Give My Regrets to Broadway
(continued)
My ears perked up. (As much as two holes in your head can perk.) A missing persons case?
I trotted up the aisle. “You want me to find him, right?”
“Wrong again,” said my teacher. “I’d like you to take on Scott’s role.”
“Me?”
“You.”
“Thanks, but no, thanks. I’m a private eye, not a hambone.”
Mr. Ratnose crossed his arms. “Be that as it may. You will play the part, or you will write a fifty-four-page report on French classical theater.”
He sure knew how to put the screws to a guy. The only thing I like less than looking foolish on-stage is writing fifty-four-page reports (although math class and lima-bean pie are right up there).
I sighed. “Okay, I’ll do it. Out of curiosity, what’s the part?”
His black eyes sparkled, and a smile tweaked his ratty lips. “The lead: Omlet, Prince of Denver. You’ve got a dramatic duet with a ghost…”
“Swell,” I said.
“A swashbuckling sword fight…”
“Not bad.”
“And a romantic song with Azalea that ends in a kiss.”
“That’s — wait a minute! A kiss!?”
Mr. Ratnose nodded. “Yes, you fourth-graders should be mature enough to handle that by now.”
My stomach churned and tumbled like a dingo in a washing machine. Sweat turned my palms into the Okefenokee Swamp.
“Wh-who plays Azalea?” I choked out.
“Why, Shirley, of course.”
My mind spun. A lip-lock with Shirley Chameleon, Smooch Monster and Cootie Queen of the Known Universe? Yikes! In fact, double yikes.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” asked Mr. Ratnose. “Get up here and rehearse.”
Right then, I gave myself a new case. I would find Scott Freeh before our play opened, or my name isn’t Chet “Too Young to Be Smooched” Gecko.
