Slugfest, p.8
Slugfest, page 8
Yash is also in the play, although he never appears onstage. That’s kind of a sticking point with Cleo, who’s mad at him because he refuses to come to rehearsal.
“What’s to rehearse?” Yash asks with a shrug. “You said I can just read the speech off a piece of paper.”
“Yeah, but you don’t want to be seeing it for the first time during the performance,” Cleo reasons.
“Why not? It’s in English, right?”
“Yeah, but you don’t want to stumble over the words,” Cleo explains. “Zarcon is in a spaceship orbiting the planet, calling down a threat to an entire galaxy. He’s telling the people of Andromeda that they’re doomed. You have to sound scary—not like a first grader in remedial reading class!”
Yash bristles. “You begged me to take this part, and you swore that I wouldn’t have to do anything except read it out when the time came. You’re changing the rules in the middle of the game!”
Then Cleo has to back down. He’s right. She wanted him in the play, and now she’s stuck with him—on his own terms.
But there’s more to it than that. If there’s one person you can’t win an argument with at Clarington Middle School, it’s Yash. The quarterback is always right—even when he’s wrong.
In investigative journalism, we’re all writing headlines for the stories we’re going to spend the rest of the summer reporting on. Ms. Landkammer has a program that will make them look like they’re on the front page of the New York Times, between other famous world events like the sinking of the Titanic and the end of World War II. I have to admit that the hallway outside room 122 looks pretty newsy when we decorate it with Times banners like “TOO HOT TO LEARN: SUMMER SCHOOL DURING GLOBAL WARMING” and “CAFETERIA CONFIDENTIAL: REAL FOOD OR MYSTERY MEAT?”
Since I’m the latest addition to the class, I’m behind everybody else, so I get an extension on picking a topic and a pass on the New York Times assignment. My job is to climb on the stepstool and tape projects to the top of the wall where we can’t reach.
Stuart is trying to figure out how to topple me off the ladder so I dash my brains out on the hard floor. I can prove it too: he’s smiling, and Stuart never smiles at me.
“How’s the air up there, little sis?”
I glower down at him. “Don’t even think about doing what you’re thinking of doing!”
He shrugs, the picture of innocence. “What am I thinking of doing?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t,” he insists.
Don’t believe it for a second. The only thing more devious than making me fall is knowing that’s exactly what I’m expecting—and then not doing it. There’s no limit to how low he’ll sink.
While I’m up there, I overhear Arabella telling Ms. Landkammer that not only is she finished with her proposal—she’s done all her research too, and she has an “open and shut case.”
“How come all we get to do is headlines?” she complains. “We should be able to present our reporting at the assembly.”
“It’s too soon,” Ms. Landkammer tells her. “It takes time to investigate something deeply enough to form a conclusion.”
“Not for me,” Arabella insists. “I’m ready to go in front of the whole town. If the theater class can do that dumb play, I should be able to present hard-hitting journalism.”
Cleo speaks up. “Cool it, Bella. Some of us are in that ‘dumb play.’”
“No offense,” Arabella adds. “I’m just saying that real life is more important than any space musical.”
It’s pretty obvious that she’s talking about Mrs. Finnerty. So far, Ms. Landkammer is holding firm against letting her present her case to the entire open house night.
“And when her headline is ready,” Yash announces once Arabella has moved on after class, “we’ll rip it down and feed it through the paper shredder in the teachers’ lounge.”
Sounds like a plan.
In PEE, there’s no written work for us to display, so Mrs. Finnerty says we’re going to have a demonstration to show the visitors what we do. I don’t know why she’d want to admit that. Basically, what we do is play kiddie games and eat cookies. If I had a crazed investigative journalism student trying to prove I was a fraud, the last thing I’d do is tell people I teach musical chairs for eighth-grade PE. But, of course, Mrs. Finnerty has no idea that Arabella is secretly plotting against her.
Anyway, it turns out that isn’t what our coach has in mind. She’s going to design an obstacle course and put us through it in front of everybody. There will be cookies, but not until later. Dr. Carmichael also put her in charge of refreshments. Good choice.
There are sighs of relief when she tells us about the obstacle course, especially from Yash. It’s pretty embarrassing for a star athlete to have to do the stuff we do in PEE. At least “obstacle course” sounds like real gym class. And duck, duck, goose—well, you know.
Then we see what Mrs. Finnerty has designed for us. There’s a lot of wiggling like a worm, hopping, picking up colored beanbags, and things like that. Worst of all—when you get to the end, you have to do the chicken dance. To music.
“That’s—great,” Jesse offers in a strangled voice. He’s probably thinking what we all are—about completing this “course” on display in front of family, friends, and hundreds of others. Humiliation doesn’t come close to describing it. Being in PEE isn’t exactly a status symbol around here. “But is there any chance we could maybe lose the chicken dance part?”
“Absolutely not,” our teacher replies cheerfully. And to signal that the subject is closed, she brings out a tray of her banana-chocolate wonton poppers.
Of all her baking treats, wonton poppers have to be at least top five, which—for Mrs. Finnerty—is a big deal. We storm the tray, and any complaints about the obstacle course are pushed aside for the time being.
“She doesn’t fight fair,” Cleo mourns, lips smacking.
“Don’t worry, you guys,” Arabella confides. “We won’t have to put up with this much longer.”
As she says it, the banana-chocolate filling is actually oozing down her chin! If you look up hypocrite in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Arabella. She has no problem with enjoying the benefits while scheming against the person who delivered them.
A wonton popper topples off the tray and lands on the dusty gym floor. I pick it up quickly and hand it to Stuart.
Let him eat a little dirt. It serves him right.
12
Arnie Yashenko
My father drives a new car—our first since forever. It’s nothing fancy, but it still cost a lot of money. I can’t help resenting it. Is this the reason Mom and Dad have to work such long hours, which is why I’m stuck at summer school all day, even though my only class is Slugfest?
“We’re really proud of you, Arnie,” Mom says from the passenger seat. “We know you’re not thrilled to be spending your summer like this, but it’s good to see you making the best of it.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
We’re on our way to the school for open house, and I can’t escape the feeling of a condemned prisoner about to walk the plank. Okay, maybe I’m overdramatizing. Then again, condemned prisoners don’t have to do the chicken dance.
“That clown Carmichael ought to go down on his knees to thank us for not suing the school over what they did to you,” Dad comments darkly from behind the wheel. “It was all fine and dandy to use you to save their failing sports teams. But the minute there’s a credit missing, suddenly it’s out of their hands and you’re the one who has to suffer. I don’t know why I’m going tonight. They should be seeing my lawyer, not me.”
“Now, Martin,” my mother soothes. “Let’s just try to enjoy the evening. It’s probably the last time we’ll ever set foot in that middle school.”
“Right,” I say aloud. Inside, I’m thinking that if Arabella outs Finnerty tonight, I could be in middle school until I’m forty.
I haven’t told my parents anything about Finnerty, who may or may not be a qualified teacher. They feel bad enough already about what’s happened to my summer. The thought that things could get even worse is something I have to keep to myself. Dad, especially, would lose it completely. He probably would sue the school—which might get him another new car but still wouldn’t convince the state to let me pass the eighth grade.
When he sees me doing the chicken dance, he might sue anyway.
As we pull into the school, I’m surprised at how full the parking lot is. It must be a pretty boring summer if open house night attracts this kind of crowd. Finnerty’s obstacle course is going to have a big audience. Arabella’s words come back to me: When I break this story, it’s going to be in front of the kids, the teachers, our parents, and even the superintendent and the school board! Man, she was right about that. In my mind, I up the Arabella threat level to DEFCON 1.
Inside, the halls are a traffic jam of families touring the building, pausing in front of the displays of student work. I lead Mom and Dad to room 122, next to the custodians’ supply closet, home of investigative journalism. They seem surprised and impressed that I’m doing anything other than Slugfest.
“Way to go, kid,” Dad approves. “They handed you lemons and you made lemonade.”
For a minute there, I’m alarmed that he might have found out about the lemonade spoon relay, which would be almost as embarrassing as the chicken dance.
It’s pretty crowded outside investigative journalism, which is the largest class in summer school, thanks to its celebrity teacher. A lot of the parents are schmoozing with Ms. Landkammer, reminiscing about her days as a TV reporter. Mom finds my New York Times on the wall. The headline reads “COMETS TRAIN FOR ANNUAL SEVEN-ON-SEVEN FOOTBALL CLASSIC.” She turns to me, and I see tears in her eyes. She knows better than anybody how much I was looking forward to playing in that tournament.
“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Arabella is scanning the walls, her agitation growing along with her volume. “Where’s my project?”
In the crowd milling outside investigative journalism, I catch uncomfortable glances from Cleo, Jesse, and Fiona. We know exactly where Arabella’s project is—in tiny pieces, spread out between fifteen garbage cans around the building. Her headline—“TEACHERGATE: INSIDE THE SCANDAL”—gave the rest of us no choice. Hiding it in a corner wasn’t enough. It had to be gone. Oh, yeah—DEFCON 1, definitely. And only because there’s no DEFCON 0.
“Attention, everyone,” Carmichael’s voice comes over the PA system. “I hope you’re all enjoying what our students have worked so hard to prepare. Now I’d like to invite you into the auditorium for tonight’s program.”
As people start to shuffle in the direction of the auditorium, I experience a tightening in my chest as I think about what’s coming. It’s the opposite of the tense excitement I used to feel before a big game. There’s no glory to be gained in Slugfest’s obstacle course. A millipede could do it with five hundred broken legs. And as for the chicken dance . . .
By the time I get Mom and Dad seated, the place is packed, with standing-room spaces filling up. As I head backstage, a voice calls out, “Yash, the Slash!” I turn around to see Hammond, Amir, and a few of the other Comets about ten rows up, waving and cheering. Hammond shoots me a thumbs-up.
In spite of everything, I feel a rush of confidence that I’m somehow going to survive this night. Nothing can be that bad so long as your friends are there to support you. I have to admit I’m really glad Hammond showed up. The last time we saw each other, it was pretty uncomfortable between us.
I slip behind the curtain and join my fellow slugs, who stand in the wings with the other “performers”—the orchestra, the chemistry demonstration students, the video game designers, and the cast and crew of Andromedon.
The program is delayed because a bunch of little kids have gotten into our obstacle course, which is set up in the orchestra section in front of the stage. While the parents are reclaiming their children, I notice with a sinking heart that four- and five-year-olds have no trouble navigating the physical challenges Finnerty has designed for us. A couple of them fare better than Kaden did during our practice sessions.
We’re not first though. That’s the chemistry demonstration, which is kind of a hit. The audience oohs and aahs as solutions change color, and beakers and flasks bubble and steam. An exploding balloon creates a thunderclap that echoes off the rafters. That makes the little kids cry—serves them right for messing with our obstacle course. There are a few spills, and the custodians have to spray fire extinguisher foam on a section of carpet that won’t stop smoking. But in spite of that, the chemistry group gets a rousing ovation as they carry their table off the stage.
Next come the video game designers, and there’s a pause as the giant SMART Board is lowered in front of the stage. While they’re on, Finnerty sends us to change into our gym stuff—like you need athletic attire to complete an obstacle course that has just been aced by every preschooler in town.
“You think Bella’s really going to do it?” Jesse asks in the locker room. “You know, accuse Mrs. Finnerty in front of the whole town?”
“If she’s half as mean as my sister, she will,” Stuart puts in.
“Not during the obstacle course,” I tell them. “The auditorium’s too big. No one would hear her. But if she gets too close to a microphone, we’re in trouble.”
At that moment, a computerized voice declares “Game over,” which means the video game kids are done and Slugfest is on.
As we jog to the beginning of the obstacle course, I keep a close eye on Kaden. It would be just like him to wipe out before we can even reach the starting point. With my attention on him, I barely notice a flurry of motion at the very bottom of my field of vision—Fiona wandering out in front of me. At the last second, I execute a hockey-style spin-o-rama and manage to hop-stumble around her. Not exactly highlight-film stuff, but at least I avoid an eight-slug pile-up on the floor.
It draws a raspberry cheer from a section of the audience that can only be my football buddies. I feel a stab of annoyance, but then I remind myself that they’re here to support me.
“I present to you the best PE students I’ve ever taught”—Finnerty announces over the sound system, followed by a little laugh—“possibly because they’re the only PE students I’ve ever taught. They’ve been very good sports. Get it? Good? Sports? That’s a little gym humor. All right, class, let’s show them what we can do.” She pops her whistle into her mouth and produces her signature eardrum-mangling blast that lifts everybody out of their seats. Whatever hope I had that people might just ignore the obstacle course is gone now. All eyes are on us.
Kaden and Jesse are the first pair to take on the course. The opening station is the somersault roll. You only have to cross three gym mats—less than twenty feet—but this is Kaden. He curls into his opening somersault and stalls, his butt pointed to the sky. I reach out and shove him over the tipping point. Jesse isn’t much better, but at least he can manage a shambling roll that takes him to the second obstacle—the feather blow.
If this doesn’t seem much like an athletic event, that’s because it isn’t. You take a fluffy feather and try to keep it aloft across ten feet of floor using nothing but your breath—no hands. If it hits the floor, you have to go back and start over.
Jesse is terrible at the feather blow, but Kaden’s actually pretty good. He’s still panting from the somersaults, so his feather dances high in the air. As he passes Jesse, cheers erupt from the audience.
“Go, Kaden!”
“Blow harder!”
“Hurry up, Jesse! It’s a feather, not a bowling ball!”
I turn around and scan the auditorium. Hammond, Amir, and the other Comets are out of their seats, screaming encouragement and laughing their heads off. They’re not cheering; they’re jeering. It hits me like an illegal blindside block in football—they were never here to support me because we’re friends. They came to make fun of me and my fellow slugs.
Kaden doesn’t seem to notice, but Jesse is getting mad. Turns out Clarington’s number one prankster has no sense of humor when the joke’s on him. At that moment, Finnerty blasts her whistle again to start off the next pair—Arabella and Fiona.
My football friends love that. Now they’ve got twice as many slugs to laugh at. The fake cheers get even louder as Kaden finishes the feather blow and takes on the jump rope. Within three skips, he’s trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey ready for the oven.
I’m being torn to pieces. Part of me wants to rescue Kaden; another wants to climb into the audience and make my football buddies shut up. And there’s a third part of me watching Arabella to make sure she gets nowhere near the microphone in front of Finnerty.
Even if I could get to Hammond, Amir, and the guys, it’s already too late to stop the jeering. Other kids around the auditorium are picking up on it and joining the chorus. Plus the little kids are cheering for real. They think they’re watching American Ninja Warrior, Slugfest edition.
I check the front row, where Carmichael is on his feet, scanning the crowd. He’s probably trying to decide how to put a stop to the nastiness before it gets out of hand. I’ve got news for him: it’s already out of hand. I know because I used to sit where Hammond and Amir are sitting right now. Once you get going, it’s impossible to turn it off.
By now, Stuart and Sarah have started out on the course, Arabella and Fiona are hopscotching through circles on the floor, picking up colored beanbags, and Kaden and Jesse are reaching the end. As the music swells for the first chicken dance, the crowd goes wild, leaping to their feet with a deafening roar.
Finnerty seems genuinely thrilled with the reception her obstacle course is getting. I mean—honestly—how clueless can you get?
