David Fleming - The Saturday Boy

It had to be my turn to go on now. It just had to be.

I crossed the hallway and slowly opened the backstage door. Budgie was standing just inside.

“Close the door, Lamb,” he whispered loudly. “You’re not on yet!”

“Are you sure?”

He pushed me back into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind him. I looked at him. He was wearing a dark blue sweatshirt and dark pants, which made his sneakers seem awfully white.

“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing dark shoes?”

“Aren’t you supposed to wait in the green room?”

“Yeah, but nobody came and I was getting nervous,” I said. “I thought maybe you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget! It’s not even the second scene, moron!”

“But—”

He gave me a shove and turned around and went backstage again. I didn’t go back in the green room like I was supposed to. I paced the hallway instead. Back and forth. Waiting. Budgie didn’t come back out. Maybe he forgot. Then I started to think that maybe he was doing it on purpose—that this was his revenge for telling everyone his real name.

My heart didn’t just drop. It plummeted.

That was it. That had to be it. It wouldn’t matter if I forgot to let Violet lead me off or I didn’t project enough because Budgie was going to make sure I missed my entrance altogether. I’d be humiliated. Mr. Putnam would be furious. It’d be the perfect revenge if it weren’t about to happen to me.

I had to do something. I couldn’t just stand there and let Budgie do this to me. I would have preferred anything to this—a wedgie, an Indian rope burn, or even the dreaded French cuff, but no. Leave it to Budgie to figure out a way to cause maximum embarrassment with the least amount of work. I went to the backstage door, cracked it, and peeked in. I expected somebody to be there but the wings were empty. If I was going to do something I had to do it now. Without stopping to think about it I slipped inside and carefully closed the door behind me.

I moved to a dark corner in the wings and stood like a statue. My heart slowly climbed up out of my shoes and I found that now that I was backstage I wasn’t worried about missing my entrance anymore. I’d just stay here, listen to the play, and when it was time for me to go on I’d just go out and do my scene. I’d embrace Violet and remember to project. I’d let her lead me offstage into the wings and presto!—Budgie’s plot would have been thwarted. It was actually kind of perfect.

I smiled in the dark, picturing Budgie gnashing his teeth, stomping his feet, and shaking his fists in frustration. In fact, I was so busy imagining that I almost didn’t notice when he came back. He was standing at least as still as I was and if he hadn’t moved I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have seen him at all.

But Budgie wasn’t gnashing his teeth or stomping his feet or even shaking his fists. What he was doing, and doing gloriously, was picking his nose. He was two knuckles in at least, digging with his finger so far up one nostril I was surprised it wasn’t coming down the other side.

I blocked the laugh as it was coming out, clamping my hands over my mouth as hard as I could. My shoulders shook. I tried swallowing the laugh but that only made me have to burp. It literally felt like something was going to burst.

“You’re not on yet!” Budgie hissed. “Get out of here!”

I wanted to answer him but was afraid of what sounds would escape if I put my hands down so I shook my head instead.

“You idiot! You’re going to wreck everything! Go back and wait in the green room!”

Budgie came at me like he was going to grab me but I didn’t want to be grabbed. I didn’t want to go back to the green room. I didn’t even want to wait in the hallway. I tried to duck out of the way but there wasn’t a whole lot of room and he got a handful of my shirt.

“Get off me!” I whispered as loud as I could.

“Shut up!”

“Let go!”

“Dork!”

“Moose!”

I made a fist, swung, and punched Budgie right in the eye. It was the first punch I’d ever thrown at an actual person. Budgie stumbled back a few steps, then stopped and looked at me. Something had changed. The world around us suddenly felt smaller. I looked at my hand still clenched into a fist at the end of my arm—this part of me, this weapon that I never knew I had had done something I never thought I was capable of. Budgie had made fists of his hands as well. Both of them.

“Wait, Budgie! I’m sorry! Budgie, wait—”

But he didn’t.

His first punch hit me in the ear and my head sang with pain. Budgie just hit me, I thought. This is a fight. Holy crap, I’m in a fight! I threw up my hands in time to block the second punch but the third landed square in my gut and pushed all my air out. Then our legs tangled up and we toppled over backward and my head hit the floor so hard I saw stars. We rolled and I ended up on top of him. He wiggled underneath me, grabbing at my shirt, trying to throw me off. I held his wrists so he’d stop but he yanked one loose and punched me in the mouth.

“ Stop! Hitting! Me! ”

I struck him with each word. Then the dam burst and I couldn’t have stopped even if I wanted to. At some point the cracks just became too wide and too numerous and I ran out of stuff to fill them with. Besides, in a strange, horrible way it felt good to let go. So I let go. And from my head to my heart to my hands it all came out.

My confusion and frustration about Budgie and why we weren’t friends anymore caught him on the forehead. The trouble I couldn’t seem to stay out of connected with his jaw. Everything I’d been keeping bottled up for so long—every cheek I’d turned and every time I’d held my tongue were a flurry of punches about his head. And finally, all of my anger and sadness, all of the unfairness that I’d been feeling, and all of the complete and total suckiness over what happened to my father, became a single blow—a hammer fist that found its way past Budgie’s flailing hands and straight onto his nose .

There was a crunch and beneath my hand I could feel Budgie’s nose shift.

I stopped. My breath whooped in and out and I could feel hot tears on my cheeks. It was suddenly very quiet. I slowly turned, shading my eyes from the spotlight that Budgie and I seemed to be in the middle of. I swallowed and lowered my hand. The auditorium was quiet. The spotlight was bright and hot and Budgie squirmed underneath me. I waved. Just a little.

“Hi, Mom.”

That’s when Budgie flipped me over and it started raining knuckles.

Teachers seemed to swarm in from everywhere. They came up from the audience. They seemed to spill from the wings. I think I even saw Señora Cruz drop from the ceiling on a rope like a commando. Budgie got pulled off of me. He was still kicking and thrashing, yelling words I don’t think even grown-ups were supposed to know. I sat up and the room swam around me.

“Derek? Derek, are you okay?”

Mom. There suddenly. Holding me.

“Derek, honey? Oh, your poor face! Are you all right? Derek, say something.”

“Ow.”

Mom helped me stand and we walked offstage into the wings and through the backstage door. I leaned on her. My head hurt. I must have bitten my tongue when my head hit the floor because it was bleeding and now my mouth tasted like pennies. Also one of my teeth was loose. I wiggled it with my tongue.

“We’re leaving. Where are your things?”

“We can’t just—wait, why are you crying?”

“You were right about him, Derek. I’m sorry I ever—sorry I ever doubted you,” she said, her voice catching a little. She took in a deep breath and let it out shakily. Her face was bright with tears and I could feel her arm trembling where it lay around my shoulders. She was holding it together. Barely. “Are your things in here?”