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thought I was having a heart attack. As for me, my mouth went drier than day-old toast, some mysterious object wedged itself in my throat, and the only reason I didn’t bolt from the stage was that I couldn’t move my arms or legs. Heck, I couldn’t even move my fingers.
    I couldn’t even squeak!
    Finally they had to cancel the performance. Even after the curtains were closed it took two teachers and a janitor to carry me back to the classroom.
    â€œThis time will be different,” I say.
    Mikey snorts.
    I know he is right. “Oh man, what am I gonna do?” I wail.
    â€œCome on, let’s look at the script. Maybe all you have to do is sit there and she’ll do all the acting.”
    No such luck. The script, which is called
Debbie and the Doofus
, is very funny.
    It also calls for me to say a lot of lines.
    It also calls for me to act like a complete dork.
    Immediately I begin to wonder why Tiffany thinks I would be just right for this role.
    â€œMaybe she imagines you’re a brilliant actor,” says Mikey.
    He is trying to be helpful, but to tell the truth, I am not sure which idea is worse: that Tiffany thinks I am a dork, or that she thinks I am a brilliant actor.
    â€œWhat am I gonna do?” I wail again.
    â€œMaybe your parents will move before next week,” says Mikey, shaking his head. “Otherwise, you’re a dead man walking.”
    Â 
    I ask, but my parents are not planning on moving.
    I study the script as if it is the final exam for life, which as far as I am concerned, it is. After two days I know not only my lines but all of Tiffany’s lines, too, as well as the lines for Laurel Gibbon, who is going to be playing the waitress at the little restaurant where we go for our bad date.
    My new plan is that I will enjoy rehearsals, and the excuse they give me to be with Tiffany, then pray for a meteor to strike me before the day of the performance.
    The first half of this actually seems to work. We have two rehearsals, one at school, and one in Tiffany’s rec room. At the first one she is very impressed by the fact that I know my lines already. “This is great, Murphy!” she says, which makes me feel as if I have won the lottery.
    At the second rehearsal I actually make Laurel, who is perhaps the most solemn girl in the school, laugh. This is an amazing sound to me, and I find that I really enjoy it. Like Tiffany, Laurel has been in our class since kindergarten. Only I never noticed her much because, well, no one ever notices Laurel much, on account of she basically doesn’t talk. I wondered at first why Tiffany had cast her, but it turns out they are in the same church group and have been good friends for a long time.
    Sometimes I think the girls in our class have a whole secret life that I don’t know about.
    Â 
    Time becomes very weird. Sometimes it seems as if the hours are rushing by in a blur, the moment of performance hurtling toward me. Other times the clock seems to poke along like a sloth with chronic fatigue syndrome. Social studies class consists of almost nothing but staring at the sunshine in Tiffany’s hair and flubbing the occasional question that Mr. Fessenden lobs at me. Some days I think he asks me questions out of pure meanness. Other days he leaves me alone, and I almost get the impression he feels sorry for me.
    Mikey and I talk about the situation every night. “No meteor yet,” he’ll say, shaking his head.
    â€œWhat am I gonna do?” I reply, repeating the question that haunts my days. I can’t possibly tell Tiffany I can’t do this.
    â€œMaybe you could be sick that day?” says Mikey.
    I shake my head. “If I let her down I will hate myself forever.”
    Mikey rolls his eyes. “Maybe you should run away from home,” he suggests, not very helpfully.
    Finally we do come up with a plan, which is that Mikey will stay in the wings to prompt me in case the entire script