. My tennis ball was turning into a beach ball. My Peter Pan audition passed through my mind like an awful nightmare.

  I knew one thing for sure. I was not going to sing “Happy Birthday.”

  “Uh, can I sing ‘I Won’t Grow Up’ from Peter Pan?” (That was the song I should have sung at my other audition, instead of “I’m Flying.”)

  “Of course!” Ms. Bernhardt replied.

  I swallowed and began:

  “I’m never grow up, I’ll won’t grow up,

  I don’t want to go to tie —”

  I stopped. A few kids were trying very hard not to giggle.

  “Can I … start over?” I asked.

  “Jessi, you sound fine,” Dolly Two said. “Just relax and do it again.”

  I did. I made it through the song, and no one threw tomatoes at me.

  I have no memory of the rest of the auditions. I was in a daze.

  At the end, Dolly Two said, “Thank you all — and congratulations! You are the most talented sixth-graders I’ve seen! This is going to be the best show ever. We’ll make all our casting decisions by Thursday, and they’ll be posted in the main hall.”

  Everyone started gabbing excitedly. A couple of kids told me they thought I was great. I returned the compliments.

  Then, with the rest of the committee members, I helped clean up. The Dollies were reassuring to all of us. They teased me a little about “I Won’t Grow Up” (Dolly Two said, “I’ll really liked it!”) but they made sure to say I had recovered beautifully.

  After awhile, I started relaxing. I knew the show would be fun, no matter what part I landed.

  I had to look on the bright side. I’d helped write the show, and I knew for a fact that not one part required a crocodile costume.

  I was flying.

  My feet were off the ground. My brain was somewhere between the clouds and Neptune.

  I, Jessica Ramsey, was going to play a Folly Dolly. But that’s not the best part. At the bottom of Thursday morning’s Follies list was this line:

  (Assistant choreographer/dance captain: Jessica Ramsey.)

  Now, I had hinted at the idea to the Dollies the week before — you know, “You guys could really use a dance captain to help you out, lah dee dah. …” That’s all. I hadn’t wanted to seem pushy, not after my Peter Pan experience.

  But they had taken me seriously. Yay!

  I was in the best mood all day. Even in Short Takes.

  Are you wondering what happened to Mr. Trout? Well, he went back to wearing his toupee. True to his style, he never said a thing about what had happened.

  Since the Great Balding, the class had settled down. Well, sort of. What I mean is, the creativity level of the pranks had peaked. Now it was all downhill. Kids were back to spitballs and note-passing and the usual dumb stuff.

  So when a note was slipped onto my desk, I wasn’t too surprised. I figured it was another “Drop Your Books” command or something.

  I opened it up and read:

  I looked over at Justine Moss. She gave me a shy smile.

  Justine is about the last person in the world I’d have expected a note from. She’s quiet and studious. But she was on the performance committee, so I figured she had some Follies news.

  I waited outside the room after class.

  “Come with me,” Justine said as she stepped through the door.

  I followed her around the corner. She stopped in front of some lockers.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  She looked like she was about to burst. “I had the greatest idea this morning.”

  “What?”

  “You know that skit we couldn’t figure out how to end — the one where all the celebrities start arguing in the teachers’ lounge.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, how about this. Just when things start to get bad, in walks Mr. Williams as Elvis. And everyone says, ‘I thought you died!’ And he says, ‘Ah didn’t dah, ah wuz kidnapped by Klingons!’ You know what a Klingon is, from Star Trek?”

  “Those ugly bald guys, right?”

  “Right. And in walks one with a phaser — and it’s Mr. Trout!”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I don’t know …”

  “Played by you, Jessi — in a bald wig!”

  “Whoa. Hang on, Jus. I don’t mind playing a Folly Dolly, but —”

  “It’s the same thing, Jessi!” Justine insisted.

  “No, it’s not.”

  Justine folded her arms. “I already told the Dollies, and they thought it was a great idea. Besides, look what we have already. One person is playing Mr. Williams with a pot belly. You’re doing a Folly Dolly with a wig and a stuffed blouse. …”

  She went on and on. One of our teachers, Mr. Jazak, wears Coke-bottle glasses — and we had written a part for someone with plastic Coke bottles sticking out of his glasses. One sixth-grader was going to portray our wood-shop teacher like Pigpen from “Peanuts,” only with sawdust falling wherever he goes, instead of dirt. Another kid was going to play our music teacher, Mrs. Pinelli, bursting into song with a terrible operatic voice every time she spoke. Stuff like that.

  “I guess we’re really going overboard, huh?” I said.

  “Going overboard is the whole point, Jessi. Remember last year’s video, when it showed the audience? The teachers were hysterical!”

  “Do you think Mr. Trout will laugh at himself?” I asked.

  Justine sighed. “Look, I don’t like it when everyone’s mean to him, either. But the Follies is the opposite of mean. It’s showing the teachers how much we like them. It’s like saying, ‘You’re one of us.’ And the toupee isn’t a secret or anything. Everybody knows about it now. Besides, I already mentioned the idea to Ms. Bernhardt, and you know what she said? ‘You guys are so sweet to include him!’ ”

  Rrriiinnnng!

  “Oops!” I started to run to my fourth-period class. “We’ll talk later!”

  “Think about it!” Justine yelled.

  “I will!”

  I did, too. But I still wasn’t convinced. In fact, when I went to the rehearsal after school, I was all ready to tell Justine I’d decided against it.

  “Okay, places for the Wayne’s World number!” Dolly One announced the moment I walked in.

  I quickly sat down to watch. Bobby Gustavson and another boy played Wayne and Garth in an SMS class, giving idiotic answers and making total chaos. Jamie Sperling played the teacher, Ms. Flood, who speaks in an Australian accent. She kept calling Bobby “Woin.”

  Then, when the entire cast had arrived, Ms. Bernhardt put us all through our big production number — and she let me help out with the choreography.

  Next we split into two groups. Ms. Bernhardt went off to the back of the auditorium to work on some smaller skits, while Ms. Vandela directed the teachers’ lounge skit onstage. First she described Justine’s idea to everybody, then commanded, “Okay, Elvis and Klingon in the wings. The rest of you, places!”

  “Uh, Ms. Vandela?” I called out.

  I was all set to tell her my decision about not playing Mr. Trout, but another student was already bending her ear about something.

  I climbed onstage. Randy Rademacher, who was playing Mr. Williams/Elvis, grinned at me. He was wearing his ‘50s shades and was combing his hair back. “Wuzz up, Trout-Man?” he asked in his Elvis voice.

  Justine ran up to me, holding a floppy brown piece of Latex. “Here, try this on.”

  “Uh, well —” I began.

  Randy burst into hysterical laughter. “Check it out! A bald cap!”

  Now everybody was looking at me. I held out the limp cap to Justine. “Sorry, I can’t —”

  “Come on …” Justine urged.

  “Let’s see! Let’s see!” Randy said.

  “It’s just a joke!” someone yelled from onstage.

  Mara Semple was in the skit, too — Mara, the girl who wasn’t allowed to visit my house. I could see her rolling her eyes and mumbling to the girl next to her.

  Ms.
Vandela was now looking at us curiously. “Is something wrong?”

  I took a deep breath. Here’s what went through my mind:

  It was one imitation.

  It wasn’t the worst.

  It wasn’t the longest.

  If Mr. Trout could take the Balding without losing his temper, he wouldn’t mind this — especially if all the other teachers were laughing at their own imitations.

  I didn’t want to blow it. It had taken me a long time to feel accepted at SMS. Everybody seemed to respect my talents. They wanted me to play Mr. Trout, even though I was the wrong sex and skin color.

  Besides, if I chickened out, the Mara Semple types would not let me forget it.

  That’s show biz, I said to myself.

  I stretched out the latex cap and put it on my head. In my usual ballerina style, my hair was pulled straight back, flat against my scalp. The wig snapped right into place.

  “Uh, now then,” I said in a nasal Trout voice. “Has anyone seen my, uh, hair?”

  The whole auditorium went up. Roared. Even Mara was cackling.

  You know what? It felt great.

  Then Randy started singing, “You ain’t nothin’ but a Chrome Dome, shinin’ all the time!”

  “Is someone writing this down?” Ms. Bernhardt called out.

  Two kids grabbed their clipboards.

  Randy and I were hot. We went on improvising for a few minutes. Ms. Vandela was weeping with laughter.

  We had practically a whole new skit — and the last thing Ms. Vandela said before we all went home was, “You guys are going to steal the show.”

  * * *

  Afterward, the finance committee all walked to my house for its final meeting. The whole way, we could not stop talking about the skit.

  The rehearsal had run late, and Mama and Daddy insisted on feeding the entire committee dinner. At the table, we told everyone about the Elvis/Klingon routine.

  Then I put on the bald wig. Well, I thought Becca was going to have a heart attack. I have never heard that girl laugh so hard.

  When dinner was over, the committee went into the living room and compared notes. Each of us had called possible organizations and asked for information. Many of the groups had sent brochures.