The BEDMAS Conspiracy (5 page)

“He wrote a love song about me!” Daniela concluded, sounding a little alarmed.

“You don't
know
it's about you. Sure, you have red hair, but there are a couple of strawberry-blondes in our school,” I pointed out. “And, yes, maybe Sludge served a lengthy stint in detention last year for pulling a false fire alarm, but I heard he had a few accomplices. Maybe the song is about one of them? One of them and Nat Caplan? She is sort of red-haired-ish if you look closely at her highlights.”

Daniela was still reluctant. “I don't know if I can go in front of the school and sing a love song about me and Sludge.”

But, after practicing the song a few times with the whole band behind her, Daniela had to admit the song was special. The melody was perfect for her low voice and the chorus was stick-in-your-head catchy. Sludge had written a kicking solo for Meena and a simple piano part I could cope with easily enough. Even my siblings thought we sounded good.

“Keep practicing—you'll be fine,” said Josh.

“Not awful!” agreed Abigail.

Sludge had done some stealth scouting. “I heard the Flying Perogies jamming and they sound pretty tight. And we need to watch out for Marty Jenkins, the Swedish Meatball. Competitive eating is always a hit with the audience.”

We decided to up our practices to four times a week.

“Are you sure you'll be able to keep on top of your schoolwork?” asked Daniela doubtfully.

“Let
me
worry about that,” I told her. “
You
just worry about hitting those high notes at the end of the song.”

The competition was right around the corner. I was doing my best to clear my mind of guitars and amps and focus on numbers and letters. But it was a struggle.

O
n the morning of the competition, something about Daniela just didn't seem right. First, I heard retching noises in the bathroom, followed by a long flush of the toilet. She looked pale as she went into her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

“You can do it. You'll be fine,” I thought I heard someone say to her. But when I opened the door, Daniela was alone.

The plan was for the band to wear coordinated outfits. The Z's agreed to drop the mauve and the blue so we would all be dressed alike in black pants and funky tuxedo t-shirts.

“Daniela, your t-shirt is on backwards,” said my mother as we came down for breakfast. She started to pour six glasses of juice.

“No breakfast for me, Aunt Elisha. I'm not hungry. I'll just meet you guys in the car,” said Daniela as she went to fix her t-shirt. Her legs seemed wobbly as she left the room.

She didn't say more than two words during the drive to J.R. Wilcott. When we arrived, we went straight to the gym. The bands in the talent show were allowed to perform a sound check. The Z's were already there, bubbling with enthusiasm.

“I thought blue was my best colour,” said Beena, “but I love these black-and-white shirts.”

“Me, too!” enthused Meena.

Sludge was busy setting up his drum kit onstage. He waved when he saw us.

“What's up?” he said when I reached him.

“I'm worried about Daniela,” I confessed. “She's not acting like herself. She hasn't eaten anything and she's barely said a word to me.”

Sludge looked over at Daniela, who was slumped against the wall.

“Look at her—she looks like she might pass out!” I said, panicking.

“Don't worry,” said Sludge, trying to calm me down. “She'll be fine once she sings the first few bars of ‘Detention Blues.' You know,” he confided, “she doesn't know it, but I wrote the song for her.”

We were the last band to have a sound check, but when it was our turn, Daniela was nowhere to be found.

“I think I know where she is,” said Beena heading to the girls' washroom. She emerged with her arm around our shaky lead singer.

“I'm okay,” Daniela muttered. “I'll be fine.”

She wobbled over to the microphone. Sludge counted the beat and we launched into “Detention Blues.” Sludge had a point: the song was written for Daniela and it was perfect for her. Even though Daniela wasn't at her best, she managed to pull it off. But as soon as we were finished, she collapsed into a chair backstage.

A few minutes later, the doors opened and kids flooded the gym. Soon, the room was packed with students and teachers. Our school president, Michael Wise, took the stage and explained the rules of the competition.

“Remember, Wilcotters,
you
choose the winner. Cheer as loudly as possible for your favourite act,” he told us, “so we can crown them champs and send them on to the District Donnybrook.” The room roared with approval. Michael smiled. “Let's get the show rolling with Wilcotters for the Ethical Treatment of Poor Defenseless Animals singing their original song, ‘Frogs are People, Too.'”

WETPDA hopped onstage in matching green outfits. The competition was on! After they croaked out a few notes, we realized that WETPDA was better off sticking to protests. Their performance was met with weak applause. We Wuz Framed, four guys from the back row of detention, fared a bit better with their interpretive break-dance. While the guys weren't naturals, Wilcotters appreciated anyone who challenged Principal Losman's strict policy on homework. The audience cheered as We Wuz Framed moonwalked their way out of detention.

Wilcott's Got Talent was frontloaded with musical acts. The Subtractions were next with their tribute to our principal, “Losman is Tops, Man.” Principal Losman grooved to the beat, but the song didn't go over well with the rest of J.R. Wilcott. Light applause was mixed with a smattering of boos. Averagely Mediocre performed decently, but was a bit lacklustre.

Genevieve Simon was next. She had recently been the female lead in Wilcott's Great Eight Extravaganza Extraordinaire. She had played Juliet to Sludge's Romeo
.

“Not a bad smoocher,” Sludge had told me privately.

The play had been a smashing success and Genevieve was sticking with what worked. Her arms waved wildly as she recited a passage from the play. She flung her head from side to side dramatically. She laughed; she cried; she threw herself on the ground all in the name of Shakespeare. But, as a solo performer, Genevieve didn't have what it took to move the audience. Only her friends clapped.

The next few acts weren't very memorable: three dance crews, a juggler who only juggled two balls and a tap dancer from grade eight.

Next up was grade sevener Brad “Mumbles” Fedkowsky. His nickname said it all. Teachers were always asking Brad to speak up because they couldn't understand him.

“My tlunts spkn bkwrds,” muttered Mumbles.

“Can't hear you!”

“Speak up, Brad!” yelled a few people from the audience.

“His talent is speaking backwards,” yelled his best friend, Marc Rosenberg, from the back of the gym.

Mumbles began to warble. “
Dunal evitan duna
emoh ruo adanac o.
”

As usual, we couldn't understand a word coming out of Mumbles's mouth. A bunch of kids turned to Marc. “What's he saying?”

“He's singing ‘O Canada' backwards,” said Marc proudly. “You go, guy!” he yelled encouragingly to Mumbles.

Up next was our real competition, the Flying Perogies. They ripped into their rock opera, “Filled with Potato and Cheese.” Sludge was right. They were awesome. Ed Nojna had cracked their line-up and, believe it or not, was wowing the school with his mad accordion skills. As he launched into a rocking solo, the rest of the band laid down their instruments and started to hop up and down. They waved their arms and encouraged the room to get up. Wilcotters quickly got up on their feet and joined the party.

Ed was finishing with a burst of accordion staccatos when Daniela turned to me and quietly said, “I can't do it.”

“Excuse me?” I said, pretending I didn't hear her.

“I can't go up and sing in front of the whole school. I just can't, Adam.”

“What do you mean, you can't? You
have
to,” I told her firmly.

The Flying Perogies packed up their instruments. Competitive eater Marty Jenkins prepared to take the stage.

“I thought I could do it,” said Daniela with tears in her eyes, “but I can't.”

I looked into Daniela's eyes and realized she was in real trouble. “But what about the moves you've been practicing at home for hours and hours in front of the mirror?” I asked, doing one of her little shimmies. “Who'll get to see them?”

“I can't go up in front of everyone and have them all staring at me. I just can't.” She started to sob helplessly.

I didn't know what to do. Marty was explaining the finer points of competitive eating to the audience. He opened a giant vat filled with meatballs.

“One hundred and one Swedish meatballs,” he told the audience. “And I am going to eat them all in the next seven minutes. The audience gasped in a combination of anticipation and disgust.

Daniela wiped her nose on the sleeve of her tuxedo shirt. “I'm so sorry, Cuz. I wish I was someone else, but I'm just a coward.”

Suddenly I had an idea!

“You
can
be someone else!” I told Daniela confidently. “Come with me.”

With everybody in the gym, we made a quick trip to the drama room without being noticed. In the prop basket, I found a short, blond wig which I quickly slapped over Daniela's red ponytail. We looked in the mirror.

Maybe.

Then I added a pair of dark, oversized sunglasses.

Perhaps.

I tied a red scarf around her neck.

We were getting there.

Finally, I added a leather jacket.

Now we were in business!

Beside me no longer stood Daniela Olafson. Staring back at us in the mirror was the
new
lead singer of Sick on a Snow Day!

T
he wig completely transformed Daniela. Sick on a Snow Day's old lead singer was a tall girl with dramatic, long, red hair. Our new lead singer was a lanky Scandinavian boy with a blond bowl cut and cheesy taste in sunglasses.

“You're a new person,” I told her as I tucked the rest of her ponytail up under the wig's elastic meshing. “Olaf Danielson—our distant Swedish cousin. No one will ever know it's you. You're free to go up on stage and rock.”

She was staring in the mirror. “You think?” she asked.

“I know!” I replied confidently. It was our best shot.

“I'm not sure,” she said, playing with her posture, trying to hunch her shoulders and appear less feminine.

“No time to worry. We're up next,” I said pushing her out of the room. I could hear cheering coming from the gym.

We passed a couple of girls at the water fountain.

“Hey, Adam,” said a grade seven girl whose name I couldn't remember. “Who's your friend?”

The girls were smiling at Daniela. I nudged Daniela in the ribs and she smiled at me with growing confidence. “You can do it!” I assured her.