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8
Everybody in town did turn out, and Deke Simmons was right about one thing: those lame jokes never
seemed to get old. Not fifteen hundred miles from Broadway, at least.
In the persons of Jim LaDue (who wasn’t bad, and could actually sing a little) and Mike Coslaw
(who was flat-out hilarious), our show was more Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis than Mr. Bones and Mr.
Tambo. The skits were of the knockabout type, and with a couple of athletes to perform them, they
worked better than they probably had a right to. In the audience, knees were slapped and buttons were
busted. Probably a few girdles were popped, as well.
Ellen Dockerty dragged her banjo out of retirement; for a lady with blue hair, she played a mean
breakdown. And there was hootchie-koo after all. Mike and Jim persuaded the rest of the football
team to perform a spirited can-can wearing petticoats and bloomers down south and nothing but skin
up north. Jo Peet found wigs for them, and they stopped the show. The town ladies seemed especially
crazy about those bare-chested young men, wigs and all.
For the finale, the entire cast paired off and filled the gymnasium stage with frenetic swingdancing
as “In the Mood” blared from the speakers. Skirts flew; feet flashed; football players (now
dressed in zoot suits and stingy-brim hats) spun limber girls. Most of the latter were cheerleaders who
already knew a few things about how to cut a rug.
The music ended; the laughing, winded cast stepped forward to take their bows; and as the
audience rose to its feet for the third (or maybe it was the fourth) time since the curtain went up,
Donald started up “In the Mood” again. This time the boys and girls scampered to opposite sides of
the stage, grabbed the dozens of cream pies waiting for them on tables in the wings, and began to pelt
each other. The audience roared its approval.
This part of the show our cast had known about and looked forward to, although since no actual
pies had been flung during rehearsals, I wasn’t sure how it would play out. Of course it went
splendidly, as cream-pie fights always do. So far as the kids knew this was the climax, but I had one
more trick up my sleeve.
As they came forward to take their second bows, faces dripping cream and costumes splattered, “In
the Mood” started up for the third time. Most of the kids looked around, puzzled, and so did not see
Faculty Row rise to its feet holding the cream pies Sadie and I had stashed beneath their seats. The
pies flew, and the cast was doused for the second time. Coach Borman had two pies, and his aim was
deadly: he got both his quarterback and his star defenseman.
Mike Coslaw, face dripping cream, began to bellow: “Mr. A! Miz D! Mr. A! Miz D!”
The rest of the cast took it up, then the audience, clapping in rhythm. We went up onstage, handin-hand,
and Bellingham started that goddam record yet again. The kids formed lines on either side of
us, shouting “Dance! Dance! Dance!”
We had no choice, and although I was convinced my girlfriend would go sliding in all that cream
and break her neck, we were perfect for the first time since the Sadie Hawkins. At the end of it, I
squeezed both of Sadie’s hands, saw her little nod—Go on, go for it, I trust you—and shot her between
my legs. Both of her shoes flew into the first row, her skirt skidded deliriously up her thighs . . . and
she came magically to her feet in one piece, with her hands first held out to the audience—which was
going insane—and then to the sides of her cream-smeared skirt, in a ladylike curtsey.
The kids turned out to have a trick up their sleeves, as well, one almost certainly instigated by
Mike Coslaw, although he would never own up to it. They had saved some pies back, and as we stood
there, soaking up the applause, we were hit by at least a dozen, flying from all directions. And the
crowd, as they say, goes wild.
Sadie pulled my ear close to her mouth, wiped whipped cream from it with her pinky, and