Somebody on This Bus Is Going to Be Famous Page 3

  Shelly sniffs, sucking it up, forcing herself to recall the logical steps her dad had ticked off on his fingers last night. “My mom quits in February and isn’t going back to work for at least a year. Baby’s due in March, and there’re gonna be bills the insurance won’t cover. No money left over. End of story.”

  “Maybe next year, then?”

  “But camp is every other year! That means I won’t get another chance until I’m fourteen, and all the kids who got to go this year will be way ahead of me and they’ll know each other and the coaches and agents and…”

  She’s getting worked up again, like last night, when her dad had stopped being reasonable and ordered her to her room: And don’t come out until you’re ready to apologize! Seeing nothing to apologize for, she didn’t come out until this morning.

  “Are you sure there’s no way?” Miranda looks really sympathetic now. It makes Shelly glad to have her for a listening friend. “Like, maybe if you could raise half of the money? I could help you do a bake sale. I like to bake.”

  Yeah, it’s easy to see that. Miranda is kind of round. “But half of seventeen hundred dollars is eight hundred dollars I have to raise!”

  “Actually…I think it’s eight hundred fifty.”

  “Whatever. How many cupcakes with sprinkles does that add up to? A lot.”

  “Well…maybe a car wash?”

  “Right.” Shelly catches herself biting her nails, a habit she’s trying to break. “Maybe a thousand-dollar scratch-off ticket.”

  “When did you say the baby was due?” asks Miranda.

  “What? Oh, I don’t know. Sometime in March, I forget the date.”

  “Do you think they’d let me watch it sometime?”

  “Sure, come on over and watch it anytime you want. But I don’t think babies do much at first.”

  • • •

  Next morning, when Shelly gets on the bus, Spencer is telling everybody he got accepted into space camp for the following summer. His good news would have made her feel worse about her bad news, but today her attitude has done a one-eighty turn. She has a plan. Cheerful as a chickadee, she slides in beside Miranda. “Hey, what are you good at?”

  Miranda blinks in surprise. “Uh…not much. I can cook, like when my mom works late at the nursing home and I have to—”

  “No, I mean in school. What’s your best subject?”

  “Oh. Language arts, definitely. Remember I won the school-wide spelling bee last year?”

  “Right.” Actually Shelly doesn’t remember anything about Miranda from last year, except that she hung out with that snotty rich kid, Penelope Gage. “That’s perfect, because I can’t spell. I’ve got a plan—you want to hear it?”

  “Sure!” Miranda’s face brightens.

  “This morning, Dad told me he looked up the camp website and found out that they give scholarships. A limited number. And I might get one if I bring my grades up and do some volunteer work and have my teachers and youth pastor and glee coach write letters saying I’m the greatest thing since spandex.”

  “That’s…that’s terrific,” says Miranda, trying to be tactful. “I guess the main thing is the grades.” Shelly’s grades aren’t the best.

  “That’s what my dad says. I’ll still have to raise money because the scholarships are only good for about half of it. I go, ‘Okay, so like if I get a scholarship for half the tuition, will you guys pay the rest?’ And he goes, ‘Half the rest. No more than half. You earn one-quarter of the total—that’s about five hundred, because we have to pay airfare—and that’ll tell us that you’re really serious about this.’ Like I can’t just tell him I’m really serious. Anyway, I’ll need to bring my grades up a little, so I was wondering if you could help me out with language arts stuff? Like, after school sometimes?”

  “Okay. Sure!” Miranda beams, like she was just asked to ride the homecoming float holding a dozen roses. Shelly’s thinking it’s sweet that she wants to help when Kaitlynn pops into the seat in front of them. “I heard you were going to try for a scholarship to Star Camp!”

  “Shooting Star Camp,” Shelly corrects her, glancing at Miranda who raises her eyebrows. “How’d you hear that?”

  “Your mom told my mom. And congratulations about the baby! Babies are fun. Except when they have colic and cry all night like my brother Steven did for the first three months.”

  “Weren’t you sitting somewhere else?” Shelly asks. Kaitlynn’s wheels are always spinning so fast she doesn’t have a clue how uncool she is, with her stuck-out ears and headbands and skirts that ride low on her skinny hips.

  “Just let me tell you my idea. If you want a scholarship, you need lots of service projects. So why don’t you run for Youth Court? I’ll nominate you.”

  Shelly opens her mouth with an automatic no, then hesitates. That’s actually a good point, about service projects. Youth Court is made up of five sixth-graders (plus two alternates) who meet once a week to hear complaints that kids bring up against each other, like bullying, fighting, stealing, and things like that. Candidates have to be nominated by two classmates and a teacher, and the campaign runs from mid-October to the first Tuesday in November.

  “I want to run for Youth Court next year,” Kaitlynn is saying, “but I can’t this year, so I’ll manage your campaign. It’ll be good experience for me, and it’ll help you get a scholarship even if you don’t win. I’ve got a great idea for a campaign song—”

  “Please,” Shelly interrupts. “Nobody writes my songs but me. So I’ll think about it, okay?” She turns deliberately to Miranda. “Now, my other bad subject is math, unless you count social studies and science. Do you know anybody who’s good at math? Like, somebody on this bus?”

  Miranda glances around then leans in and lowers her voice—even though, with the groan of the bus as it slows to make the turn onto Farm Road 152, a secret-service listening device couldn’t have picked her up. “Actually, Bender is really good at math.”

  The back tire hits a pothole on the gravel road, making Shelly’s next word jump out like a scared rabbit. “Bender?! He’s good at something?”

  “Shhhh!” Miranda wiggles her fingers but it’s too late. The subject under discussion creeps up and slides into the seat behind them while Mrs. B isn’t looking.

  “Did I hear my name?”

  “Did you?” Shelly turns around and flutters her eyelashes. “I was talking about blenders. And how your head would look in one.” His head is large, and usually there’s a lock of dark hair flopping over his wide forehead that always looks dirty. The hair, that is.

  “Haw haw.” Bender glances out the window at the little shed that swings into view when the bus backs up. “What’s up with this stop?” he yells at the driver. “It’s been three weeks now, and there’s never anybody here!”

  “Sit down, Bender!” Mrs. B calls back, even though he’s not standing up.

  He heaves a mighty sigh and throws himself back into his usual seat. From there, he carries on the dispute with Mrs. B as she pulls away from the shed and starts back up the gravel road. “We average two minutes and forty-three seconds a day doing this! Do you know how much that is for the whole year?”

  “How do you know he’s good at math?” Shelly asks Miranda.

  Miranda stares at her. “Didn’t you hear what he just said?”

  “…Four hundred eighty-nine minutes!” Bender is saying as he tucks a rolled-up strip of paper behind his ear. “That’s eight-point-fifteen hours of extra sleep I could get if we didn’t have to make this stupid stop!”

  “Thank you for the update, Bender,” Mrs. B says while looking both ways at the stop sign. “Now go back to sleep.”

  “He says that kind of stuff all the time,” Miranda murmurs. “Some of the kids think he uses a hidden calculator but I think he mostly does it in his head.”

  “What if he’s just mak
ing up numbers?”

  “You mean you never noticed?”

  “Please. I’m working on a career. I’ve got to stay focused. Besides, there’s no way I’m asking him to be my math tutor. I’ll just skip math—can’t be good at everything, right? What do you think I could do for volunteer work? Hey, doesn’t your mom work at a nursing home?”

  “Uh-huh. She’s a physical therapist. She’s at Sunset Hills two days a week.”

  “Perfect. Ask her what I can do to cheer up old people. That’s always a good volunteer thing. I know!” Shelly sits up straight as she answers her own question. “I could put on a show!”

  • • •

  “What kind of show?” Shelly’s mom asks when she springs the idea next morning at breakfast.

  “My kind.”

  “Could I have eggs and bacon?” Evan asks. “Cereal just makes me hungry.”

  Mrs. Alvarez groans. “Sorry, sweetheart. I can barely tolerate the words eggs and bacon these days.” She’s having what she calls morning sickness, another complication of having a baby that Shelly finds totally gross.

  “Please, Mom?” Shelly pleads. “Miranda already talked to her mother and they can set it up for next Thursday after bingo.”

  “I don’t know, Shelly,” says her mom. “These are senior citizens. They’re into Frank Sinatra and Perry Como, not Claire.”

  “Can’t I at least have some sausage?” Evan whines. “Or cheese fries?”

  Mrs. Alvarez gags and makes a dash for the bathroom. Dad takes over. “How about you just do something short and simple. Like ‘The Good Ship Lollipop.’ That was cute when you did it for the Elks Club.”

  “That was ages ago! I was, like, seven years old! I’m so not that performer anymore!”

  Her dad takes a deep breath. “Shelly, the whole point behind volunteer work is that you’re doing it for somebody else. Not just to get something for yourself. If you’re going to do this, then put on a show they’ll like.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll pick the music tonight.”

  “Not more than twenty minutes,” he warns. “They get drowsy in the afternoon.”

  “Okay,” Shelly says again, wondering how anybody could get drowsy while she’s onstage.

  • • •

  Miranda’s the one who has to take Shelly’s overstuffed gym bag to the gazebo and wrestle it onto the bus next Thursday morning. That’s because Shelly smuggled all the contents—costume, Mylar curtain, Mylar pompoms, and two box lights—to Miranda’s house the night before. Her parents insist she doesn’t need lights and props for a nursing home show where most of the audience will be asleep by the end. So they think.

  “Are you moving to town, Miranda?” asks Mrs. B as the girl struggles up the steps with a bag that looks like it might be holding a janitor-sized vacuum cleaner and maybe the janitor too.

  “No, I—”

  “That’s my equipment,” Shelly explains, boosting the bag from the rear. “I’ve got a gig.”

  “What’s a gig?” Igor asks from behind where the boys are waiting.

  “It’s some kind of noose, I think,” Jay says. Self-consciously, he adjusts his glasses. It’s his first day to wear them, and he keeps glancing around to see if anybody notices. Shelly thinks he looks dignified and serious, like the president of the United States in a movie.

  “No, she means gag,” says Bender. “She needs a gag.”

  “Shut up, Bender,” Shelly snaps.

  “A ‘gig,’” explains Spencer, doing his learned-professor imitation, “is a term used by musicians of the popular sort, meaning an engagement, or in the vernacular, a ‘job.’” His dad is a musician—Shelly’s guitar teacher, in fact.

  “Everybody move along,” says Mrs. B. “Find a seat.”

  Shelly and Miranda find one together, parking the gym bag on the seat in front of them.

  “Hey, Jay,” Igor calls from the back. “Look.”

  Everybody looks where Igor is pointing out the near window. Jay’s grandfather is standing in front of the gazebo, Panzer’s leash looped through his arm while the dog noses in the grass. The old man is holding a sign: IF YOU CAN READ THIS YOUR A GREAT RUNNING BACK. KNOCK ’EM DEAD JAY PASTERNAK III, MVP.

  “Oh,” sighs Miranda after a moment. “That’s really sweet.”

  Shelly nods, meanwhile wondering if Mr. Pasternak usually wears his house slippers to walk the dog. Jay bites his upper lip and releases the catch on the nearest window. Forcing it down, he sticks out his fist with the thumb up.

  “Okay,” says Mrs. B in a tone unusually gruff. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Speaking of show… Shelly shares a glance with Miranda, knowing they both see Mr. Pasternak’s sign as a good omen: Knock ’em dead! (Though not too dead, since it’s a nursing home.)

  “Hey, I just thought,” she says as the bus rolls toward the highway. “You can do my intro.”

  “You mean, ‘Here’s Shelly’? I think the activity director’s going to do that.”

  “No, I mean you could do some kind of opening act. Like all the pros have a warm-up band to get the crowd pumped. You could sing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ or something.”

  Miranda actually turns pale. “Or I could throw up or something. I hate to get in front of a bunch of people.”

  “Okay, okay.” Shelly is feeling a little nervous herself. This is the first show she’s ever done all on her own, and she’s thinking it might be nice to have someone to share the glory. Or blame. But she should have thought of it before now.

  “Shelly?” Miranda asks. “Are you scared?”

  “Scared? No—it’s just a show. I’ve done lots of ’em.”

  • • •

  But not quite like this. For one thing, they don’t have the time or equipment to set up her Mylar curtain properly or her box lights at all. Charlotte, the activity director, doesn’t seem to understand why she needs a Mylar curtain, so Shelly tries to explain: “It’s one of my signatures. Every performer has a signature, to kind of say who they are and get the show off to a good start. I have to burst through the curtain and get the audience all jazzed.”

  “Honey, it’ll take a lot more than a long silver fringe to get this audience jazzed,” Charlotte says. But she finds a roll of duct tape and a couple of brooms so the girls can prop up Shelly’s signature between two folding chairs. Meanwhile, Charlotte and a volunteer put away the bingo cards and rearrange the residents.

  What Charlotte will not do is give a proper intro. Instead of Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome…SHELL!, Charlotte merely says, “Shelly Alvarez was very sweet to come over today and sing a few songs for us. Let’s give her a warm Sunset Hills welcome.”

  And how, thinks Shelly, was anybody going to get pumped over that? But she nods to Miranda over at the boom box, takes a deep breath, and bursts through the Mylar curtain to the opening strains of…the weather report: “…CLOUDY with a fifty percent chance of showers…”

  “Sorry,” says Miranda after turning down the volume. “That’s the radio.”

  Shelly feels her face burning as she backs through the curtain, followed by a few titters from the audience. “I thought you had it figured out!” she hisses at Miranda.

  “I did!” Miranda hisses back. “I do. It was just a mistake—I said I was sorry.”

  Shelly sighs impatiently. “Ready now?”

  Miranda nods, pressing her lips together. At the signal, she pushes the play button, and Shelly bursts through the curtain to the crashing chords of “Bleeding Heart.” Only the chords don’t crash because the volume is still turned down. The unexpected quietness throws Shelly off-stride, literally—she bumps the curtain frame slapped up with duct tape and brings it down.

  Miranda cuts the sound again. “Sorry.” Her face almost matches the bright-red chili peppers on her Sedona, Arizona, T-shirt.

&nb
sp; Members of the audience are beginning to murmur in sympathy: “That’s all right, honey.” “Poor little thing.”

  Shelly would almost rather they laughed at her. She grabs the mic off its stand and speaks into it: “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to start with Claire’s latest hit, ‘Bleeding Heart.’”

  She’s a trouper. She puts everything she has into “Bleeding Heart,” leaving the audience so stunned at the end they can barely clap. Except for the guy over by the window, who isn’t old, so he must have been kind of mentally handicapped or something—he stomps and pounds the arm of his wheelchair and shouts, “Yeah! Rock ’n’ roll!” until the ladies nearby manage to shush him: “That’s enough, Larry!” “Larry! Pipe down!”

  Shelly goes into “Fantasy Land,” followed by “Razzle-Dazzle,” where she wanted to light a handful of sparklers and twirl around the stage area (a big hit at the county fair last summer), but Charlotte has already said No way. Shelly anticipated that; it’s why she brought the silver and purple pompoms. She’s head-banging through the final riff when Charlotte, who’d left after the intro, suddenly appears at the back of the room and shouts, “That’s great, Shelly, we really appreciate your coming. Now maybe you could finish up with something a little quieter?”

  There are two more songs on her program, neither of them especially quiet. But Shelly can take a hint. She signals to Miranda to change the CD, and she finishes with “The Good Ship Lollipop,” which gets a nice round of applause. Larry stomps and shouts “Yeah!” just like the other time, so she guesses he’s not a Claire fan.

  “That was very nice, thanks again,” Charlotte says before wheeling a resident out of the dining hall. No invitation to please come back, like they’d begged her at the county fair.

  In other words, she bombed. She’s never bombed! And yes, it was mostly old people who weren’t into that kind of music—but still, it bites.

  Without a word, Miranda helps gather her stuff. Carrying the gym bag between them, they walk three blocks to the pediatric clinic where Miranda’s mom is working today. They find seats in the almost-empty lobby, both so devastated—for different reasons—they don’t notice the girl sitting across from them. She’s the kind of girl it’s easy not to notice.