The Amazing Life of Birds (8 page)

I took a step.

I went down, and managed to get most of the sloppy joe on a boy named Carlisle standing next to me.

Sloppy Carlisle will probably be his nickname from now on, I thought on the way down.

And I thought of the bird, falling off the window-sill and then flying.

And I thought of what Willy had said about how everybody knew who I was and if I did something good …

The microphone!

I lay there for half a second and out of my mouth came: “All right, that's
enough!”

I slithered to my feet and stomped out of the line and up onto the stage and took the microphone.

I turned it on. A great hissing sound came out, then a whistle, and then I could hear my own breathing over all the loudspeakers.

Not a clue what I was going to say. Just that
I was done with it all.

Then I remembered the dream about the Puberty Anonymous meeting.

“Hello. If there's anybody who doesn't know me yet, my name is Duane. Duane Homer Leech. Everybody calls me Doo-Doo. But I'd rather be called Duey.

“I do not have ringworm.

“I do not have any other disease.

“I do not do drugs.

“I am just having a little trouble with this whole, what, change of life thing. If you'll just bear with me I'm sure it will pass.

“Thank you.”

Every kid in the cafeteria stood stock-still, staring at me, but for some reason I didn't feel the least bit embarrassed. Stupid and ugly, sure, but not embarrassed.

I turned the microphone off and put it back in the little stand, took one step onto my shoelace, went down like a gut-shot moose—or how I suspect a gut-shot moose would go down—rolled to the front of the stage and onto a table, then onto the floor.

Somebody started it in the back, a slow, even clapping, and then the whole cafeteria was doing it, laughing but not in a bad way, yelling:
“Doo-Doo! Doo-Doo rules!”
But in there I heard a few voices shouting,
“Duey rules!”

I was flat on my back and I blinked a couple of times before I saw Rachel standing over me.

“You all right?” she asked. “Duey?”

“I think so.”

“Can I help?”

In my head: Yesssssssssss.

“Umm, sure.”

“Here, take my hand.” She pulled me up.

“Thanks.” In my head: Don't let go!
Ever!

“Come on and we'll find a hose to clean you off.

” And she walked off while I tied my shoelace and then followed her.

The Spring Fling was a week away.

I could ask Rachel. To go to the dance. With me.

It could happen.

All I had to do was quit falling down, learn to dance, get rid of every zit and grow perfect hair to cover the cowlick.

Piece of cake.

Or, as Willy would say: Cool.