Lunchtime became giggle time for the three of us. Q and Beanpole and I giggled at the way our math teacher, Mr. Sung-Li, wore four pencils in his shirt pocket in case he was suddenly attacked by a multiplication problem or something. Q and Beanpole and I giggled at the way Josephine Morales tried to hide the fact that she loved the smell of notebook paper. She practically jammed pieces of homework up her nostrils, thinking no one ever saw her. But most of all, Q and Beanpole and I giggled at the dorkasauressness of one another.
“At least I don’t crash into parked cars.”
“At least I’m not allergic to air.”
“At least 254,327 people haven’t seen me do a doof-o dance on YouTube.”
I paused and got serious. “Is it that many?” Wow, over a quarter of a million people had now seen me utterly embarrass myself.
A quarter million, that’s a lot.
“Aw, don’t worry,” said Q, seeing the gloom on my face. “In like a hundred years, what’s it gonna matter anyway?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Except people will still be able to see you on YouTube in a hundred years,” Beanpole said. “’Cause, like, once something’s on the Internet, it like never gets erased. Never, ever. But yeah, at least you’ll be dead and cold and buried in the ground, so it won’t matter much.”
“Thanks, Beanpole,” I answered. “I can’t tell you how much better that makes me feel.”
“Even your kids will still be able to see it. And your grand-kids, too. Heck, even your great-great-great-grandkids will be able to see it. I mean, even your great-great-great-great-great…OUCH!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Was that your hand underneath the book I just smashed on the table?”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m okay, I’m okay.”
“Who’s worried?” I replied.
“Oh no, look who’s at it again,” said Q. We turned to look at—who else—the ThreePees.
If there was one thing that we loved to giggle about more than making fun of one another’s lunches or weird personalities or dorkiness, it was the ThreePees. At the way they sprayed all that stuff in their hair. At the way they wore their name-brand clothing as if designer labels made them better people than everybody else. The way they walked with an extra wiggle in their butts. Lately, however, we’d been having extra fun giggling at the way Sofes O’Reilly, the Albert Einstein of our school, still kept screwing up that make-a-right-not-a-left turn at the crucial part of their dance performance.
“It’s a right turn, Sofes. A right turn!” said Kiki for the ten-thousandth time. Clearly, Sofes was driving Kiki bonkers.
“I know, I know,” said Sofes. “I just get mixed up there. It feels more natural to go left.”
“It’s gonna feel more natural to go to a different school next year if you don’t get your act together,” snapped Kiki. “The show is in three days!”
“The show is in three days!” said Q in a high-pitched snooty voice. “And if I don’t win and get my picture in the yearbook, I’ll never be named the Queen of the Universe like my daddy promised when he paid all that money for my fake eyelashes.”
The three of us laughed. Loud. A bit too loud, I think, because Kiki seemed to know we were laughing at her.
She stormed over to our table.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded. The rest of the ThreePees followed behind her like good little donkeys.
“Nothing,” said Q, looking at the ground, trying to hide her smile.
“Well, something’s gotta be funny if it’s making the school’s biggest dorkwads laugh,” said Kiki.
None of us answered. We just looked at one another and continued to try and hide our giggles.
“So what’s your talent anyway, doof cheese?” Kiki asked in a biting tone.
“Nothing,” answered Beanpole. “We don’t have any talent.”
“You got that right,” said Brittany-Brattany.
“I mean, we’re not telling,” replied Beanpole. “It’s super secret. Like top secret. Like you could torture us right now and light our fingernails on fire and put us in a pit of poison scorpions and we’d never tell. Never, ever, ever!”
“You mean you’d never tell me about the robotic dog?” said Kiki.
Beanpole’s jaw dropped to the floor.
“I know all about your lame metal mutt,” said Kiki. “Logan told me everything.”
Beanpole and Q turned to me. I looked at my shoes.
Oops.
“But you last-place finishers in life really don’t think you have a chance with this stupid dog idea, do you?” said Kiki.
“Yeah, do you?” added Sofes.
“The question is,” said Q, pausing to take a scuba slurp before finishing her sentence—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeeshwhooosh—“do you?”
“Do we what?” said Kiki. “What are you talking about, dodo breath?”
“Yeah,” repeated Sofes. “What are you talking about, dodo breath?”
“I’m talking about the fact that we’re makin’ you nervous, aren’t we, Kiki?” said Q.
“Who’s making me nervous, allergy freak?”
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh. “We are. We’re making you sweat.”
“Are not.”
“Are too.”
“Are not.”
“Are too.”
“Are not, ya loser.”
“Are too! Are too! Are too!”
“Well, if we’re not making you nervous,” I said, rising to stand next to Q, “then why are you over here right now asking us all of these questions, Keeks?”
I said that last part, the word Keeks, with a whole lotta oomph.
Silence fell over the ThreePees as they thought about what I had just said. I could tell they realized I was right. They were nervous. They were feeling afraid. For the first time ever, the idea that they might not actually win the talent show had entered their minds, and it rattled ’em.
Rattled ’em good.
Suddenly, sensing blood in the water, Q got that Wild West gunfighter look in her eyes again.
“You witches best get ready”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeeshwhooosh—“’cause it’s payback time.”
“Yeah,” said Beanpole, standing up as well. “It’s payback time.”
Beanpole got face-to-face with Sofes. Q glared at Brittany-Brattany. Seeing what they were doing, I quickly took a step forward and got right up into Kiki’s grille.
“That’s what the Nerd Girls are talking ’bout, Keeks,” I said. “Payback time!”
The six of us stood there nose to nose, three on one side, three one the other, having a monster stare down.
A moment later, amazingly, the ThreePees backed off.
“Come on, girls,” said Kiki, turning to walk away. “In seventy-two hours, we’ll see who’s got the tears and who’s got the trophy.”
“Yeah,” said Brittany-Brattany as she flipped her hair and turned to walk away as well.
“Yeah,” said Sofes. “Just wait and we’ll see how you like having the trophy.”
“The tears, Sofes…they’re going to have the tears,” said Kiki with a shake of her head. “We’re going to have the trophy.”
“Oh,” said Sofes as they wiggled away. “See, I thought it was like a tears of joy type of thing and they’d be carrying the trophy of sadness, know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t know what you mean, Sofes. Half the time I have no idea what you mean,” snapped Kiki. “So how about if you just focus on learning your right from your left and leave the rest of the thinking to me, okay, you mental midget?”
“Like, harsh again,” said Sofes.
“Like, true again,” replied Kiki.
“You’ve heard of the trophy of sadness, right Brit?” said Sofes, seeking a bit of compassion from her other donkey friend.
“Let’s just make sure we win, okay?” answered Brattany. “Like my dad always says, the only thing that matters in this world is when you win.”
The ThreePees returned to their spot on the other side of the courtyard and got ready to practice their routine again.
“We did it!” said Beanpole. “Didya see? They’re scared! They’re scared!”
“I saw that they knew all about Poochy,” said Q with a look toward me.
“Sorry,” I said. “Blame DNA.”
“Uh-huh,” said Q.
“Well, I told you I was no good at keeping secrets,” I added. “You can’t trust me with hush-hush stuff at all. I mean, I spoil surprise parties and everything.”
“It’s okay,” said Q. “Crushes’ll make you do weird things.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I said. “I can’t believe how much work I am doing on this stupid justice project right now. Logan is just a total flake.”
Beanpole stared at the ThreePees as they worked on their moves.
“You know, there’s nothing they can do to stop us now anyway,” she said in her life-is-never-perky-enough type of way. And then she turned to Q and me. “We are on fire!”
And we were on fire, too. That afternoon the three of us met at Beanpole’s house to finalize the performance with Poochy, and it went great.
Just great.
“And three, two, one…” I called out. The four of us—me and Beanpole and Q and Poochy—marched in a straight line, then Poochy broke off and we formed a semicircle. I wasn’t a good dancer, but we kept all the moves simple so we were synched up with the dog in a way that was fun and fresh. Plus, we knew we’d all be dressed the same, so that would make us look even more professional.
As we marched in place to the beat, Beanpole pulled out a plastic fire hydrant that Department Store Mom had made, and she put it in the center of our semicircle. Then, as we stomped our feet and lifted our knees in 4/4 time, Poochy rolled into the center of the circle, lifted its doggie leg, and took a pee.
That’s right, our grand finale was for Poochy to take a giant pee, center stage, in front of the whole audience!
Department Store Mom had even put yellow food coloring in the dog’s water tank to make it look like real doggie whiz.
It was SO funny that we laughed every time we got to that last part of our performance. I couldn’t believe Marty was able to program such a cool move into the robot’s system. We tried it six times, and each time it worked perfectly.
“Hey, I have an idea,” said Beanpole after we’d finished another round. “How about if we put lemonade in the tank, and then after Poochy pees, we’ll all drink a glass.”
“And why would we do that?” I asked.
“’Cause it would be funny,” she answered.
“You think drinking pee is funny?” I said.
“I do,” she answered.
“Then why don’t we just put brownies in its butt and eat dog poop, too?”
“Eating dog poop’s not funny, Mo,” answered Beanpole. “Not funny at all.”
“But drinking dog pee is?” I said.
“There’s a difference.”
“Oh yeah, what?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But there is.”
“Whadda you think, Q?” I asked. “Is eating dog poop more or less funny than drinking dog pee?”
“I’m allergic to animal urine. Makes my thumbs throb.”
“You know, have you ever thought about calling the Guinness Book?” I asked. “Really, you might be missing out on a great opportunity here so get some good attention for your weirdness.”
“I’ll put it on my to-do list,” she answered. “Right next to eating brownies out of a doggie’s butt.”
“She’s right,” said Beanpole, taking Q’s side of the argument. “I can’t believe you want to put brownies in the dog’s butt and eat them,” she said. “That’s gross.”
“You’re right, Beanpole, it is gross,” I said. “And the next time my neighbor’s cat takes a pee, I’ll make sure to pour you a glass of kitty-squirt to cool you off on a hot summer’s day, ’cause that’s not gross at all.”
“Ew!” said Beanpole.
“Can we just get back to practicing?” said Q.
“You’re right,” I said. “Okay, let’s take it from the top.”
We took our positions.
The music started. Then I pushed the stop button.
“I need a break,” I said, stepping out of formation.
“Not again, Maureen,” whined Beanpole as I headed toward the door.
“Well, all this talk about pee makes me have to go again,” I said.
“But you just went.”
“You brought it up, not me,” I answered.
“You’re still hydrating?” asked Q.
“Uh-huh,” I answered. “But what I don’t get is why, when I am only putting in a quart a day, two quarts seem to come out.”
After my bathroom break, we practiced and practiced and practiced, and though the whole routine was only going to be about three minutes long, each time we did it, we got better and better and better. Plus, Department Store Mom had added sparkles to the outfits, Marty had synced the beat of the sound track to the steps of the dog, and even though Q couldn’t really move too fast or do any kind of crazy flips or anything, ’cause she’d quickly lose her breath—not that I could either—the small steps that we were able to choreograph had evolved into something that looked really sweet.
Poochy was the star of the show, we were the sidekicks, and yet as a group, we made for one heck of a team.
“I gotta go,” I said after the last run-through.
“Aw, just fifteen more minutes,” said Beanpole.
“That’s what you said fifteen minutes ago,” I answered. “Really, I gotta go finish this justice project. It’s due tomorrow, and Piddles will piddle in his pants if we don’t do a good job.”
“How come he didn’t give our class a justice project?” Q asked Beanpole. They had Piddles for fifth period while I had him for second.
“He said that Mo’s class talks too much so they needed the extra work,” Beanpole answered. “Said it was justice for them.”
“Good for us,” said Q. “And stinks for you.”
“Don’t I know it,” I said, gathering up my stuff.
“Sure, just go back to your smoochy-smoochy boyfriend and leave us here hangin’,” said Q.
“He’s not my smoochy-smoochy boyfriend,” I responded. “And I am not leaving you hangin’. We just practiced for like a hundred hours.”
“Is Logan coming to your house, or are you going to his?” asked Beanpole.
“Yeah, where’s all the smoochy-smooching going to take place?” asked Q after a wheeesh-whooosh.
“There’s not going to be any smoochy-smooching,” I said and then I made a Wheeesh-whooosh, Wheeesh-whooosh sound to tease Q back like she was teasing me. “Especially since I’m pretty much doing the whole project by myself.”
“He really hasn’t helped you, huh?” asked Beanpole.
“Only to tell me when he thinks something is stupid,” I said. “And Logan seems to think a lot of things are stupid. He thinks staplers are stupid, hamburger buns without seeds are stupid, and stupid justice projects for stupid teachers in stupid schools are stupid. Like they are even more stupid than stupid video games, and, as we all know, even stupid video games aren’t really all that stupid. Not like stupid justice projects, at least.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Beanpole.
“Forget it. It’s complicated,” I answered. “See you guys later; I gotta go.”
“Mo, wait, before you leave…”
I stopped.
“Yeah?”
Suddenly, Q got all shy and timid.
“I was…” She drifted off.
“Yeah, Q?”
“I was…” She paused again, for like, a really long time.
“What, Q?” I snapped. “Spit it out, ya freakwad. I told you, I gotta go.”
“I was…” She took another suck off the scuba tank. Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh. “I was thinking my mom could drive us to the talent show. You know, like you guys could maybe come over to my house and we could all ride over together or something?”
Beanpole looked up.
“Come to your house?” I said.
Q’s eyes immediately dropped to the floor, as if she was expecting instant rejection.
Beanpole, in her perky way, started smiling and shaking her head up and down, like someone had just plugged her brain into an electrical outlet with really high voltage. She mouthed the words Say yes—and be nice.
“I am nice, you stick figure ding-dong!” I yelled at her. Q gazed up with a nervous look on her face. “Sorry, wasn’t talking to you,” I said.
“I mean, the thing is, I haven’t told you guys,” said Q, lowering her eyes again, preparing to let us in on yet another one of her million personal secrets. “Is…well, I get really nervous around crowds. Like, the idea of being onstage in front of a whole buncha people freaks me out. It’s why I never talk in class even when I know the answer.”
She paused. Neither Beanpole nor I said anything.
“Like, it really freaks me out, I’m serious. More than you know, and I, well…I’m scared I am not going to be able to make it and might start hyperventilating and have a panic attack and have to go for a walk or something.”
She shuffled her feet.
“A long walk. A long, long, long walk. Walking’s the only thing that calms me down.”
The three of us were quiet for a minute.
“Aw, don’t sweat it, Q,” I finally said. “We’re gonna be there too, ya weirdo.”
“Yeah,” added Beanpole. “We’ll be right there with you the whole time. And of course we’ll drive over together. It’ll be fun to come to your house and see where you live.”
“I just…I get nervous, that’s all. Almost like I can’t control it,” she added. “The panic attacks I get, well…I’m just scared I’m gonna flip out. Is that bad?”
“Bad?” I said. “Heck no. I mean, I get stage fright too. Matter of fact, I’m scared I might pee onstage before Poochy does.”
We all laughed.
“They can just add it to your YouTube clip,” said Beanpole with a smile.
“Oh great, just what I need,” I said. “Naw, don’t sweat it, Q.” I picked up my backpack. “We’ll meet at your house and ride together. It’ll be cool.”
“Yeah,” said Beanpole. “We’ll turn your mom’s car into the Nerd Mobile.”
We laughed again.
“And with a little luck,” added Beanpole, “we can make it all the way there without having to stop so Mo can take a wee.”
“Speaking of wee,” I said.
“Not again, Mo.”
“What?” I said in my own defense. “I can’t help it.”
After yet another trip to the Department Store Bathroom, where the toilet paper was always folded with a little triangle on the end of the roll, as if I were in a fancy hotel or something, I went back into the bedroom to get my backpack.
“See you tomorrow,” I said, heading for the door.
“See ya, Mo,” they answered. “And good luck with the project.”
“Yeah, good luck is right,” I answered. “I’m sure I’ll be up until midnight.”
“I wonder how many pees that is?” said Beanpole to Q. They laughed.
I stopped, turned, and put down my backpack.
“You had to say something, didn’t you, Beanpole? You just had to say something.”