Dancing Dudes

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - Corn Dogs and Crybabies

  Chapter 2 - Real Men Write Poems

  Chapter 3 - Roses Are Red, Beans Are Green

  Chapter 4 - Valentine Eggs

  Chapter 5 - Dancing Gramps

  Chapter 6 - Closed for Cleaning

  Chapter 7 - Gray Hair and Glasses

  Chapter 8 - Being Mature

  Chapter 9 - Late Bloomers

  Chapter 10 - Toilets and Toothbrushes

  Chapter 11 - Dr. Fat Fingers Strikes Again

  Chapter 12 - Howdy, Pardner

  A volunteer

  My hand shot up in an instant. I knew what Mrs. Gibson was going to say, and I was going to be the first to volunteer. She was about to ask for a volunteer to sit out. You know, not to be in the dance. I jumped up and down with my hand in the air.

  “Raymond, you didn’t let me finish,” she said.

  “I know, but whatever it is, I’ll do it,” I said.

  “Great, that’s very nice of you, Raymond. It will help us all out,” she said. “Okay, since we have one extra boy, Raymond has volunteered to be my partner. Raymond and I will be teaching you the dance up here in front.”

  WHAT?! I screamed inside my head. Dance with the teacher?

  OTHER BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY

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  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

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  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in the United States of America by Banjo Books in a slightly different form, 2007

  First published by Viking, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2008

  Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2010

  Text copyright © Mike Knudson and Steve Wilkinson, 2007 Revised text copyright © Mike Knudson, 2008 Illustrations copyright © Stacy Curtis, 2008 All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE VIKING EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Knudson, Mike.

  Raymond and Graham, dancing dudes / by Mike Knudson ; illustrated by Stacy Curtis.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Fourth-grade best friends Raymond and Graham write Valentine poems, perform a

  hoedown, and learn how to be men.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18488-2

  [1. Schools—Fiction. 2. Maturation (Psychology)—Fiction. 3. Valentine’s Day—Fiction.

  4. Best friends—Fiction. 5. Friendship—Fiction.] I. Curtis, Stacy, ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.K7836Raq 2008 [Fic]—dc22 2008008383

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume

  any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Michael, Alex, Maddie, Adam, and

  Abbie-all my dancing dudes—M.K.

  For Brandon Kitchens—S.C.

  Prologue

  YOU CAN BE called a lot of things in fourth grade. You can be called a wimp, a dork, and even a weenie and still survive. But there’s one thing you never want to be called: a baby. It’s a word so humiliating it could ruin your whole life, or at least your fourth-grade life. Fortunately for Graham and me, we had successfully avoided it all year so far. But in the fourth grade, everything can change in a matter of seconds. . . .

  1

  Corn Dogs and Crybabies

  “OKAY, STUDENTS. Let’s put away our math books,” Mrs. Gibson said. I wondered what was going on. We usually did math all the way until lunchtime.

  Mrs. Gibson stood up and adjusted her huge glasses higher on her wrinkly nose. Then she picked up an old-looking book from her desk, opened it, and began reading.

  “‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,’” she read. Then she paused and lowered her book, looking around the class. She looked me straight in the eye. I turned away quickly. It felt weird having an old lady say that and then look right at me.

  She continued reading. It was a poem all about love and mushy stuff. Finally, she finished and closed the book.

  “Why do you think I read that poem to you?” she asked.

  “Because you’re a great reader and a great teacher and a great . . .” Lizzy said, trying to think of as many “great” things as possible. I can’t stand Lizzy. Not only is she the biggest teacher’s pet, but just looking at her annoys me. I mean, that bouncy curly hair, the big bow on her head, and that scrunched-up, snooty look on her face—everything about her bugs me.

  “No, Lizzy,” Mrs. Gibson answered. “Why would I be reading this poem to you at this time of year? You all know what holiday is coming up on Thursday,” she said with a long, wrinkly smile.

  “Christmas!” David yelled out, laughing.

  Mrs. Gibson’s smile turned quickly to a frown. “David, remind me to move your desk up here by mine this afternoon,” she said. “Now who can really tell me why I read that poem to you?”

  Everyone raised their hand. But no one was quicker than Graham. His hand shot up like a rocket, his fingers wiggling all over the place trying to get picked. Graham is my best friend. We do everything together. If he wasn’t a lot shorter than I am and didn’t have all those freckles and red hair, I bet people would think we were brothers.

  “Graham,” Mrs. Gibson said.

  “Because it’s almost Valentine’s Day, the holiday of love,” he said, making his eyebrows move up and down, up and down. Everyone laughed, including Mrs. Gibson. I could tell Graham was happy to have his eyebrow back after accidentally shaving it off earlier this year. It would have looked weird with only one eyebrow moving up and down.

  “That’s right, Graham, and I’m glad you are so enthusiastic about Valentine’s Day,” Mrs. Gibson answered with a little chuckle. I was laughing, too, when all of a sudden I felt a slug to my arm.

  “Ouch! What was that for?” I turned to David. It hurt so bad I almost started to cry. In fact, I had to hurry and wipe away a tear.

  “That’s for your friend Graham doing that stupid thing with his eyebrows.” David could always think of a reason for punching me. “Hey, you’re crying!” he said, sticking his fat face in front of mine.

  “I am not!”

  “Are too! You’re such a baby!” he said. Heidi sat in front of me, and I’m sure she heard the whole thing. I didn’t want her to think I was a baby. I kind of liked her . . . you know, like a girlfriend. I thought she might like me, too, but I wasn’t sure.

  I guess Mrs. Gibson heard the whole thing, too.

  “David, why don’t you move your desk up here by mine right now, and you can keep it there the rest of the week,” she said.

  “Baby!” David whispered as he got up to move his desk.

  “I am not a baby,” I snapped back
. Besides, I thought to myself, who wouldn’t cry if they got slugged in the arm that hard? David’s the biggest kid in our school . . . and the meanest. Once in the second grade, he was picking on Graham. I don’t know what got into me, but for some reason I had to go and open my big mouth. “Hey, why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” I yelled.

  David turned from Graham and walked over to me. “Fine, how about you?” Then he slugged me in the arm. He’s been hitting me in the arm ever since. I learned quickly that if you punch him back, he just hits you again, but harder. So until I get really huge one day and can hit harder than he can, I just live with the daily slug.

  Mrs. Gibson continued talking as David dragged his desk to the front of the room. “I just read to you a famous poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. With Valentine’s Day this week, I thought it would be a good idea to write some poems of our own. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  “I think it sounds like fun, Mrs. Gibson,” Lizzy said. “And I really—”

  “Thank you Lizzy, that’s enough. Everyone, please make sure your books are in your desk, and you may line up for lunch.” We all ran up to the doorway and formed a line. I stood next to Graham, as usual.

  We walked down the hall together wondering what they were serving for lunch. We always tried to guess by the smell in the hall.

  I took a big whiff. “I say it’s chicken nuggets.”

  “No way,” Graham said. “It’s definitely hamburgers.” Graham was usually right. He buys school lunch every day, and I bring mine from home. The only lunchroom smell I knew for sure was fish sticks. I hate fish. Just the smell of it makes me lose my appetite. One time, on one of those rare, special occasions when Mom packed a Twinkie in my lunch, the smell of fish sticks was so strong I couldn’t even eat it. I was so mad. I get a Twinkie or a Ding Dong, like, maybe once a year or less. Anyway, I knew today was definitely not a fish-stick day.

  We walked into the lunchroom and quickly looked around at everyone’s trays. Corn dogs. We were both wrong. Graham stood in line while I saved us a place at a table. I sat down across from Heidi and Diane.

  “Hi, Raymond, are you up for a game of Who Has the Best Sandwich?” Heidi said. One thing I like about Heidi is how funny she is. She’s one of the only girls who can really make me laugh. She’s like the opposite of Lizzy.

  “I’ll go first,” Diane blurted out, digging into her lunch sack. She pulled out a bologna, lettuce, and cheese sandwich. “Top that,” she proudly stated.

  “Hmmm,” Heidi said, taking a close look at the bread. “Whole wheat bread. I don’t know if you can win with that.”

  Diane took a big bite. “What do you mean? It tastes good, and it’s good for you,” she said with a mouth full of bologna. Just then Graham sat down.

  “What do you think, Graham? Can whole wheat bread win for best sandwich?” Diane asked, chewing and talking at the same time.

  “Ooh, gross. Didn’t your mom ever teach you to eat with your mouth closed?” Graham answered. “And the answer is no. Health food can never win a best-food contest.”

  Diane didn’t seem to mind that nobody agreed with her. She took another big bite.

  “Now this is sandwich perfection,” Heidi announced, showing off a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white bread with the crusts cut off. We all looked in awe. Her sandwich was every kid’s dream. My mom never cut the crusts off. In fact, my mom would even use the end piece of the bread for one of my slices. You know, the piece that is all crust.

  “Your turn, Raymond,” Diane said.

  “Yeah, I’m rooting for you,” Graham said.

  “All right, all right.” I reached in and pulled out my sandwich. It was wrapped in tinfoil. We must have been out of sandwich bags.

  “Tinfoil?” Diane laughed.

  Carefully, I opened the foil and exposed a sorry-looking sandwich with a bite already taken out of it and jelly soaking through the bread. I don’t know why my mom insists on taking a bite out of my sandwich when she makes my lunch. It’s so humiliating.

  “Okay,” Heidi said. “We’ll let you off the hook for the tinfoil. But bringing a used sandwich just won’t cut it.” Everyone laughed. “And let me give you a little advice on the jelly.” She pulled apart her bread. “See, if you put peanut butter on both sides of the bread, the jelly won’t soak through.”

  “Whoa, I never thought of that,” I said. Her mom must be some kind of professional sandwich maker.

  “So, did you guys hear that our class is going to do a dance instead of a song for the fourth-grade show?” Graham whispered, stretching his head to the middle of the table. “My mom said she heard it from someone on the PTA.”

  “No way,” Diane said. “I don’t believe you. It’s always a singing program.” She usually knew more about stuff than Graham. We all leaned back like we believed her instead of Graham.

  “Okay, suit yourself. You’ll see,” Graham said confidently.

  I looked up at Mrs. Gibson, who was by the lunchroom door talking to Mr. Worley, our principal.

  “I hope Mrs. Gibson forgets about writing poems this afternoon,” I said. “I don’t think I could write one.”

  “What? Everyone can write poems. They’re easy,” Graham said. “Take this corn dog, for example.” Graham held up his corn dog high in the air in front of him.

  O my corn dog, how do I love thee, let me count the ways.

  Your tasty shell of golden brown makes me happy all the days. . . .

  Then he dipped his corn dog in some ketchup and took a big bite. “Yuck!” he said, spitting it out onto his tray. “This is disgusting! It’s not even warm!”

  “Wow, that was beautiful,” Diane joked.

  “Especially that last line—‘Yuck! ’ ” Heidi added.

  We finished eating, and Graham and I spent the rest of lunch recess playing tetherball. I hit the ball high above Graham’s head. He jumped up but missed it by a mile. I slapped it again and in no time at all it was completely wrapped around the pole.

  “I’m too short for this game,” Graham complained, unraveling the rope from the pole.

  “No you’re not. I’m just too good,” I said. Just then the ball swung around and hit me in the head.

  “Ouch!” I said. “I wasn’t ready.”

  “Aw, don’t be a baby,” Graham said. There was that word again. First David, and now Graham.

  “I am not a baby!” I yelled, grabbing the ball.

  “Hey, relax. I didn’t mean anything,” he said.

  “It’s just that . . . well, my sister always calls me a baby, and today David called me a baby and it seemed like he really meant it. And now you, my best friend. I’m just worried that everyone thinks I’m a baby. I mean, we’re in the fourth grade. What if Heidi thinks I’m a baby? Do you think there’s any way a girl would like someone who everyone thinks is a baby?”

  “Of course not. Girls like manly guys. Why did David call you a baby, anyway?” he asked as he tried to climb up the tetherball pole.

  “Because when he hit me in class today, it really hurt. He thought I was crying and called me a baby,” I said.

  “Why did he think you were crying?”

  “I don’t know, probably because I had some water in my eyes and I wiped it away,” I said.

  “What? You mean a tear?” Graham said. He immediately jumped down from the pole and looked me in the eye.

  “Well, I guess so,” I said. “But it was just that it hurt and—”

  “Whoa, hold on, Raymond,” Graham said, grabbing my shoulders. “I hate to say this, but you can’t cry when you’re in fourth grade. You just can’t. If you want people to think you’re a man and not a baby, that is the first rule.”

  “The first rule?” I said. “I’ve never heard of any rules about being a man.”

  Graham shook his head and put his hands on his hips. “Are you kidding me? Everyone knows there are certain rules of what you can and can’t do.”

  I stood there wondering why my dad had
never taught me these manly rules. “No one ever told me,” I said, getting kind of mad. “I mean, of course I never want anyone to see me cry, but I didn’t think that if I accidentally let one measly tear fall out of my eye it would mean that I’m a baby.”

  “Unfortunately, it does,” Graham said. “Take it from me, if you really want to be a man, you’ve got to learn that there are certain things you have to do and other things you can never do.”

  I stood there wishing that when you got to the fourth grade, you would get some instructions on how to stop being a baby and become a man.

  “Come on, it’s easy,” Graham said. “Just try to act like me. Hey, that’s it! I can teach you what you need to do to be a man. I’ll be your coach. Yeah, I’ll be your manly coach.”

  “You?” I said, looking down at Graham. He was a lot shorter than me and had a big ketchup stain on the front of his superhero T-shirt from his corn dog. He didn’t exactly look too manly. “Wouldn’t someone else be better? Like someone who’s more of a . . . you know . . . man?”

  “Are you serious? I can teach you tons about being a man,” he said happily. “I mean, have you ever seen me cry this year?”

  I thought for a moment but couldn’t remember Graham crying at all since school started. As crazy as it sounded, maybe Graham did know more about being a man than I did.

  “What do you say?” he said, holding out his puny hand. I thought about it for a few more seconds, then shook his hand.

  “It’s a deal,” I said. “You are officially my manly coach.” I wasn’t sure if Graham could really help me, but I thought it was worth a try.

  “Great!” Graham said. Recess was almost over, so we headed toward the door. “Hey, here’s your first lesson. Go up and hold the door open for those girls and say, ‘After you, ladies.’”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” Graham interrupted. “Hurry, this will be great.”