My Life as a Blundering Ballerina Read online

  But how was it possible? Had he really escaped? Was he really on the telephone? Was Bumble Boy really talking to him? (Could our superhero think of any more lame questions to ask before continuing our story?)

  “Are you serious?” Bumble Boy cries. (Well, I guess we have our answer, don’t we?) “Did you really invent some sort of potion?”

  “Thou has stated it wisely,

  And now shall I reveal my quest.

  I’ve slipped it into the world’s

  water,

  So what dost thou think, insectoid

  breath?”

  “But what does it do?” our hero cries. “What type of effect does the potion have upon people?”

  “Just snappeth on your remote,

  If thou dost really want to know.

  Flippeth on any channel,

  And watcheth any show.”

  Bumble Boy reaches for his TV remote while talking with Shakespeare Guy, drinking his nectar, munching his chocolate chip pollen, and scratching behind his left antenna. (Having six legs does have some advantages——you should see him brush, floss, gargle, and play the saxophone at the same time.)

  At last the picture comes on the TV and Bumble Boy gasps a superhero gasp. It’s another Brady Bunch rerun (no surprise there——just try turning on TV without seeing one). But instead of Marsha, Greg, and all the gang speaking 1970s polyester style talk, they’re all speaking... Shakespearean!

  “Forsooth, O gentle Marsha,

  Methinks thou dost have

  An unseemly zit,

  Upon the tip of thy nostril.”

  “Nay, Greg, tell me ’tis not so.”

  “Alas and alack.

  Test me not, tender Marsha.

  For a zit by any other name

  Is still a——”

  In a panic, Bumble Boy switches channels. It is another rerun:

  “Ayeee, Ritchie...

  I speaketh to thee a dare

  If thy wants they nose broketh,

  Just messeth with Fonzie’s hair.”

  Again Bumble Boy switches channels. This time to a big yellow bird hopping around with a bunch of children singing:

  “Can thou tellest me how

  To proceed to Sesame——”

  Bumble Boy can stand no more. He turns off the TV and shouts into the phone: “This is insane!”

  “Thou hast stated it correctly,

  Though thou needest not be sad.

  For there’s still a way to

  stop me,

  From making English

  Sound so bad.”

  “What do I do?! Tell me, what do I have to do?”

  “Meetest me in New York City,

  The World Trade Center, I suggest.

  Where we’ll duel for the potion,

  Till I squisheth thee dead,

  You insectoid pest!”

  Bumble Boy groans. The poetry is getting worse. He hangs up the telephone and dashes for the door. He knows he must help. That’s what he has to do. He must putteth a stop to this torture. Oh no! ’Tis affecting him, too!

  That was enough for one night. Actually more than enough. I saved the file and shut Ol’ Betsy down. It was a pretty good story. I just hoped I’d be alive to finish it.

  The next thing I remember, I was in the middle of a giant earthquake with all of the standard earthquake features—you know, the shaking room, shaking bed, shaking me. And what catastrophe would be complete without yelling. Lots and lots of yelling. But instead of coming from me (which is usually the case) it came from someplace entirely different.

  “Okay, McDoogle! Let’s get up now! Rise and shine. Come on, McDoogle, wake up! Don’t want to be late for your first day of competition!”

  It almost sounded like one of the girls from my speech class.

  “Wow, he looks even dorkier asleep than when he’s awake!”

  Now I knew it was somebody from my class.

  My eyes exploded open. But this was no earthquake, it was an invasion! Not one, but two girl types were standing directly over my bed! They were the ones shaking me and trying to wake me up.

  “What are you doing here?” I cried.

  “Your mom let us in,” the first said as she pushed up her glasses and gave a loud sniff. It was Francine Dripplenose, our local genius. She had an IQ higher than the moon and a nonstop case of allergies.

  “That’s right.”

  I turned to the other voice. It was Sylvia Wisenmouth, our school’s shining hope as a future gold medalist—just as soon as they create an Olympic event for smart alecks. “It’s time to start the competition, McMutant.”

  I fumbled for my glasses and looked to the radio alarm. “It’s only five thirty in the morning!”

  “Yeah, we’re running a little late,” Sylvia said, yanking off the covers. (Fortunately I was wearing my Batman PJ’s—my Beauty and the Beasts were still in the laundry.) “We’ve got to make up for lost time.”

  “Lost time? But school doesn’t start until eight!”

  “That is sniff correct,” Francine said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “And for you to spend the mandatory sniff two-point-two hours in the bathroom, you had better sniff commence immediately.”

  “Two-point-two hours!”

  “That’s how long Wall Street has to spend on her hair every morning,” Sylvia explained.

  “That’s crazy. I’m not going to do that!”

  “Oh really?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Really,” I said, crossing my arms.

  “So are you forfeiting already?” she asked. “Are you admitting defeat and letting the girls win?”

  I started to nod then suddenly remembered Bruce Breakaface. Well, not all of him, just the fists part. If I admitted defeat, I’d have to break the news to him. And after I broke the news, he’d break my face.

  “Well . . . no,” I hedged, “not exactly.”

  “Then get a move on!”

  A moment later I was locked inside the bathroom. I did all my usual get-ready-for-school stuff. But after the 19 seconds had come and gone, I’d completely run out of things to do.

  “Girls,” I shouted, “I can’t just stand here for over two hours. I need some suggestions.”

  “No problem,” Francine called from the other side of the door. “As you may recall, sniff the average human head sniff contains 55,676 hair follicles.”

  “Of course,” I lied. “Everybody knows that.”

  “So, sniff-sniff through simple mathematics, if you divide two-point-two hours by 55,676, you actually only have fourteen one-hundredths of a second to comb each strand of hair.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” Ms. Calculator-For-A-Brain continued, “in the course of this nine-second discussion, you could have combed sixty-four point two hairs.”

  “So quit wasting time, McMoron,” Sylvia bellowed, “and get to work!”

  I wanted to argue more, but who knew how many other hairs I’d be leaving out in the process. So, without another word, I grabbed the comb and tried to make up for lost time.

  It was 7:42 when I finally staggered out of the bathroom. Every strand of hair was perfect, but my stomach was starved. I turned and started toward the kitchen where I could already smell Mom’s bacon and eggs. But, suddenly, Sylvia blocked my path.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

  “Breakfast.”

  “No way.”

  “What?”

  “Wall Street sniff doesn’t eat breakfast,” Francine explained, once again giving her nose a swipe.

  “She doesn’t?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “Nope. Too fat.”

  “She’s not fat.”

  “You know that, and I know that. But remember how you guys always tease her at school? ‘Wall Street the Walrus,’ isn’t that what you call her?”

  “But that’s just a joke. We always tease you girls about being fat.”

  “Which is why we’re always dieting.�
�

  “That stinks,” I cried.

  “Tell me about it,” Sylvia said.

  “But I’m starving!”

  “We all are, Wally.”

  Francine pushed up her glasses, gave a couple more sniffs for good measure, and looked to her watch. “We better get a move on, Wallace. The day sniff is young, and we’ve barely begun.”

  Chapter 3

  Something in the Air

  I headed down the school hallway with Francine on one side and Sylvia on the other. A couple of dozen guys, and at least that many girls, surrounded us.

  “Give up, McDoogle,” the female types shouted. “There’s no way you’re good enough to be a girl.”

  “Come on, McDoogle,” the guys shouted. “Be a real man and be a woman.”

  And then, passing the other direction in the hall, I saw the same size crowd surrounding Wall Street. At least I thought it was Wall Street. It was pretty hard to tell under all the grime, dirty clothes, and matted hair.

  “Wall Street,” I shouted. “Wall Street, is that you?”

  She looked up. There was no missing the pain in her eyes.

  “This is terrible,” she called. “They only let me in the bathroom for nineteen seconds this morning. Then they made me eat so much breakfast I’m about ready to explode.”

  “It’s just the opposite with me,” I cried.

  “Listen,” she asked, “I’m heading off to English. This switching places doesn’t count for our schoolwork, does it? I mean I can try and get an A on my English quiz, right?”

  “No way.” One of Wall Street’s officials stepped forward. He was an obvious friend of Bruce Breakaface. I could tell by his similar abuse of the English language. “Real men, we ain’t supposed to, uh, be good at, uh . . . uh. . . .”

  “English,” somebody whispered.

  “Yeah, uh . . . at English and stuff like that there kinda stuff.”

  “That’s not true,” I argued. “I do great in English.”

  “I know, but I’m talkin’ like real men.”

  I looked at his body then down at mine. “I think I gots your point,” I mumbled in agreement.

  “Besides, McFoolgel,” Sylvia jabbed her finger at me, “the same goes with you and science. For the next three days, you have to fail all your math and science quizzes.”

  “But that’s no fair,” Wall Street protested. “I do great in math and science.”

  “Sorry,” Sylvia shrugged, “but if we’re going for stereotypes here, we’ve got to go all the way. Girls aren’t supposed to be good at science, and boys aren’t supposed to be good at English.”

  “That’s so stupid,” Wall Street cried.

  “And it’s so wrong,” I added.

  Sylvia shrugged. “Those are the rules.”

  Suddenly Francine’s hand shot up from the crowd. (I could tell it was her hand by the glistening nose sheen on the back of it.) “Wallace, sniff Wallace, we forgot sniff-sniff something.”

  Before I could stop her, she moved toward me and sprinkled a drop or two of perfume over my head. Well, it was supposed to be a drop or two. But when I put out my arm to stop her, I hit the bottle and the whole thing spilled onto me.

  Immediately, I could feel my nose begin to itch and tickle.

  “Oh no,” I cried. “I’m aller . . . aller . . . aller-CHOO . . . to perfume.”

  “No kidding sniff ,” Francine beamed. “So sniff am I!”

  “Is that why you’re always sniff . . . sniff . . . sniffCHOOing?” I asked.

  “That’s sniff right sniff.”

  But before we could talk anymore, or at least open up a chapter of Hay Fever’s Anonymous, another voice barged in.

  “McDoogle . . . Hey, McDoogle.” It was good ol’ Brucey Baby in all of his menacing dread. “We gots to talk.”

  “What a . . . abou . . . abCHOO?” I asked, sneezing directly into his face.

  He glared at me. But whatever was on his mind was more important than rearranging my facial features. “Da football teams gots playoffs tomorrow night.”

  “So?”

  “So if you ain’t there with us like you always is, we’re in trouble.”

  “But I never . . . ever . . . ev—” I put my finger under my nose and managed to hold back the sneeze. “I never play.”

  “I knows that. But you’re like our psychological advantage. Da other team looks across at you and figures if we lets wimpos like you on da bench, we must be hurtin’. Then we surprise ’em and clobber ’em to pieces.”

  “So . . . oo . . . oo,” again my finger went under my nose.

  “So you gots ta puts dis babe away a day early so you cans be wit us.”

  “I don’t . . . on’t—” more fingers under the nose. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh I does, McDoogle.” He drug me up to his face until we were an inch apart. “The ways I sees it, you’re either gonna be sittin’ on dat bench victorious and alive . . . or defeated and dead. But you are gonna be on dat bench. Gots it?”

  I nodded quickly. “Yes, I got . . . got . . . got-CHOO!”

  Unfortunately I’d run out of fingers.

  Bruce stood there a moment, holding me, blinking, and looking like someone just caught in a very heavy rainstorm. Then, just before he went into action, just before he gave me a lifetime’s gift of free dental work, the bell rang and my worries were over.

  Well, not exactly . . .

  “Hey, McDorkoid,” Sylvia demanded, “what’s your first class?”

  I looked at her and answered. “P.E.”

  For the very first time all morning I saw Sylvia Wisenmouth break into a smile. It was then I knew I was in real trouble.

  I suppose some guys would think it’s cool to hang out with the girls’ P.E. class. You know, they want to show off their muscles, let the babes see what big, tough athletes are really made of. Unfortunately I’m not such a hot athlete . . . although I did try out for the gum-chewing team last semester and almost made it—except for the part where I had to walk and chew at the same time.

  It’s not that I don’t have coordination. It’s just that I’ve always understood the letters P.E. to stand for Physical Embarrassment.

  Today was no different. Mrs. Rumpster, the P.E. teacher, had us outside practicing our archery. Well, the girls were outside practicing their archery. I was just trying to get the arrows the right direction in the bow. (Hey, it’s not my fault they don’t come with instructions.)

  “Uh, no, Wallace,” Mrs. Rumpster said. “You hold the feather end in your hands and face the pointy part toward the target.”

  “Oh, right,” I lied, “I knew that.”

  I quickly flipped the arrow around, placed it against the string, and pulled back on the bow.

  “Uh, Wallace—”

  “I’ve got it,” I said.

  “Well, actually, you may wish to—”

  “No, I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” With great care I took aim at the target, pulled back farther, and let her rip.

  It was beautiful the way the bow sailed through the air, the way it almost reached the target, the way the rest of the class threw themselves down on the ground and laughed hysterically.

  “Normally, it’s the arrow you want to shoot,” Mrs. Rumpster explained, “not the bow.”

  “What?”

  “The idea is to let go of the arrow, not the bow.”

  I looked at the arrow still in my hand. So, I’m like supposed to know everything?

  After a couple more minutes of uncontrollable laughter the class finally got a grip on itself, and I was allowed to continue my public display of humiliation. Of course it took a few more sailing bows and a half-dozen broken arrows before I finally got the hang of it. But soon I was firing those beauties through the air like there was no tomorrow.

  True, I was having a little problem with aim. And I felt bad about the four windows I busted out over at the school, and the three tires I’d shish-kebabed over in the teachers’ parking lot. Then, of course, there w
ere those five kids who had to be taken to the hospital. But you really couldn’t blame me. I mean, I wasn’t the one who gave me all those sharp pointy objects. It’s not my fault they hadn’t read any of my books. Otherwise they’d have known I can barely use a toothpick without stabbing myself to death.

  Still, I did feel kinda bad. But not as bad as when I saw Ms. Finglestooper running out to me waving a paper in her hand.

  “Wally,” she cried, “Wally, I’ve got great news!”

  “Get down, Ms. Finglestooper!” Mrs. Rumpster cried. “He’s still got one arrow left in his hand!”

  But Ms. Finglestooper was a courageous woman who knew no fear, or maybe she knew no intelligence. Because, unlike the rest of the class, who were still huddled on the ground with their heads covered and whimpering for mercy, Ms. Finglestooper continued straight toward me.

  “Wally! Wally, I’ve got great news about your competition with Wall Street!”

  “Is it over?” I asked hopefully.

  “Not at all. I just got a call from one of the TV networks. They heard what you’re trying to prove, and they’re sending out a video crew!”

  “What?” I asked in astonishment. It was bad enough that the bet between Wall Street and me had become known around the school . . . but now . . . now they were putting us on TV!

  “Which network?” I asked. “Which show?”

  “That’s the beauty of it,” Ms. Finglestooper cried. “It’s not just one network. It’s every network. They’re all sending out crews, they all want the story. This little bet of yours is going to be broadcast coast-to-coast!”

  Chapter 4

  Pass the Cookies . . . to Someone Else

  By the time Home Economics rolled around, I was feeling a bit stressed. But skipping breakfast, being baptized in perfume, and doing a pretty bad imitation of Robin Hood on the archery range wasn’t quite enough. Now it was time to continue the torture with sewing lessons.

  “Now class,” Mrs. Permagrin said in all of her perpetual cheeriness, “just insert the needle into the back of the cloth and shove it through to the front.”

  (I’ll save you the gory details and just remind you how skilled I was with pointy objects in the last chapter.)