Dancing Dudes (2 page)

We walked down the hall together wondering what they were serving for lunch. We always tried to guess by the smell in the hall.

I took a big whiff. “I say it’s chicken nuggets.”

“No way,” Graham said. “It’s definitely hamburgers.” Graham was usually right. He buys school lunch every day, and I bring mine from home. The only lunchroom smell I knew for sure was fish sticks. I hate fish. Just the smell of it makes me lose my appetite. One time, on one of those rare, special occasions when Mom packed a Twinkie in my lunch, the smell of fish sticks was so strong I couldn’t even eat it. I was so mad. I get a Twinkie or a Ding Dong, like, maybe once a year or less. Anyway, I knew today was definitely not a fish-stick day.

We walked into the lunchroom and quickly looked around at everyone’s trays. Corn dogs. We were both wrong. Graham stood in line while I saved us a place at a table. I sat down across from Heidi and Diane.

“Hi, Raymond, are you up for a game of Who Has the Best Sandwich?” Heidi said. One thing I like about Heidi is how funny she is. She’s one of the only girls who can really make me laugh. She’s like the opposite of Lizzy.

“I’ll go first,” Diane blurted out, digging into her lunch sack. She pulled out a bologna, lettuce, and cheese sandwich. “Top that,” she proudly stated.

“Hmmm,” Heidi said, taking a close look at the bread. “Whole wheat bread. I don’t know if you can win with that.”

Diane took a big bite. “What do you mean? It tastes good, and it’s good for you,” she said with a mouth full of bologna. Just then Graham sat down.

“What do you think, Graham? Can whole wheat bread win for best sandwich?” Diane asked, chewing and talking at the same time.

“Ooh, gross. Didn’t your mom ever teach you to eat with your mouth closed?” Graham answered. “And the answer is
no
. Health food can never win a best-food contest.”

Diane didn’t seem to mind that nobody agreed with her. She took another big bite.

“Now
this
is sandwich perfection,” Heidi announced, showing off a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white bread with the crusts cut off. We all looked in awe. Her sandwich was every kid’s dream. My mom never cut the crusts off. In fact, my mom would even use the end piece of the bread for one of my slices. You know, the piece that is all crust.

“Your turn, Raymond,” Diane said.

“Yeah, I’m rooting for you,” Graham said.

“All right, all right.” I reached in and pulled out my sandwich. It was wrapped in tinfoil. We must have been out of sandwich bags.

“Tinfoil?” Diane laughed.

Carefully, I opened the foil and exposed a sorry-looking sandwich with a bite already taken out of it and jelly soaking through the bread. I don’t know why my mom insists on taking a bite out of my sandwich when she makes my lunch. It’s so humiliating.

“Okay,” Heidi said. “We’ll let you off the hook for the tinfoil. But bringing a used sandwich just won’t cut it.” Everyone laughed. “And let me give you a little advice on the jelly.” She pulled apart her bread. “See, if you put peanut butter on both sides of the bread, the jelly won’t soak through.”

“Whoa, I never thought of that,” I said. Her mom must be some kind of professional sandwich maker.

“So, did you guys hear that our class is going to do a dance instead of a song for the fourth-grade show?” Graham whispered, stretching his head to the middle of the table. “My mom said she heard it from someone on the PTA.”

“No way,” Diane said. “I don’t believe you. It’s always a singing program.” She usually knew more about stuff than Graham. We all leaned back like we believed her instead of Graham.

“Okay, suit yourself. You’ll see,” Graham said confidently.

I looked up at Mrs. Gibson, who was by the lunchroom door talking to Mr. Worley, our principal.

“I hope Mrs. Gibson forgets about writing poems this afternoon,” I said. “I don’t think I could write one.”

“What? Everyone can write poems. They’re easy,” Graham said. “Take this corn dog, for example.” Graham held up his corn dog high in the air in front of him.

Then he dipped his corn dog in some ketchup and took a big bite.
“Yuck!”
he said, spitting it out onto his tray. “This is disgusting! It’s not even warm!”

“Wow, that was beautiful,” Diane joked.

“Especially that last line—‘
Yuck! ’
” Heidi added.

We finished eating, and Graham and I spent the rest of lunch recess playing tetherball. I hit the ball high above Graham’s head. He jumped up but missed it by a mile. I slapped it again and in no time at all it was completely wrapped around the pole.

“I’m too short for this game,” Graham complained, unraveling the rope from the pole.

“No you’re not. I’m just too good,” I said. Just then the ball swung around and hit me in the head.

“Ouch!” I said. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Aw, don’t be a baby,” Graham said. There was that word again. First David, and now Graham.

“I am
not
a baby!” I yelled, grabbing the ball.

“Hey, relax. I didn’t mean anything,” he said.

“It’s just that . . . well, my sister always calls me a baby, and today David called me a baby and it seemed like he really meant it. And now you, my best friend. I’m just worried that everyone thinks I’m a baby. I mean, we’re in the fourth grade. What if Heidi thinks I’m a baby? Do you think there’s any way a girl would like someone who everyone thinks is a baby?”

“Of course not. Girls like manly guys. Why did David call you a baby, anyway?” he asked as he tried to climb up the tetherball pole.

“Because when he hit me in class today, it really hurt. He thought I was crying and called me a baby,” I said.

“Why did he think you were crying?”

“I don’t know, probably because I had some water in my eyes and I wiped it away,” I said.

“What? You mean a tear?” Graham said. He immediately jumped down from the pole and looked me in the eye.

“Well, I guess so,” I said. “But it was just that it hurt and—”

“Whoa, hold on, Raymond,” Graham said, grabbing my shoulders. “I hate to say this, but you can’t cry when you’re in fourth grade. You just can’t. If you want people to think you’re a man and not a baby, that is the first rule.”

“The first rule?” I said. “I’ve never heard of any rules about being a man.”

Graham shook his head and put his hands on his hips. “Are you kidding me? Everyone knows there are certain rules of what you can and can’t do.”

I stood there wondering why my dad had never taught me these
manly
rules. “No one ever told me,” I said, getting kind of mad. “I mean, of course I never want anyone to see me cry, but I didn’t think that if I accidentally let one measly tear fall out of my eye it would mean that I’m a baby.”

“Unfortunately, it does,” Graham said. “Take it from me, if you really want to be a man, you’ve got to learn that there are certain things you
have
to do and other things you can
never
do.”

I stood there wishing that when you got to the fourth grade, you would get some instructions on how to stop being a baby and become a man.

“Come on, it’s easy,” Graham said. “Just try to act like me. Hey, that’s it! I can teach you what you need to do to be a man. I’ll be your coach. Yeah, I’ll be your manly coach.”

“You?” I said, looking down at Graham. He was a lot shorter than me and had a big ketchup stain on the front of his superhero T-shirt from his corn dog. He didn’t exactly look too manly. “Wouldn’t someone else be better? Like someone who’s more of a . . . you know . . . man?”

“Are you serious? I can teach you tons about being a man,” he said happily. “I mean, have you ever seen me cry this year?”

I thought for a moment but couldn’t remember Graham crying at all since school started. As crazy as it sounded, maybe Graham did know more about being a man than I did.

“What do you say?” he said, holding out his puny hand. I thought about it for a few more seconds, then shook his hand.

“It’s a deal,” I said. “You are officially my
manly coach
.” I wasn’t sure if Graham could really help me, but I thought it was worth a try.

“Great!” Graham said. Recess was almost over, so we headed toward the door. “Hey, here’s your first lesson. Go up and hold the door open for those girls and say, ‘After you, ladies.’”

“But—”

“No buts,” Graham interrupted. “Hurry, this will be great.”

I didn’t want to do it, but I ran up anyway. I opened the door and waited. Lizzy and her friends walked up.

“What are you doing?” Lizzy smirked.

“Um, after you, ladies,” I said.

Lizzy looked at me really weird. Then she walked in with her friends. “I’m telling on you,” she said as she passed me.

“For what?” I yelled. I let the door close by itself and walked back to Graham. He was smiling and talking to himself.

“Hello, I’m Coach Graham,” he said, pretending to shake someone’s hand.

I snapped my fingers a couple of times in front of his face. “Hey, that didn’t go so well,” I said. “How about we just start with the manly rules?”

“Oh, right,” Graham said. “Rule number one:
Never
cry.”

“Yeah, I figured that out. So what’s rule number two?” I asked.

“It’s, um, give me a second,” Graham said. He thought for a minute or two as we walked back to class. “I’ll tell you later.”

WE STARTED RIGHT
in with the poetry. Mrs. Gibson taught us about how there are different types of poems. She said there are some that don’t even rhyme. I couldn’t believe that. How could it be poetry if it didn’t rhyme? Anyway, we worked on them for most of the afternoon.

Our first poems had to be about our favorite foods. They were supposed to be in the shape of a diamond. The first line could only be one word, the name of our favorite food. The next line had two words to describe it. Then three words on the third line, two words on the fourth line, and the name of the food again on the last line. So in the end, your poem is written in the shape of a diamond. Here’s mine. I wrote about cold cereal. I love cold cereal:

After we wrote our poems, we had to draw pictures about them. I drew myself pulling a new bike out of a box of Cap’n Crunch. Even though it would never fit, I thought it would be cool to find a bike as the prize in the box. I also thought Mrs. Gibson would like that. She always wants us to use our imaginations.

“Okay, students,” Mrs. Gibson said at the end of the day. “There is one last thing I would like to go over before you leave. We will be decorating our valentine mailboxes tomorrow. You each need to bring an empty shoe box to school. I have a few boxes for those of you who cannot find one, but I won’t have enough for everyone.

“Also, I want to go over the rules for our Valentine’s Day celebration on Thursday. First, you must bring a valentine to put in the mailbox of every student. That means twenty-six valentines. Second, there will be no rude or distasteful comments written on your valentines. As Graham so eloquently stated, this is a holiday of love, not nastiness.”

“I think this is a holiday of love, too, Mrs. Gibson,” Lizzy called out. “I was thinking that first, even before Graham.” Did I mention that Lizzy drives me nuts?

“I’m sure you were, Lizzy,” Mrs. Gibson replied quietly without looking at her. Just then the bell rang. “See you tomorrow.”

“This will be so sweet!” Graham said once we were outside. “I love Valentine’s Day. I can finally write a love letter to Kelly without Mrs. Gibson taking it away. It’s completely legal!”

“I guess you’re right,” I said. Graham’s been in love with Kelly since the first grade. Even though she’s never liked him back, he hasn’t given up.

“Although,” Graham continued, “maybe I shouldn’t sign my name . . . you know, to be more mysterious. Maybe I’ll just give her some clues in my valentine. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’ll do. This will be great! By the way, are you going to write a love letter to Heidi on her valentine?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe, if I don’t sign my name. I’ll have to think about it. What if she doesn’t like me back?”

“Who cares if she likes you? If you like her, you should tell her in a valentine,” Graham said. “Plus, you almost kissed her before Christmas vacation. Remember? If only you hadn’t messed up and sneezed all over her face.”

“I know, I know,” I said. “You don’t have to remind me.”

We walked home discussing what Graham was going to write on Kelly’s valentine.

“Maybe I’ll write a poem,” Graham said. “Girls love poems.”

“How do you know?” I asked. I wondered how Graham seemed to know so much about girls. I mean, we were only ten years old.

“What do you mean, how do I know?” Graham answered. “Didn’t you see Mrs. Gibson’s face when she was reading that poem about love? She had a twinkle in her eye and a big smile stretched out across her face.”

“Yeah, but she’s not a girl, she’s an old lady,” I said.

“Trust me,” said Graham. “I know a lot more about girls than you do. And girls are born loving poems. In fact, that’s rule number two: Real men write poems to their girlfriends. So as your manly coach, I’m giving you your next assignment: to write Heidi a poem.”

He told me that if I was going to have him as my manly coach, I had to follow the rules or it wouldn’t work. And since he seemed pretty confident about girls loving poetry, I figured he must be right. “Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll help you write one for Kelly, and I’ll write one for Heidi, too.” My days of being called a baby were going to be over in no time.