Take Two! Read Online Free Page B

Small Feat
    What are druthers and how come nobody ever has any? I’d planned on looking that word up in the dictionary right after “triple
     threat.” I wanted to make sure I had the meaning exactly right, but according to
The American Heritage Dictionary
, fourth edition, it didn’t exist. They had Triple Crown, triple-header, triple play – but no triple threat. I’d just have
     to take LMNOP’s word for it. My acting chops were solid, but singing and dancing was uncharted territory, so I knew I’d better
     get cracking.
    All week long I toyed with the idea of cashing in one of my
Penny Pincher
coupons and taking a free tap class; and all week long the thought of being the only guy there made me squirrelly. But by
     Saturday morning, I’d talked myself into it. I carbo-loaded with leftover Meatball Mania Pizza, stuffed Dad’s tap shoes into
     my backpack, mounted my bike and headed for Miss Pritchard’s Academy of Dance.
    I’d reached the center of town way too early, where I saw the screwballiest sight: Wally squeaking down Main Street on a
     girl’s bicycle, complete with a white wicker basket and handgrips sprouting silver streamers. A cry for help maybe? You be
     the judge.
    “Hey, Wal, wait up!” Pedaling faster to catch up with him, I had a sudden stroke of genius. “What’re you doing right now?”
    “Juggling chickens. What does it look like I’m doing?”
    “Race you to the corner?” I challenged, air-revving my hand-grips.
“Vroom-vroom, vroom-vroom!
C’mon, winner gets a truth or dare.”
    He looked at me as if
I
were the weirdo.
    “What are we, like, five?” Wally asked. “You serious?”
    “Yeah. Why not?
    “Well, for starters, I’m lugging my bassoon and it weighs a ton. And this isn’t even my own bike – it’s my cousin’s.”
    “Now that you mention it, what the heck’s wrong with you? Goldilocks wouldn’t be caught dead riding that thing.”
    “My bike has a flat,” he snapped, “and I needed transportation. Cut me a break.”
    At least it didn’t have training wheels.
    “Okay, I’ll give you a five second lead so I won’t have an unfair advantage,” I bargained. “Ready? One Mississippi, two Mississippi
     –”
    “No, no, that’s not right,” Wally said all cranky, dragging his foot. “I’ll take a
twelve
second lead – and we’re not playinghide-and-seek. There are no Mississippis in bike-race counting.”
    “There’s no whining either.”
    “Okay, first one to slap the mailbox on the corner of Cubberly and Main wins. On your mark, get set, go!” As soon as he had
     both feet on the pedals, I shouted, “One, two, three-four-fi-si-sev-eigh-nitenelev-twelve!” and tore after him.
    I was on his tail in a flash, and by the time we’d reached Pig’s Ear Antiques, Wally and I were neck and neck. I could hear
     him moaning and his bassoon case rattling, so I coasted a little. He was thicker around the middle than he should’ve been
     and I didn’t want him straining anything. All of a sudden he turned to me and snarled, “You’re goin’ down, sucker!”
    “Oh, yeah?” I shot back. “Eat my dust!”
    I stood up on my pedals, throwing all seventy-six and a half pounds of myself into it. Picturing my legs as powerful steel
     machines operated by jet propulsion engines, I whizzed past Wally and headed for the finish line. I was pedaling so hard I
     thought my bike would break in half.
    “Woo-hoo!” I shouted, slapping the mailbox. “Dustin Grubbs wins it by a landslide!” No wonder so many kids love sports. It’s
     actually kind of exhilarating – as long as you win. “Sweet victory! I am the conqueror, the annihilator! Oh, how the mighty
     have fallen!”
    Wally squeezed on the brakes and his bike came to a jerky stop. “Ah, get over yourself,” he huffed. His red cheeks werestreaked with sweat. “Okay, you won, big whoop – you set me up. Let’s make a pact never to do this again, okay? The carbuncle
     on my thigh is on fire.”
    I