Almost Starring Skinnybones

  She thought I meant the commercial. I meant my life.

  My mother left the room. I could tell by the look on her face that she felt bad for me. But she’s not the type to yell at my friends and embarrass everyone. When someone’s acting up, she likes to let me embarrass him myself.

  I sat down on the couch and waited for Brian to finish rolling. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised by his behavior. This isn’t the first time that Brian has been a disappointment to me. I’ve known him since first grade and in the past six years, Brian Dunlop has let me down a lot.

  Sometimes I think he’s the kind of friend that grownups call a “fair-weather friend.” That means when everything’s going smoothly, he’s the best friend a guy could want. But as soon as something goes wrong, Brian sort of turns on you. Like if he and I are at a boring movie, and I start trying to hit people in the head with Raisinets, when the manager comes Brian practically jumps out of his seat and starts spelling my name out for the guy.

  Anyway, even though Brian may not have loved the commercial, he still shouldn’t have started laughing at it. Not right in front of me like that. I finally had to slug him two times to get him to stop.

  Besides, what was so darned funny? It’s not like I hadn’t told him about how I’d be playing the role of a younger kid. I’d even told him about the hat and the wagon. So what was the big deal?

  “The big deal is that you fell flat on your face trying to pick up the cat food bag!” he roared. “My great-grandmother is stronger than that. You ought to come with us the next time we go to the nursing home. The two of you could arm wrestle. We could get it on Wide World of Sports. Grandma Dunlop versus Alex.”

  “Oh yeah?” I argued. “Well, guess what, Brian. That’s called acting. I was supposed to act weak like that. I was playing the part of a little kid, remember? And even though he was running away from home, he loved his cat enough to take the giant bag of Kitty Fritters with him. Not the bargain size, Brian. Not the economy size. The giant size. And he didn’t take any food for himself, either. Only the fritters for the cat.”

  Brian stopped laughing and pretended to dab his eyes with his shirt sleeve. “Oh, I’m sorry, Alex. That’s very touching. I think I feel a tear coming on.”

  “Shut up, Dunlop,” I replied, clenching my teeth.

  “And that cat!” he continued. “What a blimp! How far do you think you could get carrying a fat bag like that?”

  This time I didn’t say anything. I just sat there wondering if I should call his father at work and tell on him. It may sound crazy, but Brian Dunlop hates being yelled at by adults more than any kid I’ve ever known. Once when he was being hollered at by our third-grade teacher, he raised his hand and said she was giving him a heart attack.

  “Come on, Alex,” he said, finally catching his breath. “Don’t look so serious. I’m only kidding. Can’t you take a joke?”

  “Sure I can, Brian. And if you ever manage to come up with one, call me and we’ll celebrate, okay? Meanwhile, maybe you’d just better go.”

  “Go? Why? Why do I have to go?”

  “Why? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re dripping with stupidity, and I don’t want it getting all over my rug, that’s why.”

  It was pretty clear that Brian wanted to laugh again, but this time he held it in and just smirked.

  Now, I realize that there are probably a lot of kids who would have punched Brian for this. But as I said before, I’d already hit him twice, and with Brian twice is my limit. After that, he creams me.

  Besides, that’s one good thing about being small. You learn to use your brain more than most people. And sometimes when you do, you come up with even better ways of handling things. I’d get the best of him yet.

  “Listen, Brian,” I said, suddenly calming down as I kicked the old brain into action. “Let’s not get into a fight over this, okay? I mean, I’m finally beginning to understand what’s happening here. I think I know why you’re acting like this.”

  Brian rolled his eyes and gave me the cuckoo sign. He does this sort of thing a lot. It never stops me though. It takes more than a little cuckoo sign to stop the brain of Alex B. Frankovitch.

  “See, Brian, way down deep inside you’re probably going through a lot of conflicts about this commercial. On one hand you’re probably really admiring me a lot, but on the other hand you might actually be a little jealous.”

  Brian continued with the cuckoo sign.

  “And I can understand how these feelings could be confusing to you, Brian,” I went on. “After all, one day I’m just plain old Alex Frankovitch, your best friend, and then suddenly, poof! There I am on TV! And you’re wondering if I’ll still like you when I’m a big famous star and you’re still an ordinary little nothing.”

  “Alex,” he said, trying to interrupt. But I wouldn’t let him.

  “And I bet you’re worried that I might not hang around with you at school anymore, and that I’m going to drop you like a hot potato and go with the more popular kids.”

  “Alex!” he shouted this time. “If you really want to know what I think, you’ll shut up and listen!”

  “Guess what?” I replied smugly. “I don’t.”

  “So listen anyway!” he continued. “I think you’re taking this whole acting thing too seriously. Even before you did the stupid commercial, it’s all you talked about. About New York and Hollywood, and how you were going to be a big movie star and ride in a limousine, and how people all over the world were going to recognize you and—”

  “I never said all over the world,” I corrected, raising a finger in the air. “I said in most major countries and the parts of China with electricity.”

  Brian ignored me and kept right on talking.

  “And then you bought those sunglasses and started signing autographs that nobody wanted. My mother said the last time she went to the grocery store, you ripped her bag.”

  “She resisted,” I explained simply. “A fan should never resist. Someone could get hurt.”

  Brian looked at me strangely. “You said that Pudding Boy is a personal friend of yours.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Yeah. What a crazy guy.”

  “Listen to yourself, Alex!” he exclaimed. “Can’t you hear how you sound?”

  Before I could answer, he stood up and headed for the door.

  I followed.

  “Look, Brian,” I said. “All I meant to say was that even though I’m probably going to be very famous now, it doesn’t mean I’m going to change.”

  I paused. “Of course, I’ll probably have to wear a disguise from time to time, but—”

  Brian covered his ears and hurried out the door. Just as he was starting down the front steps, he stopped suddenly and whipped around.

  “Oh yeah. There’s one more thing, Alex,” he said.

  “What?”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “No offense. But deep down, I really don’t admire you that much.”

  After he was gone, I turned off the TV and sat down in my father’s recliner. Then I gazed down at the ten little bald guys on my hands. I fought the urge to chew on their heads.

  I pushed the chair back to the reclining position, stretched out comfortably, and tried to relax.

  I closed my eyes.

  Annabelle Posey drifted into my mind. She was laughing harder than ever.

  4

  The next day I stopped by Brian’s house to get him before school. Even when we have a fight, Brian and I walk to school together. It’s one of the unwritten rules of our friendship.

  At least it used to be.

  “Sorry, Alex. He’s already gone,” Mrs. Dunlop informed me when she answered the door. “He left a few minutes ago.”

  I was shocked.

  “What do you mean, he left a few minutes ago, Mrs. Dunlop?” I questioned. “Why would he leave without me? He never leaves without me. It’d be like a crime or a sin or something!”

  “Alex, he’s—”

  “I hate t
o walk alone, Mrs. Dunlop! Brian knows it, too. I tried it in kindergarten a couple of times. A high school kid came by in a car and hit me with an egg.”

  “Alex—”

  “Have you ever been hit with an egg at high speed, Mrs. D.? It feels like you’ve been shot. I saw the eggshell, but I just thought some of my bones had splintered or something.”

  Mrs. Dunlop stood there rolling her eyes. She does that a lot when I’m around.

  “Look, Alex. I don’t know why Brian left without you. All I know is that about five minutes ago, he yelled good-bye and hurried out of here. I thought you were with him.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’m here,” I said, pointing to her porch. “And out there somewhere there’s a high-school kid with a handful of hen fruit just waiting to catch me alone.”

  “Alex, I really think you’re being a little paranoid about this. Kids walk to school every day without being bombarded with garbage from passing cars.”

  “You should have seen my shirt, Mrs. D. It was all slimy and sick looking. Worse than a runny nose.”

  Mrs. Dunlop winced.

  “It was a new shirt, too,” I remembered. “It said ‘I’m a Little Dickens.’ My grandmother brought it to me from the Bahamas.”

  Mrs. Dunlop made this big sighing noise and shook her head. “Have a nice day, Alex,” she said. Then she shut the door in my face.

  Mrs. Dunlop thinks she knows me well enough to treat me like that.

  I figured that Brian was too far ahead for me to catch up, so I didn’t bother to run. Besides, who wanted to catch him anyway? Walking alone wouldn’t be as bad as walking with a traitor like Brian Dunlop.

  Actually it didn’t turn out bad at all. As long as you stay on the lookout and protect yourself, you’re not in too much danger. Every time a car came by, I held up my history book as a shield. It may sound crazy, but wearing a double-yolker to school does that to a person.

  After I had gone a block or two, I started to relax a little and think about the day I was going to have. I hoped it would be good. I’d spent most of the night praying that everything would go okay, that everyone would love my commercial. Brian says that God doesn’t appreciate people praying for dumb little favors. But in my opinion that’s what he’s there for.

  As I walked, I felt in my pocket for my autograph pen. I’d brought it along just in case, you know? After all, if anything could make me famous, it was being seen in the middle of a great show like Gilligan’s Island. I paused a second and smiled. Maybe there’d even be an unruly mob waiting for me at my locker.

  “Hey!” shouted a voice, suddenly interrupting my thoughts. “Hey, look! It’s him, Mommy! It’s that boy!”

  Wow, this was great! I wasn’t even at school yet, and already I had been recognized!

  I turned around. It was Ernest Wilson. Ernest Wilson is three years old. He lives at the end of my street. He can’t remember my name.

  “Hey, you!” he screamed again. “I saw you on the TB! My mom told me you’re the Kitty Boy!”

  Ernest was standing at his screen door waving his arms and jumping up and down. I smiled and waved back. I probably should have gone over and patted him on the head or something. But I didn’t. It was getting late, and I wanted to have a little bit of time left for the unruly mob.

  I stopped to put on my sunglasses. My fans would expect it.

  A few minutes later I arrived at my locker. Disappointed, I looked around. No unruly mob.

  The only person gathered at my locker was Ned “The Bully” Jankowski. Ned has the locker right next to mine. I met him on the first day of school this year. He had been trying to work his lock combination.

  “Hi,” I had said. “I’m Alex.”

  Ned had grabbed me by my shirt. “Listen, dude,” he said. “Just in case you might be thinking about looking at my combination—don’t. ’Cause if my locker’s ever broken into, I’ll know it was you, and I’ll track you down until I find you, and then I’ll put my fist right through your eye socket.”

  Thinking it over for a second, I nodded. “That sounds fair, Ned,” I squeaked. “That would be good.”

  Since then I’ve tried to avoid Ned the Bully whenever possible. But on this particular morning I decided to make an exception. Who knows, maybe he’d seen my commercial. Maybe he’d like having a famous friend.

  “Hi, Ned,” I said, giving him a timid little pat on the back. “Er … did you happen to see the commercial I made on TV yesterday, bud?”

  Ned whipped around so fast, his breeze practically knocked me over. “Let’s get one thing straight, dude,” he replied, grabbing a handful of my shirt. “You’re a skinny little bone bag and I’m not your bud. Get it? And if you ever slap me on the back again, I’m going to reach into your skull and pull your feet out through your brains.”

  This time I actually started to whimper. I didn’t mean to but a series of little whimpers just slipped out my lips.

  “Ss … ss … sounds good, Ned. Right out my brain. A guy couldn’t ask for a better deal than that.”

  Finally Ned released his grip and stormed away. I stayed at my locker and dusted off. Not a bad start for the day really. Any time I’m able to leave my locker with all my body parts, I feel lucky.

  A few minutes later I headed for my first-period English class. As soon as I was inside, I hurried to put my books under my chair. Then I sat down quickly and pulled out my autograph pen. I took a deep breath and hoped for the best.

  Annabelle Posey was already seated at her desk behind me.

  I spun around and grinned. It wasn’t a pleasant little grin either. It was one of those big, wide, annoying grins that makes you look like a jack-o’-lantern.

  Annabelle Posey turned her head and pretended not to see me. I knew she would. Whenever I grin at her, she pretends not to notice. It was just the chance I was looking for. Before she could stop me, I took my pen and wrote my name on her notebook.

  Alex “The Greatest Star of All Time” Frankovitch

  “My autograph,” I explained nicely when she finally turned back around.

  Annabelle made this face like she was going to be sick. Then she ripped open her purse, spit on a Kleenex, and started trying to rub my name away.

  I widened my grin. “Sorry. Waterproof.”

  Annabelle Posey’s face got so red, I thought she was going to boil over in her seat.

  “You big jerk! I didn’t want your stupid autograph! Turn around! Just turn around!”

  She screamed it so loud, our teacher, Mrs. Ballentine, stopped taking attendance and started glaring at me. Mrs. Ballentine has one of the deadliest glares in the business. There’s a rumor going around that a few years ago she actually glared a hole in a kid’s head.

  “What’s going on there?” she asked at last. “What’s all that racket about?”

  Annabelle held her notebook over her head. “He scribbled his stupid name all over my stuff!” she declared loudly. “He’s ruined it!”

  “Alex?” said Mrs. Ballentine, raising her eyebrows.

  “I’m deeply insulted,” I replied, trying to keep a straight face. “An autograph is not scribble.”

  Mrs. Ballentine seemed puzzled. “Why are you calling it an autograph?”

  Ahhh. The moment I’d been waiting for. I stood up.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to mention it, Mrs. B. But since you brought it up, I might as well talk about it. The national television commercial that I made in New York last summer was shown for the first time yesterday.”

  Mrs. Ballentine frowned. It was the kind of frown teachers do when they think you’re lying. “You made a national television commercial?” she asked doubtfully.

  “It came on during Gilligan’s Island,” I informed her. “I swear. You were probably still here at school making up those test questions nobody can ever answer.”

  Her frown got deeper.

  “Ask anyone!” I insisted. “I bet a lot of kids saw it.”

  I turned around and scanned the room. “H
ow many in here saw it? How many saw my commercial?”

  No one answered. Not one person.

  I started to sweat.

  “Oh, come on, you guys,” I persisted. “You did too. Think. Gilligan’s Island! The new Kitty Fritters commercial! I was the kid running away from home with the cat.”

  Suddenly, in the back of the room, a hand shot into the air.

  “That was you?” blurted Raymond Vellenburg, astonished. His eyes were as wide as saucers. “You were the kid in the coonskin cap?”

  “Yes! Yes! That was me!” I exclaimed. “That was me!”

  “I saw it too!” said Cynthia Kendall excitedly. “I didn’t know it was you, though, Alex. I didn’t recognize you.”

  I felt so proud I almost burst. I stuck out my chest and nodded eagerly. “Yeah! It was me all right! Did I say that I made it in New York?”

  Raymond continued to stare at me in disbelief. “Let me get this straight. You mean the kid who fell on the floor trying to lift the cat food bag into the wagon—that was you?”

  I bobbed my head up and down some more. “Yup! He was me! I was him!”

  Suddenly Raymond dropped his head and began slapping the top of his desk with his hand.

  “That was the stupidest commercial I’ve ever seen! What a weakling! You looked about four!”

  Giggles started across the room.

  Beads of sweat popped out all over my forehead. Oh no. It was happening! My worst nightmare was coming true.

  Why wouldn’t they stop laughing?

  “Oh yeah?” I blurted, trying not to show the hurt. “Well, guess what, Raymond? That’s called acting. Acting isn’t who you are. It’s playing the part of someone else. And I happened to be playing the part of a little kid. And even though he was running away from home, he loved his cat enough to take the giant bag of Kitty Fritters with him. Not the bargain size, Raymond. Not the economy size. The giant size. And he didn’t take any food for himself, either. Only the fritters for the cat.”

  Geez, why did I have to say that? It was the same stupid stuff I had said to Brian!

  Albert Ruppert, the class show-off, jumped up and pretended to play the violin.