Almost Starring Skinnybones by Barbara Park Page A

apology.
    Anyway, when I told Annabelle that I had won the contest and was going to make a national television commercial, she practically went crazy. She just couldn’t stand the thought of someone else in town being a celebrity like her father.
    “Big deal,” she said, pretending to yawn in my face. “My father’s made a million TV commercials.”
    I shook my head. “No, no, no, Annabelle. You don’t seem to understand. This isn’t a local commercial like your father does. This is a
national
commercial with a
major
pet food company. It’s not the same thing as honking your nose, jumping offa chair, and shouting, “Watch
The Uncle Happy Show
!”
    Annabelle stuck her snooty nose in the air. “So what? We’re rich, aren’t we? And besides, my father says that being a clown brings joy and laughter into the world.”
    “A clown?” I asked, astonished. “You’re kidding. Is that what he’s supposed to be? He’s a clown?”
    Annabelle looked annoyed. “Of course he’s a clown, stupid.” Then she paused a second and eyed me with suspicion. “Why? What else could he be?”
    I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. I always thought he was just a lousy dresser.”
    Annabelle punched me in the stomach. Hard. I wasn’t expecting it and let a loud “
Oomph!
” Then I doubled up into a little ball and fell over onto the basketball court. Walter Bingham strolled over and dribbled on my head.
    When you’re a skinny bag of bones, humiliating stuff like this happens all the time. It sounds funny. But when you’re being dribbled on, you don’t feel that much like laughing. Hardly at all, in fact.
    Anyway, I was hoping a lot of that would change after I got to be a star. Being famous could really turn my life around. I dreamed about it all the time. Like about how I would get a fan club, and they would scream and faint and follow me around. Andhow I would make a personal appearance on
The Uncle Happy Show
, and Uncle Officer would salute me. And how God might drop by for a meatball sandwich.
    One thing was certain. If I was ever going to become a big television star, I had to stop thinking of myself as Skinnybones and start concentrating on being a celebrity.
    I began by signing autographs. Just to get the feel of it, I stood outside the market and wrote my name on people’s grocery bags as they got into their cars. You wouldn’t believe how excited some people got over a simple little autograph. One lady rolled her window up on my pen. Another guy started swatting me with his hat.
    I just don’t get it. Celebrity autographs are valuable. I’ve got a pretty good collection of my own. I keep them hidden in the bottom of my dresser drawer. I used to have them on my bulletin board, but every time my cousin Leon came over, he’d put his grubby little paws all over them; so now they’re tucked away under my pajamas.
    Mostly they’re autographs of famous baseball and basketball players. Also there’s one of Bugs Bunny. I was only three when I got it, so I didn’t understand it was just some man dressed up in a rabbit suit. Personally I think it’s the job of parents to keepsmall children from embarrassing themselves like I did. The guy actually signed my paper “BUGS.”
    Anyway, just because I signed some autographs didn’t mean I thought I was as famous as Tom Cruise or anything. You don’t get to be as famous as Tom Cruise by doing one little TV commercial. Cap’n Crunch or Mrs. Butterworth is about the best you can expect. Still, they’re celebrities, aren’t they?
    The thought of me being a star really drove my mother crazy. I guess she figured it would make me stuck-up or something. Every time I talked about it, I got this giant lecture on how I wasn’t a celebrity at all. How I was still “plain old Alex Frankovitch.”
    “I
know
I’m still plain old Alex Frankovitch,” I snapped back one morning at breakfast. “But what’s that got to do with anything? I can still be a star, can’t I? I