THIS WOULD'VE BEEN A GOOD TIME FOR that meteor to show up. A fiery explosion leaving a huge, smoking crater in front of the school was about the only thing that could've saved me. It's too painful for me to describe what happened next, but in case you find yourself in a similar situation, here is a list to give to your parents before they come to school to give a presentation:
RULES FOR PARENT PRESENTATIONS
1. No cockroach costumes.
2. Don't use the Latin name for everything.
3. If you have a bug collection, bring the dead ones pinned to Styrofoam, not live ones in a jar.
4. Don't accidentally drop your live cockroaches.
By the end of the day I had a new nickname: Roach Boy. I didn't care for it.
"Is your teacher mad at me?" my dad asked over dinner.
"I wouldn't call it mad, exactly," I said, "but I don't think she wants you to come back any time soon."
"You tried too hard," my mom said, putting a hand on my dad's shoulder. "I'm sure it'll be all right." She said that because she's married to him, so it's her job to say things like that. But her eyes were saying, "What the heck were you thinking?!"
"Well, I did manage to get most of the roaches back in the jar," my dad said.
How could he not know that "most" is not enough?
"Are we going to move to another town soon?" I said hopefully.
"Don't be silly. We just got here," my mom said.
"Hey, it's Friday," my dad added. "By Monday nobody's even going to remember it happened."
I excused myself and went to my room.
I threw myself on my bed and screamed into my pillow. Bandit jumped on my bed and started licking my face, so I had to stop. My mom and dad clearly didn't get it. This was the worst introduction to a school that I'd ever had. I'd become the enemy of the king of the classroom, everyone thought I was weirdo, and now, on top of all that, I was Roach Boy. All I could think of was the lifetime of wedgies awaiting me. I thought about stopping wearing underwear altogether.
There had to be some way out of this, some way to turn things around…. Then I remembered something.
I searched through my backpack and found a piece of paper wadded up under my science book: the casting-call flyer. Axel Maxtone was king of the classroom. Why? Because he had been on television. Even though he was on it two years ago, and it was a terrible show, he was still considered supercool.
I needed that kind of cool.
I called up Skywalker.
"I need help," I said.
"You're telling me."
"Seriously. Can you help me get ready for this casting call this weekend?"
There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds. "Uh, Mitch, you do know that the chances of your being picked to be in anything are really, really low. It's like winning the lottery. A one-in-a-million shot."
"Yeah, but people do win the lottery sometimes, and the only way you can win is to buy a ticket."
"Well, you've got a point there."
"I need to do something," I said. "You saw what happened today."
I heard muffled laughter on the other line. "Okay, okay, I'll help you. You're obviously desperate. Let me see…" Then suddenly I detected a slight change in his voice, like the electricity had turned on, starting up his engine. "Okay, you'll need a résumé and a head shot—that's an eight-by-ten photo of yourself. Be at my house at nine, and wear a striped shirt if you have one. Don't worry, this is going to be great. Man, I love a good project!"
The next morning I was at Skywalker's house wearing a red-and-white-striped shirt.
"Excellent!" Skywalker said, rubbing his hands together. "I've got my dad's digital camera—let's take some snapshots. Outside lighting looks the best."
"Why the striped shirt?" I asked, following him outside.
"It's all-American," he said. "You need an 'image,' you know what I mean? When people look at your eight-by-ten, it has to immediately make them think of something. The first time I laid eyes on you I thought, all-American. With those freckles, the messed-up hair, the snaggletooth, you look really goofy."
"You think I'm the one who looks goofy? You look like what would happen if Dracula and an elf had a baby."
Skywalker just grinned. "Hey, I'm one of a kind, bro. An original. Besides, goofy's good! How many classy, sophisticated roles do you think there are for kids our age? None, that's how many." He pointed to a tree in the front yard. "Stand over there."
I did. Skywalker walked around me, snapping pictures from different angles while he kept on talking. "You're a farm boy, Mitch. Huck Finn. You're all about cornfields and lazy rivers, vagabonds riding the rails to see the countryside, newsboys hawking newspapers…. You like nothing better than shooting marbles, spinning tops, and bouncing yo-yos, and you've got frogs and gum and a slingshot in your pockets. Now smile and show off that crazy tooth of yours. That tooth is your ticket, baby!"
I smiled hard, perhaps a little too hard. Just then Dash rode up on his bike, carrying a satchel. "What's wrong with you? You look like you're constipated," he said.
"I suppose you came here to make fun of me."
"On the contrary," Dash said, "I'm here to help. I heard you needed a résumé." He opened up his satchel and lifted out a laptop computer.
"Dash is an awesome writer," Skywalker said. "I thought he might be able to, you know, make you sound a little… give you some… dress up your…"
"He wants me to make you sound better than you are. And I have to say, this will be a nearly impossible assignment, but I'm up for the challenge," Dash said with a wry grin.
"Thanks a lot."
"Let's start from the beginning," Dash said, ignoring my sarcasm. He opened the laptop and cracked his knuckles. "Name, address, and person to contact… You don't happen to have an agent, do you?"
"Come on, Dash, you think anyone would be representing this guy in a billion years?" Skywalker said. Then he quickly added, "Er, no offense, Mitch."
"I'm just trying to make it look professional," Dash said, starting to set up the page. "Casting directors don't really take you seriously if you don't have an agent."
"But Axel's mom said they were looking for fresh, new faces. Doesn't that mean people with no experience, and therefore, no agent?"
"Well, yes and no. Casting directors say they love discovering someone fresh and new, but they only trust their opinion if the person has already been discovered by somebody else, like an agent."
"That doesn't make sense."
"There are a lot of things in Hollywood that don't make sense. Just accept it and move on."
I scratched my head. "Okay, then how do you get an agent?"
"Most agents don't trust their instincts either, so the best way to get an agent is to get an acting job first."
"Didn't you just say you need the agent to get the acting job in the first place?"
"Yes."
I started to protest, but Dash held up his hand before I could say anything.
"Accept it and move on." Dash turned back to his computer. "We need a list of your credits. Have you appeared in any movies, television shows, or plays?"
"Not really."
"Come on. Work with me here. Think harder."
I thought harder.
"Well, I was on the news once for a tree-planting project my class did in New Haven, and I was visible for a split second at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade," I offered.
Dash started typing. "What else?"
"I was in the Christmas pageant at my school in Seattle and in a different one in St. Paul. The first was just a bunch of holiday songs, but the second was the story of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer."
"Good, good. What did you play?"
"I was a cloud."
He stopped typing. "A what?"
"A cloud. You know, 'Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say…' I was part of the fog. Also my family takes home-video movies on our vacations, like when we went to Yellowstone Park and it rained the whole time, or when we visited the Statue of Liberty, and I'm pretty sure my parents have a video of when I was born."
Dash started typing again. "Name some of your hobbies."
"I like making lists, hiking, science experiments, magic tricks, building stuff, baseball, ice hockey, jujitsu, handball, basketball, football, snowboarding, skateboarding…."
"How about any special skills?"
"I can juggle, ride a unicycle, play piano and guitar, and I know sign language."
Dash stopped typing again and looked up at me. "You sure know how to do a lot of stuff."
I shrugged. "I don't have a TV. I have to do something."
Skywalker looked at the list. "You play guitar? I play drums, and Dash plays keyboard. We were thinking of starting a band last year, but it kinda fell apart…."
"Focus, Skywalker," Dash snapped, suddenly irritated. "That's ancient history." Dash typed a few more words and then stopped.
"I'm finished." He turned his computer for me to see, and this is what I saw:
* * *
MATHIS MITCHELL
(310) 555-6767
P.O. Box 1200 ? Hollywood, CA 90028
Movies
Television
Plays
Special Skills & Interests
Circus tricks (juggling, gymnastics, unicycle, stilts),
ice skating, skateboarding, equestrian, team sports, hiking,
magic, science, building and architecture, piano, guitar,
strong organizational skills
* * *
"Wow, this is great," I said. "But how come you switched my name around?"
"It's sounds better. Actors change their names all the time."
"That's true," Skywalker chimed in. "Did you know Axel's real name is Alex? And Maxtone is just something his mom made up—her last name is Mulligan."
"Well, I really prefer Mitch," I said.
"Yeah, it's more 'all-American,'" Skywalker agreed. "Change it back."
Dash shrugged and made the fix.
"Just one more thing," I added. "Please take out the Roach Boy reference."
"Oh, you caught that?" Dash chuckled.
"Yeah. I caught it. Just take it out."
Dash did and then saved the résumé on his computer.
"Let's print this out. We've only got a few minutes before the casting call starts," Skywalker said, heading into his house.
"But the casting session lasts for three hours," I said. "There's plenty of time."
"You want to get there early," Skywalker said. "Trust me."
