Red Carpet Riot by David Van Etten

Author:David Van Etten [Etten, David Van]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-375-85356-2
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2009-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

The gym was my county fair nightmare come to life. Hay bales were stacked in front of the bleachers. Wagon wheels and butter churns lined the walls. Warming up on a platform was a quartet straight out of a Hee Haw reunion special: four overalled, knee-slapping old men, picking at banjos, fiddles, guitars, and double basses. And gingham. Lots and lots of gingham.

“Tell me there’s a pie-eating contest, too,” said Dallas.

“I think that would defeat the purpose of gym class. Plus there’s no social engineering to be had poised over a plate of blueberry filling.”

I scanned the dozens of squares until I found mine, minus me, dead center. Amelia was foaming at Keith about something, and he didn’t exactly look like his serene self, either.

“Maybe you should take a seat on the sidelines,” I suggested to Dallas. “Suddenly I get the feeling that your presence might not be appreciated.”

How wrong I was.

“DALLAS GRANT!” shrieked Scooter, immediately shutting up Keith and Amelia. Dallas froze as the five foot seven rhino charged, to the squeals of the rest of the students. Dallas was two seconds from being flattened by Scooter’s fandom—until Coach Samson stepped in to gush and took the blow himself.

Coach didn’t even sway as Scooter bounced to the floor. “Huge fan, Mr. Grant—HUGE.” Soon Coach was competing for Dallas’s attention with the entire female and gay male Cloverdale student body. I stuck out my hand to help Scooter to his feet. Keith was there on Scooter’s other side.

“Look, everybody, Dallas Grant is here,” Keith muttered at me as we hoisted Scooter.

“Oh my God, I know!” said Scooter, flinging himself at the throng. He flung far short, though, crumpling and clutching his ankle.

Coach diagnosed it as a sprain (“Serves you right for not watching where you’re going!”) and sent for the nurse.

“Aw shucks,” said Amelia with all the pretend disappointment she could muster (which wasn’t much). “I guess that means we’ll just have to watch. Can’t square with just seven.”

“No, it means you’ll get an F for the day,” Coach said.

“Fine by me,” said Amelia as she made for the hay. “That won’t even register on my GPA.”

I raised my hand. “Not fine by me. An F for me is as good as not showing up. The school board will force me off the set.”

“And angels wept,” called Amelia, not even looking back.

Coach was sympathetic but unimaginative. “The International Folk Dancer Handbook is clear: Squares consist of exactly eight people. One more or less would result in an irregular quadrilateral that cannot function as a square.”

“I could fill in for Scooter,” offered Dallas.

The gym suddenly went quiet.

“I mean, if that’s cool.”

“Are you kidding?” cried Scooter, not in agony, but in ecstasy. “That’s the coolest!”

No argument from me.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it on time. Did the network revoke your chauffeur privileges?” asked Keith, loud enough to include the rest of our square in the conversation. Dallas ignored him and tried to catch up with Amelia, who wasn’t having it.

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