Slugfest, p.9
Slugfest, page 9
The Fidelio twins are doing a little better than the pairs that went before, but they have a different problem. In mid-somersault, Stuart throws out a foot and sends his sister rolling off the mat onto the hard floor. She gets her revenge during the feather blow by burying a flying fist in his stomach. Stuart draws in a shocked gasp, sucking the feather into his mouth. He drops to the floor, choking. In a panic, Sarah pounces on his back, pounding him double-fisted until the feather, wet and matted, pops back out.
That sets the stage for the final whistle—the one that starts Cleo and me.
I was never planning to take the obstacle course seriously. Those jerks in row ten changed my mind about that. It’s bad enough to get sentenced to an entire summer of Slugfest. But to have to run through a ridiculous series of humiliating activities in front of everyone you know is cruel and unusual punishment. I can’t change the fact that I have to do it. But I can support my fellow slugs by showing everybody how a real athlete takes on this so-called event.
I hit the mats, somersaulting at top speed. When I pop up, I’m just in time to see Cleo exiting her final roll, neck and neck with me. No amount of athletic skill can help you with the feather blow, but I concentrate really hard to keep that sucker bobbing in the air. I hit the jump rope and pound out ten skips in a matter of seconds. To my amazement, Cleo must have done hers even faster, because she’s a step ahead of me now.
I bound into the hopscotch circles, determined to catch up. It’s tough to focus when the “Chicken Dance” is playing, first for Arabella and Fiona, and later for the Fidelios. Then, opportunity: Cleo fumbles a beanbag, and I use her misstep to hopscotch into the lead.
The kids in the audience are still cheering, but there’s a different tone to it. After watching the others stumble around and inhale feathers, they see a real race going on now, one that’s going to come down to the wire. A long-lost emotion rises inside me, something I haven’t experienced all summer—the drive of competition, a striving to excel, to be the best, to win.
As Cleo and I both drop into the crabwalk, I look ahead to the finish line. There are our six slug-mates, pink with excitement, rooting us on. It feels better than good. It feels normal.
A sideways glance shows me Cleo, matching my crabwalk speed, her jaw set with grim determination. She’s not giving any ground. If I’m going to beat her, it’s going to have to be in the final obstacle—a pair of matching kiddie tunnels, the kind they have at Gymboree.
As I hit the entrance, my butt gets hung up on the wire hoop, and I have to flatten myself to move on. I squirm for a few feet, and when I pause for breath, I hear Cleo crawling ahead in the tunnel next to me. Oh no—she’s smaller, which means she has an advantage maneuvering in the tight space.
The thought infuses me with rocket fuel. Somehow, I squeeze my shoulders to shrink myself, and the race is on. I plow through the tunnel, knees pounding painfully against the hard floor. The exit is right in front of me now! I’m going to make it!
I blast out of my tunnel at the very instant Cleo blasts out of hers. Our heads conk like two coconuts being pounded together by a gorilla. The clang is louder than anything I’ve ever heard before—or maybe it just seems that way because my vision winks out for a moment, so sound is all I’ve got.
“I won!” we chorus.
Followed by, “No, I won!”
It’s about to turn into a real argument. But just then, the music swells, and we’re on our feet, doing the chicken dance. Unbelievably, I’m not even a little bit embarrassed the way I thought I would be. I’ve earned this moment as much as any of the trophies on my shelf at home. Cleo celebrates beside me, defiant, unapologetic, triumphant. Our fellow slugs chicken dance beside us, even though they’re done and don’t have to anymore.
The audience gives us a standing ovation. I check row ten. A lot of nasty smirks are missing.
The next thing I know, the school nurse is in my face, pressing an ice pack against my head. She has one for Cleo too.
“We’re fine,” I insist. “It’s all over.”
“No, it’s not,” Cleo hisses. “We’ve still got Andromedon!”
I’m so wrapped up in the moment that I guess I look completely blank. She grabs my shoulder and shakes me. “The play! Our scene from Andromedon! And you’re in it!”
It takes a few minutes for us to push the tunnels and mats from the obstacle course over to the side of the auditorium so the orchestra can set up their chairs and music stands. Onstage, crewmembers are dragging out a large scenery board painted to look like an old stone building or medieval castle.
“What’s that?” I wonder.
“That’s the citadel of Andromeda Prime,” Sarah supplies, gathering an armload of beanbags. “Don’t you know anything about the scene you’re in?”
Whoops—good thing Cleo’s already on her way to the locker room to change into costume. She’s very touchy because she thinks I don’t care about her play. And let me tell you, she’s 1,000 percent, A1 right.
“No biggie,” I tell Sarah. “I’m not in the scene. I just have to read off some paper—”
“The proclamation of doom,” Sarah cuts me off. “It’s only the most dramatic moment in the whole play.”
Pretty soon, the lights go down in the auditorium. The chattering crowd becomes quiet and settles in for the grand finale of the evening.
By this time, Sarah and I have joined the cast and crew backstage. Cleo runs up to me. She’s in full costume—which looks like footie pajamas with a plastic goldfish bowl over her head.
“I thought this was supposed to be a musical,” I comment. “How can anybody sing in that thing?”
She indicates a tiny microphone taped to her cheek, connected by a wire to a battery pack in a pocket of the footies. “Never mind that. Here’s your script.” She thrusts a paper into my arms. “You know your cue, right?”
“I’m Q now? I thought I was this Zarcon dude.”
Her cheeks flame inside the goldfish bowl. “Your cue! When you hear me say, ‘Zarcon’s mothership has already assumed orbit around our world,’ that’s when you read the proclamation of doom. And remember—deep voice.”
“Got it. Hey, what’s that for?”
Under her arm, she’s carrying one of those toy footballs—the kind with a tail fin at the back that helps it fly farther and straighter. Every inch of the plastic surface has been covered with stick-on rhinestones of different brilliant colors.
“The scepter of Andromeda,” she replies irritably. “If you bothered to come to any rehearsals, you’d know that.”
I’m about to snap back that I’m the one doing her a favor. But just then, Mr. Collier, the director, orders all the actors and crew to their places. Andromedon is about to begin.
I don’t know much about plays, but it doesn’t take five minutes of Andromedon for me to figure out that this is a pretty crummy one. Still, I have to admit Cleo is great. She’s every bit as good as the contestants on American Idol and The Voice who make it all the way to the end. Too bad the sound system in the auditorium is so cheap. There’s a lot of buzzing and echoing. Singing whiny songs inside a goldfish bowl probably doesn’t help.
I follow along with the story. Basically, Andromeda is the happiest galaxy in the multiverse, and Cleo is the princess of it. Everything’s sunshine and roses until galactic defense detects Zarcon approaching at the head of a fleet of Beta Class Deathcraft.
“I fear all is lost!” Cleo laments. “Zarcon’s mothership has already assumed orbit around our world!”
She seems genuinely terrified. I’m so impressed at what a good actress she is that I almost miss my cue. After an uncomfortably long pause, Sarah stage-whispers, “Now!”
Standing in the wings, I fumble with the paper, lean over the microphone, and boom, “Citizens of Andromeda, I present your future—a head!”
A confused murmur rises from the audience. I squint at my script. Uh-oh, the line was supposed to be I present your future ahead. The way I read it, it sounds like a giant head is going to float over the stage. Or maybe somebody’s going to get their head cut off. I can hear a few of the little kids crying.
From her spot center stage, Cleo shoots me a glare that seems even more hostile through the curved plastic of her goldfish bowl. What’s she got to complain about? She wanted scary—I gave her scary.
I read on, more carefully now. “You are all prisoners of Zarcon the Pitiless, arch sorcerer of Molgoth Darr. Your carefree lives will become an exercise in endless torment in service to me . . .”
Wow, this Zarcon guy really needs to chill out! But I force myself through the whole proclamation. And I do a pretty good job, if I say so myself, even punctuating it with diabolical laughter.
I’m pretty relieved when my part is over. At least there’s no chance for me to mess up again. Onstage, the Andromedans are freaking out, as Cleo scurries around, trying to convince everybody that they have to fight back and repel Zarcon’s invasion. As the princess rushes off to write her message of resistance to the entire galaxy, Sarah moves my microphone to the front of the stage for Cleo’s big speech.
And here comes Cleo. Only—how come she’s not wearing her goldfish bowl? Did the great actress forget her costume? That’s when I realize that the person approaching the microphone isn’t Cleo. She’s wearing the same footie pajamas as the other cast members, but that’s Arabella!
I turn to stone. All night I’ve been keeping an eye on Arabella to make sure she doesn’t get anywhere near a microphone. But I got careless, let my guard down. Now she’s right on top of one, ready to denounce Finnerty with the whole town watching. And there’s nothing anybody can do about it.
A flash of multicolored gems catches my attention, and hope rises in me. It’s the scepter of Andromeda—Cleo left it on a chair when she exited the stage after her last scene. That thing’s not just a prop; it’s a football. And I know exactly what to do with one of those.
With no time to waste, I snatch up the rhinestone-studded toy, rear back, and throw it at the microphone that’s right in front of Arabella. Traveling in a tight spiral, the scepter hits the mic dead-on, knocking it off the stand just as Arabella reaches for it.
A painful shriek of feedback bursts from the audio system. Hands fly to ears onstage and throughout the audience as the screeching noise fills the auditorium. Smoke begins to rise from the speakers until there’s a series of loud pops, and the only sound is the panic in the room.
Arabella is still center stage, yelling at the top of her lungs about how Finnerty is unqualified. But without a microphone, no one can hear her over the commotion. Carmichael and the teachers are barreling through the aisles, waving their arms and trying to restore order. No one is paying any attention to them. Parents are reassuring their kids. School board members are looking around, horrified. Even my football buddies seem pretty agitated. Total chaos reigns.
The double doors burst open and in comes Finnerty, wheeling a large cafeteria cart, piled high with plates of chocolate chip cookies. Even over the acrid smell of burnt wiring, the aroma of fresh baking instantly reaches everyone.
There are cookies, and then there are Finnerty cookies.
Open house night is saved.
13
Cleo Marchand
I thought my opinion of Arnie Yashenko couldn’t get any lower. Real talk: I stand corrected.
“I begged you to rehearse the proclamation a couple of times before the performance! And what do you read out? ‘A head!’ ‘A head!’ The whole audience was waiting for a disembodied head to swoop over the citadel!”
It’s the morning after open house night, and we’re standing outside room 122, waiting for Ms. Landkammer to arrive.
At least Yash has the grace to look semi ashamed. “You were right, and I was wrong,” he admits. “I should have listened to you. You’re the drama expert, not me.”
Understatement of the century. “You ruined our play!”
He’s a little defiant. “That’s the only reason your play was ruined? Did you notice that anything else went wrong? Like the sound system exploded and the fire marshal had to send everybody home? If it wasn’t for the cookies, there probably would have been a riot!”
“That was your fault too!” I charge. “You’re the one who threw the scepter of Andromeda at the microphone and started all that feedback!”
He draws himself up to his full height, which is probably close to six feet. “I had no choice, and you know it. Bella was going to spill the beans about Finnerty in front of half the town. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“What a hero,” I mumble under my breath, and stomp into the classroom.
I take his point. Arabella was about to throw Mrs. Finnerty to the sharks. In fact, she was already doing it, even though nobody could hear her. I’m grateful Yash stopped that. But wasn’t there a way to do it without blowing up our play?
That’s another thing that bugs me about Yash. We both wanted to stop Arabella. But he did it for selfish reasons. His PEE credit. His position on the football team. Him, him, him. He doesn’t care about anybody else—and especially not about Mrs. Finnerty. Okay, I’m the first to admit it—Yash got a raw deal this summer. He’s totally justified in being ticked off. But why should any of that be directed at a teacher who’s never done him any harm?
At that moment, Arabella walks into the class. I’m even madder at her than I am at Yash. On top of everything else, she tried to hijack our play. When she went for that microphone, we weren’t even finished yet. Everything bad that happened after that is on her.
I want to give her a piece of my mind, but Ms. Landkammer is right behind her.
As he takes his seat up front, Kaden does a mini chicken dance. Leave it to him to draw extra attention to the obstacle course we humiliated ourselves on last night. But for a lonely genius like Kaden, open house might have been one of the only times in his life that he ever got to be a part of something. No wonder he likes it. Come to think of it, the whole business wasn’t as awful as any of us expected. I award Kaden a wink. He tries to wink back, but it comes out two closed eyes.
I’m not technically in investigative journalism like the others. I’ve got too much work in my other classes to do a project. Ms. Landkammer is cool with that. She’s even sort of flattered that I find her course so interesting. Little does she know that I’m only hanging around to keep an eye on Arabella.
We’re shifting into research mode, so there’s not much for me to do. We’re supposed to be investigating our stories, which in my case is no story.
As soon as Ms. Landkammer leaves the room, Arabella faces us. “I know you guys are mad at me, and you kind of have a right to be. I shouldn’t have used the play to try to tell my story. That was unfair of me. Especially to you, Cleo. But”—she cuts me off when I try to speak up—“I still believe Mrs. Finnerty is a phony and my project is going to prove it!”
“Listen, Bella,” Yash says, “it’s fine for you to believe what you believe, but the rest of us are just trying to pass Slugfest and graduate from middle school. We have to be able to trust that you won’t grab every live microphone and start jabbering about who’s a real teacher and who isn’t.”
Arabella seems to think it over. “Let’s make a deal,” she offers. “No public announcements about Mrs. Finnerty until my final project is done. If a real reporter like Juliet Landkammer says it’s bad journalism, I’ll drop it completely. But if she says I’ve got a case, then it’s full speed ahead.”
All eyes turn to Yash. Without so much as an election, he has somehow become class president of PEE, so only he can deliver our official response.
After a minute, he replies, “That sounds good to me,” and he and Arabella bump fists.
The next order of business is to start our projects. Kaden and Fiona are working together to blow the doors off Stephen Hawking’s theories about black holes.
“Great idea,” Jesse decides. “Nobody understands black holes anyway. So even if you’re full of it, who’s ever going to know?”
And Jesse’s project? “I’m exploring rumors and how they spread,” he tells us. “Basically, I’m going to come up with the dumbest rumor of all time and see if I can make it go viral.”
“What rumor?” Stuart asks.
Jesse grins. “Toilets.”
“Ms. Landkammer isn’t going to let you get away with that!” I explode.
“She already did,” Jesse counters. “She called it a social experiment. I’m going to post on social media that the town of Clarington is planning to ban all toilets.”
“Come on, Jesse,” Yash chides. “No town would ever do that.”
“That’s the whole point,” Jesse explains. “The rumor makes zero sense. So if it catches on, that proves nothing is ever so idiotic that somebody won’t pick up on it. I’ve even got a hashtag for it—#NoToiletsNoKidding.”
In other words, Jesse isn’t being a journalist. He’s being a class clown, like always.
Stuart and Sarah are also working as a team, trying to prove there’s no truth to the theory that there’s a special connection between twins. It’s a great topic for them, since they’re living proof of it already. Or maybe they aren’t. During the obstacle course, when Stuart was choking on that feather, Sarah did stop everything to help him. To me, the main question is: Can the two of them cooperate enough to finish a project, or will they kill each other first? My money is on door number two.
That leaves just Yash, who is doing—big surprise—football. He’s going to report on the summer practices of the Clarington Comets, which means he’s the only one of us with someplace to go today.
“You guys should come with me,” Yash suggests. “We’re all training together”—he scorches me with resentful eyes, since I’m the lone holdout—“so this will be a chance to see what it’s supposed to look like.”
“That won’t work,” I put in, hoping my tone isn’t as triumphant as it sounds in my head. “The high school’s over a mile away. By the time we get there, we’ll have to start right back for P-E-E.”
