Almost Starring Skinnybones by Barbara Park Page B

don’t have to be a
giant
star like with a big mansion in Hollywood. I can just live here and be a
little
star with a little sports car and a little English butler.”
    My mother grunted and picked up the sports page.
    “What d’you say, Mom?” I persisted. “A little sports car and a little butler? That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”
    She didn’t even bother to look up. “Of course itis, Alex. Write down what you want. Your father and I will knock off a bank on the way home from work tonight.”
    My mother’s a laugh a minute.
    She wasn’t the only one trying to ruin my fun, either. My father was just as bad. Like when we flew to New York City to make the commercial, he actually asked me to carry my own bag to the taxi. I couldn’t believe it! What good was being a celebrity if you had to do stuff like that?
    At first I started to laugh. “Are you kidding, Dad? This is a joke, right? You don’t actually expect me, Alex Frankovitch—winner of the National Kitty Fritters Television Contest—to pick up his own duffel bag and lug it out to the cab, do you?”
    My father totally ignored me. He just grabbed a bunch of his own stuff and started toward the big sliding glass doors. My mother did the same.
    “Hey! Hold it!” I called after them. “This is nuts! Think about it! How many times have you seen Cap’n Crunch hauling his own luggage through an airport?”
    My father stopped dead in his tracks and whirled around. My father’s an excellent whirler. He can spin around so fast, it makes you fall down dizzy just watching. After he whirls comes the part I hate most. He heads toward me doing his Frankensteinwalk. Slowly. Very slowly. Real stiff in the legs. He doesn’t smile either.
    When he got to where I was standing, he glared at me a second and said, “Just out of curiosity, King Tut”—knowing very well that this wasn’t my name—“exactly who do you think is going to carry your suitcase if you don’t? Me? Your mother? The pilot of the plane? Who?”
    Since I hadn’t really given this question a lot of thought, I was forced to come up with something quick.
    “Let’s get a waiter over here,” I said with authority.
    My father wasn’t amused. He pointed to a nearby bench. “Sit, mister,” he ordered.
    The way he said it made me feel like a dog. A dog named Mister.
    “Listen, Alex,” he began. “You wrote a funny essay, and your mother and I are very proud of you. You deserve to do this commercial. But that doesn’t mean that you’re suddenly a movie star. And it also doesn’t mean that you get special treatment or get to order other people around.”
    Geez! What a place for a lecture. Right in the middle of the Kennedy International Airport! Filled with big ears from all over the world!
    “Shhh, Dad. Could you try to tone it down a littlebit? The tourists from Guatemala are starting to stare.”
    “I don’t care who’s staring, Alex,” he replied, even louder than before. “All I care about is that you heard what I just said.”
    “Heard?” I responded. “Of course I heard. The whole airport heard, Dad. People taking off in planes in Yugoslavia probably heard.”
    “Good,” he said. “Then close your mouth, pick up your bag, and get your rear end out to the taxi.”
    Great! My rear end! Big ears from all over the world, and he starts talking about my rear end!
    Angrily, I grabbed my suitcase and started pulling it across the terminal. As soon as my father’s back was turned, I put the bag down and made a big face. I did the one where you stretch the sides of your mouth out with your thumbs and pull the bottoms of your eyes down. This may sound childish to a lot of people, but personally I still find making faces at my parents very satisfying.
    By the time we arrived at the hotel, it was already dark. It was especially dark for me because during the taxi ride I had decided to put on my sunglasses. I don’t care what anyone says, no self-respecting celebrity in New York City