B entered the school building the next morning and wondered if she’d stumbled onto a Hollywood film set by mistake. Guys strummed unplugged electric guitars in front of their lockers. Two girls practiced their hip-hop dance while an eighth-grade boy belted out a rock ballad. Several cheerleaders practiced their backflips down the corridors, nearly annihilating an innocent sixth-grade bystander. A pimply boy walked around with his head tilted back, balancing a bowling pin on the bridge of his nose.
B ducked her head down and dodged the crowd until she reached her locker. She didn’t notice her friend approaching until Trina slid her arm through B’s.
“Hey,” B said, “what’s going on around here?”
“Everyone’s all wound up about the auditions,” Trina said.
“But they’re not until tomorrow.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Trina replied. “Clifton Davro’s coming. That’s all anyone can talk about. This hubbub sort of reminds me of being on tour. All the road crew running around, the dancers and backup singers practicing all over the place …”
“You haven’t considered doing the talent show, have you, Trina?”
B’s friend shook her head. She looked each way to make sure no one could hear them. “Even if it didn’t conflict with the Young Witch Competition, I wouldn’t do it. I already get to perform on TV. It wouldn’t be fair for me to take someone else’s chance away.”
“Yeah.” B grinned. “And I wouldn’t do it because I’m a chicken.”
“You are not!”
B just shook her head and finished putting her things away in her locker.
“Anyway,” Trina said, “I just saw Mr. Bishop. He said he’s looking forward to us showing him what we’ve prepared for Friday night.”
“Ugh,” B groaned. “None of my ideas are any good. I’m so not ready.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Trina said. “Mr. Bishop can help. You’ll see.”
The bell rang, and B and Trina headed toward their homerooms. A freshman ambled past them, letting out an earsplitting caterwaul.
“What was that?” B said.
Trina grinned. “Yodeling, I think.”
All through art, history, and English classes, B’s teachers battled bravely to keep everyone’s attention, but B’s classmates were far too interested in tomorrow’s talent show auditions. Even Mr. Bishop, who usually kept his classes spellbound with his comical teaching and his rabbit-in-the-hat-style “magic” tricks, gave up trying to discuss vocabulary words from Harriet the Spy. He threw up his hands in despair, and assigned his students an extra essay on what they would do with the prize money if they won the national You’ve Got It! talent competition.
Lunch was in an uproar with everyone using every spare minute to practice their talents. After B, Trina, and George had eaten their food, they left the cafeteria early and headed down to the gym. George said he had something he wanted to show them.
The gym was empty when they arrived. George steered Trina and B toward a far corner, half-obscured by the collapsed bleachers. The overhead lights were off, so the room was only dimly lit by the overcast sky peeping through the skylights.
“Perfect,” George said. “No one should see us here. I want you guys to tell me what you think of my act. I practiced for hours last night.”
“Cool,” Trina said. “What are you doing?”
George pulled a loop of climbing rope from his backpack. “First wrap me around and around with this, will you, B?”
B started tying George up.
“Careful! Don’t cut off my circulation,” George yelped. “Okay, Trina, would you take this padlock and fasten the clips of the rope together? Make sure the lock’s behind my back.”
B and Trina fussed with the rope and the lock until George was all trussed up.
“All right, ready? Here I go!” George began bouncing up and down, leaping high in the air and twisting. “I decided …” jump … “to be the bouncing …” jump … “joking …” jump … “escape artist.” Jump.
“Oh, my goodness,” Trina said. “That’s quite a combination.”
“I call myself …” jump … “Jumping …” jump … “Joking …” jump … “George.”
“Let’s hear some jokes, then,” B said.
George kept on bouncing. “Well, I tried to think of some good ones,” he said, “but I’ve been pretty tied up lately. Get it? Tied up?”
B and Trina groaned.
“I’m not the only jumper in my family, you know,” George went on. “I’ve got a pair of twin brothers. The neighbors couldn’t believe it when my parents named them both Jack. But how else could we call them Jumping Jacks?”
Trina and B exchanged a look. In spite of herself, B started to giggle.
“See? See? I’m making you laugh!” George said. “But these ropes aren’t getting loose.”
“Maybe that’ll be enough for the judges,” Trina said. “You look pretty funny, anyway.”
“Help me get out of this, will you?” George said. “I guess I need to work more on the escape part of the act. Either that, or I need someone to tie me up more loosely.”
B and Trina started tugging at George’s rope.
“We’d better hurry,” Trina said. “The bell’s about to ring.”
Just then, a movement from the opposite side of the gym caught B’s eye. She turned just in time to see somebody duck behind the bleachers against the far wall.
“That dirty rotten sneak,” B muttered to her friends. “He’s spying on us.”
“Who is?” George craned his neck to look.
“You might as well come out of hiding, Jason Jameson,” B yelled across the gym. “We can see you.”
Jason poked his freckled face out, then sauntered across the gym to where they stood.
“What’s this little outfit, George?” Jason said, pointing to the rope. “Wait — let me guess. You’re practicing your act. Are you going for the ‘Biggest Idiot’ award?”
“How could he,” B fired back, “when you already hold the world heavyweight title?”
But Jason only smiled his nasty smile, showing all his braces. He tried to peek behind George’s back, but George twisted and maneuvered to keep the padlock out of sight.
“Are you trying out, Jason?” Trina asked.
“I’m not just trying out,” Jason said. “I’m going to dominate the competition. Nobody else will even dare compete after they see my act.”
“Ooh, we’re scared,” B said.
“You should be, Bumblebee,” Jason said. He was always calling B bug names. “After they’ve seen my act, the judges will probably cancel the rest of the auditions.”
The bell rang. Other kids from their gym class began pouring through the double doors. George scooched back out of sight and worked harder to escape from the rope.
“I pity you, George,” Jason said. “Your act is so lame! The judges are gonna boo you right off the stage.”
George’s voice sounded worried. “He’s right, isn’t he?”
B’s anger at Jason flared higher. “No way,” she said. “Don’t you dare let that rotten Jason make you feel bad about your act. It’s … unique. You go for it. We’re behind you all the way.”